I couldn’t refuse.
The impersonal clatter of silverware in a chain restaurant.
* * *
—
I shook my head, trying to drive away those memories. It was an incident I didn’t care to recall, a memory I’d like to throw away and never have again. But the feel of that bathrobe belt lingered in my hands. The way her neck felt, too. For whatever reason, these stayed with me.
And this man knew. Where I’d been the night before, what I’d done. What I’d been thinking.
What should I do with this painting? Keep it here in the studio, turned toward the wall? Even turned around like that, it still made me uneasy. The only other place to keep it was the attic. The same place Tomohiko Amada had hidden away Killing Commendatore. The place to hide away what was in your heart.
In my mind, the words I’d spoken aloud came back to me.
I could reproduce exactly what it looked like. I’m a painter—it’s what I do. But I can’t explain what went into it.
All sorts of things I couldn’t explain were insidiously grabbing hold of me. Tomohiko Amada’s Killing Commendatore that I’d discovered in the attic, the strange bell left behind inside the gaping stone chamber in the woods, the Idea that appeared to me in the guise of the Commendatore, and the middle-aged man with the white Subaru Forester. And that odd white-haired person who lived across the valley. Menshiki seemed to be enlisting me into some kind of plan he had in mind.
The whirlpool swirling around me was gradually picking up speed. And there was no way for me to turn back. It was too late. That whirlpool was totally soundless. And that weird silence had me scared.
28
FRANZ KAFKA WAS QUITE FOND OF SLOPES
That evening I taught a children’s art class. The assignment that day was to do rough sketches of people. The children worked in pairs, selecting the type of drawing instruments they wanted from the ones the school had prepared ahead of time (charcoal or various types of soft pencils), and took turns sketching each other in their notebooks. They were limited to fifteen minutes per drawing (I used a kitchen timer to accurately time them). They were supposed to use an eraser as little as they could, and limit themselves to one sheet of paper, if possible.
One by one the children then came to the front of the class, showed us their sketches, and got feedback from the other children. It was a small class, and the atmosphere was congenial. Afterward I went forward and taught them some simple techniques for rough sketches. I explained in general the difference between croquis—rough sketches—and dessan. A dessan is more of a blueprint for a painting, and requires a certain accuracy. Compared with that, a croquis is a free first impression. You get an impression in your mind and trace the rough outline of it before it disappears. More than accuracy, croquis require balance and speed. Many famous painters actually weren’t very skilled at doing croquis. I’ve always prided myself on being good at drawing these kind of quick sketches.
Finally I chose one of the children to model for me and did a rough sketch of her on the blackboard in white chalk, to show them an actual example. Wow! You’re so fast! It looks just like her! the children called out, impressed. One of a teacher’s important duties is to get children to be genuinely impressed.
Next, I had them change partners and do another croquis, and the second time they were much improved. They absorbed knowledge quickly. This time, the instructor was impressed. Of course some of them were better than others, but that didn’t matter. What I was teaching them was less how to draw than a way to view the world.
On this day I selected Mariye Akikawa (intentionally, of course) to serve as model when I drew an example. I did a simple sketch of her from the waist up on the blackboard. It wasn’t exactly a croquis, though the elements were the same. I finished quickly, in three minutes. I wanted to use the class to test what kind of painting I could do of her. What I discovered in doing this was that, as a model for a painting, she had a lot of unique possibilities hidden away inside.
I’d never really consciously observed her before, but now, looking at her carefully as the subject of a drawing, I found her face far more intriguing than my original vague impression. It wasn’t just that she had lovely features. She was, indeed, a beautiful girl, but a closer observation showed a kind of imbalance at work. And behind that unstable expression there was a latent energy, like some agile animal lurking in the tall grass.
I wanted to see if I could capture that impression, but it was next to impossible to do that in three minutes, in chalk on a blackboard. Basically impossible, I should say. I needed more time to observe her face and dissect all the elements. And I had to know more about this young girl.
I left the chalk sketch of her on the blackboard, and after the children had all left, I stayed behind, arms folded, studying the sketch. I tried to determine if there was anything of Menshiki in her features. But I couldn’t decide. I could detect a resemblance in certain features, in others not so much—it could go either way. But if I had to give one feature it would be the eyes, a shared look in their eyes. The distinctive way their eyes would flash for an instant.
If you stare long enough deep into the bottom of a clear spring you discover a kind of lump that emits light. You can’t see it unless you look very closely. That lump soon wavers and loses shape. The more carefully you look, the more you start to wonder if it might all be an illusion. But something there is unmistakably glowing. Having done countless portraits of people, occasionally I’ll sense someone giving off that glow. Not many people have it. But this girl and Menshiki were among these rare few.
The middle-aged receptionist at the school came into the classroom to straighten up and stood beside me, admiring the drawing.
“That’s Mariye Akikawa, isn’t it,” she said at first glance. “A very nice likeness. It looks like she’s about to start moving. It’s a waste to have to erase it.”
“Thank you,” I said. I got up from my desk, picked an eraser, and completely wiped the sketch away.
* * *
—
The Commendatore finally made an appearance the next day (Saturday). It was the first time since Tuesday night at the dinner at Menshiki’s that he—to borrow his phrase—materialized. I was back from food shopping, in the living room reading a book, when I heard the sound of the bell tinkling from the studio. I went into the studio and found the Commendatore seated on the shelf, lightly shaking the bell next to his ear. As if making sure of the subtle sound. When he spotted me he stopped ringing the bell.
“It’s been a while,” I said.
“Negative. It has been nothing of the kind,” the Commendatore said curtly. “An Idea travels around the world in units of hundreds, thousands of years. A day or two does not count as time.”
“How did you like Mr. Menshiki’s dinner party?”
“Ah, yes, an interesting dinner that was. I could not partake of the food, of course, but did feast my eyes on it. And Menshiki is a fascinating fellow. Always thinking several steps ahead. And there is much pent up inside him.”
“He asked me to do a favor for him.”
“Affirmative.” The Commendatore gazed at the ancient bell in his hand. He did not seem interested. “I heard it all quite clearly. But it is not something that has much to do with me. It is a practical matter—a worldly matter, you could say—that is between my friends and Menshiki.”
“Is it all right if I ask a question?” I said.
The Commendatore rubbed his goatee with his palm. “Affirmative. But I do not know if I will be able to answer.”
“It’s about Tomohiko Amada’s painting Killing Commendatore. I assume you know the painting, since you borrowed one of the figures. The painting seems based on an incident in Vienna in 1938. Something Tomohiko Amada himself was involved in. Do you know anything about that?”
Arms folded, the Commendatore thought thi
s over. Finally he narrowed his eyes and spoke.
“There are plenty of things in history that are best left in the shadows. Accurate knowledge does not improve people’s lives. The objective does not necessarily surpass the subjective, you know. Reality does not necessarily extinguish fantasy.”
“Generally speaking,” I said, “that might be so. But that painting is calling out to anyone who sees it. I get the sense that Tomohiko Amada painted it to privately capture an event that was essential to him but that he could not share with others. He changed the characters and setting to another age, and made a metaphorical confession, using his newly acquired skills in Japanese-style painting. I even get the feeling that that was the sole reason he abandoned Western painting and converted to Japanese art.”
“Cannot you just let the painting speak for itself?” the Commendatore said softly. “If that painting wants to say something, then best to let it speak. Let metaphors be metaphors, a code a code, a sieve a sieve. Is there something wrong with that?”
A sieve? But I let it go.
“No, nothing’s wrong with that,” I said. “I’d just like to know what made Tomohiko Amada paint it. It’s clear that the painting is expecting something. The picture was, without a doubt, painted for a specific purpose.”
The Commendatore continued to rub his beard with his palm as if recalling something. “Franz Kafka was quite fond of slopes,” he said. “He was drawn to all sorts of slopes. He loved to gaze at homes built on the middle of a slope. He would sit by the side of the street for hours, staring at houses built like that. He never grew tired of it and would sit there, tilting his head to one side, then straightening it up again. A kind of strange fellow. Did you know this?”
Franz Kafka and slopes?
“No, I didn’t,” I said. I’d never heard of that.
“But does knowing that make one appreciate his works more?”
I didn’t respond to his question.
“So you knew Franz Kafka, too? Personally?”
“He does not know about me personally, of course,” the Commendatore said. He chuckled, as if recalling something. This might have been the first time I’d seen him laugh out loud. Was there something about Franz Kafka to make him chuckle?
His expression returned to normal and he went on.
“The truth is a symbol, and symbols are the truth. It is best to grasp symbols the way they are. There’s no logic or facts, no pig’s belly button or ant’s balls. When people try to use a method other than the truth to follow along the path of understanding, it is like trying to use a sieve to hold water. I am telling you this for your own good. Better to give it up. Sadly, what Menshiki is doing is similar to that.”
“So no matter what, it’s a wasted effort?”
“No one can ever float something full of holes on water.”
“So what exactly is Mr. Menshiki trying to do?”
The Commendatore lightly shrugged. Charming lines formed between his eyebrows that reminded me of a young Marlon Brando. I seriously doubted the Commendatore had ever seen Elia Kazan’s On the Waterfront, but those lines were exactly like Marlon Brando’s. Though I had no way of knowing how far he went, when it came to referencing his appearance and features.
He said, “There is very little I can explain to my friends about Tomohiko Amada’s Killing Commendatore. That is because it is, in essence, allegory and metaphor. Allegories and metaphors are not something you should explain in words. You just grasp them and accept them.”
The Commendatore scratched behind his ear with his little finger. Just like a cat will scratch behind its ear before it rains.
“I will, however, tell my friends one thing. Nothing that is enormously significant, but tomorrow night you’ll get a phone call. A call from Menshiki. Think things over very carefully before you answer. Your answer will be the same no matter how much you think it over, but it is still best to think it over very carefully.”
“And it’s very important to let the other person know you’re thinking things over carefully, isn’t it. As a gesture.”
“Affirmative. A hard-and-fast rule in business is to never accept the first offer. Remember that, and you will never go wrong.” The Commendatore chuckled again. He seemed in an especially good mood today. “Changing topics, but I wondered, is it interesting to touch a clitoris?”
“I don’t think you touch it because it’s interesting,” I said honestly.
“From the sidelines it is hard to understand.”
“I don’t think I get it, either,” I said. So an Idea, too, doesn’t necessarily understand everything.
“About time for me to disappear,” the Commendatore said. “I have someplace else I need to go. Do not have much time.”
And with that the Commendatore vanished. A gradual, phased disappearance, like the Cheshire Cat’s. I went to the kitchen, made a simple dinner, and ate. I considered for a moment what “someplace else” an Idea would need to go to. And naturally had no clue.
* * *
—
Like the Commendatore had prophesized, at just past eight the following evening, I got a phone call from Menshiki.
I thanked him again for the dinner party. The food was amazing, I said. It was nothing, he replied. I want to thank you, Menshiki said, for letting me have such an enjoyable time. I also thanked him for the payment for the portrait, which was way more than we’d agreed to. Please don’t worry about it, Menshiki said modestly. That’s only to be expected, for such a wonderful painting. Once we’d finished all these polite exchanges there was a moment of silence.
“By the way, about Mariye Akikawa,” Menshiki began, as casually as if discussing the weather. “You remember the other day when I asked if you would have her model for a painting?”
“Of course I remember.”
“Yesterday I asked Mariye—actually Mr. Matsushima, the owner of the arts-and-culture center, asked her aunt—if it might be possible—and she agreed to model.”
“I see,” I said.
“So all the pieces are in place, if you’ll agree to paint the portrait.”
“But Mr. Menshiki, isn’t Mr. Matsushima a bit suspicious that you’re involved in this?”
“I’ve been very careful, so no need to worry. He sees me as acting as your patron of sorts. I hope you’re not offended…”
“I don’t mind,” I said. “But I’m surprised Mariye Akikawa agreed. She’s so quiet and docile, and strikes me as a timid girl.”
“Honestly, her aunt didn’t like the idea at first. She felt nothing good could come from modeling for a painting. I’m sorry if this offends you, as an artist.”
“No, most people would feel that way.”
“But Mariye herself seemed quite interested in modeling for the painting. She said if you’d paint her she’d be happy to pose. She’s the one who persuaded her aunt to agree.”
Why, I wondered? Was there some connection with the sketch of her I did on the blackboard? I didn’t venture to bring this up with Menshiki.
“Things have worked out perfectly, haven’t they?” Menshiki said.
I thought it over. Was this really the perfect way for things to go? Menshiki seemed to be waiting for my opinion.
“Could you tell me more about how this would unfold?”
Menshiki said, “It’s very simple. You’re looking for a model for a painting. And you think that Mariye Akikawa, from your art class, would be perfect. So you had the owner of the arts-and-culture center, Mr. Matsushima, sound out the girl’s guardian, her aunt. That’s the story. Mr. Matsushima personally recommended you. Said you have a sterling character, are an enthusiastic teacher, that you’re a talented artist with a promising future. I don’t appear anywhere in this. I made sure my name didn’t come up. Naturally she’ll be clothed when she models, and her aunt will accompany her. And you’ll finish the s
essions by noon. Those are the conditions they laid down. What do you think?”
Following the Commendatore’s advice (“Always turn down first offers”), I put on the brakes.
“I don’t have any problem with the conditions, but can I have a bit more time to think about this?”
“Of course,” Menshiki said calmly. “Think about it as much as you’d like. I’m not trying to rush you. Obviously you’re the one who would paint the picture, and if you don’t feel like doing it, that’s the end of it. I just wanted to let you know that everything’s all set, as far as I’m concerned. One more thing, perhaps a little off topic, but I’m planning to pay you fully for the painting.”
Things are really moving along here, I thought. Everything’s evolving amazingly quickly and smoothly, like a ball rolling down a slope…I pictured Franz Kafka seated halfway down the slope, watching the ball roll by. I needed to be cautious.
“Can you give me two days?” I asked. “I should be able to give you an answer then.”
“That’s fine. I’ll call you again in two days,” Menshiki said.
We ended the call.
Truth be told, I really didn’t need two days to give a reply. I’d already made up my mind. I was dying to paint Mariye Akikawa’s portrait. Even if someone tried to stop me, I’d take on the task. The only reason for asking for two extra days was that I didn’t want anyone else to dictate the pace of events. I needed to stop and take a deep breath, something instinct—and the Commendatore—had taught me.
It is like trying to use a sieve to hold water, the Commendatore said. No one ever can float something full of holes on water.
His words hinted at something, something to come.
29
ANY UNNATURAL ELEMENTS
I spent those two days gazing, back and forth, at the two paintings in my studio—Tomohiko Amada’s Killing Commendatore and my own painting of the man with the white Subaru Forester. Killing Commendatore was hanging now on the white wall of the studio. The Man with the White Subaru Forester was in a corner of the studio facing the wall (only when I wanted to look at it did I return it to the easel). Other than gaze at those paintings, I killed time reading books, listening to music, cooking, cleaning, weeding the garden, taking walks nearby. I didn’t feel like taking up my paintbrush. The Commendatore didn’t appear, and maintained his silence.
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