The area around the shrine had been cleared and the moonlight shone beautifully on everything. Stepping silently, I walked over behind the shrine. There was a tall thicket of pampas grass and, led by the sound, I pushed my way into the thicket. There I found a small mound of square stones casually piled up, a kind of ancient burial mound. Though perhaps it was too small to be called that. At any rate, I had never noticed it was there before. I’d never gone behind the shrine, and even if I had, the mound was hidden in the midst of the pampas grass. You weren’t going to see it unless you had some reason to wade into the thicket.
I approached the mound and shone my flashlight directly upon it. The stones were old, but weren’t in their natural form, and had clearly been chiseled into squares. They had been carried up onto the mountain and piled up behind the shrine. The stones were of different sizes, most of them covered in moss. There wasn’t any visible writing or designs on them. There were twelve or thirteen stones altogether, by my count. In the past, the mound might have been taller and more orderly, but maybe an earthquake had made part of it crumble. The bell-like sound somehow seemed to be filtering out from the cracks between those stones.
I lightly rested my foot on top of the stones and searched for the source of that sound. But no matter how bright the moonlight, it was next to impossible to locate it in the dark of night. And what if I did happen to locate it? What then? I couldn’t lift these heavy stones myself.
At any rate it seemed like someone below the stone mound was ringing the bell. I was sure of it. But who? It was at this point that an enigmatic fear began to well up inside me. Instinct told me not to get any closer to the source of that sound.
I left, and with the bell ringing behind me hurried back along the path through the woods. Moonlight filtering through the branches cast a suggestive mottled pattern on my body. I emerged from the woods, rushed down the seven stone steps, got back to the house, went inside, and locked the door. I walked to the kitchen, poured a glass of whiskey straight, no ice, no water, and gulped it down. I could finally breathe a sigh of relief. I took my glass of whiskey out to the terrace.
From the terrace I could hear the bell only faintly. If I hadn’t listened carefully I wouldn’t have been able to catch it. But the point was, the sound continued. The interval of silence between each ringing of the bell was definitely lengthening. I listened to that irregular repetition for some time.
What in the world lay beneath the stones of that mound? Was there a space there, and somebody locked inside who was ringing that bell, or whatever it was? Maybe it was a signal for help. But no matter how much I thought it over, I couldn’t think of a single plausible explanation.
I might have thought about it for a long time. Or maybe it was but a moment. I had no idea. My sense of time had vanished. Glass of whiskey in hand, I sank back into the lounge chair, shuffling back and forth in the maze of consciousness. And then it hit me. The bell had stopped. Everything was enveloped in a profound silence.
I stood up, went into the bedroom, and looked at the digital clock. It was 2:31 a.m. I didn’t know the precise time the bell had started ringing, but since it had been 1:45 when I woke up, I surmised the bell had gone on ringing for at least forty-five minutes. Soon after the mysterious sound ceased, the insects began chirping again, as if probing the new silence that had arisen. As if all the insects in the mountains had been patiently waiting for the sound of that bell to stop. Holding their breath, cautiously assessing the situation.
I went back to the kitchen, rinsed out my glass, then slipped back into bed. By this time the autumn insects were a lusty chirping chorus. I should have been too worked up to sleep, but the straight whiskey did the trick and I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. A long, deep sleep, bereft of dreams. When I woke again it was already bright outside the bedroom.
* * *
—
That day, before ten a.m., I walked out again to the little shrine in the woods. I couldn’t hear that enigmatic sound, but I wanted to study the shrine and stone mound once more in the daylight. I found a stout oak walking stick in Tomohiko Amada’s umbrella stand and took that with me. It was a sunny, pleasant morning, the clear autumn sunlight throwing the shadows of leaves across the ground. Birds with sharp bills flitted busily from one branch to another, squawking as they searched for fruit. Up above, a straight line of pitch-black crows was winging its way off somewhere.
The little shrine looked worn and shoddy in the daylight. Bathed in the bright, whitish light of the nearly full moon the shrine had looked deeply meaningful, even a bit ominous, yet now in the light of day it seemed like nothing more than a faded, seedy-looking wooden box.
I went behind the shrine, shouldered my way through the tall thicket of pampas grass, and emerged in front of the stone mound. It seemed completely transformed from the night before. What I saw before me now were merely square moss-covered stones long abandoned in the mountains. In the moonlight it had appeared like part of ancient historical ruins, covered with a mythic slime. I stood on top of the mound and perked up my ears, but couldn’t hear a thing. Other than the screech of insects and the occasional bird chirp, it was silent all around.
From far away came the bang of what I took to be a shotgun. Someone might be hunting birds in the mountains. Or else it was one of those automatic devices set up by farmers to shoot blanks to scare away sparrows, monkeys, and wild boar. Either way, the sound echoed with the feeling of autumn. The sky was high, the air slightly humid, and sounds carried well. I sat down on top of the stone mound and thought about the space that might exist beneath. Was someone really under there, ringing a bell, calling out for help? Were they like me, back when I worked for the moving company and got locked inside the truck and pounded on the side panels as hard as I could, hoping someone would rescue me? The image of someone locked up in a cramped dark space put me on edge.
* * *
—
After a light lunch I changed into work clothes (and by that I mean things I didn’t mind getting dirty), went into the studio, and once more tried my hand at Wataru Menshiki’s portrait. I had to dispel the image of someone shut away in an enclosed space, hoping for help, and the chronic sense of suffocation that induced in me. I had to keep my hands busy, and painting was the only solution. This time I put aside my sketchbook and pencil. They wouldn’t help, I figured. I readied my paints and paintbrushes, stood facing the canvas, and, gazing deep into that blank space, I focused on Menshiki. I stood erect, focused my concentration, and pruned away any extraneous thoughts.
A white-haired man with young-looking eyes who lived in a white mansion on a mountain. He spent most of his time at home, had what appeared to be a hidden room, and owned four British cars. How had he moved when he was here? What kind of expressions did he have on his face, what was his tone of voice, what did he look at and with what sort of look in his eyes, how did he move his hands? I recalled each and every detail. It took a while, but all the fragments started to fall into place. In my mind now, a three-dimensional, organically constructed sense of the man began to come together.
With small brushstrokes I transferred the image of Menshiki that arose from this directly onto the canvas, without the usual rough sketch. The Menshiki in my mind was facing forward, face slightly tilted to the left, his eyes looking a bit in my direction. For some reason I couldn’t picture any other angle his face should be. To me, that was Wataru Menshiki. He had to have his face slightly tilted to the left. And had to have both eyes looking a bit in my direction. I’m in his field of vision. No other composition would accurately capture him.
I stepped away from the canvas and studied the simple composition I’d done, pretty much with a single brushstroke. It was just a temporary line drawing, but I could sense from that outline a budding, living organism. With that as the starting point, it would naturally expand from there. Something was reaching out a hand—but what was it?
—and had flipped a switch inside me. A sort of vague sensation, as if an animal hibernating deep within me had finally recognized that the season had arrived, and was slowly brushing aside the cobwebs of sleep.
I washed the paint off the brush in the sink and lathered my hands with oil and soap. I was in no hurry. This was plenty for today. It was best to not rush the work. When Mr. Menshiki next came to see me, as a live model, I could then flesh out this outline. I had a premonition that this painting was going to be very different from any portrait I’d ever done before. And this painting required the flesh-and-blood Menshiki.
Which was very odd, I thought.
How had Menshiki known that?
* * *
—
In the middle of the night I suddenly shot awake again. The clock next to my bed read 1:46, almost exactly the same time as the night before. I sat up in bed, listening carefully in the dark. No insects chirping; it was silent all around. As if I were at the bottom of a deep sea. A repeat of the previous night. But now it was dark outside my window. That was the only difference from the night before. Thick clouds covered the sky, completely hiding the nearly full autumn moon.
Everything was in total silence. No, that wasn’t entirely true. Of course it wasn’t. That silence wasn’t total. When I held my breath and listened carefully I could catch the faint sound of the bell wending its way past the deep silence. In the dark of night someone was ringing that bell-like object. As on the night before, it was a fragmented, intermittent sound. And now I knew exactly where the sound was coming from. From the woods, underneath that stone mound. There was no need to check it. What I didn’t know, though, was who was ringing that bell, and to what end? I got out of bed and padded out to the terrace.
There was no wind, but a fine rain had started to fall. An invisible silent rain wetting the ground. Lights were on over in Mr. Menshiki’s mansion. From over here, across the valley, I couldn’t see what was going on inside his house, but he seemed to still be awake. It was unusual to see the lights on this late at night. As the fine drizzle wet me, I gazed at those lights, listening to the faint tinkling of the bell.
The rain started to pick up and I went back inside, but couldn’t go back to sleep, so I sat on the sofa in the living room and turned the pages of a book I’d been reading. Not a particularly difficult book, but no matter how I focused nothing registered. I was merely tracing the words from one line to the next. Still, it was better than simply sitting there listening to the bell. I guess I could have put on some music to drown out the sound, but I didn’t feel like it. I had to hear it. Because that was a sound directed at me. I understood that. And as long as I didn’t do something about it, it would no doubt go on ringing forever. Suffocating me every night, robbing me of a good night’s sleep.
I have to do something. Take some action to stop that sound. To do that, I first had to understand the meaning and purpose of that sound—of that signal that was being sent out. Why was somebody sending out from this mysterious place a signal to me every single night, and who was it? But I felt too choked, my mind too confused, for logical thought. There was no way I could handle this alone. I had to talk to somebody about it. And at this point I could only think of one person.
I went back out on the terrace and looked over at Mr. Menshiki’s mansion. Now the lights were all out, with just a glimmer of outdoor lanterns in the garden.
The bell stopped ringing at 2:29 a.m., almost the same time as the night before. Soon after the bell stopped the insects’ chirping returned. And as if nothing had happened, the autumn night was once more filled with the clamor of nature’s chorus. Everything was a repeat of the previous night.
I went back to bed and went to sleep listening to the insects. I felt confused and anxious, but like on the night before, I soon fell asleep. Plunged into a deep, dreamless sleep.
12
LIKE THAT NAMELESS MAILMAN
Rain started falling early in the morning, and stopped before ten. Slowly, the sun began to peek out. Moist wind from the sea slowly pushed the clouds off to the north. And at one p.m., on the dot, Menshiki showed up at my place. The time signal on the radio and the front doorbell sounded at almost precisely the same moment. Many people are punctual, but seldom do you find anyone that precise. And it wasn’t that he stood in front of the door, patiently waiting for the appointed time, timing his ringing of the front doorbell with the second hand on his watch. He drove up the slope, parked in his usual spot, and headed toward the front door at his usual pace and stride, and at almost the same instant he pushed the button for the front doorbell the time signal on the radio chimed. Pretty impressive.
I showed him into the studio, and had him sit on the same dining room chair as before. I put Richard Strauss’s Der Rosenkavalier on the turntable and lowered the needle. I started at the point we’d ended up with last time. Everything was a repeat of the previous sitting. The only difference was that this time I didn’t offer him a drink, and instead had him pose for me. I had him seated on the chair, facing forward, looking to the left, his eyes slightly facing toward me. That’s what I wanted from him this time.
He followed my instructions exactly, but it still took a while until he got the position and pose right. The angle and look in his eyes wasn’t exactly the way I wanted them. The way the light struck, too, wasn’t like my mental image. I don’t usually use a model, but once I do, I tend to have a lot of demands. Menshiki very patiently followed my nagging directions. He never looked put out, never complained. I pegged him as a person experienced in putting up with all sorts of trials and difficulties.
When he finally got the pose right I said, “I’m very sorry, but try to hold that pose without moving.”
Menshiki said nothing, only his eyes indicating that he understood.
“I’ll try to finish as quickly as I can. It might be hard, but please be patient.”
Once again he nodded with his eyes. He kept his gaze still, his body unmoving, literally not moving a muscle. He did have to blink a few times, but I couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. He was so still he looked like a lifelike statue. I couldn’t help but be impressed. Even professional art models find it hard to get to that point.
As Menshiki endured posing, I worked on the canvas as quickly and efficiently as I could. I concentrated, eyeing his figure, and moved my brush as my intuition dictated. I was using black paint on the white canvas, and with a single fine brushstroke fleshed out the outline of his face I’d already drawn. No time even to re-grip the brush. In a limited amount of time I had to capture the various elements that made up his face and get them down on canvas. At a certain point the process switched over to something close to autopilot. It’s important to bypass your conscious mind and get your eye and hand movements in sync. There’s no time to consciously process every single thing your gaze takes in.
This demanded a very different type of process from me compared with the numerous portraits I’d done up till then—the countless “business items” I’d leisurely painted based solely on memory and photographs. In about fifteen minutes I’d gotten him from the chest up on canvas. It was just a rough, incomplete outline, but at least I was able to capture an image that seemed to breathe a sense of vitality, one that managed to scoop out and capture the sort of internal movement that gave birth to who this person was. If this were an anatomical drawing, though, it would be just the bones and muscles, the internal part alone boldly laid bare. It needed actual flesh and skin laid on over it.
“Thank you, you’ve been very patient,” I said. “That’s enough for today. You can take it easy now.”
Menshiki smiled and relaxed his pose. He stretched his hands above him and took a deep breath. He slowly massaged his face with his fingers to loosen up the tense muscles. I stood there taking a few deep breaths. It took a while for my breathing to return to normal. I was exhausted, like a sprinter who’d just finished a rac
e. I’d had to work speedily, with intense concentration, and with no room for compromise, something I hadn’t experienced for quite some time. I’d had to flex long-dormant muscles, and though I felt tired, it also felt good.
“Like you said, sitting for a painting is a lot harder work than I’d imagined,” Menshiki said. “When I think about you painting me, it feels like my insides are slowly being scraped away.”
“The official view in the art world is that it’s not being scraped away but rather transplanted to a different place,” I said.
“Transplanted to a more permanent, lasting place?”
“Yes, if the painting is a true work of art.”
“Like, for instance, the nameless mailman who lives on in Van Gogh’s portrait of him?”
“Exactly.”
“He probably had no idea that, well over a century later, countless people around the world would visit art museums, or look through art books, and gaze intently at his portrait.”
“I’m sure he never had a clue.”
“It was some odd painting done in a corner of a shabby country kitchen, painted by a man who, whichever way you look at it, was a little off.”
I nodded.
“It’s kind of weird,” Menshiki said. “Something that, on the face of it, shouldn’t be so lasting ends up having permanent value.”
“Not something that happens every day.”
I suddenly thought of Killing Commendatore. Through Tomohiko Amada’s hand, was the Commendatore given permanent life, even though he was stabbed to death in the painting? And who was this Commendatore anyway?
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