Killing Commendatore

by Haruki Murakami

  “I haven’t had a feast like this in ages,” I said.

  “You can’t eat like this in Tokyo,” he said. “Living around here wouldn’t be half bad. Fresh fish anytime.”

  “I bet you’d find life here boring eventually, though.”

  “Are you bored?”

  “Am I? I guess I’ve never found boredom that painful. And besides, there’s quite a lot going on here.”

  That was for sure. I had met Menshiki soon after my arrival in early summer, we had dug up the pit behind the shrine, then the Commendatore had made his appearance, and finally Mariye Akikawa and her aunt Shoko had entered my life. I had a girlfriend, a housewife in her sexual prime, who came to comfort me. Tomohiko Amada’s living spirit had paid me a visit. There was hardly time to be bored.

  “I might not be bored here either,” Masahiko said. “Did you know I used to be into surfing? I rode the waves all up and down this coast.”

  That was news to me, I told him. He’d never mentioned it before.

  “I’ve been thinking of leaving Tokyo, of going back to that kind of life. I’d check out the ocean when I woke up, then grab my board and head out if the surf was up.”

  The idea of that kind of life left me cold.

  “What about your job?” I asked.

  “I only need to go to Tokyo twice a week to take care of business. Most of my work is done on computer anyway, so it wouldn’t be that hard to live outside the city. The world’s changing, right?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  He looked at me in amazement. “This is the twenty-first century, man. Haven’t you heard?”

  “I’ve heard talk.”

  * * *

  —

  After dinner, we moved to the living room to continue drinking. Autumn was almost over, but it wasn’t so cold that we needed to light a fire.

  “So then, how’s your father doing these days?” I asked.

  Masahiko let out a small sigh. “Same as always. His mind is shot. Can’t tell the difference between his balls and a pair of eggs.”

  “If it breaks when you drop it, it’s an egg,” I said.

  He laughed. “People are strange creatures, aren’t they? I mean, my father was as solid as a rock until just a few years ago. Mind as clear as the night sky in winter. To an almost disgusting degree. And now his memory is like a black hole. This dark, unfathomable hole that popped up out of nowhere in the middle of the cosmos.”

  Masahiko shook his head.

  “Who was it that said, ‘The greatest surprise in life is old age’?” he asked.

  I couldn’t help him with that one. I’d never heard the saying. But it was probably true. Old age must be an even bigger shock than death. Far beyond what we can imagine. The day someone tells you that you’re flat-out useless, that your existence is irrelevant—biologically (and socially)—in this world.

  “So tell me about this dream you had of my father,” Masahiko asked me. “Was it really as lifelike as you said?”

  “Yeah, so lifelike it hardly seemed a dream.”

  “And he was in the studio?”

  I took him to the studio.

  “Your father was sitting there,” I said, pointing to the stool in the middle of the room.

  Masahiko walked over to the stool. “Just sitting?” he asked, placing his palm on its seat.

  “That’s right. He wasn’t doing anything.”

  In fact, his father had been staring at Killing Commendatore on the wall, but I didn’t tell him that.

  “My father loved this stool,” he said. “It was just a common old thing, but he never got rid of it. He sat on it to paint, and to think.”

  “It’s relaxing to sit on,” I said. “You’d be surprised.”

  Masahiko stood there with his hand on the stool, lost in thought. But he didn’t sit down. After a minute, he turned his attention to the two canvases facing it. A Portrait of Mariye Akikawa and The Pit in the Woods, my two works in progress. He examined them slowly and carefully, like a doctor looking for a trace of shadow on a patient’s X-ray.

  “These are great,” he said. “Really interesting.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Yes, both. When you place them side by side like this, you feel a strange kind of movement between them. Their styles are totally different, but you get a sense they’re somehow linked.”

  I nodded. I’d been thinking the same thing for a few days, in a vague sort of way.

  “It seems to me that, little by little, you’re finding a new direction,” he went on. “Like you’ve finally emerged from a deep forest. You should take this really seriously, old friend.”

  He raised his glass and took a swallow of whiskey. The ice cubes tinkled.

  I felt an urge to show Masahiko his father’s Killing Commendatore. What would he have to say about it? His comments might provide a valuable clue. But I suppressed the impulse. Something was holding me back.

  It’s still too early, it said. Still too early.

  We left the studio and went back to the living room. The wind had picked up—through the window I could see thick clouds edging their way north. The moon was hidden from view.

  “So about what brought me here,” Masahiko said, not wasting any more time. He seemed to be steeling himself for what he was about to say.

  “It sounds like something that’s not easy to discuss,” I said.

  “You’re right, it’s hard. Quite hard, in fact.”

  “But it’s something that I need to know.”

  Masahiko rubbed his hands together. Like a man preparing to lift a heavy object.

  “It’s about Yuzu,” he said, cutting to the chase. “She and I have met up a number of times. Before you left this spring, and afterward, too. She calls me when she wants to talk, and then we meet somewhere. She asked me not to tell you. I hated hiding it from you, but, well, I promised her.”

  I nodded. “It’s important to keep our promises.”

  “Yuzu and I were friends too, you know.”

  “I know,” I said. Masahiko put great stock in friendship. It could be a weakness of his.

  “She had another man. Apart from you, that is.”

  “I know that too. Now, at least.”

  He nodded. “It started about six months before you walked out. Their relationship, that is. It hurts me to tell you this, but the guy is someone I know. A colleague of mine at work.”

  I let out a small sigh. “I imagine he’s really handsome, right?”

  “Yeah, you got it. Classic features. An agency scouted him in high school, and he modeled part-time for a while. He’s that good-looking. And, well, it seems that I was the one who introduced them.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “At least that’s how it worked out,” Masahiko said.

  “Yuzu always had a thing for handsome men. It was almost pathological. She knew it too.”

  “You’re not bad-looking yourself,” he said.

  “Thanks, man. Now I can sleep better tonight.”

  We didn’t speak for a time. Finally, he broke the silence.

  “Anyway, he’s a really good-looking guy. A nice guy, too. I know this doesn’t help you very much, but he’s not violent, or a womanizer, or vain about his looks. He’s not that type.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” I said. My voice was tinged with sarcasm, though I hadn’t meant it to sound that way.

  “It all started in September a year ago,” Masahiko said. “He and I were out together when we bumped into Yuzu, and since it was about noon, the three of us stopped for lunch nearby. Believe me, I had absolutely no idea things would turn out this way. He’s five years younger than she is.”

  “So the two of them didn’t waste much time.”

  Masahiko gave a small shrug. Things must hav
e progressed very quickly indeed.

  “The guy talked to me about what was going on,” he said. “Your wife did as well. It put me in a very difficult position.”

  I kept quiet. Anything I said would just make me look foolish.

  Masahiko was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. “The fact is, Yuzu is pregnant.”

  I was speechless for a moment. “Yuzu? Pregnant?”

  “Yeah, seven months gone already.”

  “She did it on purpose?”

  “I don’t know,” Masahiko said, shaking his head. “But she’s planning to have the baby. After seven months there’s not much choice, is there.”

  “She always told me she wasn’t ready for kids.”

  He winced slightly. “There’s no chance the child could be yours, is there?” he said, looking into his glass.

  I did a quick mental calculation. “No. I don’t know the legal side of it, but biologically the chances are zero. I left eight months ago, and we haven’t seen each other since.”

  “That’s good,” Masahiko said. “At any rate, she asked me to tell you she’s going to have a baby. And that it shouldn’t cause you any problems.”

  “But then why tell me at all?”

  He shook his head. “I guess she’s informing you out of courtesy.”

  I said nothing. Out of courtesy?

  “I’ve been waiting for the chance to apologize for all this. I knew what was going on between Yuzu and my colleague, and I kept it from you. It was inexcusable. Under any circumstances.”

  “Then was letting me stay in this house your way of making amends?”

  “Not at all—there’s no connection between that and Yuzu. My father lived and painted in this house for a great many years. I figured you could keep that tradition alive. It’s not something I could have asked anybody else, not like that at all.”

  Again, I said nothing. He sounded sincere.

  “In any case,” Masahiko continued, “you signed and sealed the divorce papers you received and sent them back to Yuzu, right?”

  “More precisely, to her lawyer. So our divorce should be official by now. I guess those two will choose a date for their own wedding now that’s taken care of.”

  And go on to have a happy marriage. A tall, handsome man, a small child, and little Yuzu. The three of them strolling happily through the park on a sunny Sunday morning. Heartwarming.

  Masahiko added some ice and poured us more whiskey. He took a swig from his glass.

  I went out to the terrace and looked across the valley at Menshiki’s white house. Lights were on in some of the windows. What was Menshiki doing at this minute? What was he thinking about?

  The night air was chilly. The leafless branches quivered in the wind. I went back to the living room and sat down.

  “Can you forgive me?”

  “It’s not like you meant to hurt me,” I said, shaking my head.

  “I for one am sorry it turned out this way. You and Yuzu looked so well matched, and you seemed happy together. It’s sad that it fell apart.”

  “You drop them both—the one that breaks is the egg,” I said.

  Masahiko laughed weakly. “So how are things now? Is there a woman in your life?”

  “Yeah, there’s someone.”

  “But not the same as Yuzu?”

  “It’s different. I’ve been looking for the same thing in women my whole life. Whatever that is, Yuzu had it.”

  “And you can’t find that in anyone else?”

  “Not so far,” I said, shaking my head again.

  “You have my sympathy,” Masahiko said. “So what is it exactly that you’ve been looking for?”

  “It’s hard to put into words. I feel as if I lost track of something along the way, and have been searching for it ever since. Don’t you think that’s how everyone falls in love?”

  “I don’t think you can say ‘everyone,’ ” he said with a slight frown. “You may actually be in the minority. But if you can’t find the right words, why not paint it? You are an artist, after all.”

  “If you can’t say it, paint it. That’s easy to say. Not so easy to do, though.”

  “But it may be important to try, don’t you think?”

  “And perhaps Captain Ahab should have set out after sardines.”

  Masahiko laughed. “Sure, from a safety standpoint. But that’s not how art is born.”

  “Hey, give me a break. Mention art, and the conversation comes to a screeching halt.”

  “Looks like we need some more whiskey,” he said, shaking his head. He poured us another drink.

  “I can’t drink too much. I’ve got to work tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow is tomorrow. Today is all we have right now,” Masahiko said.

  I found this idea strangely compelling.

  * * *

  —

  “Can I ask you a favor?” I said to Masahiko. Our conversation was wrapping up, and we were about to get ready for bed. The hands on the clock pointed to a little before eleven.

  “Sure, anything at all.”

  “I’d like to meet your father. Could you take me with you the next time you go to Izu?”

  Masahiko regarded me as he might a strange animal. “You want to meet my father?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble at all. But my father’s in no shape to talk to you. He’s quite incoherent. His mind is chaotic—a mud swamp, really. So if you have any expectations—if you’re hoping to gain some insight into the person known as Tomohiko Amada—you’ll only be disappointed.”

  “No, I’m not expecting anything like that. I just want to take one good look at him, that’s all.”

  “But why?”

  I took a breath and looked around the room. “I’ve been living in this house for six months now,” I said. “Sitting on the stool he sat on, painting in his studio. Eating off his dishes, listening to his records. I feel his presence all over the place. That’s why I have to meet the flesh-and-blood Tomohiko Amada. Once is enough. It doesn’t matter a bit if we can’t talk to each other.”

  “Then it’s all right,” Masahiko said, seemingly persuaded. “He won’t be thrilled to see you, but he won’t be ticked off either. He can’t tell one person from another, you see. So there’s no problem if you come along. I plan to visit the nursing home again pretty soon. According to the doctor, he doesn’t have much longer—the end could come at any time. So join me on my next visit, if you’re free.”

  I brought a spare blanket, pillow, and futon and made up a bed on the sofa in the living room. I looked around the room to make sure the Commendatore wasn’t there. If Masahiko woke up in the middle of the night and saw him—two feet tall and dressed in ancient Asuka garb—he’d freak out. He’d figure he had become a real alcoholic.

  Besides the Commendatore, there was The Man with the White Subaru Forester to worry about. I had turned the painting around so no one could see it. Still, I had no idea what strangeness might happen without my knowledge in the middle of the night.

  So I wasn’t kidding when I wished Masahiko a sound sleep.

  I gave him a spare pair of pajamas to wear. He and I were more or less the same size, so there was no problem with the fit. He took off his clothes, put on the pajamas, and climbed under the bedding I had laid out. The air in the room was a bit chilly, but he looked snug and warm under the covers.

  “You’re sure you’re not angry?” he asked before I left.

  “No, I’m not angry,” I answered.

  “It must hurt a little, though.”

  “Maybe a little.” I had the right to be a little hurt, I thought.

  “But the cup is still one-sixteenth full.”

  “You’ve got it there,” I said.

  I turned off the l
iving room light and retired to my bedroom. Before long I had fallen asleep, together with my slightly wounded feelings.

  43

  IT COULDN’T END LIKE ANY OTHER DREAM

  When I woke it was already light outside. Thin gray clouds covered the sky from end to end, but the sun’s benevolent rays still quietly filtered through. It was not quite seven.

  I washed my face, turned on the coffee maker, and went to check the living room. Wrapped in blankets, Masahiko was fast asleep on the sofa. He appeared unlikely to wake up any time soon. The almost empty bottle of Chivas Regal sat on the table. I managed to tidy up the bottle and glasses without disturbing him.

  I must have drunk quite a lot the night before, but I wasn’t a bit hungover. My mind was as sharp as it was every morning. No heartburn, either. I’ve never had a hangover in my life. Why, I don’t know. Probably it’s just the way I was born. One night’s sleep and all traces of alcohol vanish from my system, however much I drink. I eat breakfast and I’m ready to go.

  I toasted two slices of bread, fried two eggs, and ate them while listening to the news and weather on the radio. The stock market was fluctuating wildly, a new parliamentary scandal had been uncovered, and a terrorist bombing in the Middle East had killed and wounded many people. Nothing to brighten my day. Yet none of these events was likely to affect my immediate circumstances. For now, at least, they were limited to distant places and people I had never met. I felt bad, but there was nothing I could do. The weather forecast promised nothing new either. Not a particularly gorgeous day, but not particularly awful either. Overcast, but no rain. Maybe not, anyway. But the forecasters and media types were clever—they never used vague words like “maybe.” No, they stuck with convenient terms for which no one could be held accountable, like “probability of precipitation.”