“Yeah, maybe I did,” Masahiko said. “But it’s the truth.”
After that, we sat there without speaking, looking at the clock on the wall, or the ocean outside the window. Tomohiko Amada lay on his back in a deep sleep, not moving a muscle. He was so still, in fact, that I worried whether he was alive or not. No one else seemed concerned, though, so I figured his stillness was normal.
Watching him lying there, I tried to imagine how he might have looked as a young exchange student in Vienna. But of course I couldn’t. This was an old man with furrowed skin and white hair, experiencing the slow but steady annihilation of his physical existence. All of us are, without exception, born to die, and now he was face-to-face with that final stage.
“Aren’t you planning to contact Yuzu?” Masahiko asked me.
“Not at present, no,” I said, shaking my head.
“I think it might be a good idea for you two to get together and talk things over. Have a good heart-to-heart, so to speak.”
“Our formal divorce proceedings were handled through our lawyers. That’s the way Yuzu wanted it. Now she’s about to give birth to another man’s child. Whether she wants to marry him or not is her problem. I’m in no position to say anything about it. So what exactly are the things we should talk over?”
“Don’t you want to know what’s going on?”
I shook my head no. “I don’t want to know any more than I have to. It’s not like what took place didn’t hurt.”
“Of course,” Masahiko said.
All the same, to be honest there were times I couldn’t tell if I had been hurt or not. Did I really have the right? I wasn’t clear enough about things to know. Of course, people can’t help feeling hurt in certain situations, whether they have the right to or not.
“The guy is a colleague of mine,” Masahiko said after a pause. “He’s a serious guy, hard worker, good personality.”
“Yeah, and handsome, too.”
“True. Women love him. Only natural, I guess. Sure wish they flocked to me like that. But he has this tendency that always left us all shaking our heads.”
I waited for him to go on.
“You see, we’ve never been able to figure out why he’s chosen the women he has. I mean, he always has lots of women to pick from, and yet he comes up with these losers. I’m not talking about Yuzu, of course. She’s probably the first good choice he’s made. But the women before her were real disasters. I still can’t figure it out.”
He shook his head, remembering those women.
“He almost got married a few years back. They’d printed the invitations, reserved the venue for the ceremony, and were heading off to Fiji or someplace like that for their honeymoon. He’d gotten leave from work, bought the airplane tickets. The bride-to-be wasn’t at all attractive. When he introduced us, I remember being shocked by how homely she was. Of course, you can’t judge a book by its cover, but from what I could see, her personality was nothing special, either. Yet for some reason he was head over heels in love. Anyway, they seemed poorly matched. Everyone who knew them felt that way, though no one said so. Then, just before the wedding, she skipped out. In other words, it was the woman who split. I couldn’t tell if that was good or bad for him, but all the same it blew my mind.”
“Was there some kind of reason?”
“Not that I know of. I felt sorry for the guy, so I never asked. But I don’t think he ever understood why she did what she did. I mean she just ran. Couldn’t stand the thought of marrying him. Something must have bothered her.”
“So what’s the point of your story?”
“The point is,” Masahiko said, “it still may be possible for you and Yuzu to get back together. Assuming that’s what you want, of course.”
“But she’s about to have another man’s child.”
“Yeah, I can see that might be a problem.”
We fell silent again.
* * *
—
Tomohiko Amada woke up shortly before three. His body twitched at first. Then he took a deep breath—I could see the quilt over his chest rise and fall. Masahiko stood and went to his father’s bedside. He looked down on his face. The old man’s eyes slowly opened. His bushy white eyebrows quivered in the air.
Masahiko took a slender glass funnel cup from the bedside table and moistened his father’s lips. He mopped the corners of his mouth with a piece of what looked like gauze. His father wanted more, so he repeated the process several times. He seemed comfortable with the job—it appeared that he had done it many times before. The old man’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down with each swallow. Only when I saw that movement was I sure he was still alive.
“Father,” Masahiko said, pointing at me. “This is the guy who moved into the Odawara house. He’s a painter who’s working in your studio. He’s a friend of mine from college. He’s not too bright, and his beautiful wife ran out on him, but he’s still a great artist.”
It wasn’t clear how much Masahiko’s father comprehended. But he slowly turned his head in my direction as if following his son’s finger. His face was blank. He seemed to be looking at something, but that something carried no particular meaning for him. Nevertheless, I thought I could detect a surprisingly clear and lucid light deep within those bleary eyes. That light seemed to be biding its time, waiting for that which might hold real significance. At least that was my impression.
“I doubt he understands a word I say,” Masahiko said. “But his doctor instructed us to talk to him in a free and natural way, as if he was able to follow. No one knows how much he’s picking up anyway. So I talk to him normally. That’s easier for me too. Now you say something. The way you usually talk.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Amada,” I said. I told him my name. “Your son has been kind enough to let me live in your home in Odawara.”
Tomohiko Amada was looking at me, but his expression hadn’t changed. Masahiko gestured: Just keep talking—anything is okay.
“I’m an oil painter,” I went on. “I specialized in portraits for a long time, but I gave that up and now I paint my own stuff. I still accept occasional commissions for portraits, though. The human face fascinates me, I guess. Masahiko and I have been friends since art school.”
Tomohiko Amada’s eyes were still pointed in my direction. They were coated by a thin membrane, a kind of layered lace curtain hanging between life and death. What sat behind the curtain would fade from view as the layers increased, until finally the last, heavy curtain would fall.
“I love your house,” I said. “My work is steadily progressing. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been listening to your records. Masahiko told me that was all right. You have a great collection. I enjoy the operas especially. Oh yes, and recently I went up and looked in the attic.”
I thought I saw a sparkle in his eyes when I said the word “attic.” It was just a quick flash—no one would have noticed it unless they were paying attention. But I was keeping close watch. Thus I didn’t miss it. Clearly, “attic” had a charge that caused some part of his memory to kick in.
“A horned owl has moved into the attic,” I went on. “I kept hearing these rustling sounds at night. I thought it was a rat, so I went up to check during the day. And there the owl was, sitting under the beams. It’s a beautiful bird. The screen on the air vent has a hole, so it can go in and out at will. The attic makes a perfect daytime hideout for a horned owl, don’t you think?”
The eyes were still fixed on me. As if waiting to hear more.
“Horned owls don’t cause any damage,” Masahiko put in. “In fact, they’re said to bring good luck.”
“I love the bird,” I added. “And the attic is a fascinating place too.”