But was that possible? That a person in a picture could escape from it? Of course not. That’s impossible. Obviously. No matter what anybody might think…
I stood there, rooted to the spot, the thread of logic lost, random thoughts racing through my head as I gazed at the Commendatore on the sofa. Time temporarily stopped moving forward, shifting back and forth as if waiting for my confusion to subside. I couldn’t take my eyes off that bizarre character—all I could think was that he had somehow come from the spirit world. For his part, the Commendatore stared up at me, from the sofa. I had no words, and was silent. The shock must have done it. I was capable of nothing, other than to keep my eyes on him and breathe, my mouth slightly ajar.
The Commendatore didn’t take his eyes off me either, and he didn’t say a word. His lips were shut tight. On the sofa he flung his short legs out straight in front of him. He leaned back against the sofa, though his head didn’t reach to the top. On his feet were oddly shaped shoes. They seemed made out of black leather, the tips pointed and curled upward. At his waist he wore a long sword with a decorated shaft. A long sword, yet of a size to fit his build, so actually nearer in length to a short sword for a normal person. But a lethal weapon all the same. Assuming it was a real sword.
“A real sword it is,” the Commendatore said pleasantly, as if reading my mind. His voice carried, despite his small stature. “Affirmative! It’s small, but should you cut with it, blood will certainly come out.”
Even with this new information, I remained silent. No words came. My first thought was, Oh, so he can talk? My next thought was that he sure had an odd way of speaking. It was not the way ordinary people would speak. But then again, the little two-foot Commendatore was in no way ordinary. So whatever his manner of speech, it shouldn’t be surprising.
“In Tomohiko Amada’s Killing Commendatore, it is indeed me who is impaled by a sword and dies a pitiful death,” the Commendatore said. “As my friends are well aware. But have I any wounds that you can see? Negative! No wounds at all. It would be a bother for me to traipse around bleeding, and it would certainly annoy my friends as well. What with blood messing up the carpet and furniture and whatnot. So I left out the stab wound. The one who took the killing out of Killing Commendatore, that’s me. Affirmative! If you need a name for me, my friends can call me the Commendatore.”
The way the Commendatore spoke was odd, but he wasn’t a poor speaker. In fact he was actually pretty talkative. But I still couldn’t get a single word out. Reality and unreality still hadn’t come to a mutual understanding inside me.
“Perhaps you will put that stick down?” the Commendatore said. “It is not as though we are about to embark upon a duel…”
I looked at my right hand. It was still clutching Amada’s walking stick tightly. I let it go…The oak stick made a dull clunk as it struck the carpet.
“It is not like I escaped from the painting,” the Commendatore said, again reading my mind. “Negative! That painting—a fascinating one, by the way—remains intact. The Commendatore is still in the process of being stabbed to death. A huge amount of blood continues to flow from his heart. All I have done is borrow his shape for a while. I need some sort of shape in order to speak with my friends. So for the sake of convenience, I borrowed his form. Is that acceptable to my friends?”
Still not a peep from me.
“Not that anybody really cares. Mr. Amada has gone on to a hazy, peaceful world, and the Commendatore is not trademarked. If I had appeared as Mickey Mouse or Pocahontas, the Walt Disney Company would be only too happy to slap me with a huge lawsuit, but if I am the Commendatore, I think we are safe, my friends.”
The Commendatore’s shoulders shook as he laughed merrily.
“I would have been okay as a mummy, but if I’d appeared as a mummy all of a sudden in the middle of the night, I am aware that my friends might have been bothered. To see a man all shriveled up like a hunk of beef jerky, ringing a bell in the middle of the night—that would certainly give most people a heart attack.”
I nodded almost automatically. True enough—a commendatore was much preferable to a mummy. If he’d been a mummy I might really have had a heart attack. But running across Mickey Mouse or Pocahontas ringing a bell in the dark would have been pretty creepy too. A commendatore dressed in Asuka-period costume probably was a better choice.
“Are you a kind of spirit?” I ventured to ask. My voice was hard and hoarse, like a convalescent’s.
“An excellent question,” the Commendatore said. He held up a tiny white index finger. “An excellent question indeed, my friends. What am I? I am now, for the time being, the Commendatore. Nothing other than the Commendatore. But this form is but temporary. I do not know what I will be next. What am I to begin with? Or I could say, what are you, my friends? My friends have your own appearance, but what are you to begin with? If you were asked that same question, my friends might indeed be confused, I imagine. It is the same thing with me.”
“Can you assume any form you like?” I asked.
“No, it is not that simple. The forms I can take are quite limited. I can’t take any form I want. There is a limit to the wardrobe. I cannot take on a form unless there is a necessity for it. And the form I could choose now was this pint-sized commendatore. I had to be this small because of the way he was painted. But this attire is highly unpleasant to wear, I am afraid.”
He began squirming around in his white costume.
“To return to the pressing question that my friends have pondered—am I a spirit? No, it is nothing like that. I am no spirit. I am just an Idea. A spirit is basically supernaturally free, which I am not. I live under all sorts of restrictions.”
I had plenty of questions. Or rather, I should have had. But for some reason I couldn’t think of a single one. Why did he address me as “my friends”? But that was trivial, not worth asking about. Maybe in the world of an Idea there was no second-person singular.
“I have so many kinds of detailed limitations,” the Commendatore said. “For instance, I can only take on form for a limited number of hours each day. I prefer the somewhat dubious middle of the night, so mostly shape-shift between one thirty and two thirty a.m. It’s too tiring to do it during the day. When I don’t have form I take it easy, as a formless Idea, here and there. Like the horned owl in the attic. Also, I cannot go where I am not invited. Whereas when my friends opened the pit and took out the bell for me, I was able to enter this house.”
“So you were stuck at the bottom of the pit all this time?” I asked. My voice had improved, but was still a bit hoarse.
“I could not say. I do not have memory, in the exact sense of the term. Though my being stuck in the pit is a fact. I was in the pit and could not escape. But it did not feel inconvenient to me, being shut up in there. I could be stuck in a cramped dark hole for tens of thousands of years and not feel any distress. I am grateful to my friends for getting me out of there. Being free is much more interesting than not being free, needless to say. I am also grateful to that Mr. Menshiki. Without his efforts, the hole never would have been opened up.”
I nodded. “That’s exactly right.”
“I think I must have sensed it. The possibility that the pit would be exhumed, I mean. And must have thought this: The time has come.”
“So it was you who began to ring the bell in the middle of the night?”
“Precisely. And the pit was opened. And Mr. Menshiki very kindly invited me to his dinner party.”