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

yourself wanting to do this work again, call me anytime,” he said at the end. “I’d welcome it.”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    “Maybe it isn’t my place to say this, but how are you planning to make a living?”
    “I haven’t decided,” I admitted. “I’m by myself, so I don’t need much to live on, and I’ve got a bit of savings.”
    “Will you still paint?”
    “Probably. There isn’t much else I know how to do.”
    “I hope it works out.”
    “Thanks,” I said once more. And tagged on a question that had just occurred to me. “Is there anything I should make sure to keep in mind?”
    “Something you should make sure to keep in mind?”
    “In other words—how should I put it—any advice from a pro?”
    He thought it over. “You’re the type of guy who takes longer than other people to be convinced of anything. But long term, I think time is on your side.”
    Like the title of an old Rolling Stones song.
    “One other thing: I think you really have a special talent for portraiture. An intuitive ability to get straight to the heart of the subject. Other people can’t do that. Not using that talent would be a real shame.”
    “But right now painting portraits isn’t what I want to do.”
    “I get that. But someday that ability will help you again. I hope it works out.”
    Hope it works out, I thought. Good if time is on your side.
----
    —
    On the first day I visited the house in Odawara, Masahiko Amada—the son of the owner—drove me there in his Volvo. “If you like it, you can move in today,” he said.
    We took the Odawara-Atsugi Road almost to the end and, when we exited, headed toward the mountains along a narrow, paved farm road. On either side, there were fields, rows of hothouses for growing vegetables, and the occasional grove of plum trees. We saw hardly any houses, and not a single traffic signal. Finally we drove up a steep, winding slope in low gear for a long time, until we came to the end and arrived at the entrance to the house. There were two stately pillars at the entrance, but no gate. And no wall, either. It seemed the owner had planned to add a gate and wall but thought better of it. Maybe halfway through he’d realized there was no need. On one of the pillars was a magnificent nameplate with AMADA on it, almost like some business sign. The house beyond was a small Western-style cottage with a faded brick chimney sticking out of the flat roof. It was a one-story house, but the roof was unexpectedly high. In my imagination I’d been taking it for granted that a famous painter of Japanese-style paintings would live in an old Japanese-style dwelling.
    We parked in a spacious covered driveway by the front door, and when we opened the car doors some screeching black birds—jays, I imagine—flew off from a nearby tree branch into the sky. They seemed none too happy about us intruding on their space. The house was pretty, surrounded by woods with a variety of trees, with only the west side of the house open to a broad view of the valley.
    “What do you think? Not much here, is there?”
    I stood there, gazing around me. He was right, there wasn’t much there. I was impressed that his father had built a house in such isolated surroundings. He really must have wanted nothing to do with other people.
    “Did you grow up here?” I asked.
    “No, I’ve never lived here very long. Just came to stay over occasionally. Or visited on summer holidays when we were escaping the heat. I had school, and grew up in our house in Mejiro with my mother. When my father wasn’t working he’d come to Tokyo and live with us. Then come back here and work by himself. I went out on my own, then ten years ago my mother died, and ever since he’s been living here by himself. Like someone who’s forsaken the world.”
    A middle-aged woman who lived nearby had been watching the house, and she came over to explain some things I needed to know. How the kitchen operated, how to order more propane