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 famished. 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?”
“He just sat on the stool in the studio.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s it. Nothing but that.”
“By stool you mean that old three-legged chair, the round one?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
Masahiko thought for a moment.
“Maybe he is reaching the end,” he said in a flat voice. “They say that in our last hours, our spirit returns to where we feel we’ve left something undone. From what I know of my father, that would be the studio.”
“But from what you’ve told me, he has no memory left.”
“Yes, memory in the conventional sense, anyway. But his spirit’s still there. His brain just can’t access it any longer. The circuit’s broken—his mind isn’t connected. But his spirit remains, behind the scenes. It’s probably the same as ever.”
“That makes sense,” I said.
“Weren’t you scared?”
“By the dream?”
“Yeah. I mean it sounds awfully real.”
“No, I wasn’t afraid. But it did feel very strange. Like the man himself was right there.”
“Maybe it really was him,” Masahiko said.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t let on that Tomohiko Amada had likely returned specifically to view Killing Commendatore (actually, I might have invited him—had I not unwrapped the painting, he might not have shown up). If I told his son, I would have had to explain the whole story, from the moment I stumbled across the painting in the attic to when I opened it without permission and, even more blatantly, chose to hang it on the studio wall. I knew I would have to let Masahiko know eventually, but I didn’t want to raise the issue at this juncture.
“Anyway,” he said, “last time we met I mentioned there was a matter I needed to talk to you about? But we didn’t have enough time then. Remember?”
“Yeah.”
“So why don’t I stop by one of these days and fill you in. Okay?”
“This house is yours, you know. Come whenever you like.”
“How about this weekend? I’m thinking of visiting my father in Izu Kogen, so I could stop by on my trip back. It’s right on the way.”
I told him he was welcome anytime except Wednesday and Friday nights and Sunday morning. My art class was on Wednesday and Friday and Mariye’s sitting was on Sunday.
He figured he’d be able to make it Saturday night. “I’ll let you know beforehand,” he said.
After our phone call, I went into the studio and sat on the stool. The wooden stool that Tomohiko Amada had occupied the night before. As soon as I sat down, it hit me—this stool was no longer mine. No, the long years Tomohiko Amada had spent sitting on it painting made it his, now and forever. To the uninformed, it looked like no more than an old dinged-up, three-legged chair, but it was infused with his will. I had borrowed it without permission, that was all.
I sat there and studied Killing Commendatore on the wall, as I had done countless times before. It rewarded multiple viewings—its depth allowed for so many different ways of looking at it. This time, though, I felt I wanted to inspect it from an entirely new angle. What was there that had made Tomohiko Amada return to it at the end of his life, to see it one last time?
I spent a long time sitting there, just studying the painting. I chose the same position, the same angle, even adopted the same posture that Tomohiko Amada’s living spirit or alter ego had taken the night before, and tried to focus on it with the same intense concentration. Yet I couldn’t find that something I had previously missed.
When I grew tired of thinking, I went outside. Menshiki’s silver Jaguar was still parked in front of my house, at a slight remove from my Toyota Corolla station wagon. It had been sitting there all night, waiting quietly for its master’s return, like an intelligent, well-trained pet.
I strolled on past the house, musing about Killing Commendatore in a vague sort of way. Walking the little path through the woods, I had the distinct impression that someone was spying on me from behind. As if Long Face had pushed up the square lid of his hole and was secretly observing me from the corner of the painting. I whipped around and looked back. But nothing was to be seen. No hole in the ground, no Long Face. Just a deserted leaf-strewn path wending through the quiet woods. This pattern repeated itself a number of times. But each time I spun around no one was there.
Then again, it might well be that the hole and Long Face were there only as long as I didn’t turn around. Perhaps they could tell when I was about to look back, and hid themselves at that moment. Like a child playing a game.
I passed through the woods to the very end of the path, the first time I’d gone that far. I figured the entrance to Mariye’s secret passageway had to be nearby. Yet I couldn’t locate it. “You really have to pay attention to find it,” she had said, and it did seem to be well camouflaged. In any case, she had taken the passageway after dark to reach my place from the adjoining mountain, alone and on foot. Past the thickets and through the woods.
The path came to an abrupt end at a small, circular clearing. The overhanging trees thinned out, so I could see pieces of sky. I found a flat stone bathed in a small pool of light, sat down, and looked through the tree trunks at the valley below. I imagined that at any minute Mariye might pop up out of her secret passageway, wherever that was. But of course no one appeared. My only companions were birds, who hopped from limb to limb and then flew off again. They moved about in pairs, each chirping loudly to let the other know where they were. I had once read an article describing how certain birds mate for life, and how when one died, the survivor spent the rest of their days alone. It goes without saying that they never had to sign and seal official divorce papers sent by certified mail from a lawyer’s office.
A truck selling fresh produce passed in the distance, its driver listlessly broadcasting his wares over its loudspeaker. No sooner was his voice out of earshot than there was a loud rustle in the bushes nearby. What was it? It didn’t sound human. A wild animal was more likely. For a scary second I thought it might be a wild boar (boars and hornets were the most dangerous things in the area), but then the sound abruptly stopped.
I stood up and started walking back to the house. When I passed the small shrine I checked the pit, just to make sure. The planks were in place, the stone weights neatly arranged on top. They hadn’t been moved, as far as I could tell. Fallen leaves covered the boards. They had lost their bright colors and turned sodden in the rain. So young and fresh in spring, their quiet death had come now, in late autumn.
As I stared at the planks, I began to feel that Long Face might poke his elongated, eggplant-shaped head out of the pit at any minute. But the planks didn’t budge. Obviously. Long Face’s hole was square, not round, and was smaller and more personal in scale. Moreover, this hole was home to the Commendatore, not Long Face. Or at least home to the Idea that had borrowed the Commendatore’s form. It had been the Commendatore that had rung the bell to call me here, and had made me open the pit.
Everything started with this pit. After Menshiki and I had pried open the lid with a backhoe, strange things had started happening one after another. Then again, it might have all begun when I had found Killing Commendatore in the attic and removed it from its packaging. That was the correct sequence. Or perhaps the two events acted in tandem. Killing Commendatore could have been what called the Idea to the house. The appearance of the Commendatore could have been my reward for liberating the painting. Try as I might, I couldn’t tell what was the cause, and what was the result.
Menshiki’s Jaguar was gone when I got back to the house. He had probably come by taxi to pick it up. Or else sent one of the people who worked for him to collect it. Whichever the case, my mud-spattered Toyota Corolla was left there, parked forlornly outside my front door. Menshiki had been right—I should check the tires one of these days, though I hadn’t bought an air pressure gauge and probably never would.
I went to the kitchen to start making lunch, but no sooner had I picked up a knife than I realized I was no longer ravenously hungry. Instead, I was very sleepy. I got a blanket, stretched out on the living room sofa, and promptly drifted off. I had a dream, a short one. It was clear and very vivid. But I couldn’t remember anything about it. Just that it was clear and vivid. It felt as though a fragment of real life had slipped into my sleeping mind by mistake. Then the moment I awoke, it fled like a quick-footed animal, leaving no trace behind.