After this I’d spend about two weeks on the portrait (though it would take several months for the paint to fully dry). What I needed was less the actual person in front of me than my vivid memories of that person. (Having the subject present, truth be told, actually interfered with my ability to complete the portrait.) These memories were three-dimensional, and all I had to do was transfer them to canvas. I seem to have been born with that sort of powerful visual memory—a special skill, you might label it—and it was a very effective tool for me as a professional portrait artist.
It was critical to feel a sense of closeness, even just a little, toward the client. That’s why during our initial one-hour meeting I tried so hard to discover, as much as I could, some aspects of the client that I could respond to. Naturally, this was easier with some people than with others. There were some I’d never want to have a personal relationship with. But as a visitor who was with them for only a short time, in a set place, it wasn’t that hard to find one or two appealing qualities. Look deep enough into any person and you will find something shining within. My job was to uncover this and, if the surface is fogged up (which was more often the case), polish it with a cloth to make it shine again. Otherwise the darker side would naturally reveal itself in the portrait.
* * *
—
So, before I knew it, I had become an artist who specialized in portraits. And I became fairly known within this particular, rather narrow field. When I got married, I ended my exclusive contract with the company in Yotsuya, became independent, and—through an agency specializing in the art business—received individual commissions to do portraits for even higher fees. The agent in charge, a capable, ambitious person, was ten years older than me. He encouraged me to be independent and take my work even more seriously. After that point, I painted portraits of numerous people (mostly in the financial and political worlds, celebrities in some cases, though I’d never heard of most of them) and made a decent income. Not that I became a great authority in the field or anything. The world of portraiture is totally different from that of the artistic art world. And different from photography too. There are a lot of photographers specializing in portraits who are held in high esteem and whose names are well known, but you don’t find that with portrait artists. Very seldom is one of our works seen in the world at large. They aren’t featured in art magazines or hung in galleries. Instead they’re hung in reception areas somewhere, forgotten, gathering dust. If anyone happens to look at those paintings carefully (someone with time on his hands), they still aren’t about to ask about the artist’s name.
Occasionally I’ve thought of myself as a high-priced artistic prostitute. I use all the techniques at my disposal, as conscientiously as I can, in order to satisfy my client. I possess that sort of talent. I’m a professional, but that said, it doesn’t mean I mechanically follow a set procedure. I do put a certain amount of feeling into my work. My fees aren’t cheap, but my clients all pay without any complaints. The sort of people I take on as clients aren’t the kind to worry about price. People learned of my skill through word of mouth, and I had an unending line of clients, my appointment book always jam-packed. But inside me I felt no desire whatsoever. Not a shred.
I hadn’t become that sort of artist, or that type of person, because I’d wanted to. Carried along by circumstances, I’d given up doing paintings for myself. I’d married and needed to make a stable income, but that wasn’t the only reason. Honestly, I’d already lost the desire to paint for myself. I might have been using marriage as an excuse. I wasn’t young anymore, and something—like a flame burning inside me—was steadily fading away. The feeling of that flame warming me from within was receding ever further.
I should have washed my hands of that person I’d become. I should have stood up and done something about it. But I kept putting it off. And before I got around to it, the one who gave up on it all was my wife. I was thirty-six at the time.
2
THEY MIGHT ALL GO TO THE MOON
“I am very sorry, but I don’t think I can live with you anymore,” my wife said in a quiet voice. Then she was silent for a long while.
This announcement took me by complete surprise. It was so unexpected I didn’t know how to respond, and I waited for her to go on. What she’d say next wasn’t going to be very upbeat—I was certain about that—but waiting for her to continue was the most I could manage.
We were seated across from each other at the kitchen table. A Sunday afternoon in the middle of March. Our sixth wedding anniversary was the middle of the following month. A cold rain had been falling since morning. The first thing I did when I heard her news was turn toward the window and check out the rain. It was a quiet, gentle rain, with hardly any wind. Still, it was the kind of rain that carried with it a chill that slowly but surely seeped into the skin. Cold like this meant that spring was still a long ways off. The orangish Tokyo Tower was visible through the misty rain. The sky was bereft of birds. All of them must have quietly sought shelter.
“I don’t want you to ask me why. Can you do that?” my wife asked.
I shook my head slightly. Neither yes nor no. I had no idea what to say, and just reflexively shook my head.
She had on a thin, light purple sweater with a wide neckline. The soft strap of her white camisole was visible beside her collarbone. It looked like some special kind of pasta used in some specific recipe.
Finally, I was able to speak. “I do have one question, though,” I said, gazing blankly at that strap. My voice was stiff, dry, and flat.
“I’ll answer, if I can.”
“Is this my fault?”
She thought this over. Then, like someone who has been underwater for a long time, she finally broke through to the surface and took a deep, slow breath.
“Not directly, no.”
“Not directly?”
“I don’t think so.”
I considered the subtle tone of her voice. Like checking the weight of an egg in my palm. “Meaning that I am, indirectly?”
She didn’t answer.
“A few days ago, just before dawn, I had a dream,” she said instead. “A very realistic dream, the kind where you can’t distinguish between what is real and what’s in your mind. And when I woke up that’s what I thought. I was certain of it, I mean. That I can’t live with you anymore.”
“What kind of dream was it?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that here.”
“Because dreams are personal?”
“I suppose.”
“Was I in the dream?” I asked.
“No, you weren’t. So in that sense, too, it’s not your fault.”
Just to make sure I got it all, I summarized what she’d just said. When I don’t know what to say I have a habit of summarizing. (A habit that, obviously, can be really irritating.)
“So, a few days ago you had a very realistic dream. And when you woke up you were certain you can’t live with me anymore. But you can’t tell me what the dream was about, since dreams are personal. Did I get that right?”
She nodded. “Yes. That’s about the size of it.”
“But that doesn’t explain a thing.”
She rested her hands on the tabletop, staring down at the inside of her coffee cup, as if an oracle was floating there and she was deciphering the message. From the look in her eyes the words must have been very symbolic and ambiguous.
My wife puts great stock in dreams. She often makes decisions based on dreams she had, or changes her decisions accordingly. But no matter how crucial you think dreams can be, you can’t just reduce six years of marriage to nothing because of one vivid dream, no matter how memorable.
“The dream was just a trigger, that’s all,” she said, as if reading my mind. “Having that dream made lots of things clear for me.”
“If you pull a trigger, a bullet will come out.”
“Excuse me?”
“A trigger is a critical part of a gun. ‘Just a trigger’ isn’t the right expression.”
She stared at me silently, as if she couldn’t understand what I was getting at. I don’t blame her. I couldn’t understand it myself.
“Are you seeing someone else?” I asked.
She nodded.
“And you’re sleeping with him?”