I went outside to greet Menshiki. It was the first time I’d done so. I didn’t have any particular reason, it just turned out that way. I wanted to get outside, stretch my legs, breathe some fresh air.
Those round slate-shaped clouds still floated in the sky. Lots of these clouds formed far off in the sea, then were slowly carried on the southwest wind, one by one, toward the mountains. Did those beautiful, perfect circles form naturally, not from any practical design? It was a mystery. For a meteorologist maybe it was no mystery at all, but it was for me. Living on this mountaintop, I found myself attracted to all sorts of natural wonders.
Menshiki had on a collared dark-red sweater, light and elegant. And well-worn jeans, so light blue they looked ready to fade away. The jeans were straight leg, made of soft material. To me (and I might be overthinking things) he always seemed to intentionally wear colors that made his white hair stand out. This dark-red sweater went very well with his white hair. His hair always was at just the right length. I had no idea how he kept it that way, but it was never any longer or shorter than it was right now.
“I’d like to go and look into the pit right away, if it’s okay with you?” Menshiki asked. “See if anything’s changed.”
“Okay by me,” I said. I hadn’t been back, either, in the woods since that day. I wanted to see how things were, too.
“Sorry to bother you, but could you bring me the bell?” Menshiki asked.
I went inside, took down the ancient bell from the studio shelf, and returned.
Menshiki took a large flashlight from the trunk of his Jaguar and hung it from a strap around his neck. He set off for the woods, me tagging along. The woods seemed even a deeper color than before. In this season, every day brought changes to the mountains. Some trees were redder, others dyed a deeper yellow, and some stayed forever green. The combination was truly beautiful. Menshiki, though, didn’t seem to care.
“I looked into the background of this land a little,” he said while he walked. “Who owned it up till now, what it was used for, that sort of thing.”
“Did you find out something?”
Menshiki shook his head. “No, next to nothing. I was expecting that it might have been some religious site, but according to what I found that wasn’t the case. I couldn’t find out any background as to why there would be a small shrine and stone tumulus here. It was apparently just an ordinary piece of mountainous land. Then it was partly cleared and a house was built. Tomohiko Amada purchased the land along with the house in 1955. Prior to that, a politician had used it as a mountain retreat. You probably haven’t heard of him, but he held a Cabinet position back before the war. After the war he essentially lived in retirement. I couldn’t trace back who owned the place before that.”
“It’s a little strange that a politician would go to the trouble of having a vacation home in such a remote place.”
“A lot of politicians had retreats here back then. Prince Fumimaro Konoe, prime minister just before World War Two, had a summer retreat just a couple of mountains over from here. It’s on the way to Hakone and Atami, and must have been a perfect spot for people to gather for secret talks. It’s hard to keep it secret when VIPs get together in Tokyo.”
We moved the thick boards that lay covering the hole.
“I’m going to go down inside,” Menshiki said. “Would you wait for me?”
“I’ll be here,” I said.
Menshiki climbed down the mental ladder the contractor had left for us. The ladder creaked a bit with each step. I watched him from above. When he got to the bottom he took the flashlight from around his neck, switched it on, and carefully checked his surroundings. He rubbed the stone wall, and pounded his fist against it.
“This wall is solidly made, and pretty intricate,” Menshiki said, looking up at me. “I don’t think it’s just some well that’s been filled in halfway. If it was a well, it would just be a lot of stones piled up on top of each other. They wouldn’t have done such a meticulous job.”
“You think it was built for some other purpose?”
Menshiki shook his head, indicating that he had no idea. “Anyway, the wall is made so you can’t easily climb out. There aren’t any spaces to get a foothold. The hole’s less than nine feet deep, but scrambling to the top wouldn’t be an easy feat.”
“You mean it was built that way, to be hard to climb up?”
Menshiki shook his head again. He didn’t know. No clue.
“I’d like you to do something for me,” Menshiki said.
“What would that be?”
“Would it be an imposition for you to pull up the ladder, and put the cover on tight so no light gets in?”
That left me speechless.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry,” Menshiki said. “I’d like to experience what it’s like to be shut up here, in the bottom of the dark pit, by myself. No plans to turn into a mummy yet, though.”
“How long do you plan to be down there?”
“When I want to get out, I’ll ring the bell. When you hear the bell, take off the cover and lower down the ladder. If an hour passes without you hearing the bell, come and remove the cover. I don’t plan to be down here over an hour. Please don’t forget that I’m down here. If you did forget, I really would turn into a mummy.”
“The mummy hunter becomes a mummy.”
Menshiki laughed. “Exactly.”
“There’s no way I’ll forget. But are you sure it’s okay, doing that?”
“I’m curious. I’d like to try sitting for a while at the bottom of a dark pit. I’ll give you the flashlight. And you can hand me the bell.”
He climbed halfway up the ladder and held out the flashlight for me. I took it, and held out the bell. He took the bell and gave it a little shake. It rang out clearly.
“But if—just supposing—I were attacked by vicious hornets on the way and fell unconscious, or even died, then you might never be able to get out of here. You never know what’s going to happen in this world.”
“Curiosity always involves risk. You can’t satisfy your curiosity without accepting some risk. Curiosity didn’t just kill the cat.”
“I’ll be back in an hour,” I said.
“Watch out for the hornets,” Menshiki said.
“And you take care down there in the dark.”
Menshiki didn’t reply, and just looked up at me, as if trying to decipher some meaning in my expression as I gazed down at him. There was some kind of vagueness in his eyes, like he was straining to focus on my face, but couldn’t. It was an uncertain expression, not at all like him. Then, as if reconsidering things, he sat down on the ground and leaned against the curved stone wall. He looked up and raised his hand a little. All set, he was telling me. I yanked up the ladder, pulled the thick boards over so they completely covered up the hole, and set some heavy stones on top of that. A small amount of light might filter in through narrow cracks between the boards, though inside the hole should be dark enough. I thought about calling out to Menshiki from on top of the cover, but thought better of it. What he wanted was solitude and silence.
I went back home, boiled water, and made tea. I sat on the sofa and picked up where I’d left off in a book. I couldn’t focus on reading, though, since my ears were alert for the sound of the bell. Every five minutes I checked my watch, and imagined Menshiki, alone in the bottom of that dark hole. What an odd person, I thought. He uses his own money to hire a landscape contractor, who uses heavy equipment to move that pile of stones and open up the entrance to that hole. And now Menshiki was confined there, all by himself. Or rather, deliberately shut away in there at his own request.
Whatever, I thought. Whatever necessity or intentions motivated it (assuming there was some kind of necessity or intention), that was Menshiki’s problem, and I could leave it all up to him. I was an unthinking actor in someone else’s plan. I gave up reading the book, lay down on the sofa, closed my eyes, but of course didn’t fall asleep. This was no time to be sleeping.
An hour passed without the bell ringing. Or maybe I’d somehow missed the sound. Either way, it was time to get that cover off. I got up off the sofa, slipped on my shoes, and went outside and into the woods. I was a bit apprehensive that hornets or a wild boar might appear, but neither did. Just some tiny birds, Japanese white-eyes, flitted right past me. I walked through the woods and went around behind the shrine. I removed the heavy stones and took off just one of the boards.
“Mr. Menshiki!” I called out into the gap. But there was no response. What I could see of the hole from the gap was pitch dark, and I couldn’t make out his figure there.
“Mr. Menshiki!” I called again. But again no answer. I was getting worried. Maybe he’d vanished, like the mummy that should have been there had vanished. I knew it wasn’t logically possible, but still I was seriously concerned.
I quickly removed another board, and then another. Finally the sunlight reached to the bottom of the pit. And I could see Menshiki’s outline seated there.
“Mr. Menshiki, are you okay?” I asked, relieved.
He looked up, as if finally coming to, and gave a small nod. He covered his face with his hands, as if the light was too bright.
“I’m fine,” he answered quietly. “I’d just like to stay here for a little longer. It’ll take time for my eyes to adjust to the light.”
“It’s been exactly an hour. If you’d like to stay there longer I could put the cover on again.”
Menshiki shook his head. “No, this is enough. I’m okay now. I can’t stay any longer here. It might be too dangerous.”
“Too dangerous?”
“I’ll explain later,” Menshiki said. He stroked his face hard with both hands, as if rubbing something away from his skin.
Five minutes later he slowly got to his feet and clambered up the metal ladder I’d let down. Once again at ground level he brushed the dirt off his pants and looked up at the sky with narrowed eyes. The blue autumn sky was visible through the tree branches. For a long time he gazed lovingly at the sky. We lined up the boards and covered the hole as before, so no one would accidentally fall into it. Then we put the heavy stones on top. I memorized the position of the stones, so I’d know if anyone moved them. The ladder we left inside the pit.
“I didn’t hear the bell,” I said as we walked along.
Menshiki shook his head. “I didn’t shake it.”
That’s all he said, so I didn’t ask anything more.
We walked out of the woods and headed home. Menshiki took the lead as we walked and I followed behind. Without a word he put the flashlight back in the trunk of the Jaguar. We then sat down in the living room and drank hot coffee. Menshiki still hadn’t said a thing. He seemed preoccupied. Not that he wore a serious expression or anything, but his mind was clearly in a place far away. A place, no doubt, where only he was allowed to be. I didn’t bother him, and let him be. Just like Doctor Watson used to do with Sherlock Holmes.
During this time I mentally went over my schedule. That evening I had to drive down the mountain to teach my classes at the local arts-and-culture center near Odawara Station. I’d look over paintings students had done and give them advice. This was the day when I had back-to-back children’s and adults’ classes. This was just about the only opportunity I had to see and speak with living people. Without those classes I’d probably live like a hermit up here in the mountains, and if I went on living all alone, I’d likely start to lose my mind, just as Masahiko said.
Which is why I should have been thankful for the chance to come in contact with the real world. But truth be told, I found it hard to feel that way. The people I met in the classroom were less living beings than mere shadows crossing my path. I smiled at each one of them, called them by name, and critiqued their paintings. No, critique isn’t the right term. I just praised them. I’d find some good component to each painting—if there wasn’t, I’d make up something—and praise them for a job well done.
So I had a pretty good reputation as a teacher. According to the owner of the school, many of the students liked me. I hadn’t expected that. I’d never once thought I was suited to teaching. But I didn’t really care. It was all the same to me whether people liked me or didn’t. I just wanted things to go smoothly in the classroom, without any hitches, so I could repay Masahiko for his kindness.
I’m not saying every person felt like a shadow to me. I’d started seeing two of my students. And after starting a sexual relationship with me, the two women both dropped out of my art class. They must have found it awkward. And I did feel some responsibility for that.
Tomorrow afternoon, I’d see the second girlfriend, the older married woman. We’d hold each other in bed and make love. So she was not just a passing shadow, but an actual presence with a three-dimensional body. Or perhaps a passing shadow with a three-dimensional body. I couldn’t decide which.
Menshiki called my name, and I came back to the present with a start. I’d been completely lost in thought, too.
“About the portrait,” Menshiki said.
I looked at him. His usual cool expression was back on his face. A handsome face, always calm and thoughtful, the kind that relaxed others.
“If you need me to pose for you, I wouldn’t mind doing it now,” he said. “Continue from where we left off, maybe? I’m always ready.”
I looked at him for a while. Pose? It finally dawned on me—he was talking about the portrait. I looked down, took a sip of the coffee, which had cooled down, and after gathering my thoughts, put the cup back on the saucer. A small, dry clatter reached my ears. I looked up, faced Menshiki, and spoke.
“I’m very sorry, but today I have to go teach at the arts-and-culture center.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Menshiki said. He glanced at his watch. “I’d totally forgotten. You teach art at the school near Odawara Station, don’t you. Do you need to leave soon?”
“I’m okay, I still have time,” I said. “And there’s something I need to talk with you about.”
“And what would that be?”
“Truthfully, the painting is already finished. In a sense.”
Menshiki frowned ever so slightly. He looked straight at me, as if checking out something deep inside my eyes.
“By painting, you mean my portrait?”
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s wonderful,” Menshiki said. A slight smile came to his face. “Really wonderful. But what did you mean by ‘in a sense’?”
“It’s hard to explain. I’ve never been good at explaining things.”
“Take your time and tell it to me the way you’d like to,” Menshiki said. “I’ll sit here and listen.”
I brought the fingers of both of my hands together on my lap.
Silence descended as I chose my words, the kind of silence that makes you hear the passing of time. Time passed very slowly on top of the mountain.
“I got the commission from you,” I said, “and did the painting with you as model. But to tell the truth, it’s not a portrait, no matter how you look at it. All I can say is it’s a work done with you as model. I can’t say how much value it has, as an artwork, or as a commodity. All I know for sure is it’s a work I had to paint. Beyond that I’m clueless. Truthfully, I’m pretty confused. Until things become clearer to me it might be best to keep the painting here and not give it to you. I’d like to return the advance you paid. And I am extremely sorry for having used so much of your valuable time.”
“In what way is it—not a portrait?” Menshiki asked, choosing his words deliberately.
“Up till now I’ve made my living as a professional portrait painter. Essentially in portraits you paint the subject the way he wishes to be portrayed. The subject is the client, and if he doesn’t like the finished work it’s entirely possible he might tell you, ‘I’m not going to pay money for this.’ So I try not to depict any negative aspects of the person. I pick only the good aspects, emphasize those, and try to make the subject appear in as good a light as I can. In that sense, in most cases it’s hard to call portraits works of art. Someone like Rembrandt being the exception, of course. But in this case, I didn’t think about you as I painted, but only about myself. To put it another way, I prioritized the ego of the artist—myself—over you, the subject.”
“Not a problem,” Menshiki said, smiling. “I’m actually happy to hear it. I told you I didn’t have any requests, and wanted you to paint it any way you liked.”
“I know. I remember it well. What I’m concerned about is less how the painting turned out and more about what I painted there. I put my own desires first, so much that I might have painted something I shouldn’t have. That’s what I’m worried about.”
Menshiki observed my face for a time, and then spoke. “You might have painted something inside me that you shouldn’t have. And you’re worried about that. Do I have that right?”
“That’s it,” I said. “Since all I thought of was myself, I loosened the restraints that should have been in place.”
And maybe extracted something from inside you that I shouldn’t have, I was about to say, but thought better of it. I kept those words inside.
Menshiki mulled over what I’d said.
“Interesting,” he finally said, sounding like he meant it. “A very intriguing way of looking at things.”
I was silent.
“I think my self-restraint is pretty strong,” Menshiki said. “I have a lot of self-control, I mean.”
“I know,” I said.
Menshiki lightly pressed his temple with his fingers, and smiled. “So that painting is finished, you’re saying? That portrait of me?”
I nodded. “I feel it’s finished.”
“That’s wonderful,” Menshiki said. “Can you show me the painting? After I’ve actually seen it, the two of us can discuss how to proceed. Does that sound all right?”
“Of course,” I said.
I led Menshiki to the studio. He stood about six feet in front of the easel, arms folded, and stared at the painting. There was the portrait that he’d posed for. No, less a portrait than what you might call an image that formed when a mass of paint hit the canvas. The white hair was a violent burst of pure white. At first glance it didn’t look like a face. What should be found in a face was hidden behind a mass of color. Yet beyond any doubt, the reality of Menshiki the person was present. Or at least I thought so.
He stood there, unmoving, gazing at the painting for the longest time. Literally not moving a muscle. I couldn’t even tell if he was breathing or not. I stood a little ways away by the window, observing him. I wondered how much time passed. It seemed almost forever. As he observed the painting, his face was totally devoid of expression. His eyes were glazed, flat, clouded, like a still puddle reflecting a cloudy sky. The eyes of someone who wanted to keep others at a distance. I couldn’t guess what he might be thinking, deep in his heart.
Then, like when a magician claps his hands to bring a person out of a hypnotic spell, he stood up straight and trembled slightly. His expression returned, as did the light in his eyes. He slowly walked over to me, held out his right hand, and rested it on my shoulder.
“Amazing,” he said. “Truly outstanding. I don’t know what to say. This is exactly the painting I was hoping for.”
I could tell from his eyes that he was saying how he honestly felt. He was truly impressed, and moved, by my painting.
“The painting expresses me perfectly,” Menshiki said. “This is a portrait in the real sense of the word. You didn’t make any mistake. You did exactly what you should have.”
His hand was still resting on my shoulder. It was just resting there, yet I could feel a special power radiating from it.
“But what did you do to discover this painting?” Menshiki asked me.
“Discover?”
“It was you who did this painting, of course. You created it through your own power. But you also discovered it. You found this image buried within you and drew it out. You unearthed it, in a way. Don’t you think so?”
I suppose so, I thought. Of course I moved my hands, and followed my will in painting it. I was the one who chose the paints, the one who used brushes, knives, and fingers to paint the colors onto the canvas. But looked at from a different angle, maybe all I’d done was use Menshiki as a catalyst to locate something buried inside me and dig it up. Just like the heavy equipment that moved aside the rock mound behind the little shrine, lifted off the heavy lattice cover, and unearthed that odd stone-lined chamber. I couldn’t help but see an affinity between these two similar operations that took place in tandem. Everything that had happened had started with Menshiki’s appearance, and the ringing of the bell in the middle of the night.
Menshiki said, “It’s like an earthquake deep under the sea. In an unseen world, a place where light doesn’t reach, in the realm of the unconscious. In other words, a major transformation is taking place. It reaches the surface, where it sets off a series of reactions and eventually takes form where we can see it with our own eyes. I’m no artist, but I can grasp the basic idea behind that process. Outstanding ideas in the business world, too, emerge through a similar series of stages. The best ideas are thoughts that appear, unbidden, from out of the dark.”
Menshiki once more stood before the painting and stepped closer to examine the surface. Like someone reading a detailed map, he studiously checked out each and every detail. He stepped back nine feet, and with narrowed eyes gazed at the work as a whole. His face wore an expression close to ecstasy. He reminded me of a carnivorous raptor about to latch onto its prey. But what was the prey? Was it my painting, or me myself? Or something else? I had no idea. But soon, like mist hovering over the surface of a river at dawn, that strange expression like ecstasy faded, then vanished. To be filled in by his usual affable, thoughtful expression.
He said, “Generally I avoid saying anything that smacks of self-praise, but honestly I feel kind of proud to know that I didn’t misjudge things. I have no artistic talent myself, and have nothing to do with creating original works, but I do know outstanding art when I see it. At least I flatter myself that I do.”
Somehow I couldn’t easily accept what Menshiki was telling me, or feel happy to hear it. It may have been those sharp, raptor-like eyes that bothered me.
“So you like the painting?” I asked again to make sure.
“That goes without saying. This is truly a valuable painting. I’m overjoyed that you came up with such a powerful work using me as the model, as the motif. And of course it goes without saying that as the one who commissioned the painting, I’ll take it. Assuming that’s all right with you?”
“Yes. It’s just that I—”
Menshiki held up a hand to cut me off. “So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to invite you to my house to celebrate its completion. Would that be all right? It will be, like the old expression, a cozy little get-together. As long as this isn’t any trouble for you, that is.”
“None at all, but you really don’t need to do this. You’ve done so much already—”
“But I’d really like to. I’d like the two of us to celebrate the completion of the painting. So won’t you join me for dinner at my place? Nothing fancy, just a simple little dinner, just the two of us. Apart from the cook and bartender, of course.”
“Cook and bartender?”
“There’s a French restaurant I like near Hayakawa harbor. I’ll have the cook and bartender over on their regular day off. He’s a great chef. He uses the freshest fish and comes up with some very original recipes. Actually, for quite some time I’ve been wanting to invite you over, and have been making preparations. But with the painting done, the timing couldn’t be better.”
It was hard to keep the surprise from showing on my face. I had no idea how much it would cost to arrange something like that, but for Menshiki, it must be a regular occurrence. Or at least something he was accustomed to arranging…
Menshiki said, “How would four days from now be? Tuesday evening. If that’s good for you, I’ll set it up.”
“I don’t have any particular plans then,” I said.
“Tuesday it is, then,” he said. “Also, could I take the painting home with me now? I’d like to have it nicely framed and hanging on the wall by the time you come over, if that’s possible.”
“Mr. Menshiki, do you really see your face within this painting?” I asked again.
“Of course I do,” Menshiki said, giving me a wondering look. “Of course I can see my face in the painting. Very distinctly. What else is depicted here?”
“I see,” I said. What else could I say? “You’re the one who commissioned the work, so if you like the painting, it’s already yours. Please do what you’d like with it. The thing is, the paint isn’t dry yet, so be extremely careful when you carry it. And I think it’s better to wait a little longer before framing it. Best to let it dry for about two weeks before doing that.”
“I understand. I’ll handle it carefully. And I’ll wait to have it framed.”
At the front door he held out his hand and we shook hands for the first time in a while. A satisfied smile rose to his face.
“I’ll see you Tuesday, then. I’ll send a car over around six.”
“By the way, you aren’t inviting the mummy?” I asked Menshiki. I don’t know why I said that. The mummy just suddenly popped into my head, and I couldn’t help myself.
Menshiki looked at me searchingly. “Mummy? What do you mean?”
“The mummy that should have been in that chamber. The one that must have been ringing the bell every night, and disappeared, leaving the bell behind. The monk who practiced austerity to the point of being mummified. I was thinking maybe he wanted to be invited to your place. Like the statue of the Commendatore in Don Giovanni.”
Menshiki thought about this, and a cheerful smile came over him as if he finally got it. “I see! Just like Don Giovanni invited the statue of the Commendatore, you’re wondering how would it be if I invited the mummy to our dinner?”
“Exactly. It might be karma, too.”
“Sounds good. Fine with me. It’s a celebration, after all. If the mummy would care to join us, I will be happy to issue the invitation. Sounds like we’ll have a pleasant evening. But what should we have for dessert?” He smiled happily. “The problem is, we can’t see him. Makes it hard to invite him.”
“Indeed,” I said. “But the visible is not the only reality. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Menshiki gingerly carried the painting outside. He took an old blanket from the trunk, laid it on the passenger seat, and placed the painting down on top so as not to smear the paint. Then he used some thin rope and two cardboard boxes to secure the painting so it wouldn’t move around. It was all cleverly done. He always seemed to carry around a variety of tools and things in his trunk.
“Yes, what you said may be exactly right,” Menshiki suddenly murmured as he was leaving. He rested both hands on the leather-covered steering wheel and looked straight up at me.
“What I said?”
“That sometimes in life we can’t grasp the boundary between reality and unreality. That boundary always seems to be shifting. As if the border between countries shifts from one day to the next depending on their mood. We need to pay close attention to that movement, otherwise we won’t know which side we’re on. That’s what I meant when I said it might be dangerous for me to remain inside that pit any longer.”
I didn’t know how to respond, and Menshiki didn’t go any further. He waved to me out the window, revving the V8 engine so it rumbled pleasantly, and he and the still-not-dry portrait vanished from sight.