A thought suddenly struck me, and I hurriedly checked my wallet in my pants pocket. Everything was still there. Cash, credit cards, ATM card, license, everything. I breathed a sigh of relief. If my wallet had been gone I would have freaked. These sorts of things did happen, and I needed to be careful.
She must have left early in the morning, while I was sound asleep. But how had she gotten back to town (or back to where she lived)? Had she walked, or called a taxi? Not that it made any difference to me. Pointless speculation.
I returned the room key at the front desk, paid for the beers we’d drunk, and drove the Peugeot back to town. I needed to get the luggage I’d left at the business hotel near the station, and pay for the one night. Along the way into town I passed by the chain restaurant I’d gone to the night before. I stopped and ate breakfast there. I was starving, and was dying for some coffee. Just before I pulled into the parking lot I saw the white Subaru Forester. Parked nose in, with that marlin bumper sticker. The same Subaru Forester from the night before. The only difference was where it was parked. Which made sense. No one spent the whole night in a place like that.
I went inside the restaurant. As before, hardly any customers. Like I expected, the same man from last night was at a table, eating breakfast. The same table as the night before, wearing the same black leather jacket. Like last night, the same black golf cap with the Yonex logo resting on the tabletop. The only difference from last night was the folded morning newspaper on top of the table. A plate of toast and scrambled eggs was in front of him. It was probably just served, steam still rising from the coffee. As I passed him, the man glanced up and looked me in the face. His eyes were even sharper and colder than the night before. There was a sense of criticism in them, or at least that’s what it felt like.
I know exactly where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to, he seemed to be telling me.
That’s the whole story of what happened to me in that small town along the seacoast in Miyagi. Even now I have no idea what that woman, with her petite nose and perfect teeth, wanted from me. And it was never clear to me if that middle-aged guy with the white Subaru Forester was really following her, or if she was running from him. Whatever was going on, I happened to be there, and through an odd series of events spent the night in a garish love hotel with a woman I’d just met, and had a one-night stand, the wildest sex I’d ever had. But I still can’t recall the name of the town.
* * *
—
“Could I get a glass of water?” my married girlfriend said. She’d just woken up from a short postcoital nap.
It was early afternoon, and we were in bed. While she slept I stared at the ceiling and recalled the events in that small fishing town. It was only a half a year before, but it seemed like events from the distant past.
I went to the kitchen, poured mineral water into a large glass, and returned to bed. She drank down half of it in a single gulp.
“Now, about Mr. Menshiki,” she said, placing the glass on the nightstand.
“Mr. Menshiki?”
“The new information I got about Mr. Menshiki,” she said. “What I said I’d tell you later?”
“Your jungle grapevine.”
“Right,” she said, and drank more water. “According to my sources, your friend Mr. Menshiki spent quite a long time in Tokyo Prison.”
I sat up and looked at her. “Tokyo Prison?”
“Yeah, the one in Kosuge.”
“For what crime?”
“I don’t know the details, but I imagine it had something to do with money. Tax evasion, money laundering, insider trading—something of that sort, or perhaps all of them. He was imprisoned six or seven years ago. Did Mr. Menshiki tell you what kind of work he does?”
“He said it was dealing with tech, and information,” I said. “He started a company, and some years ago sold the stock for a high price. He’s living now on the capital gains.”
“ ‘Dealing with information’ is a pretty vague way of describing it. Nowadays there’re hardly any jobs not connected with information.”
“Who told you about him being in prison?”
“A friend of mine whose husband’s in finance. But I don’t know how much of that information is true. Someone heard it from someone, and passed it along to someone else. You know how it is. But from what I can make of it, it doesn’t seem groundless.”
“If he was in Tokyo Prison that means that he was put there by the Tokyo district prosecutor.”
“In the end they found him not guilty, is what I heard,” she said. “Still, he was in detention for a long time, and had to endure a very intense investigation. They extended his incarceration a number of times, and wouldn’t grant bail.”
“But he won in court.”
“That’s right. He was prosecuted, but wasn’t given a jail sentence. He apparently remained totally silent during the investigation.”
“My understanding is that the Tokyo district prosecutors are the cream of the crop,” I said. “A proud lot. Once they set their sights on someone, they have solid evidence before they arrest them and charge them. Their win rate in court is really high. So the investigation they did while he was in detention couldn’t have been half-baked. Most people break down under that kind of scrutiny, and sign whatever the prosecutors want them to. Ordinary people wouldn’t be able to stay silent under that kind of pressure.”
“Still, that’s what Mr. Menshiki did. He must have a strong will and a sharp mind.”
Menshiki wasn’t your average person, that was for sure…A strong will and a sharp mind were indeed part of his repertoire.
“There’s one thing I don’t get,” I said. “Whether it is for tax evasion or money laundering or whatever, once the Tokyo district prosecutor arrests you, it’s reported on in the newspapers. And with an unusual name like Menshiki, I would remember the case. I used to be a pretty avid reader of newspapers.”
“I don’t know about that. There’s one other thing—I mentioned it before—but he bought that mountaintop mansion three years ago. Almost forcing the owners to sell. Other people were living there then, and they had no intention at all of selling the house they’d just built. But Mr. Menshiki offered them money—or maybe pressured them in some other way—and drove them out. And then he moved in, like some mean-spirited hermit crab.”
“Hermit crabs don’t drive away what’s living in a shell. They just quietly take over the leftover shell of a dead shellfish.”
“But there must be some hermit crabs that are mean.”
“I don’t get it,” I said, trying to avoid a debate over the ecology of hermit crabs. “If what you’re saying is true, why would Mr. Menshiki insist so strongly that it had to be that house? So much so that he drove the residents out and took over? That must have taken a lot of money and effort. And that mansion is really too gaudy, too conspicuous, to suit him. It’s a wonderful house, for sure, but I just don’t think it fits his tastes.”
“Plus it’s too big. He doesn’t have a maid, lives alone, hardly ever has guests over. There’s no need to live in such a huge place.”
She drank the rest of the water.
“There must be some special reason why it had to be that house,” she went on. “I have no idea why, though.”
“Anyway, he’s invited me over to his place on Tuesday. Once I actually visit I might learn more.”
“Make sure you check out the secret locked room, the one like Bluebeard’s castle.”
“I’ll remember to,” I said.
“For the time being, things have worked out well.”
“Meaning—?”
“You finished the painting, Mr. Menshiki liked it, and you got a hefty payment for it.”
“I guess so,” I said. “I guess it did work out. I’m relieved.”
“Felicitations, maestro,” she said.
It was no lie to say that I felt relieved. It was true that I’d finished the painting. And true that Menshiki had liked it. And also true that I was happy with the painting. And equally true that this resulted in a nice, healthy amount of money coming my way. For all that, though, I couldn’t feel totally pleased with the way things had worked out. So much around me was still up in the air, left as is, with no clues to follow. The more I wanted to simplify my life, the more disjointed it seemed to become.
As if searching for clues, I almost unconsciously reached out to hold my girlfriend. Her body felt soft, and warm. And damp with sweat.
I know exactly where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to, the man with the white Subaru Forester said.
20
THE MOMENT WHEN EXISTENCE AND NONEXISTENCE COALESCE
The next morning I woke up at five thirty. It was Sunday morning. It was still pitch dark outside. After a simple breakfast in the kitchen I changed into work clothes and went into the studio. As the eastern sky grew brighter, I switched off the light, threw open the window, and let chilly, fresh morning air into the room. I took out a fresh canvas and set it on the easel. The chirping of birds filtered in through the open window. The rain during the night had thoroughly soaked the trees. The rain had stopped just a while before, bright gaps in the clouds showing. I sat down on the stool, and, sipping hot black coffee from a mug, stared at the empty canvas before me.
I’ve always enjoyed this time, early in the morning, gazing intently at a pure white canvas. “Canvas Zen” is my term for it. Nothing is painted there yet, but it’s more than a simple blank space. Hidden on that white canvas is what must eventually emerge. As I look more closely, I discover various possibilities, which congeal into a perfect clue as to how to proceed. That’s the moment I really enjoy. The moment when existence and nonexistence coalesce.
But on this day I knew from the beginning what I would be painting. Emerging from this canvas would be a portrait of the middle-aged man with the white Subaru Forester. Up to this moment the man had been patiently waiting, inside me, to be painted. And I had to paint his portrait not for anyone else (not by commission, not to earn a living) but for myself. Just as I had painted Menshiki’s portrait, in order to make visible his reason for being—or at least the meaning it had for me—I had to paint him in my own way. I’m not sure why. But it had to be done.
I closed my eyes and called to mind the figure of the man with the white Subaru Forester. I could distinctly recall the minutest details of his features. Early that second day he’d looked straight at me from his seat in the restaurant. The morning paper on the tabletop was folded, white steam rising from his cup of coffee. The bright morning light shining in the large window, the restaurant filled with the clatter of cheap tableware. That whole scene came back in every detail. And in the midst of that scene the man’s face began to show some expression.
I know exactly where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to, his eyes told me.
This time I began with a rough draft. I stood up, grabbed a stick of charcoal, and stood before the canvas. On the blank space I created the spot where the man’s face would go. With no plan, without thinking, I drew in a single vertical line. A single line, the focal point from which everything else would emerge. What would emerge was the face of a thin, suntanned man, deep wrinkles on his forehead. Thin, piercing eyes. Eyes used to staring at the far-off horizon. Eyes dyed the color of the sky and sea. Hair cut short, dotted with white. My guess, a taciturn, long-suffering man.
Around that central line I used charcoal to add a few supplementary lines, so the outlines of the man’s face would appear. I stepped back to look at the lines I’d done, made a few corrections, and added some new lines. What was important was believing in myself. Believing in the power of the lines, in the power of the space the lines divided. I wasn’t speaking, but letting the lines and spaces speak. Once the lines and spaces began conversing, then color would finally start to speak. And the flat would gradually transform into the three-dimensional. What I had to do was encourage them all, lend them a hand. And more than anything, not get in their way.
I kept working until ten thirty. The sun had made a slow crawl to the midpoint in the sky, the gray clouds had broken into thin strands, driven away one after another beyond the mountains. No longer did water drip from the tips of the tree branches. I stepped back and examined the rough sketch I’d done from various angles. What I saw was the face of the man I’d remembered. Or rather the framework that should abide in that face. But there were a few too many lines. I needed to do some trimming. Subtraction was the order of the day. But that was for tomorrow. Best to end this day’s work here.
I put down the now shorter stick of charcoal, and washed my smudged hands in the sink. As I dried my hands with a towel, my eyes came to rest on the bell on the shelf in front of me, and I picked it up. I shook it, and the sound was terribly light, dry, and outdated. I couldn’t believe it was an enigmatic Buddhist implement that had been underground for ages. It sounded so different from what I’d heard in the middle of the night. No doubt the pitch black and stillness had added to the depth and clarity of the sound, and made it carry farther.
The question of who could possibly have been ringing that bell in the middle of the night remained an unsolved mystery. Though someone must have been down in the hole every night ringing it (sending out what had to be some kind of message), whoever it was had vanished. When we uncovered the hole, all that was there was this bell. The whole thing was baffling. I placed the bell back on the shelf.
* * *
—
After lunch I went outside and into the woods out back. I had on a thick gray hooded windbreaker, and paint-stained sweatpants. I followed the damp path to the small shrine, and walked around behind it. The thick board cover over the hole was piled with fallen leaves of different colors and shapes. Leaves soaked by last night’s rain. Since Menshiki and I had visited two days before, no one else seemed to have touched the cover. I wanted to make sure of that. I sat down on the damp stones, and, listening to the calls of birds overhead, I gazed for a while at where the hole was.
In the silence of the woods it felt like I could hear the passage of time, of life passing by. One person leaves, another appears. A thought flits away and another takes its place. One image bids farewell and another one appears on the scene. As the days piled up, I wore out, too, and was remade. Nothing stayed still. And time was lost. Behind me, time became dead grains of sand, which one after another gave way and vanished. I just sat there in front of the hole, listening to the sound of time dying.
What would it feel like to sit at the bottom of that hole, all alone, I wondered. Being shut away by oneself in a cramped dark space. Menshiki had even given up his flashlight and the ladder. Without the ladder, without someone’s help (specifically mine) it would be nearly impossible to escape from there. Why did he have to go to the trouble of putting himself into such a predicament? Did being down in that dark hole remind him of his solitary time behind bars in Tokyo Prison? There was no way I could know that, of course. Menshiki lived his own life, in his own way.
I could say only one thing for sure. I would never be able to do that. Nothing scared me more than dark, confined spaces. Put me in a place like that, and I wouldn’t be able to breathe, I’d be so terrified. Even so, I was drawn to that hole. Drawn very strongly. So much so it felt like the hole was beckoning to me.
I sat next to the hole for a good half hour. Then I stood up and walked home through the sunlight that filtered down through the trees.
* * *
—
After two p.m. I had a call from Masahiko Amada. He had an errand to run near Odawara and wondered if he might drop by. Of course, I told him. I hadn’t seen him in a while. He drove up just before three. He brought a bottle of single-malt whiskey as a present. I thanked him. Good timing, since I’d almost run out of w
hiskey. As always he was stylishly dressed, neatly shaved, wearing glasses I’d seen before, with shell-rimmed frames. He looked nearly the same as he had in the past, though admittedly his hairline was beating a slow-motion retreat.
We sat in the living room and caught up. I told him how the landscapers had used heavy equipment to dig up the stone mound. How after that, a hole just under six feet in diameter had emerged. Nine feet deep, surrounded by a stone wall. A heavy lattice cover was over it, and when that was removed, all we found was an old Buddhist implement like a bell. He listened intently as I told him the story. But he didn’t say he wanted to see the hole. Or the bell.
“After that I take it you didn’t hear the bell at night?”
“I don’t hear it anymore,” I said.
“That’s great,” he said, sounding a bit relieved. “I can’t handle those kind of spooky things. I try to avoid them at all costs.”
“Let sleeping dogs lie?”
“Exactly,” Masahiko said. “I leave that hole up to you. Do whatever you like.”
I told him how now, for the first time in what seemed like forever, I had the urge to paint. How ever since I finished Menshiki’s portrait two days ago, it was like some blockage had been removed. I felt like I was discovering a new, original style, using portraits as a motif. I’d started the painting as a portrait, but what had eventually emerged was far from a conventional likeness. Even so, it was in essence still a portrait.
Masahiko wanted to see Menshiki’s portrait, but when I told him I’d already given it to him, he was disappointed.
Killing Commendatore Page 25
