“That’s okay. Would you mind showing it to me?”
I took him into the studio and showed him the sketch for The Man with the White Subaru Forester. It was just a rough sketch in charcoal, but Masahiko stood in front of the easel, arms folded, a hard look on his face.
“Interesting,” he said a little later, squeezing the words out between his teeth.
I was silent.
“It’s hard to tell how it’s going to develop, but it certainly does look like someone’s portrait. Like the root of a portrait. A root buried deep in the ground.” He was silent for a time.
“In a very deep, dark place,” he went on. “And this man—it is a man, right?—is angry about something? What is he blaming?”
“You got me. I haven’t got that far.”
“You haven’t got that far,” Masahiko repeated in a monotone. “But there really is a deep anger and sadness here. And he can’t spit it out. The anger is swirling around inside him.”
In college Masahiko was in the oil painting department, though to be blunt about it, he wasn’t known as a great painter. He was skilled enough, but his work lacked depth, something he himself admitted. He was, however, blessed with the skill of being able to instantly evaluate other people’s paintings. So whenever I felt stuck doing one of my own paintings, I’d ask his opinion. His advice was always accurate and impartial, as well as practical. And thankfully he had no sense of jealousy or rivalry. I guess this was part of his personality, something he was born with. I always could believe what he told me. He never minced words, but had no ulterior motives, so oddly enough even when his criticism was pretty scathing, I never felt upset.
“When you finish this painting, before you give it to anyone else, could you let me take a look at it, even just for a minute?” he asked, eyes never leaving the painting.
“Sure,” I said. “No one commissioned me to do this. I’m just painting it for myself. I don’t plan to turn it over to anyone.”
“You want to do your own painting now, right?”
“Seems that way.”
“It’s a portrait of sorts, but not a formal portrait.”
I nodded. “You could put it that way, I suppose.”
“You might be…discovering a new destination for yourself.”
“I’d like to think so,” I said.
* * *
—
“I saw Yuzu the other day,” Masahiko said as he was leaving. “Happened to bump into her, and we talked for a half hour or so.”
I nodded but said nothing. I had no idea what I should say, or how I should react.
“She seemed fine. We didn’t talk about you much. It was like we both wanted to avoid the topic. You get it, that feeling? But at the end she did ask about you. What you’re doing, that kind of thing. I told her you were painting. I don’t know what kind of paintings, I said, but I said you’re holed up on a mountaintop and painting something.”
“I’m alive, at least,” I said.
Masahiko seemed to want to say something more about Yuzu but thought better of it, and clammed up. Yuzu had always liked him and had apparently gone to him for advice. Probably things that had to do with the two of us. Just like I often went to him for advice about paintings. But Masahiko didn’t tell me anything. He was that kind of guy. People often sought his advice, but he kept it all inside. Like rain running down a gutter and into a rainwater tank. It doesn’t leave there, doesn’t spill over the sides. He probably adjusted the amount of water inside as needed.
Masahiko didn’t seem to ask anyone else for advice about his own troubles. He must have had plenty, as the son of a famous artist who went to art school but wasn’t blessed with much talent as an artist. There must have been things he wanted to talk over. I’ve known him for a long time, but I don’t recall ever hearing him complain about anything, even once. That’s the type of man he was.
“Yuzu had a lover, I think,” I went ahead and said. “During the last part of our marriage she stopped having sex with me. I should have known something was going on.”
It was the first time I’d confessed this to anyone. I had kept it all inside until this moment.
“I see,” was all Masahiko said.
“But you already knew that much, didn’t you?”
He didn’t respond.
“Am I wrong?” I asked again.
“There are things people are better off not knowing. That’s all I can say.”
“But whether you know it or not, it ends up the same. Sooner or later, suddenly or not suddenly, with a loud knock or a soft one, that’s the only difference.”
Masahiko sighed. “Yeah. You might be right. Whether you knew about it or not, the end result is the same. But still, there are things I can’t talk about.”
I was silent.
“No matter how things end up, everything has both a good and bad side. I’m sure breaking up with Yuzu was hard on you. And I feel for you. I really do. But because of that you’ve finally begun painting what you want to paint. You’ve discovered your own style. A kind of silver lining, wouldn’t you say?”
Maybe he was right. If I hadn’t split up with Yuzu—I mean, if Yuzu hadn’t left me—I’d probably still be painting run-of-the-mill portraits to make a living. But that wasn’t a choice I made myself. That’s the important point.
“Try to look on the bright side,” Masahiko said as he was leaving. “This might sound like dumb advice, but if you’re going to walk down a road, it’s better to walk down the sunny side, right?”
“And the cup still has one-sixteenth of the water left.”
Masahiko laughed. “I like your sense of humor.”
I hadn’t said it to be humorous, but didn’t comment.
Masahiko was silent for a time, and then spoke up. “Do you still love Yuzu?”
“I know I have to forget her, but my heart’s still clinging to her and won’t let go. That’s just the way it is.”
“You don’t plan to sleep with other women?”
“Even if I did, Yuzu would always come between me and the other woman.”
“That’s a problem,” he said. He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. He really did look perplexed.
He got in his car and prepared to drive away.
“Thanks for the whiskey,” I said. It was not yet five p.m. but the sky was pretty dark. The season when the night gets longer with each passing day.
“Actually, I wanted to have a drink with you,” he said, “but I’m driving. Someday soon let’s go out and do some serious drinking together. It’s been ages.”
“We’ll do it soon,” I said.
There are things people are better off not knowing, Masahiko had said. Maybe so. There are probably things people are better off not hearing, as well. But they can’t go forever without hearing them. When the time comes, even if they stop their ears up tight, the air will vibrate and invade a person’s heart. You can’t prevent it. If you don’t like it, then the only solution is to live in a vacuum.
* * *
—
It was the middle of the night when I woke up. I fumbled for the light next to my bed and looked at the clock. The digital readout showed 1:35. I could hear the bell ringing. That bell, no mistake. I sat up and listened to where the sound was coming from.
The bell started ringing again. Someone was ringing it in the middle of the night—and it was much louder, much clearer than ever.
21
IT’S SMALL, BUT SHOULD YOU CUT WITH IT, BLOOD WILL CERTAINLY COME OUT
I sat upright in bed, and in the dark of night I held my breath and listened to the sound of the bell. Where could the sound be coming from? It was louder than before, and clearer. No doubt about it. And it was coming from an entirely new direction.
The bell was ringing inside this house. I could come to no other conclusion. And from a jumble of memories came the recollection that the bell had been resting on a shelf in my studio for a few days. After we uncovered that hole I’d put the bell there myself.
The sound of the bell was coming from the studio.