“Did Tomohiko Amada have any other siblings?”
“There was an older brother. Tomohiko was the second son. Tsuguhiko was the third and last. The manner of his death was concealed, though, to protect the family’s honor. Kumamoto’s 6th Division was celebrated as a band of fearless warriors. If word had gotten out that their son had returned from the battlefield bathed in glory only to turn around and kill himself, they could not have faced the world. Still, as you know, rumors have a way of spreading.”
I thanked Menshiki for updating me. Though what the new information meant in concrete terms escaped me.
“I’m planning to dig a bit deeper into this,” he said. “I’ll let you know if we turn up something more.”
“Please do.”
“So then I’ll stop by next Sunday shortly after noon,” Menshiki said. “I’ll drive the Akikawas over to my place. To show them your painting. That’s okay with you, right?”
“Of course. The painting is yours now. You’re free to show it or not to whomever you like.”
Menshiki paused. As if searching for just the right words. “To tell you the honest truth,” he said. “Sometimes I’m very envious of you.” There was resignation in his voice.
Envious? Of me?
What could he possibly be talking about? Why would Menshiki envy me? It made no sense. He had everything, while I had nothing to my name.
“What could you possibly be envious about?” I asked.
“I see you as the kind of person who doesn’t really envy anyone. Am I right?”
I thought for a moment before replying. “You have a point. I don’t think I’ve ever envied another person.”
“That’s what I’m trying to say.”
All the same, I don’t have Yuzu, I thought. She had left me for the arms of another man. There were times I felt abandoned at the edge of the world. Yet even then I felt no envy toward that other man. Did that make me strange?
* * *
—
After our phone call, I sat on the sofa and thought about Tomohiko Amada’s brother slitting his wrists in the attic. It wasn’t the attic of this house, that was for sure. Tomohiko had bought this place after the war. No, Tsuguhiko Amada had committed suicide in the attic of their family home. In Aso, no doubt. Nevertheless, the brother’s death and the painting Killing Commendatore might be connected by that dark, secret room above the ceiling. Sure, it might have been pure coincidence. Or perhaps Tomohiko had his brother in mind when he hid the painting in the attic here. Still, why was Tsuguhiko compelled to take his own life so soon after returning from the front? After all, he had survived the bloody conflict in China and come home with all his limbs intact.
I picked up the phone and dialed Masahiko’s number.
“Let’s get together in Tokyo,” I said. “I have to visit the art supply shop soon to stock up on paints. Maybe we could meet and talk then.”
“Sure thing,” he said, checking his schedule. Thursday just after noon was best for him, so we arranged to have lunch together.
“The art supply store in Yotsuya, correct?”
“That’s the one. I’ve got to pick up fresh canvases, too, and I’m running out of linseed oil. It’ll be quite a load, so I’ll take the car.”
“There’s a quiet restaurant not far from my office. We could have a nice relaxed chat over lunch.”
“By the way,” I said, “divorce papers from Yuzu came in the mail, so I signed and returned them. It looks like our divorce will become official pretty soon.”
“Is that so,” Masahiko said in a subdued voice.
“What can you do? It was just a matter of time.”
“Still, from where I stand it’s a real shame. You guys seemed like such a good match.”
“It was great as long as things were going well,” I said. Just like an old-model Jaguar. A wonderful ride until the problems start.
“So what will you do now?”
“No big changes. Just keep on as I am for the time being. Can’t think of what else to do.”
“Are you painting?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a couple of paintings I’m working on. Not sure what will happen with them, but at least I’m at it.”
“That’s the way to go.” Masahiko hesitated before adding, “I’m glad you called. There’s something I want to discuss with you as well.”
“Something good?”
“It’s just the facts—I can’t say if they’re good or bad.”
“Does it have to do with Yuzu?”
“It’s hard to talk about over the phone.”
“Okay, on Thursday then.”
I ended the call and walked out to the terrace. The rain had stopped, and the cool night air was clear and bracing. I could see stars peeping from the cracks between the clouds. They looked like scattered crystals of ice. Hard crystals, millions of years old, never melting. Hard to their very core. Across the valley, Menshiki’s house glimmered in the cool light of its lanterns.
As I looked at his house, I thought of trust, respect, and etiquette. Especially etiquette. As I expected, though, none of those thoughts led me to any definite conclusions.
37
EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING
It turned out to be a long haul from my mountaintop perch on the outskirts of Odawara to downtown Tokyo. I took several wrong turns en route, which ate up a lot of time. My old used car had no navigation system or electronic pass for the highway tolls. (I guess I should have been grateful it came with a cup holder!) It took me ages to find the Odawara-Atsugi Road, and when I moved from the Tomei Expressway onto the Metropolitan Expressway it was jammed, so I opted to get off at the Shibuya exit and drive to Yotsuya via Aoyama Avenue. Even the city roads were crowded, though—just choosing the correct lane was a huge pain in the ass. Parking the car wasn’t easy, either. It seems as if, year after year, the world becomes a more difficult place to live.
By the time I picked up what I needed at the art supply store, loaded it into the trunk, drove to Masahiko Amada’s office in Aoyama, and found a parking spot, I was exhausted. I felt like the country mouse visiting his city cousin. When I reached his office it was past one by my watch, which meant I was more than a half hour late.
I asked the receptionist to call Masahiko. He came right down. I apologized for being so tardy.
“Don’t worry about it,” he laughed. “My office can adjust, and so can the restaurant.”
Masahiko took me to an Italian place in the neighborhood, located in the basement of a small building. Masahiko was obviously well known there, for no sooner had they seen his face than we were guided to a private room in the back. It was very quiet: the sound of voices did not reach us and no music was playing. A quite passable landscape painting hung on the wall. It showed a white lighthouse on a green peninsula under a blue sky. Super-ordinary scene, sure, but done well enough to let the viewer think, “Hey, that place might be nice to check out.”
Masahiko ordered a glass of white wine, while I asked for Perrier.
“I’ve got to drive back after this,” I explained. “It’s quite a trek.”
“No kidding,” said Masahiko. “Still, it’s a heck of a lot better than Hayama or Zushi. I lived in Hayama once, and driving back and forth to Tokyo in the summer was awful. The whole route was jammed with people heading to the ocean from the city. A round trip was a half day’s work. Compared to that, driving in from Odawara is nothing.”
The menus arrived and we ordered the prix fixe lunch: prosciutto as appetizer followed by asparagus salad and spaghetti with Japanese lobster.
“So you finally decided to do some serious painting,” Masahiko said.
“Well, I’m living alone now, and I don’t need commissions to get by. Maybe that’s why the urge to paint my own stuff hit me.”
Masahiko nodded. “Everything has a bright side,” he said. “The top of even the blackest, thickest cloud shines like silver.”
“Yeah, but getting up there to see it is no picnic.”
“I was speaking more theoretically,” Masahiko said.