The Commendatore gave a deep sigh.
“An indirect, roundabout hint is enough. I’m not trying to accomplish anything earthshaking here, like putting a stop to ethnic cleansing or global warming, or saving the African elephant. All I’m trying to do is find one thirteen-year-old girl who’s likely caught somewhere, in some small, dark place, and return her to this world.”
The Commendatore sat there for a long time lost in thought, his arms folded. He seemed to be having second thoughts.
“Affirmative, my friends,” he said, with resignation. “When you speak in such a fashion, there is not much I can do. I will give my friends but a single hint. Yet be warned—several sacrifices may be required. Are you willing nonetheless?”
“What sort of sacrifices?”
“I cannot speak much of that yet. But they will be inevitable. Metaphorically speaking, there will be blood. That is an inevitable fact. What sorts of sacrifices are involved should grow clearer as time passes. Someone may have to risk his life.”
“I don’t care. Give me the hint.”
“Affirmative!” the Commendatore said. “It is now Friday, is it not?”
I checked my bedside clock. “Yes, it’s still Friday. No, wait a minute, it’s Saturday already.”
“On Saturday morning, before noon, my friends will receive a phone call,” the Commendatore said. “For an invitation somewhere. No matter the circumstances, my friends must not decline that invitation. Do you understand?”
I mechanically repeated what he had just said. “Someone will call me this morning and invite me somewhere. I must not decline.”
“Hold those words close,” said the Commendatore. “For it is the only hint I am able to share. It traverses the narrow line that divides ‘public’ and ‘private’ parlance.”
With those final words, the Commendatore began to fade away. Before I knew it, his form had disappeared from the window ledge.
I turned off the bedside lamp and this time fell asleep with relative ease. The whir of insect wings in my head was gone. A moment before I went under, I imagined Menshiki sitting in front of the fire, absorbed in his thoughts. I guessed he would keep the fire burning all night. I had no idea what those thoughts might be, of course. He was a strange man. But it went without saying that his life was bounded by time, space, and probability. Like everyone else’s in this world. None of us could escape those constraints, as long as we lived. Each of us was enclosed by sturdy walls that stretched high in the air, surrounding us on all sides. Probably.
“Someone will call me this morning and invite me somewhere. I must not decline.” I parroted the Commendatore’s words one more time in my head. Then I slept.
48
THE SPANIARDS SIMPLY COULDN’T NAVIGATE THE ANGRY SEAS OFF THE IRISH COAST
I woke shortly after five. It was still dark outside. I slipped a cardigan over my pajamas and went to check the living room. Menshiki was sleeping on the sofa. He hadn’t been asleep for long—the fire was out but the room was still warm. The stack of firewood had shrunk. He was sleeping peacefully on his side, breathing quietly with the duvet draped over his body. Not snoring at all. His manners governed even the way he slept. The room seemed to be holding its breath so as not to disturb him.
Leaving him there, I went into the kitchen and brewed coffee. I made some toast as well. Then I carried the toast and coffee into the dining area and sat there, munching and sipping, as I read my book. It was about the Spanish Armada. About the unfolding of the brutal conflict upon which Queen Elizabeth and Philip II had staked the fortunes of their nations. Why did I feel compelled to read an account of that late-sixteenth-century sea battle off the coast of Great Britain at that particular moment? All I knew was that, once I started reading, I couldn’t stop. It was an old book I had found on Tomohiko Amada’s shelf.
While standard accounts claim that faulty strategy caused the Armada’s decimation by the English fleet, a defeat that changed the course of history, this book argued that most of the damage was caused not by direct fire from English cannon (volleys by both sides, it appeared, missed their targets to fall harmlessly into the ocean), but by shipwreck. Accustomed to the calm waters of the Mediterranean, the Spaniards simply couldn’t navigate the angry seas off the Irish coast, and thus ran vessel after vessel against the dark reefs.
As I followed the sad fate of the Spanish navy and sipped my second cup of black coffee, the sky gradually brightened in the east. It was Saturday morning.
Someone will phone you, my friends, this morning, and invite you somewhere. You must not decline.
I mentally repeated what the Commendatore had told me. Then I looked at the phone. It preserved its silence. But it would ring at some point, I was sure of that. The Commendatore was not one to lie. All I could do was be patient and wait.
I thought of Mariye. I wanted to call her aunt to find out if she was safe, but it was still too early. I should wait until seven o’clock at least. Her aunt would contact me if Mariye was found. She knew how worried I was. No word from her meant no progress. So I sat at the dining table reading about the invincible Armada and, when I tired of reading, staring at the phone. But the phone maintained its silence.
I called Shoko shortly after seven. She answered immediately. As if she had been sitting beside the phone, waiting for it to ring.
“We haven’t heard from her. She’s still missing,” she said right away. She sounded as if she’d had little (or maybe no) sleep. Fatigue filled her voice.
“Are the police looking?” I asked.
“Yes, two officers came last night. We gave them photographs of Mariye, described what she was wearing…We explained that she isn’t the kind of girl who would run away or stay out late partying. They spread the word, and by now I’m sure it’s been broadcast to all the precincts. I’ve asked them not to make the search public yet, of course.”
“But nothing so far, correct?”
“That’s right, no leads up to this point. I’m sure they’re working very hard on it, though.”
I did my best to console her and asked her to let me know the moment something did turn up. She promised she would.
* * *
—
When our call ended, Menshiki had already risen and was scrubbing his face in the bathroom sink. After brushing his teeth with the toothbrush I had set aside for him, he sat across from me at the dining room table and drank his black coffee. I offered him toast, but he declined. Sleeping on the sofa had mussed his luxuriant hair a bit more than usual, but then his “usual” was super neat. The man sitting there was the same coolheaded, well-groomed guy as always.
I related my conversation with Shoko. “This is just my gut feeling,” he said when I finished, “but I doubt the police will be very much help.”
“Why is that?”
“Mariye is no typical teenager, and her disappearance is no typical disappearance. I don’t think she was kidnapped, either. That means the usual police methods are likely to hit a wall.”
I didn’t offer an opinion. But I figured he was right. We had been given an equation with multiple functions but almost no solid numbers. To make any progress, we had to nail down as many numbers as possible.
“Shall we go take another look at the pit?” I asked. “Who knows—there might be some change.”
“Let’s go,” Menshiki said.