One day a large envelope, with a return receipt, arrived at his office from a law firm he’d never heard of. Inside was a typed two-page letter (with the letterhead of the law firm) and a light pink envelope. The letter from the law firm was signed by a lawyer. The lawyer’s letter read: Ms. **** entrusted me with this letter while she was still alive. Ms. **** left instructions with me to send this letter to you in case of her death. She added a note to the effect that the letter should be for your eyes only.
That was the gist of the lawyer’s letter. The circumstances leading to her death were described simply, in a businesslike manner. Menshiki was speechless, but finally pulled himself together and snipped open the second envelope. The letter inside was handwritten in blue ink, on four sheets of stationery. The handwriting was exquisite.
Dear Mr. Menshiki,
I don’t know what month or year it is now, but if you are reading this it means I am no longer among the living. I’m not sure why, but I’ve always had the feeling I’d depart this world at a relatively young age. Which is why I made full preparations like this for after my death. If all this ends up being wasted, of course nothing could be better—but when all is said and done since you are reading this letter it means that I’ve already passed away. The thought leaves me very, very sad.
The first thing I’d like to say in advance (maybe it’s something I really don’t need to say) is that my life has never been of much consequence. I’m well aware of that. So it seems fitting for someone like me to quietly exit the world without making a big deal of things, without any uncalled-for pronouncements. But there is one thing I need to tell you alone. My conscience is telling me that if I don’t, I may forever lose the chance to treat you fairly. So I’ve left this letter with a lawyer I know and trust with instructions to pass it on to you.
Suddenly leaving you like that, and marrying someone else, and not saying a word to you about it beforehand—I am deeply sorry about all of it. I can imagine how shocked and upset you must have been. But you’re always so calm, so maybe it didn’t shock you, or bother you. At any rate, that was the only path I could follow. I won’t get into details here, but I do want you to understand that. I was left with hardly any other choice.
But one choice was left to me. A choice that was condensed in one event, in one act. Do you remember the last time I saw you? That evening in early fall when I suddenly came to your office, maybe I didn’t seem like it, but I was at my wit’s end then, completely driven into a corner. I no longer felt like I was myself anymore. But even in that confused state of mind, the act I did was utterly intentional. And I’ve never, ever regretted it. This was something profoundly important in my life. Something far surpassing my own existence.
I am hoping that you will understand my intentions, and ultimately forgive me. And I pray that none of this will cause you, personally, any harm. Since I know very well how much you dislike those kinds of things.
I wish you a long and happy life. And I hope that what a truly wonderful person you were will be passed along, in all its richness, for a long time to come.
****
Menshiki read the letter over so many times that he memorized it all (and he recited it to me without faltering). All sorts of emotions and suggestions played back and forth through the letter—light and dark, shadow and sunlight—creating a complex, hidden picture. Like a linguistics scholar researching an ancient language no one speaks anymore, he spent years considering the possibilities concealed in the letter’s contents. Extracting each word and phrasing, recombining them, intertwining them, shifting their order. And he arrived at one conclusion alone: that the baby girl she gave birth to seven months after she got married was, he was now certain, conceived in that office, on that leather sofa, with him.
* * *
—
“I asked a law office I knew to investigate the daughter she left behind,” Menshiki said. “Her husband was fifteen years older than she was, worked in real estate. Or, rather, he was the son of a local landowner and managed the land and properties he’d inherited from his father. He had some other real estate holdings, too, of course, but wasn’t that ambitious when it came to expanding the business. He had enough assets to live on comfortably without working. The daughter’s name was Mariye. The husband had not remarried after his wife’s accidental death seven years ago. The husband has an unmarried younger sister who lives with them and takes care of the household. Mariye is in her first year at a local public junior high.”
“And have you met this girl, Mariye?”
Menshiki was silent as he chose his words. “I’ve seen her from a distance many times. But never spoken with her.”
“And what did you think when you saw her?”
“Did she look like me? I couldn’t say. If I think there’s a resemblance then everything about her resembles me, but if I don’t think that way then I don’t see a resemblance at all.”
“Do you have a photo of her?”
Menshiki silently shook his head. “No, I don’t. I could get one easily enough, but that’s not what I was after. What good is carrying around a photo of her in my wallet going to do? What I’m after is—”
But nothing came after this. He was silent, the quiet buried in the lively buzz of the hordes of insects outside.
“But you told me earlier, Mr. Menshiki, that you were totally uninterested in blood relations.”
“True enough. I’ve never cared about lineage. In fact, I’ve lived my life trying to avoid that as much as I could. My feelings haven’t changed. But still, I find I can’t take my eyes off this girl, Mariye. I simply can’t stop thinking about her. There’s no reason for it, but still…”
I couldn’t find the right words to say.
Menshiki continued. “I’ve never had this experience before. I’ve always been very self-controlled, even proud of it. But sometimes now I find it painful to be alone.”
I went ahead and said what was on my mind. “Mr. Menshiki, this is just a hunch on my part, but it seems like there’s something you want me to do in regard to Mariye. Or am I overthinking things?”
After a pause Menshiki nodded. “I’m not sure how I should put this—”
* * *
—
I realized at that instant that the clamor of insects had completely stopped. I looked up at the clock on the wall. It was just past one forty. I held a finger up to my lips, and Menshiki stopped in midsentence. And the two of us listened carefully in the still of the night.
14
BUT SOMETHING THIS STRANGE IS A FIRST
Menshiki and I stopped talking, and sat still, listening carefully. The insects had stopped chirping, just like they had two days ago, and again yesterday. In the midst of that deep silence I could again make out the tinkling of the bell. It rang a few times, with uneven periods of silence in between before ringing once again. I looked over at Menshiki, seated across from me on the sofa. I could tell he was hearing the same sound. He was frowning. He lifted up his hands on his lap, his fingers moving slightly in time to the ringing of the bell. So this wasn’t an auditory hallucination.
After listening intently to the bell for two or three minutes, Menshiki slowly rose from the sofa.
“Let’s go where that sound’s coming from,” he said drily.
I picked up my flashlight. He went outside and retrieved a large flashlight from his Jaguar. We climbed the seven steps and walked into the woods. Though not as bright as two days before, the autumn moonlight clearly lit the path for us. We walked in back of the little shrine, pushing aside pampas grass as we went, and emerged in front of the stone mound. And again we perked up our ears. No doubt about it, the sound was coming from the cracks between the stones.
Menshiki slowly circled the mound, cautiously shining his flashlight into the cracks between the stones. But nothing was out of the ordinary, just a jumble of old, moss-covered stones. He looked over at me. In the moonlight his face resembled some mask from ancient times. Perhaps my face looked the same?
“When you heard the sound before, was it coming from here?” he whispered.
“The same place,” I said. “The exact same spot.”