“I don’t see anything suspect about it. The lawyer works at a reputable firm and said they’ll transfer an advance as soon as you accept.”
Phone in hand, I sighed. “This is kind of sudden, and I don’t think I can give you an answer right away. I need time to think.”
“Understood. Think about it as long as you need. It’s not an urgent job, the other party said.”
I thanked him and hung up. I couldn’t think of anything else to do so I went to the studio, turned on the light, plunked myself down on the floor, and stared vaguely at Killing Commendatore. After a while I started to get hungry and went to the kitchen, piled a plate with Ritz Crackers and ketchup, and went back to the studio. I dipped the crackers in the ketchup and munched them as I went back to staring at the painting. Nothing about that food tasted good. It was, if anything, pretty awful. But taste wasn’t the issue. Keeping hunger at bay for a while was the priority.
That’s how much the painting drew me in, from the overall composition to the small details. It truly held me captive. After a few weeks of exhaustive gazing at the painting, I ventured closer to it to inspect each detail. What most caught my attention were the expressions on each of the five people’s faces. I did minute pencil sketches of each of them. From the Commendatore, to Don Giovanni, Donna Anna, Leporello, and Long Face. Just like a reader might carefully copy down in a notebook each word and phrase he liked in a book.
This was the first time I’d ever sketched figures from a Japanese-style painting, and it was far more difficult than I’d expected. Japanese painting emphasized lines, and tended to be more flat than three-dimensional. Symbolism was emphasized over reality. It’s inherently impossible to transfer a painting done from that perspective into the grammar of Western painting, though after much trial and error I was able to do a fairly decent job of it. Calling it “recasting” might be a bit much, but it was necessary to interpret and translate the painting in my own way. Which necessitated grasping the intent that went into the original painting. I had to come to an understanding of Tomohiko Amada, his viewpoint as an artist, and the kind of person he was. Figuratively speaking, I had to put myself in his shoes.
After I’d done this for a while, the thought struck me: maybe doing a portrait again wasn’t such a bad idea. I mean, my painting wasn’t going anywhere. I couldn’t even get a hint of what I should paint, or what I wanted to paint. Even if I wasn’t too keen on the job, getting my hands moving again wouldn’t be a bad thing. If I kept on like this, unable to draw a thing, I might find myself unable to paint ever again. Maybe I wouldn’t even be able to paint a portrait. The fee, of course, was also pretty tempting. My living expenses at this point were minimal, but my pay from the art classes wasn’t enough to cover them. I’d gone on that long trip, bought a used Corolla station wagon, and my savings were diminishing. So a sizable fee like the one I’d get from doing the portrait was, admittedly, very appealing.
I called my agent and told him that just this one time, I would take on the job. Naturally, he was happy to hear this.
“But if I have to paint the client in person, that means I need to travel to wherever he is,” I said.
“No need to worry about that. The other party will come to your place in Odawara.”
“To Odawara?”
“That’s right.”
“He knows where I’m living?”
“He apparently lives nearby. He even knows that you’re living in Tomohiko Amada’s place.”
This left me speechless. “That’s strange. Hardly anybody knows I’m living here. Especially that I’m in Amada’s house.”
“I didn’t know that either,” the agent said.
“Then how does that person know?”
“I have no idea. But you can find out just about anything from the Internet these days. For people who know their way around it, privacy is a thing of the past.”
“Is it just a coincidence that that person lives near me? Or was the fact that I live nearby one of the reasons he chose me?”
“That, I couldn’t say. When you meet the client, if there’s something you want to know, you can ask.”
“I’ll do that,” I said.
“So when can you start?” he asked.
“Anytime,” I said.
“All right, I’ll let them know, and get back to you,” the agent said.
After I hung up I went out to the terrace, settled into the lounge chair, and thought about how things had turned out. The more I mulled it over, the more questions I had. First off, it bothered me that the client knew I was living here, in this house. It was like I was under surveillance, with somebody watching my every move. But why would anyone have that much interest in a person like me? Plus the whole thing sounded too good to be true. The portraits I’d done were certainly well received. And I had a certain amount of confidence in them. But these were, ultimately, the kind of portraits you could find anywhere. No way could you ever call them “works of art.” And as far as the world was concerned I was a completely unknown artist. No matter how many of my paintings someone had seen and liked (not that I accepted that story at face value), would that person really shell out such an enormous fee?
A thought suddenly struck me, out of nowhere: Could the client be the husband of the woman I was having an affair with? I had no proof to go on, yet the more I thought about it the more it seemed like a real possibility. When it came to an anonymous neighbor who was interested in me, that’s all I could come up with. But why would her husband go to the trouble and expense of paying a huge fee to have his wife’s lover paint his own portrait? It didn’t add up. Unless he was some weird pervert or something.
Fine. If that’s how things are working out, then just go with the flow. If the client has some hidden agenda, just let it play out. That was a much more sensible thing to do than remaining as I was, stuck, deadlocked in the mountains. Curiosity was also a factor. What kind of person was this client? What did he want from me in exchange for the huge fee? I had to discover what motivated him.
Once I’d made up my mind I felt relieved. That night, for the first time in a while, I fell into a deep sleep right away, with no thoughts buzzing around in my head. At one point I felt like I heard the rustling of the horned owl in the middle of the night. But that might have just been a piece of a fragmentary dream.
7
FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE, IT’S AN EASY NAME TO REMEMBER
My agent in Tokyo called a few more times, and we decided that I would meet our mystery client on Tuesday afternoon of the following week. (At that point the client’s name was still not revealed.) I had them agree to my usual procedure, wherein, on the first day, we simply met and talked together for an hour or so, before we embarked upon a drawing.
As you might imagine, painting a portrait requires the ability to accurately grasp the special features of a person’s face. But that’s not all. If it were, you’d end up with a caricature. To paint a vibrant portrait you need the skill to discover what lies at the core of the person’s face. A face is like reading a palm. More than the features you’re born with, a face is gradually formed over the passage of time, through all the experiences a person goes through, and no two faces are alike.