“Since what time?” I asked.
“Since this morning, when she left for school. I offered to drive her to the station, but she said she’d walk. She likes walking. Much more than riding in the car. So I give her a lift when she’s running late, but otherwise she walks down the hill to the bus stop and takes the bus to the station. This morning she left the house at seven thirty, as usual.”
Shoko said all this in a single breath, then stopped. I could hear her trying to control her breathing. I used the pause to put what she had just told me into some kind of order.
“Today is Friday,” Shoko continued. “When school lets out on Fridays, she goes directly to art class. And then I pick her up afterward. But today Mariye said she’d take the bus home instead. So I didn’t go. When she says something like that, it’s pointless to argue. But she still gets back by seven or seven thirty. Then she has dinner. But tonight, it turned to eight and then eight thirty and she still hadn’t returned. So I called the center and asked whether she had come to class or not. They checked and said she hadn’t shown up. That’s when I got really worried. Now it’s ten thirty and she’s still not back. I’ve heard nothing. That’s why I’m calling you—I thought perhaps you might know something.”
“I haven’t a clue where she is,” I said. “I was rather surprised when I showed up for class and Mariye wasn’t there. She’s never skipped before.”
Shoko gave a deep sigh. “My brother’s not back yet. I don’t know when to expect him—he hasn’t contacted me. I’m not sure if he’ll return tonight or not. I’m here all alone, and I don’t know what to do.”
“She was wearing her school uniform when she left this morning, correct?”
“Yes, she left in her uniform, with a bag over her shoulder. The same as always. A blazer and skirt. I don’t know if she ever made it to school, though. It’s late, so there’s no way to check. But I’m quite sure she got there. The school contacts us if there’s an unexplained absence. She was carrying enough money for a single day’s expenses, no more. I make her take a cell phone just in case, but it’s been shut off all day. She doesn’t like cell phones. She’ll use hers to call me, but she usually keeps it off the rest of the time. I’ve warned her about that over and over, begged her not to turn it off, explained that we may need to reach her if something important comes up, but she doesn’t—”
“Has this ever happened before? Her coming home late?”
“This is the first time, really. Mariye is very dependable. She has no close friends she hangs out with, and once she’s agreed to do something, she follows through, even though she doesn’t like school all that much. She won a prize for perfect attendance in elementary school. She always comes straight home after school. She never loiters along the way.”
Mariye’s aunt was clearly in the dark about her nighttime forays.
“Was there anything she said or did this morning that was out of the ordinary?”
“No, nothing. It was a regular morning. The same as always. She drinks a glass of warm milk, eats a slice of toast, and heads out the door. Every day is identical. I made her breakfast today as I usually do. She didn’t say a great deal. But that’s normal. She can talk a blue streak once she gets started, but most of the time, you can’t get much out of her.”
I was beginning to worry. It was almost eleven at night, and it was pitch dark outside. The moon was hiding behind the clouds. What on earth had happened to Mariye Akikawa?
“I’ll wait one more hour. If Mariye still hasn’t contacted me by then, I’ll call the police,” Shoko said.
“That’s a good idea,” I said. “And let me know if there’s anything I can do. Any time is all right—please don’t hesitate, no matter how late it is.”
Shoko thanked me and hung up. I drained what was left of the whiskey and washed the glass in the sink.
* * *
—
After that I went to the studio. I turned on all the lights and stood there in the bright room, taking another lingering look at my unfinished Portrait of Mariye Akikawa on the easel. It was close to done—only a little work remained. It showed a version of what a quiet thirteen-year-old girl would ideally look like. Yet there were other elements too, aspects of her that could not be seen, that made her who she was. What I was attempting in all my painting—though not, of course, in the portraits I did on commission—was to try to capture those things which lay outside my field of vision and communicate their message in a different form. Mariye was, in that sense, a most fascinating subject. There was just so much that was hidden, like a trompe l’oeil. And now as of this morning she herself had disappeared. As if swallowed by that very trompe l’oeil.
I turned to look again at The Pit in the Woods leaning against the wall. I had just completed it that afternoon. I could feel that painting calling out to me too, though in another way, and from a different direction, than A Portrait of Mariye Akikawa.
Something is about to happen. I felt this again as I looked at the landscape. Until that afternoon it had been a premonition of sorts, but now it was encroaching on reality. The movement was already under way. Mariye’s disappearance and the pit in the woods were linked in some way. I could sense it. By finishing the painting I had set the gears in motion. And Mariye’s vanishing act was the likely result.
Yet I could tell Shoko none of this. All that would do was confuse her even more.
I went back to the kitchen and rinsed the whiskey taste from my mouth with several glasses of water. When that was done, I picked up the phone and called Menshiki. I called three times before he picked up. I detected a slight edge to his voice, as if he were waiting for an important call. That it was me on the line seemed to surprise him. It only took a second, though, for the edge to disappear and the voice to turn cool and collected, as always.
“I’m very sorry to call so late,” I said.
“Not at all. I stay up late, and I’ve got plenty of time. I’m always happy to hear your voice.”
Skipping the normal pleasantries, I gave him a brief report of Mariye’s disappearance. The girl had left home for school in the morning but hadn’t returned. Nor had she shown up at my painting class. The news seemed to throw Menshiki for a loop. He took a moment to reply.
“And you have no idea where she might have gone, right?” he asked me.
“None at all,” I replied. “It came out of left field. How about you?”
“I have no idea either, of course. She barely says a word to me.”
There was no anger or regret in his voice. He was simply relating the way she treated him.
“That’s just how she is—she’s like that with everybody,” I said. “But Shoko is at her wit’s end. Mariye’s father isn’t home either, so she’s all alone and unsure what to do.”
Menshiki paused again. It was rare to see him at a loss for words—in fact, I had never witnessed it before.
“Is there anything I can do?” he said at last.
“I know it’s sudden,” I said, “but is there any chance you could drop by now?”
“To your home?”
“Yes. There’s something in this connection that I need to talk to you about.”
Menshiki took a moment to respond. “All right,” he said. “I’ll leave right away.”
“Are you sure you don’t have to take care of a matter there first?”
“It’s not big enough to call a ‘matter.’ It’s just a trivial thing,” he said. He cleared his throat. He seemed to be checking his watch. “I can be there in about fifteen minutes.”
When the phone call ended, I got ready to go out. I laid out a sweater and my leather jacket, and placed the big flashlight within easy reach. Then I sat on the sofa and waited for the purr of Menshiki’s Jaguar rolling up the hill.
46
PEOPLE ARE POWERLESS BEFORE A STURDY, TOWERING WALL