“You may be right.”
Menshiki thought for a while before speaking. “As I told you before, it’s entirely up to you what style of painting you do. I’m a person who’s always seeking change, always in flux. And it’s not like I’m hoping you’ll paint some conventional portrait. Any style, any concept is fine. What I want is for you to depict me exactly as you see me. The methods and procedure are up to you. I’m not hoping I live on like that mailman from Arles. I’m not that ambitious. I just have a healthy curiosity to see what sort of painting will emerge from this.”
“I appreciate your saying that. I just have one request,” I said. “If I can’t come up with a satisfactory painting, then I’d like to forget the whole thing.”
“You won’t give me the painting then?”
I nodded. “I’ll return the advance, of course.”
“All right,” Menshiki said. “I’ll let you be the final judge. Though I must say I have a strong hunch it’s not going to turn out that way.”
“I hope your hunch turns out to be correct.”
Menshiki looked me in the eyes. “But even if the painting’s never completed, I’d be very happy if, in some way, I’m able to help you change. Truly.”
* * *
—
“By the way, Mr. Menshiki,” I said, broaching the topic a little while later, “there’s something I wanted to get your advice on. Something personal, nothing to do with the painting.”
“Of course. I’ll be happy to help if I can.”
I sighed. “It’s kind of a weird story. I might not be able to tell the whole story in the right order, so it makes sense.”
“Take your time, tell it in whatever order is easiest for you. And then we’ll consider it together. The two of us might come up with a good idea that you couldn’t come up with on your own.”
So I told him the story, start to finish. How I suddenly woke up just before two a.m. and heard a weird sound in the darkness. A faint, far-off sound that I could only catch because the insects had stopped chirping. A sound like someone ringing a bell. When I tried to trace the source, it seemed to be coming from between the cracks in a stone mound in the woods behind my house. That mysterious sound continued for some forty-five minutes, intermittently, with irregular intervals of silence between. Finally it stopped completely. The same thing happened two nights in a row—two nights ago and last night. Someone might be ringing that bell-like thing from underneath the stones. Maybe sending out a distress call. But could that be possible? I was starting to doubt my own sanity a little. Was I just imagining things?
Menshiki listened to my story without comment, and remained silent even after I finished. He’d listened intently to what I’d said, and I could tell he was thinking deeply about it.
“A fascinating story,” he said a little while later. He lightly cleared his throat. “As you said, it’s certainly out of the ordinary. I wonder…if possible, I’d like to hear the sound of that bell myself, so could I come over tonight? If you don’t mind?”
This took me by surprise. “Come all the way over here in the dead of night?”
“Of course. If I hear the bell too, that would prove you’re not hallucinating. That’s the first step. If it is an actual bell, then let’s try to locate the source, the two of us. Then we can think about what to do next.”
“True enough—”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll come over here tonight at twelve thirty. Does that work for you?”
“That’s fine, but I don’t want to put you out—”
A pleasant smile graced his lips. “Not to worry. If I can help you, nothing would make me happier. Plus, I’m a very curious person. What that bell in the middle of the night might mean, and if someone is ringing it, who that is—I’m dying to know. You feel the same way, don’t you?”
“Of course—” I said.
“Then let’s go with that. I’ll see you tonight. And there’s something else I thought of.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll tell you about it later. I have to make sure of something first.”
Menshiki got up from the sofa and held out his right hand. I shook it. As always, a firm handshake. He looked happier than usual.
* * *
—
After he left I spent the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen cooking. Once a week I prepare all my meals. I put them in the fridge or freezer, then get by on these for the week. This was my meal-prep day. For dinner that evening I added macaroni to some boiled sausage and cabbage. Plus a tomato, avocado, and onion salad. In the evening I lay on the sofa as always, reading while listening to music. After a while I stopped reading and thought about Menshiki.
Why had he looked so happy when we said goodbye? Was he really so pleased to be able to help me out? Why? I didn’t get it. I was just a poor, unknown artist. My wife of six years had left me, I didn’t get along with my parents, had no set place to live, no assets, and was simply hanging out in a friend’s father’s house. Menshiki, in contrast (not that there was any need to make a comparison), had been successful at business at a young age, and made enough to live comfortably for the rest of his days. At least that’s what he had told me. He was good-looking, owned four British cars, and lived in luxury in a huge mountaintop mansion without, apparently, doing any real work. So why would a person like that be interested in someone like me? And why would he make time in the dead of the night to help me out?
I shook my head and went back to reading. Thinking about it wasn’t going to get me anywhere. It was like trying to put together a puzzle that was missing some pieces. I could think all I wanted and never arrive at any conclusion. But I couldn’t help but think about it. I sighed, and put the book on the tabletop again, closed my eyes, and listened to the music. Schubert’s String Quartet no. 15, played by the Vienna Konzerthaus Quartet.
Since coming here, I’d listened to classical music every day, most of it German (or Austrian), since the majority of Tomohiko Amada’s record collection consisted of German classical music. His collection included the obligatory nods to Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff, Sibelius, Vivaldi, Debussy, and Ravel, but that’s all. Since he was an opera fan there were, as you might expect, some recordings by Verdi and Puccini. But compared to the substantial lineup of German opera he didn’t seem as enthusiastic about these.
I imagined Amada had intense memories of his time studying in Vienna, which may have accounted for the deep absorption in German music. Or it could have been the opposite. Maybe his love of German music had come first, and that’s why he had chosen to study in Vienna instead of France. I had no way of knowing which had come first.
Either way, I was in no position to complain that German music was the preferred type in this house. I was a mere caretaker, and they were kind enough to let me listen to the records there. And I enjoyed listening to the music of Bach, Schubert, Brahms, Schumann, and Beethoven. Not forgetting Mozart, of course. Their music was deep, amazing, and gorgeous. Up to then in my life I’d never had the opportunity to really settle down and listen to that type of music. I’d always been too busy trying to make a living, and didn’t have the wherewithal financially. So I decided that, as long as I’d been provided this wonderful opportunity, I’d listen to as much music here as I could.