Killing Commendatore

by Haruki Murakami

  “When you put it that way, I suppose it makes sense,” I said. It was an interesting analogy.

  Menshiki rolled a few cashews around in his hand for a moment and then spoke. “That highly efficient cerebral cortex might seem wasted at first, but without it we wouldn’t be able to think abstract thoughts, or enter the realm of the metaphysical. Even though we use but a small part of it, the cerebral cortex has that capacity. If we could use all the rest of it, what would we be capable of, I wonder. Isn’t it fascinating to consider?”

  “But in exchange for that efficient brain—the price we paid for that magnificent mansion, in other words—mankind had to neglect all kinds of basic abilities. Right?”

  “Exactly,” Menshiki said. “Even without abstract thought or metaphysical theorizing, just standing on two legs and using clubs gave mankind more than enough skill to win the race for survival on earth. These other abilities aren’t that necessary. And in exchange for our hyper-capable cerebral cortexes, of necessity we have to give up lots of other physical abilities. For example, dogs have a sense of smell several thousand times better than humans, and a sense of hearing tens of times better. But we’re able to amass complex hypotheses. We’re able to compare and contrast the cosmos and the microcosmos, and appreciate Van Gogh and Mozart. We can read Proust—if you want to, that is—and collect Koimari porcelain and Persian rugs. Not something a dog can do.”

  “Marcel Proust used a sense of smell inferior to that of a dog’s to write his lengthy novel.”

  Menshiki laughed. “That he did. I’m just speaking in generalities.”

  “The question then is whether or not an idea can be treated as an autonomous entity or not, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  Exactly, the Commendatore whispered into my ear. But following his earlier warning, I didn’t look around me.

  * * *

  —

  After this, Menshiki led me into his study. There were broad stairs that led out of the living room, and we took them to the floor below. Somehow these stairs seemed more than stairs, and part of the habitable space in the house. We went down the hallway past several bedrooms (I didn’t count how many, but maybe one of them was the locked “Bluebeard’s secret room” my girlfriend spoke of), and at the end was the study. It wasn’t an especially big room, but of course, it wasn’t cramped either. Built to be just the right amount of space. There were few windows in the study, just long, narrow windows like skylights near the ceiling on one wall. All that was visible from the windows were pine branches and the sky visible through the branches. (The room didn’t seem to particularly require sunlight or a view.) Without many windows, the walls were that much bigger. One wall was floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases, one section of which was for a shelf for CDs. The bookshelves were packed with books of all sizes. There was a wooden stepladder to reach the books on the upper shelves. All the books seemed to have been used at one time or another. It was clear that this was a practical collection used by a devoted reader, not decorative bookshelves.

  A large office desk faced away from one wall, with two computers on top, a desktop model and a laptop. There were a couple of cups holding pens and pencils, and a neat pile of paperwork. On another wall was a beautiful, expensive-looking stereo set, and on the opposite wall, facing directly across from the desk, sat a pair of tall, narrow speakers. They were about my height (five feet eight), the cases made of high-quality mahogany. An Art Deco armchair for reading and listening to music was in the middle of the room, and next to it a stainless-steel standing lamp for reading. I imagined that Menshiki spent a large part of his days alone in this room.

  My portrait of Menshiki was hanging on the wall, at about eye level, exactly between the two speakers. Bare, not yet framed. It looked like a natural part of the room, as if it had been hanging there for a long time. A painting I’d basically created in one intense sitting, yet in this study that uninhibited aspect of it felt, strangely enough, neatly contained. The unique feeling of the place comfortably stilled the painting’s plunge-ahead vigor. And unmistakably concealed within that painting was Menshiki’s face. To me, in fact, it looked like Menshiki himself was contained within.

  I had most definitely painted that painting, but once it had left my hands and become Menshiki’s possession, hanging on his study wall, it had transformed into something beyond my reach. Now it was Menshiki’s painting, not mine. Even if I tried to comprehend something within it, like a slippery, nimble fish the painting would slip out of my hands. Like a woman who’d once been mine but was now someone else’s.

  “What do you think? Doesn’t it fit this room perfectly?”

  Menshiki was referring to the painting, of course. I nodded without a word.

  “I tried putting it in lots of different rooms. But in the end I knew this was the best room and the perfect spot for it. The amount of space, the way the light hits it, the whole atmosphere is perfect. What I enjoy most is gazing at the picture from that reading chair.”

  “Could I give it a try?” I said, pointing to the reading chair.

  “Of course. Go right ahead.”

  I sat down on that leather chair, leaned back into the gentle curve it inscribed, and rested my legs on the ottoman. I brought my hands together on my chest and once more gazed at the painting. As Menshiki said, this was the ideal spot from which to appreciate it. Seen from that chair (a chair so comfortable it left nothing to be desired), my painting hanging on the wall in front of me had a quiet, calm persuasiveness that took me by surprise. It looked like almost a completely different work from when it was in my studio, as if it had acquired, since coming here, its rightful life force. Or something like that. And at the same time it seemed to have severed any contact with me, its creator.

  Menshiki used a remote control to turn on some music at just the right low volume. A Schubert string quartet I was familiar with. Composition D804. The sound coming out of those speakers was clear, fine-grained, refined, and elegant. Compared with the sound from the speakers in Tomohiko Amada’s home, which had a simpler, unadorned tone, it seemed like different music altogether.

  Suddenly the Commendatore was in the room. He was seated on the stepladder in front of the bookshelves, his arms folded, looking at my painting. When I glanced at him he shook his head slightly, signaling that I shouldn’t look at him. I returned my gaze to the painting.

  “Thank you very much,” I said to Menshiki as I rose from the chair. “That’s the perfect place to hang it.”

  Menshiki beamed and shook his head. “No, I should be the one thanking you. Now that it’s found a home here, I’m liking it more and more. When I look at it, I feel like I’m standing in front of…a special mirror. I’m inside there, but that’s not me, entirely. It’s a little different me. When I stare at it for a while, a strange feeling comes over me.”

  As he listened to the Schubert, Menshiki again turned his attention to a silent appraisal of the painting. The Commendatore, still seated on the stepladder, likewise gazed at the painting with narrowed eyes, as if teasingly imitating him (though I doubt that was his intention).

  Menshiki glanced over at the clock on the wall. “Let’s go to the dining room. Dinner should be just about ready. I do hope the Commendatore shows up.”

  I looked at the stepladder. The Commendatore was no longer there.

  “I think he’s already here,” I said.

  “I’m glad,” Menshiki said, sounding relieved. He touched the remote control and stopped the Schubert. “There’s a place prepared for him, of course. It’s really a shame, though, that he won’t be able to enjoy eating the meal.”

  Menshiki explained that on the floor below where we were currently seated, there was a storehouse, a laundry room, and a gym. The gym was outfitted with all sorts of workout equipment. It had a sound system so he could enjoy music while he exercised. Once a week a trainer came and led him thro
ugh strength-training exercises. There was also an efficiency-sized residence for a live-in maid. It had a simple kitchen and small bathroom, though nobody was using it at present. There used to be a small indoor pool, but it wasn’t very practical and took a lot of upkeep, so he had had it filled in and made into a greenhouse. Someday he might build a two-lane twenty-five-meter lap pool, he said. If I do, he said, I’d love for you to come over and swim. That would be wonderful, I said.

  We headed to the dining room.

  24

  MERELY GATHERING RAW DATA

  The dining room was on the same floor as the study. The kitchen was in back of it. The dining room was a long room, with a large, long table in the middle. The oak table was about four inches thick, and big enough for ten people. A solid table that would look good hosting a banquet for Robin Hood and his men. But it was simply the two of us, Menshiki and myself, not a merry band of outlaws. A place was set for the Commendatore, but he wasn’t there. A place mat, silverware, and an empty glass were ready for him, but they were just for show. A courtesy to indicate that was his place.

  Like in the living room, one long wall was entirely glass. It looked out over the mountain range beyond the valley. Just as I could see Menshiki’s house from mine, my house should be visible from his. The house I lived in, though, was nowhere as big as Menshiki’s mansion, and it was a wooden building whose subdued color didn’t stand out, so in the dark I couldn’t make out where it was. There weren’t many homes built here, but in each of the houses that dotted the mountains there were clearly lights on inside. It was dinnertime. People were with their families at the dinner table, about to enjoy a hot meal. I could sense that slight warmth in those lights.

  In contrast, on the other side of the valley, Menshiki, I, and the Commendatore were seated at that large table, about to begin an eccentric, formal dinner party. Outside a fine rain continued to silently fall. But there was almost no wind, and it was a typically hushed autumn night. I looked out the window and thought again about the hole. About the lonely stone-lined chamber behind the little shrine. Even as we sat here the hole was there, dark and dank. Memories of that scene brought a special chill to me, deep inside.

  “I found this table while traveling in Italy,” Menshiki said after I’d complimented it. He didn’t sound like he was bragging, simply stating facts. “I ran across it in a furniture store in Lucca, purchased it, and had it shipped here. It’s so heavy it was quite a task to transport it.”

  “Do you go abroad very often?”

  His lips twisted up a bit, then relaxed. “I used to. Part business, part pleasure. Not so many opportunities to do so these days. I’m doing a different sort of work now. Plus I no longer like to go out much anymore. Most of the time I’m here.”

  To indicate more clearly what he meant by “here,” he motioned toward the house with his hand. I expected him to add more about this change in his work, but that’s all he said. As always, he didn’t seem eager to say much about his work, and I didn’t press him about it.

  “I thought we’d start with some well-chilled champagne, if that’s all right with you. You don’t mind?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “I’ll leave it all up to you.”

  Menshiki made a faint motion, and the ponytailed young man came over and poured cold champagne into long narrow flutes. Pleasant little bubbles fizzed up in the glasses, so light and thin they seemed made of high-quality paper. We toasted each other across the table. Then Menshiki respectfully lifted his glass to the unoccupied seat for the Commendatore.

  “Thank you so much for coming, Commendatore,” he said.

  There was, naturally, no reply from the Commendatore.

  As he enjoyed the champagne, Menshiki talked about opera. About how, on a trip to Sicily, he saw a spectacular performance of Verdi’s Ernani at the Catania opera house. The person seated next to him sang along with the performers, all the while snacking on mandarin oranges. And how he’d had some amazing champagne there.

  The Commendatore finally made an appearance in the dining room, though not at the seat at the table prepared for him. Given his short stature, he would have only come up to nose level, hidden by the table. Instead he plunked himself down on a kind of display shelf diagonally behind Menshiki. He was about five feet off the floor, lightly swinging his feet clad in those oddly shaped black shoes. I raised my glass slightly to him so that Menshiki wouldn’t see. As expected, the Commendatore acted as if he didn’t notice.

  The meal was served at this point. There was an open serving slot between the kitchen and the dining room and the bow-tied, ponytailed young man brought each dish placed there one by one to our table. For a first course, we had a beautiful dish of organic vegetables and fresh isaki fish. Accompanied by white wine. The ponytailed young man uncorked the bottle as carefully as if he were an explosives expert handling a land mine. No explanation of what kind of wine it was or where it was from, though of course it was superb. Menshiki wasn’t about to serve a less-than-perfect wine.

  After that we were served a salad of lotus root, calamari, and white beans. Then a sea turtle soup. The fish dish was monkfish.

  “It’s a bit early in the season for it, but I heard that down at the harbor they got hold of some excellent monkfish,” Menshiki said. The fish was certainly fresh and amazing. Firm texture, a refined sweetness, but still a clean aftertaste. Lightly steamed, then served with (what I took to be) a tarragon sauce.

  Next came thick venison steaks. There was again an explanation of the special sauce, but it was so full of specialized terms I couldn’t remember half of it. At any rate, a wonderfully fragrant sauce.

  The ponytailed young man poured red wine into our glasses. Menshiki explained that the bottle had been opened an hour before and decanted.

  “It’s breathed nicely, and it should be just the peak time to drink it.”

  I knew nothing about aerating wine, but it had a deep flavor. When your tongue first encountered it, then when you held it in your mouth, and finally when you drank it down, the flavor was different each time. It was like a mysterious woman whose beauty changes slightly depending on the angle and light. The wine left a pleasant aftertaste.

  “It’s Bordeaux,” Menshiki said. “I won’t sing its praises. Just know it’s a Bordeaux.”

  “It’s the kind of wine that once you started listing its good points, you’d have a long list.”

  Menshiki smiled. Pleasant wrinkles formed at the corners of his eyes. “You’re exactly right. It would be very long if you listed its merits. But I don’t particularly like to do that with wines. I’m not good at enumerating the merits of things, no matter what they are. It’s just a delicious wine—that’s enough, right?”

  I had no objections to that.

  All this time the Commendatore watched us drinking and eating from his perch on the display shelf. He sat there, unmoving, diligently observing the scene there down to the smallest detail, but didn’t seem to have any reaction to what he was seeing. Like he told me once, he merely observes. He doesn’t judge, or have any partiality toward it. He’s merely gathering raw data.

  This might be how he observed me and my girlfriend making love in bed in the afternoons. The thought unsettled me. He’d told me that watching people have sex was for him no different from watching morning radio exercise routines or someone sweeping a chimney. And that might very well be the case. But the fact remained that it was disconcerting to think of being observed.

  An hour and a half later, Menshiki and I finally arrived at dessert (a soufflé) and espresso. A long but fulfilling journey. For the first time, the chef came out of the kitchen and over to the dining table. A tall man, in a white chef’s outfit. In his mid-thirties would be my guess, with a sparse black beard. He greeted me politely.

  “The food was amazing,” I told him. “I’ve hardly ever had anything so delicious.”

 
Those were my honest feelings. I still couldn’t believe that a chef who made such exquisite dishes ran a small, unknown French restaurant near the harbor in Odawara.

  “Thank you very much,” he said, smiling brightly. “Mr. Menshiki’s always been very kind to me.”

  He bowed and returned to the kitchen.

  “I wonder if the Commendatore was satisfied, too?” Menshiki said after the chef had left, a concerned look on his face. He didn’t appear to be playacting. He seemed genuinely concerned.

  “I’m sure he is,” I replied with a straight face. “It’s a shame, of course, that he couldn’t enjoy the fabulous meal, but he must have enjoyed the atmosphere.”

  “I do hope so.”

  Of course I enjoyed it, the Commendatore whispered in my ear.

  * * *

  —

  Menshiki suggested an after-dinner drink, but I declined. I was so full I really couldn’t manage anything else. He had a brandy.

  “There was something that I wanted to ask you,” Menshiki said as he slowly swirled the brandy in the oversized glass. “It’s an odd question, and I hope you’re not offended.”

  “Feel free to ask me anything.”

  He took a small sip of brandy, tasting it. Then quietly laid his glass on the table.

  “It’s about the pit in the woods,” Menshiki said. “The other day I spent about an hour in that stone chamber. No flashlight, seated alone at the bottom of the pit. The cover was on top, and rocks on top of that to hold it down. And I told you, ‘Please come back in an hour and get me out of here.’ Correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why do you think I did that?”

  “I have no idea,” I answered honestly.

  “I needed to do that,” Menshiki said. “I can’t explain it, but sometimes I need to do that. Be left all alone in a cramped, dark, completely silent space.”