That’s all he said, so I didn’t ask anything more.
We walked out of the woods and headed home. Menshiki took the lead as we walked and I followed behind. Without a word he put the flashlight back in the trunk of the Jaguar. We then sat down in the living room and drank hot coffee. Menshiki still hadn’t said a thing. He seemed preoccupied. Not that he wore a serious expression or anything, but his mind was clearly in a place far away. A place, no doubt, where only he was allowed to be. I didn’t bother him, and let him be. Just like Doctor Watson used to do with Sherlock Holmes.
During this time I mentally went over my schedule. That evening I had to drive down the mountain to teach my classes at the local arts-and-culture center near Odawara Station. I’d look over paintings students had done and give them advice. This was the day when I had back-to-back children’s and adults’ classes. This was just about the only opportunity I had to see and speak with living people. Without those classes I’d probably live like a hermit up here in the mountains, and if I went on living all alone, I’d likely start to lose my mind, just as Masahiko said.
Which is why I should have been thankful for the chance to come in contact with the real world. But truth be told, I found it hard to feel that way. The people I met in the classroom were less living beings than mere shadows crossing my path. I smiled at each one of them, called them by name, and critiqued their paintings. No, critique isn’t the right term. I just praised them. I’d find some good component to each painting—if there wasn’t, I’d make up something—and praise them for a job well done.
So I had a pretty good reputation as a teacher. According to the owner of the school, many of the students liked me. I hadn’t expected that. I’d never once thought I was suited to teaching. But I didn’t really care. It was all the same to me whether people liked me or didn’t. I just wanted things to go smoothly in the classroom, without any hitches, so I could repay Masahiko for his kindness.
I’m not saying every person felt like a shadow to me. I’d started seeing two of my students. And after starting a sexual relationship with me, the two women both dropped out of my art class. They must have found it awkward. And I did feel some responsibility for that.
Tomorrow afternoon, I’d see the second girlfriend, the older married woman. We’d hold each other in bed and make love. So she was not just a passing shadow, but an actual presence with a three-dimensional body. Or perhaps a passing shadow with a three-dimensional body. I couldn’t decide which.
* * *
—
Menshiki called my name, and I came back to the present with a start. I’d been completely lost in thought, too.
“About the portrait,” Menshiki said.
I looked at him. His usual cool expression was back on his face. A handsome face, always calm and thoughtful, the kind that relaxed others.
“If you need me to pose for you, I wouldn’t mind doing it now,” he said. “Continue from where we left off, maybe? I’m always ready.”
I looked at him for a while. Pose? It finally dawned on me—he was talking about the portrait. I looked down, took a sip of the coffee, which had cooled down, and after gathering my thoughts, put the cup back on the saucer. A small, dry clatter reached my ears. I looked up, faced Menshiki, and spoke.
“I’m very sorry, but today I have to go teach at the arts-and-culture center.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Menshiki said. He glanced at his watch. “I’d totally forgotten. You teach art at the school near Odawara Station, don’t you. Do you need to leave soon?”
“I’m okay, I still have time,” I said. “And there’s something I need to talk with you about.”
“And what would that be?”
“Truthfully, the painting is already finished. In a sense.”
Menshiki frowned ever so slightly. He looked straight at me, as if checking out something deep inside my eyes.
“By painting, you mean my portrait?”
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s wonderful,” Menshiki said. A slight smile came to his face. “Really wonderful. But what did you mean by ‘in a sense’?”
“It’s hard to explain. I’ve never been good at explaining things.”
“Take your time and tell it to me the way you’d like to,” Menshiki said. “I’ll sit here and listen.”
I brought the fingers of both of my hands together on my lap.
Silence descended as I chose my words, the kind of silence that makes you hear the passing of time. Time passed very slowly on top of the mountain.
“I got the commission from you,” I said, “and did the painting with you as model. But to tell the truth, it’s not a portrait, no matter how you look at it. All I can say is it’s a work done with you as model. I can’t say how much value it has, as an artwork, or as a commodity. All I know for sure is it’s a work I had to paint. Beyond that I’m clueless. Truthfully, I’m pretty confused. Until things become clearer to me it might be best to keep the painting here and not give it to you. I’d like to return the advance you paid. And I am extremely sorry for having used so much of your valuable time.”
“In what way is it—not a portrait?” Menshiki asked, choosing his words deliberately.
“Up till now I’ve made my living as a professional portrait painter. Essentially in portraits you paint the subject the way he wishes to be portrayed. The subject is the client, and if he doesn’t like the finished work it’s entirely possible he might tell you, ‘I’m not going to pay money for this.’ So I try not to depict any negative aspects of the person. I pick only the good aspects, emphasize those, and try to make the subject appear in as good a light as I can. In that sense, in most cases it’s hard to call portraits works of art. Someone like Rembrandt being the exception, of course. But in this case, I didn’t think about you as I painted, but only about myself. To put it another way, I prioritized the ego of the artist—myself—over you, the subject.”
“Not a problem,” Menshiki said, smiling. “I’m actually happy to hear it. I told you I didn’t have any requests, and wanted you to paint it any way you liked.”
“I know. I remember it well. What I’m concerned about is less how the painting turned out and more about what I painted there. I put my own desires first, so much that I might have painted something I shouldn’t have. That’s what I’m worried about.”
Menshiki observed my face for a time, and then spoke. “You might have painted something inside me that you shouldn’t have. And you’re worried about that. Do I have that right?”
“That’s it,” I said. “Since all I thought of was myself, I loosened the restraints that should have been in place.”
And maybe extracted something from inside you that I shouldn’t have, I was about to say, but thought better of it. I kept those words inside.
Menshiki mulled over what I’d said.
“Interesting,” he finally said, sounding like he meant it. “A very intriguing way of looking at things.”
I was silent.
“I think my self-restraint is pretty strong,” Menshiki said. “I have a lot of self-control, I mean.”
“I know,” I said.
Menshiki lightly pressed his temple with his fingers, and smiled. “So that painting is finished, you’re saying? That portrait of me?”
I nodded. “I feel it’s finished.”
“That’s wonderful,” Menshiki said. “Can you show me the painting? After I’ve actually seen it, the two of us can discuss how to proceed. Does that sound all right?”
“Of course,” I said.