“I showed you this before, didn’t I?”
Mariye gave a firm nod, but said nothing.
“You told me it was finished as it was.”
Mariye nodded again.
“I call the person portrayed here—or the person I must eventually portray—‘the man with the white Subaru Forester.’ I ran across him in a small coastal village in Miyagi Prefecture. Our paths crossed twice. In a very mysterious and meaningful way. I have no idea what sort of person he is. I don’t even know his name. But a moment came when I realized I had to paint him. I was compelled to. I started painting him from memory, but had to stop when I reached a certain point. So I painted over him like this.”
Mariye’s lips were still set in a straight line.
Then she shook her head from side to side.
“That man is really scary,” she said.
“That man?” I said. I followed her eyes. They were fixed on The Man with the White Subaru Forester. “Do you mean the painting? Or the man?”
She gave another firm nod. Despite her fear, she seemed unable to look away.
“Can you see him?”
She nodded. “I can see him behind the paint. He’s standing there looking at me. Wearing a black cap.”
I turned it around and set it back, face against the wall.
“You have the ability to see the man with the Subaru Forester standing there. Most people don’t,” I said. “But I think it’s better if you don’t look at him anymore. There’s probably no need at this stage.”
Mariye nodded as if in agreement.
“I don’t know if the man with the white Subaru Forester is of this world or not. It’s possible that someone, or something, merely borrowed his form. In the same way an Idea borrowed the form of the Commendatore. Or it could be that I saw part of myself reflected in him. But when I was surrounded by real darkness, it was no mere reflection, believe me. It was a tangible, living, moving thing. The people in that land call it a ‘Double Metaphor.’ I do plan to finish the painting someday. But not yet—it’s still too early. And too dangerous. Some things shouldn’t be recklessly dragged into the light. But I may not be…”
Mariye was looking straight at me without saying a word. I found it difficult to continue.
“Anyway, thanks to the help of many people, I was somehow able to cross the underworld and squeeze through a narrow, black tunnel to make my way back to this world. At virtually the same moment, you were freed from somewhere. I can’t believe that was a mere stroke of luck. On Friday, you disappeared somewhere for four days. Then on Saturday I disappeared for three days. On Tuesday, we both returned. There has to be a connection. My guess is that the Commendatore connected us. And now he’s gone from this world. He fulfilled his role and moved on. Only you and I are left. We’re the only ones who can close the circle. Do you believe what I’m saying?”
Mariye nodded.
“That’s what I wanted to tell you. Why I asked to talk to you alone.”
Mariye’s eyes were trained on my face.
“No one else would believe me,” I went on, “even if I told the truth. They’d think I was nuts. I mean the story just doesn’t fly—it’s too far removed from reality—though I figured you’d believe me. And then I’d have to show them Killing Commendatore. Without that painting, nothing I said would make sense. But I don’t want anyone else to see it. Only you.”
Mariye kept looking at me. She didn’t speak. But I could see the sparkle slowly returning to her eyes.
“Tomohiko Amada invested everything, all of himself, in this painting. It’s filled with his emotion. As though he painted it with his own blood and flesh. Truly a once-in-a-lifetime work of art. He did it for himself, but also for those who were no longer of this world, a kind of requiem to their memory. To purify the blood they had shed.”
“Requiem?”
“A work to bring peace to the spirits of the dead and heal their wounds. That’s why he didn’t expose it to public view. The critical reception, the accolades, the financial rewards—they had no meaning. He wanted none of those things for this painting. It was enough for him to know that he had created it, and that it existed somewhere. Even if it was wrapped up in paper and hidden in an attic where no one would ever see it. I want to respect his feelings.”
The room was quiet for a while.
“You’ve played around here since you were small, right? Using that secret passageway of yours. Isn’t that so?”
Mariye nodded.
“Did you ever meet Tomohiko Amada?”
“I saw the old guy. But I never talked to him. I just hid and looked at him from far away. When he was painting. I mean, I was trespassing, right?”
I nodded. The image was all too real. Mariye in the shrubbery, peeking into the studio. Tomohiko Amada on his stool, intently wielding his brush. The thought that he was being observed a million miles from his mind.
“You asked me to help you with something,” Mariye said.
“So I did. There’s one thing,” I said. “I’d like you to help me wrap up these two paintings and hide them in the attic where no one can see them. Killing Commendatore and The Man with the White Subaru Forester. I don’t think we need them right now. That’s where I could use your help.”
Mariye nodded but didn’t say anything. Truth be told, this was a task I really didn’t want to do alone. More than help, I needed someone to act as observer and witness. Someone tight-lipped, whom I could trust to share the secret.
I went to the kitchen and got some twine and a utility knife. Then Mariye and I packed up Killing Commendatore. We wrapped it carefully in the same brown washi, the traditional Japanese paper it had been in before, bound it with twine, draped it in a white cloth, and then tied it again. Firmly, to make it difficult for anyone to unwrap. The thick paint on The Man with the White Subaru Forester wasn’t quite dry, so we wrapped it more loosely. Then we carried the two paintings to the closet of the guest bedroom. I climbed to the top of the stepladder, raised the trap door to the attic (much like Long Face had pushed up the square lid to his hole, come to think of it), and climbed up. The air was chilly there, but a pleasant kind of chilly. Mariye handed the paintings up to me. Killing Commendatore went first, followed by The Man with the White Subaru Forester. I leaned them next to each other against the wall.
All of a sudden, I sensed I had company. I gulped. Someone was there—I could feel a presence. Then I saw the horned owl. Probably the same owl I had seen the first time. The night bird was perched on the same beam as before, still as a statue. He didn’t seem particularly concerned when I moved in his direction. Also like the first time.
“Hey. Come up and see something,” I whispered to Mariye. “Something very cool. Try not to make any noise.”
Looking curious, Mariye mounted the ladder and crawled through the opening into the attic. I pulled her up the last step with both hands. The floor of the attic was covered with a fine white dust, but she didn’t show any concern that it would get on her wool skirt. I sat down and pointed out the horned owl to her. She knelt beside me and looked at the bird, entranced. It was very beautiful. Like a cat that had sprouted wings. “It’s been living here the whole while,” I whispered to her. “It goes out to hunt in the forest in the evening, and flies back in the morning to sleep. That’s its entrance there.”
I pointed at the air vent with the hole in its screen. Mariye nodded. I could hear the faint sound of her breathing.