Killing Commendatore: A novel by Haruki Murakami, Philip Gabriel, Ted Goossen Read Free Book Online Page A

strong urge to wash the dishes stacked up in the sink, bring in the laundry drying and fold it (and iron it if I could), and neatly rearrange the food in the fridge. But I did none of this. This was someone else’s house now. I shouldn’t poke my nose in where I didn’t belong.
    My painting materials were the bulkiest possessions I had. I tossed my easel, canvas, brushes, and paints into a large cardboard box. Then turned to my clothes. I’ve never been one to need a lot of clothes. I don’t mind wearing the same clothes all the time. I don’t own a suit or necktie. Other than a thick winter coat, it all fit into one suitcase.
    A few books I hadn’t read yet, and about a dozen CDs. My favorite coffee cup. Swimsuit, and goggles, and swim cap. That was about all I felt I needed. Even those I could get along without if need be.
    In the bathroom my toothbrush and shaving kit were still there, as well as my lotion, sunscreen, and hair tonic. An unopened box of condoms, too. But I didn’t feel like taking all that miscellaneous stuff to my new place. She could just get rid of it.
    I packed my belongings in the trunk of the car, went back to the kitchen, and boiled water in the kettle. I made tea with a tea bag, and sat at the table and drank it. I figured she wouldn’t mind. The room was perfectly still. The silence lent a faint weight to the air. As though I were sitting alone, at the bottom of the sea.
    All told, I was there by myself in the apartment for about a half hour. No one came to visit, and the phone didn’t ring. The thermostat on the fridge turned off once, then turned back on once. In the midst of the silence I perked up my ears, probing what I sensed in the apartment, as if measuring the depths of the ocean with a sinker. No matter how you looked at it, it was an apartment occupied by a woman living alone. Someone busy at work who had next to no time to do any housework. Someone who took care of any errands on the weekends when she had free time. A quick visual sweep of the place showed that everything there was hers. No evidence of anyone else (hardly any evidence of me anymore, either). No man was stopping by here. That’s the impression I got. They must have seen each other elsewhere.
    I can’t explain it well, but while I was in the apartment I felt like I was being watched. Like someone was observing me through a hidden camera. But that couldn’t be. My wife is a major klutz when it comes to equipment. She can’t even change the batteries in a remote control. No way could she do something as clever as setting up and operating a surveillance camera. It was just me, on edge.
    Even so, while I was in the apartment I acted as if every single action of mine was being recorded. I did nothing extra, nothing untoward. I didn’t open Yuzu’s desk drawer to see what was inside. I knew that in the back of one of the drawers of her wardrobe, where she had her stockings, she kept a small diary and some important letters, but I didn’t touch them. I knew the password for her laptop (assuming she hadn’t changed it), but didn’t even open it. None of this had anything to do with me anymore. I washed the cup I’d drunk tea in, dried it with a cloth, put it back on the shelf, and turned off the lights. I went over to the window and gazed at the falling rain for a while. The orangish Tokyo Tower loomed up faintly in the distance. Then I dropped the key in the mailbox and drove back to Odawara. The trip was only an hour and a half, but it felt like I’d taken a day trip to a far-off foreign land.
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    The next day I called my agent. I’m back in Tokyo, I told him, and I’m really sorry, but I don’t plan to do any more portrait painting.
    “You’re never going to do any more portraits? Is that what you’re telling me?”
    “Most likely,” I said.
    He didn’t say much. No complaints, nothing in the way of advice. He knew that once I said something, I didn’t back down.
    “If you ever find