As I hiked the mountain roads nearby, I tried to find a place from which I could view Mariye Akikawa’s house. But I could never find it. When I saw it from Menshiki’s house, I gathered it wasn’t far from me, but the topography obstructed my view. As I hiked through the woods I unconsciously was on the lookout for hornets.
What I rediscovered, spending two days gazing at the paintings, was that my feelings were spot on. Killing Commendatore wanted me to break its “code,” and The Man with the White Subaru Forester wanted the artist (namely me) to not make any more revisions. And both of these appeals were very strong—at least I felt them strongly—and I had to obey. I left The Man with the White Subaru Forester as it was (though I did try to fathom the basis for why it wanted to be left as is), and struggled to decipher Killing Commendatore. But both paintings were enveloped in an enigma, as hard as a walnut shell, and I couldn’t find the means to crack the shell open.
Without the upcoming portrait of Mariye Akikawa to deal with, I might very well have spent my days, ad infinitum, gazing back and forth between these paintings. But in the evening of the second day Menshiki called, and for the time being, at least, the spell was broken.
“Did you make a decision?” Menshiki said, after we’d greeted each other. He was, of course, asking about painting Mariye Akikawa’s portrait.
“I’ll accept the offer,” I replied. “But I do have one condition.”
“Which is?”
“I can’t predict what kind of painting it will turn out to be. I can’t know what style I’ll paint it in until Mariye is actually here and I actually begin. If no good ideas come to me, I might not finish. Or it might be finished, but I might not like it. Or you might not like it. So I’d like to do it spontaneously, not because you commissioned it, or because you suggested I do it.”
A momentary pause, then Menshiki said, probingly, “In other words, if you’re not satisfied with the finished painting it won’t end up mine, under any circumstances. Is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s a possibility. Anyway, I’d like to be the one who decides what to do with the painting. That’s my condition.”
Menshiki gave it some thought before he spoke. “The only thing I can do, I think, is agree. If not accepting that condition means you won’t paint it.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“So you want to be more free artistically, not bound by the painting being on commission by me, or having any suggestions from me, is that it? Or is the financial aspect the issue?”
“A little bit of both. But what’s really important is that I want to do it all more naturally.”
“Naturally?”
“I want to get rid of any unnatural elements, as much as I can.”
“Meaning…,” Menshiki said. His voice had grown a little hard. “That there’s something unnatural in my asking you to paint Mariye’s portrait?”
It is like trying to use a sieve to hold water, the Commendatore said. No one can ever float something full of holes on water.
I said, “What I mean is, with this painting I’d like to be on an equal footing with you, not in a relationship that’s mixed up with questions of individual interests. I’m sorry if this sounds rude.”
“No, it’s not rude at all. It’s only natural for people to be on an equal footing. Feel free to say anything you’d like to me.”
“In other words, I’d like to paint the portrait of Mariye Akikawa as a spontaneous act, not one that you had a hand in. Unless I do that, I might not come up with any good ideas about how to paint her. That sort of thing might be a shackle, visible or otherwise.”
Menshiki thought about this. “I understand completely,” he finally said. “Let’s forget about it being a commission. And please forget that I mentioned payment. That was me being overeager, I’m afraid. We can revisit the question of what to do with the painting once it’s finished and you show it to me. Of course I’ll honor your desires as the artist above all. But how about the other request I had? Do you remember?”
“About you casually stopping by my studio while Mariye is modeling for me?”
“Correct.”
I thought it over. “I have no problem with that. I’m acquainted with you, you live in the neighborhood, and just happened to drop by while out for a Sunday stroll. And we just chat for a while. That strikes me as completely natural.”
Menshiki seemed relieved. “I’d be very grateful if you’d arrange it. I’ll make sure not to get in the way. So can I plan things so that Mariye comes over to your place this Sunday morning, and you’ll paint her portrait? Actually Mr. Matsushima will act as intermediary and arrange things between you and the Akikawas.”
“That would be fine. Go ahead and set it up. We’ll plan on the two of them coming over on Sunday morning at ten, and Mariye will sit for the portrait. I’ll be sure to finish up by twelve. It’ll take several weeks to finish. Maybe five or six. That’s about the size of it.”
“I’ll be in touch once everything’s set.”
We’d finished discussing all we needed to.
“Ah, yes,” he said, as if suddenly remembering. “I found out a few more things about Tomohiko Amada’s time in Vienna. I told you that the failed assassination attempt he was involved in took place right about the time of the Anschluss, but actually it was in the early fall of 1938. About half a year after the Anschluss, in other words. You know the facts about the Anschluss, right?”
“Not in much detail.”
“On March 12, 1938, the Wehrmacht smashed across the border with Austria, invaded the country, and soon gained control of Vienna. They threatened President Miklas and made him designate Seyss-Inquart, head of the Austrian Nazi Party, as prime minister. Hitler came to Vienna two days later. On April tenth there was a national referendum, a vote on whether Austria should be annexed by Germany. On the surface it was a free, secret ballot, but the Nazis rigged things so any voter would have to be pretty courageous to vote nein. The vote was 99.75 percent ja for the annexation. That’s how Austria as a nation vanished, reduced to being a part of Germany. Have you ever been to Vienna?”
I’d never been out of the country, let alone to Vienna. I’d never even had a passport.
“Vienna’s like no other city in the world,” Menshiki said. “You sense it even after being there for a short time. Vienna’s different from Germany. The air’s different, the people are different. Same with the food and the music. It’s a special place for people to enjoy themselves, to love the arts. But back then Vienna was in total chaos, a brutal storm blowing violently through it. And it was exactly this period of upheaval in Vienna that Tomohiko Amada lived through. The Nazis behaved themselves until the national referendum, but after that they revealed their true, brutal nature. The first thing Hitler did after the Anschluss was build the Mauthausen concentration camp in northern Austria. It took only a few weeks to complete it. Building it was the Nazis’ top priority. In a short space of time, tens of thousands of political prisoners were arrested and shipped off to the camp. Most of those sent to Mauthausen were so-called incorrigible political prisoners or antisocial elements. So their treatment was especially cruel. Lots of people were executed there, or died doing harsh physical labor in the quarries. The label “incorrigible” meant that once you were thrown into that camp, you’d never come out alive. Many anti-Nazi activists weren’t sent to the camp, but were tortured and murdered during interrogation, their fate covered up. The aborted assassination attempt that Tomohiko Amada was involved in took place during this chaotic period following the Anschluss.”
I listened to Menshiki’s story without comment.
“But as I mentioned before, there’s no public record at all of any abortive assassination attempt on any Nazi VIP from the summer to fall of 1938. Which is pretty strange, if you think about it. If such a plot had really existed, Hitler and Goebbels would
have spread the news far and wide and used it for political purposes. Like they did with Kristallnacht. You know about Kristallnacht, right?”
“The basic facts, yes,” I said. I’d seen a movie once that dealt with it. “A German embassy official in Paris was shot and killed by an anti-Nazi Jew, and the Nazis used that as an excuse for fomenting anti-Jewish riots throughout Germany. Lots of businesses run by Jews were destroyed, and quite a few people were murdered. The name comes from the way that the glass from the shattered shop windows glittered like crystals.”
“Exactly. That was in November 1938. The German government announced it as spontaneous rioting, when in reality the Nazi government, with Goebbels leading the way, used the assassination to systematically plan this brutality. The assassin, Herschel Grynszpan, carried out the act to protest the cruel treatment of his family as Jews back in Germany. At first he planned to assassinate the German ambassador, but when he couldn’t, he instead shot one of the embassy staff who just happened to be there. Ironically, Vom Rath, the staff member he shot, was under surveillance by authorities for anti-Nazi sympathies. At any rate, if there had been a plot at the time to assassinate a Nazi official in Vienna, a similar campaign would definitely have taken place. They would have used it as an excuse to increase the suppression of anti-Nazi forces. At least, they wouldn’t have quietly covered up the incident.”
“Was there some reason they didn’t want it made public?”
“It seems a fact that the incident did take place. Most of the people involved were Viennese college students, and they were all arrested and either executed or murdered. To seal their lips about the plot. One theory is that one of the resistance members was the daughter of a high-ranking Nazi official, and that’s why they kept it under wraps. But the facts aren’t clear. After the war there was some testimony given about it, but this was all circumstantial evidence, and it’s unsure whether any of it is reliable. By the way, the resistance group’s name was Candela. In Latin it means a candle shining in the darkness underground. The Japanese word for lantern—kantera—derives from this.”
“If all those involved in the plot were killed, that means the only survivor is Tomohiko Amada?”
“It does seem that way. Just before the end of the war, the Reich Main Security Office ordered that all secret documents relating to the incident be burned, and the plot was lost to the darkness of history. It would be nice if we could question Tomohiko Amada about the details of what took place, but that would be pretty difficult now.”
It would, I said. Up till now Tomohiko Amada had never spoken of the incident, and his memory had now sunk deep into the thick mud of oblivion.
I thanked Menshiki and hung up.
Even while his memory was still solid, Tomohiko Amada had maintained a firm silence about the incident. He must have had some private reasons for why he couldn’t talk about it. Or perhaps when he left the country the authorities had forced him to agree to never speak of it. In place of maintaining a lifelong silence, though, he’d left the painting Killing Commendatore. He’d entrusted that painting with the truth he was forbidden to ever speak about, and his feelings about what had occurred.
* * *
—
The next evening Menshiki called again. Mariye Akikawa would be coming to my house the following Sunday at ten a.m., he reported. As he’d mentioned, her aunt would be accompanying her. Menshiki wouldn’t be there that first day.
“I’ll come by after some time has passed, after she’s gotten used to posing for you. I’m sure she’ll be nervous at first, and it’s better that I don’t bother you,” he said.
His voice was a little unsteady. That tone put me on edge as well.
“Yes, that sounds like a good idea,” I replied.
“Come to think of it, though, I might be the one who’s the most nervous,” Menshiki said after a little hesitation, sounding as if he were revealing a secret. “I think I said this before, but I’ve never been near Mariye Akikawa, not even once. I’ve only seen her from a distance.”
“But if you wanted to get close to her, you could have created an opportunity to do so.”
“Yes, of course. If I’d wanted to I could have made any number of opportunities.”
“But you didn’t. Why not?”
Uncharacteristically, Menshiki took time to choose his words. He said, “I couldn’t predict how I’d feel, or what I’d say, if I was close to her. That’s why I’ve intentionally stayed away. I’ve been satisfied with being on the other side of the valley, secretly watching her from a distance with high-powered binoculars. Is that a warped way of thinking?”
“Not particularly,” I said. “But I do find it a bit odd. But now you’ve decided to actually meet her at my house. Why?”
Menshiki was silent for a time, and then spoke. “That’s because you’re here, and can act as an intermediary.”
“Me?” I said in surprise. “Why me? Not to be rude or anything, but you hardly know me. And I don’t know you well either. We only met about a month ago. We live across the valley from each other, but our lifestyles couldn’t be more different. So why did you trust me that much? And tell me your secrets? You don’t seem the type to give away your inner feelings so easily.”
“Exactly. Once I have a secret I lock it away in a safe and swallow the key. I don’t seek advice from others or reveal things to them.”
“Then how come—I’m not sure how to put this—you’ve confided in me?”
Menshiki was silent for a time. “It’s hard to explain, but I got the feeling the first day I met you that it’s all right to let my guard down. Call it intuition. And that feeling only grew stronger after I saw my portrait. I decided, This is a trustworthy person. Someone who would accept my way of seeing things, my way of thinking. Even if I have a slightly odd and twisted way of seeing and thinking.”
A slightly odd and twisted way of seeing and thinking, I thought.
“I’m really happy you’d say that,” I said. “But I don’t think I understand you as a person. You go way beyond the scope of my comprehension. Frankly, many things about you simply surprise me. Sometimes I’m at a loss for words.”
“But you never try to judge me. Am I right?”
That was true, now that he’d said it. I’d never tried to apply some standard to judge Menshiki’s words and actions. I didn’t praise them, and didn’t criticize them. They simply left me, as I’d said, at a loss for words.
“You might be right,” I admitted.
“And you remember when I went down to the bottom of that hole? When I was down there by myself for an hour?”
“Of course.”
“It never even occurred to you to leave me there forever, in that dark, dank hole. Right?”
“True. But that sort of idea wouldn’t occur to a normal person.”
“Are you sure about that?”
What could I say? I couldn’t imagine what lay deep in other people’s minds.
“I have another request,” Menshiki said.
“And what is that?”
“It’s about next Sunday, when Mariye and her aunt come to your place,” Menshiki said. “I’d like to watch your house then with my binoculars, if you don’t mind?”
“I don’t mind,” I said. I mean, the Commendatore had watched my girlfriend and me, right beside us, when we’d had sex. Having someone watch my terrace from afar wasn’t about to faze me now.
“I thought it’d be best to tell you in advance,” Menshiki said, as if excusing himself.
I was impressed all over again how strangely honest he was. We finished talking and hung up the phone. I’d been holding the phone tightly against me, and the spot above my ear ached.
* * *
—
The next morning I received a certified letter. I signed the receipt the mailman held out for me, and got a large envelope.
Getting it didn’t exactly make me feel cheerful. My experience is that certified mail is never good news.
And as expected, the mail was from a law office in Tokyo, and inside were two sets of divorce papers. There was also a stamped, self-addressed envelope. The only thing accompanying the forms was a letter with businesslike instructions from the lawyer. It said that all I needed to do was read over the forms, check them, and, if I didn’t have any objections, sign and seal one set and send it back. If there are any points that you’re uncertain about, the letter said, feel free to contact the attorney in charge. I glanced through the forms, filled in the date, signed them, and affixed my seal. I didn’t particularly have any points that were uncertain. Neither of us had any financial obligations toward the other, no estate worth dividing up, no children to fight a custody battle over. A very simple, easy-to-understand divorce. Divorce 101, you could say. Two lives had overlapped into one, and six years later had split apart again, that was it. I slipped the documents inside the return envelope and put the envelope on top of the dining room table. Tomorrow when I went to town to teach my art class all I’d need to do was toss it inside the mailbox in front of the station.
That whole afternoon I sort of half-gazed at the envelope on the table, and gradually came to feel like the entire weight of six years of married life was crammed inside that envelope. All that time—time tinged with all kinds of memories and emotions—was stuffed inside an ordinary business envelope, gradually suffocating to death. I felt a weight pressing down on my chest, and my breathing grew ragged. I picked up the envelope, took it to the studio, and placed it on the shelf, next to the dingy ancient bell. I shut the studio door, returned to the kitchen, poured a glass of the whiskey Masahiko had given me, and drank it. My rule was not to drink while it was still light out, but I figured it was okay sometimes. The kitchen was totally still and silent. No wind outside, no sound of cars. Not even any birds chirping.
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