“Of course. It happens a lot. In my case, however, boredom is an indispensable part of life.”
“Don’t you find it painful?”
“I guess I’ve gotten used to it. So it doesn’t feel like pain.”
“I bet that’s because painting is so central to your existence. That’s your core—your passion to create is born out of what you call boredom. Without that core, I’m sure you’d find boredom unendurable.”
“So you’re not working these days, are you?”
“That’s right, I’m basically retired. I do a little computer trading on the stock markets, as I’ve told you, but that’s not out of necessity. It’s more like a game, a form of mental discipline.”
“And you live in that big house all by yourself.”
“Correct.”
“And you still never get bored?”
Menshiki shook his head. “I have so many things to occupy my mind. Books I should read, music I should listen to. Data to gather, sort, and analyze. I’m used to staying active—it’s a daily habit. I work out too, and when I need a change of pace, I practice the piano. And there’s housework, of course. I haven’t time to be bored.”
“Don’t you ever worry about growing old? About becoming a lonely old man?”
“No question, I will age,” Menshiki said. “My body will decline, and I’ll probably grow more and more solitary. But I’m not there yet. I have an idea what it will be like. But I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t believe something until he’s seen it. So I have to wait until it’s sitting right in front of me. I’m not especially afraid of aging. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it, but I am a little curious.”
Menshiki slowly swirled the whiskey in his glass.
“How about you?” he asked, looking me in the eye. “Are you afraid of getting old?”
“I was married for six years, and it didn’t turn out so well. I didn’t paint a single painting for myself during all that time. I guess people would say I squandered those years. After all, I was turning out one painting after another of a sort I don’t especially like. Yet, in a way, maybe I was fortunate to have gone through that. That’s how I feel these days.”
“I think I understand what you’re trying to say. That there’s a time in life when you have to discard your ego. Is that it?”
Perhaps, I thought. But maybe in my case it simply took me that long to discover what I’d been lugging around all that time. Had I dragged Yuzu along on that pointless, roundabout journey?
Am I afraid of growing old? I wondered to myself. Did I dread the advent of old age?
“I still have a hard time imagining it,” I said. “It may sound foolish for a man in his mid-thirties to say this, but I feel as if my life is just beginning.”
“That’s not foolish at all,” Menshiki said, smiling. “You’re probably right—you’re just getting started.”
“You mentioned genes a few minutes ago,” I said. “That you felt you’re just a vehicle receiving a set of genes from one generation and transmitting it to the next. And beyond that duty, you’re no more than a clod of earth. Right?”
Menshiki nodded. “That’s what I said.”
“But you don’t find being a clod of earth particularly frightening, do you?”
“I may be a clod of earth,” Menshiki said, laughing, “but as clods go I’m pretty good. It may sound conceited, but I think I may even be a superior clod. I’ve been blessed with certain abilities. Those have limits, I know, but they’re abilities nonetheless. That’s why I go all out in whatever I do. I want to stretch myself as far as I can, to see what I’m capable of. I have no time to be bored. That’s the best way I know of keeping fear and emptiness at arm’s length.”
We drank until almost eight o’clock, at which point the bottle ran out. Menshiki stood up to leave.
“I should be on my way,” he said. “I’ve imposed on you for too long.”
I called for a taxi. “Tomohiko Amada’s house” was all it took to identify our location. He was a famous man. The dispatcher said it would be fifteen minutes. I thanked him and hung up.
Menshiki used that time to tell me something.
“I told you earlier that Mariye’s father had become deeply involved in a religious sect, didn’t I?” he began.
I nodded.
“Well, it turns out that it’s one of the new religions, and a shady one at that. I checked online and found out they’ve got a really bad track record. A number of civil suits have been filed against them. Their so-called doctrine is a pile of rubbish unworthy of the name ‘religion.’ Of course, Mr. Akikawa is free to subscribe to whatever beliefs he likes. That goes without saying. But he has sunk quite a lot of money into this group. His money, company money. He had considerable wealth in the beginning, was able to manage on the monthly rents he collected. But there was a clear limit to how much he could withdraw without selling property and other assets. Now he’s way past that limit—he’s sold a lot of those. Clearly, an unhealthy situation. Like an octopus trying to survive by devouring its own legs.”
“Are you saying he’s being preyed on by that cult?”
“Exactly. He’s a real pigeon. When a group like that squeezes you, they take everything they can get. Right down to the last drop. Forgive me for saying so, but Mr. Akikawa’s privileged upbringing may make him more vulnerable to that kind of thing.”
“So you’re concerned about this situation.”
Menshiki sighed. “It’s Mr. Akikawa’s responsibility how he ends up. He’s a mature adult, aware of his actions. It’s not so simple for his family, though—they have no idea what’s going on. Not that my worrying about them will make a bit of difference.”
“The study of reincarnation,” I said.
“It’s a fascinating hypothesis,” Menshiki said. He quietly shook his head.
The taxi finally arrived. Before getting in, he offered a most courteous thanks. His complexion and his decorum were a constant, no matter how much he drank.
40
I COULD NOT MISTAKE THE FACE
After Menshiki left, I brushed my teeth, climbed into bed, and fell asleep immediately. I drop off in no time at all under normal circumstances, and whiskey only accentuates that tendency.
In the middle of the night, however, a loud sound jolted me awake. I think the sound was real. Possibly, though, it took place in my dream. Its source could have been my own unconscious. Whatever its origins, it was a huge crash, as though an earthquake had struck. The impact lifted me into the air. That part was real, for sure, not a dream or a product of my imagination. I had been fast asleep, and now, an instant later, I was on the verge of tumbling from my bed, my mind on high alert.
According to the clock on the bedside table, it was past two. The time of night when the bell had usually rung. But I could not hear a bell. With winter approaching, there were no insect voices. A deep hush had fallen over the house. Outside, thick, dark clouds covered the sky. If I listened hard enough, I could hear the wind.
I felt for the lamp, switched it on, and slipped a sweater over my pajamas. I would take a quick look around the house. Something very strange had happened, or so it seemed. Had a wild boar crashed through one of the windows? Or had a small meteorite hit the roof? Probably not, but it was still a good idea to make sure. I was, after all, the caretaker of the house. And I would have a hard time falling back to sleep if I didn’t find out. The crash had left me wide awake, my heart pounding.
I walked through the house flicking on lights, checking room by room. As far as I could tell, nothing was out of place. All was in order. It wasn’t a big house, so I would have noticed if something was amiss. When I finished my inspection, I headed to the studio. I stepped through the door connecting it to the living room and reached for the wall switch. But some thing stopped me. Don’t turn on the light, the thing whispered in m
y ear. In a small but clear voice. Better to leave it dark. Following its instructions, I removed my hand from the switch and closed the door behind me without a sound. Quieting my own breathing, I peered into the darkened studio.
As my eyes adjusted to the light, I became aware that someone else was in the room. The signs were unmistakable. And that someone was sitting on the wooden stool that I used when I was painting. At first, I thought it was the Commendatore. That he had materialized and returned. But this person was much bigger. The silhouette looming in the dark was that of a tall, gaunt man. The Commendatore was two feet tall, if that, but this man was close to six feet in height. He was sitting somewhat hunched over, as tall people often do. And not moving at all.
I didn’t move either as I stood there looking at his back, with my own back pressed against the doorframe and my left hand near the light switch, just in case. There in the dark, in the middle of the night, we were frozen, like two statues. For some reason, I wasn’t scared. My breathing was shallow and the sound of my heartbeat was hard and dry. But I felt no fear. Someone I had never seen before had come barging into my house in the middle of the night. For all I knew, it could have been a burglar. Or perhaps a ghost. Either should have frightened me. Yet for some reason, I felt neither danger nor dread.
Perhaps all the strange happenings I had been experiencing—starting with the appearance of the Commendatore—had made me immune to such weirdness. Yet there was more to it than that. What was the mysterious intruder doing there in the studio so late at night? My curiosity trumped my fear. He seemed to be lost in thought. Or maybe he was staring hard at something. The intensity of his focus was obvious, even to an observer. He had no idea that I had entered the room. Or, perhaps, my presence was beneath his notice.
I tried to quiet my breathing and control the pounding of my heart against my ribs as I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark. After a while, I began to realize what he was regarding with such ferocity. It was something hanging on the opposite wall. Which meant it had to be Tomohiko Amada’s painting Killing Commendatore. He was sitting stock-still on the wooden stool, bent slightly forward, staring at that painting. His hands were on his knees.
At last the dark clouds covering the sky began to part, and a shaft of moonlight entered the room. It was as if an ancient tombstone had been bathed in pure, silent water, baring the secrets carved on its surface. Then the darkness returned. But only for a short time. The clouds parted again, and a pale blue light filled the room for a full ten seconds. Now, at last, I could determine the identity of the person on the stool.
His white hair fell to his shoulders. It had been uncombed for some time, for wisps jutted in every direction. Judging from his bearing, he was quite old. And withered, like a dead tree. Once, he must have had a powerful and manly physique. But now he was skeletal, wasted by age and possibly illness. That much I could tell.
His face was so emaciated it took me a while to figure out who he was. But there, in the hushed moonlight, I finally realized. I had seen only a few photographs, yet I could not mistake the face. The profile of his aquiline nose and the powerful physical aura were undeniable proof. Though the night was cold, sweat streamed from my armpits. My heart pounded even faster and harder. It seemed impossible to believe, but there was no room for doubt.
The old man was Tomohiko Amada, the artist who had created the painting. Tomohiko Amada had returned to his studio.
41
ONLY AS LONG AS I DIDN’T TURN AROUND
It couldn’t be the flesh-and-blood Tomohiko Amada. That “real” Tomohiko Amada was confined to a nursing home in Izu Kogen. He suffered from advanced dementia and seldom left his bed. There was no way he could have come that far under his own steam. What I was looking at, therefore, could only be his ghost. Yet as far as I knew, Amada was still alive. Which meant I was looking at his “living spirit.” Of course, he could have drawn his last breath just moments earlier. In which case, this would indeed be his ghost.
Whichever the case, this was no hallucination. It was far too real, too dense, for that. It projected an unmistakable humanity and the workings of a conscious mind. Tomohiko Amada had, through some special agency, returned to his studio, and was sitting on his stool regarding his painting Killing Commendatore. He was staring straight at it—his eyes seemed to cut through the dark. He was indifferent to my presence. I doubt he even realized I was in the room.
As the clouds rolled by, the moonlight through the window came and went, allowing me brief glimpses of his silhouette. He was sitting so I could see his profile, and wearing what could have been an old bathrobe or nightgown. His feet were bare. No stockings, no slippers. Disheveled white hair, jaw covered with a white grizzle. A haggard face, but clear and penetrating eyes.
I wasn’t afraid so much as bewildered. The scene before me defied common sense. My hand hovered near the light switch on the wall. I had no intention of turning it on—I was just frozen in that posture. I didn’t want to disturb Tomohiko Amada—be he ghost or phantasm—in any way. This studio was his proper place. Where he truly belonged. I was the intruder, with no right to interfere in whatever he wanted to do.
I waited until my breath calmed down and my body relaxed, then quietly backed out of the studio. I eased the door shut. Tomohiko Amada remained motionless on his stool throughout. Had I tripped over the table and sent the vase crashing to the floor, though, I doubt he would have noticed. His concentration was that fierce. The moon had broken through the clouds again, illuminating his skeletal frame. That last image engraved itself in my mind—embraced by the delicate shadows of night, that silhouette seemed to distill his entire life. You must never forget this, I told myself. I had to preserve in my memory what my eyes had seen, in all its detail.
I sat at the dining room table and drank glass after glass of mineral water. I really wanted a shot of whiskey, but the bottle was empty. Menshiki and I had drained it the previous evening. No other liquor was left in the house. There were a few bottles of beer in the fridge, but they wouldn’t do the trick.
It was past four a.m. when sleep finally came calling. Until then, I just sat at the table while one thought after another passed through my head. I was too keyed up to be capable of any kind of action. All I could do was close my eyes and let my mind wander. Nothing cohered. For several hours, I followed those fragmented, meandering thoughts. Like a kitten chasing its tail.
When I grew tired, I mentally called up the image of Tomohiko Amada that I had seen mere hours before. To ensure its accuracy, I sketched it in my mind. I opened my imaginary sketchbook, pulled out my imaginary pencil, and drew the old man’s silhouette. This was something I often did when I had time to spare. Actual paper and pencil weren’t necessary. In fact, it was easier without them. Mathematicians go through a similar process, I imagine, when they picture a formula on an imaginary blackboard. Someday I might commit what I had seen to canvas.
I didn’t really want to check the studio again. Of course, I was curious. Was Tomohiko Amada—or, more likely, his double—still there? Still sitting on his stool with his eyes riveted on Killing Commendatore? Sure, the possibility intrigued me. I had encountered a most rare and precious event, had seen it with my own eyes. Might it provide the key—several keys, actually—to help unravel the secrets of Tomohiko Amada’s life?
All the same, I didn’t want to interfere with what he was doing. He had come so far, transcending space and reason, to reexamine his Killing Commendatore, poring over it to find—what? He had to have sacrificed much of his dwindling store of energy just to make it here. Drained his life force. Yet something had compelled him to return to the painting one last time, at whatever cost. To study it to his heart’s content.
* * *
—
When I opened my eyes it was already past ten o’clock. Rare for an early bird like me. I washed my face, brewed coffee, and ate breakfast. For some reason, I was famish
ed. I ate nearly double my usual amount. Three slices of toast, two boiled eggs, and a tomato salad. Not to mention two big cups of coffee.
I checked the studio after breakfast just to be sure, but of course Tomohiko Amada was gone. What remained was the empty, silent room in the morning. An easel with a canvas (my painting of Mariye Akikawa), a round stool in front of it, and the straight-backed chair Mariye used when she posed for me. Killing Commendatore hanging on the wall. The bell still missing from the shelf. The sky over the valley blue, the air cold and crystal clear. The piercing calls of birds, awaiting winter’s arrival.
I picked up the phone and called Masahiko’s office. His voice was sleepy, though it was almost noon. A clear case of the Monday-morning blahs. After our hellos, I casually inquired about his father. I wanted to know if he had died, and if the apparition I had seen was his ghost. If Tomohiko Amada had passed away the night before, surely his son would have been notified.
“How’s your father?” I asked.
“I went to see him a few days ago. His mind has passed the point of no return, I’m afraid, but he’s all right physically, I guess. At least he doesn’t look like he’s at death’s door.”
So Tomohiko Amada was still alive. What I had seen wasn’t a ghost. It was the fleeting embodiment of a living person’s will.
“It’s a strange question, I know, but have you noticed anything unusual about your father recently?”
“My father?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you want to know that all of a sudden?”
I followed the script I had prepared. “To tell the truth, I had this weird dream last night where your father visited this place. I bumped into him while he was here. It felt very real. Real enough to make me jump out of bed. That’s why I wondered if something had happened to him.”
“Wow,” he said. “That’s wild. What was my father doing while he was there?”
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