下载掌阅APP，畅读海量书库
立即打开
A few days after I’d settled into my new mountaintop house outside Odawara, I got in touch with my wife. I had to call five times before I finally got through. Her job always kept her busy, and apparently she was still getting home late. Or maybe she was with someone. Not that that was my business anymore.
“Where are you now?” Yuzu asked me.
“I’ve moved into the Amadas’ house in Odawara,” I said. Briefly I explained how I came to live there.
“I called your cell phone many times,” Yuzu said.
“I don’t have the cell phone anymore,” I said. That phone might have washed into the Japan Sea by then. “I’m calling because I’d like to go pick up the rest of my things. Does that work for you?”
“You still have the key?”
“I do,” I said. I’d considered tossing the key into the river, too, but thought better of it since she might want it back. “But you don’t mind if I go into the apartment when you’re not there?”
“It’s your house too. So of course it’s okay,” she said. “But where have you been all this time?”
Traveling, I told her. I told her how I’d been driving alone, going from one cold place to the next. How the car had finally given out.
“But you’re okay, right?”
“I’m alive,” I said. “The car was the one that died.”
Yuzu was silent for a while. And then she spoke. “I had a dream the other day with you in it.”
I didn’t ask what kind of dream. I didn’t really care to know about me appearing in her dream. She didn’t say any more about it.
“I’ll leave the key when I go,” I said.
“Either way’s fine with me. Just do what you like.”
“I’ll put it in your mailbox when I leave,” I said.
There was a short pause before she spoke.
“Do you remember how you sketched my face on our first date?”
“I do.”
“I take it out sometimes and look at it. It’s really well done. I feel like I’m looking at my real self.”
“Your real self?”
“Right.”
“But don’t you see your face every morning in the mirror?”
“That’s different,” Yuzu said. “My self in the mirror is just a physical reflection.”
After I hung up I went to the bathroom and looked at my face in the mirror. I hadn’t looked at myself straight on like that for ages. My self in the mirror is just a physical reflection, she’d said. But to me my face in the mirror looked like a virtual fragment of my self that had been split in two. The self there was the one I hadn’t chosen . It wasn’t even a physical reflection.
In the afternoon two days later I drove my Corolla station wagon to the apartment in Hiroo, and gathered my possessions. It had been raining since morning that day, too. The underground parking lot beneath the building had its usual rainy-day odor.
I took the elevator upstairs and unlocked the door, and when I went inside for the first time in nearly two months I felt like an intruder. I’d lived there almost six years and knew every inch of the place. But I no longer was part of this scene. Dishes were stacked up in the kitchen, all dishes she had used. Laundry was drying in the bathroom, all her clothes. Inside the fridge it was all food I’d never seen before. Most were ready-made food. The milk and orange juice were different brands from what I bought. The freezer was packed with frozen food. I never bought frozen food. A lot of changes in the two months I’d been away.
I was struck by 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.
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 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 and kerosene, where various items were kept, which days the trash was picked up and where to put it. The artist seemed to have led a very simple solitary existence, with very little equipment or appliances, so there wasn’t much for a lecture. If there’s anything else you need to know, just give me a call, the woman said (though I actually never called her, not even once).
“I’m very happy someone will be living here now,” she said. “Empty houses get dilapidated, and they’re unsafe. And when they know no one’s at home, the wild boar and monkeys get into the yard.”
“You do get the occasional wild boar or monkey around here,” Masahiko said.
“Be very careful about the wild boars,” the woman explained. “You see a lot of them in the spring around here when they root for bamboo shoots. Female boars with young are always jumpy, and dangerous. And you need to watch out for hornets, too. There’ve been people who’ve been stung and died. The hornets build nests in the plum groves.”
The central feature of the house was a fairly large living room with an open-hearth fireplace. On the southwest side of the living room was a spacious roofed-in terrace, and on the north side was a square studio. The studio was where the master had done his painting. On the east side of the living room was a compact kitchen with dining area, and a bathroom. Then a comfortable master bedroom and a slightly smaller guest bedroom. There was a writing desk in the guest bedroom. Amada seemed to enjoy reading, as the bookshelves were stuffed with old books. He seemed to have used this room as his study. For an older house, it was fairly neat and clean, and comfortable looking, though strangely enough (or perhaps not so strangely) there was not a single painting hanging on the walls. Every wall was completely bare.
As Masahiko had said, the place had most everything I’d need—furniture, electric appliances, plates and dishes, and bedding. “You don’t need to bring anything,” he’d told me, and he was right. There was plenty of firewood for the fireplace stacked up under the eaves of the shed. There was no TV in the house (Masahiko’s father, I was told, hated TV), though there was a wonderful stereo set in the living room. The speakers were huge Tannoy Autographs, the separate amplifier an original vacuum tube Marantz. And he had an extensive collection of vinyl records. At first glance there seemed to be a lot of boxed sets of opera.
“There’s no CD player here,” Masahiko told me. “He’s the sort of person who hates new devices. He only trusts things from the past. And naturally there’s not a trace of anything to do with the Internet. If you need to use it, the only choice is to use the Internet café in town.”
“I don’t have any real need for the Internet,” I told him.
“If you want to know what’s going on in the world, then the only choice is to listen to the news on the transistor radio on the shelf in the kitchen. Since we’re in the mountains the signal isn’t great, but you can at least pick up the NHK station in Shizuoka. Better than nothing, I suppose.”
“I’m not that interested in what’s going on in the world.”
“That’s fine. Sounds like you and my father would get along fine.”
“Is your father a fan of opera?” I asked.
“Yes, he paints Japanese paintings, but always liked to listen to opera while he painted. He went to the opera house a lot when he was a student in Vienna. Do you listen to opera?”
“A little.”
“I’m not into it at all. Way too long and boring for me. There are a lot of records, so feel free to listen to them as much as you’d like. My father has no need of them anymore and I know he’d be happy if you listened to them.”
“No need of them?”
“His dementia’s getting bad. Right now he doesn’t know the difference between an opera and a frying pan.”
“Vienna, you said? Did he study Japanese painting in Vienna?”
“Nobody’s that eccentric—to go all the way to Vienna to study Japanese painting. My father originally worked on Western painting. That’s why he went to study in Vienna. At the time he did very cutting-edge modern oil paintings. But after he came back to Japan he suddenly switched styles, and began painting Japanese-style. Not totally unheard of, I suppose. Going abroad awakens your own ethnic identity or something.”
“And he was very successful at it.”
Amada made a small shrug. “According to the public he was. But from a child’s perspective, he was just a grouchy old man. All he thought about was painting, and did exactly as he pleased. No trace of that now, though.”
“How old is he?”
“Ninety-two. When he was young he was apparently pretty wild. I never heard the details.”
I thanked him. “Thank you for everything. I’m really grateful. This really helps me out.”
“You like it here?”
“Yes, I’m really happy you’re letting me stay.”
“I’m glad. Though I’m hoping you and Yuzu can get back together again.”
I didn’t respond. Masahiko himself wasn’t married. I’d heard a rumor he was bisexual, though I didn’t know if it was true or not. We’d known each other for a long time, but had never spoken about it.
“Are you going to keep doing portraits?” Amada asked as we were leaving.
I explained how I’d made a clean break with portrait painting.
“Then how are you going to make a living?” Amada asked, the same thing my agent had wanted to know.
I’ll cut back on expenses and get by on my savings for a while, I replied, echoing my first answer. I also wanted to try painting whatever I wanted, something I hadn’t been able to do for ages.
“Sounds good,” Amada said. “Do what you like for a while. But would you consider teaching art part time too? There’s this arts-and-culture center near Odawara Station and they have painting classes. Most of them are for children, but they have some community art classes for adults set up as well. They teach sketching and watercolor, but not oil painting. The man who runs the school knows my father, he’s not really in it for the money. And he needs a teacher. I’m sure he’d be overjoyed if you’d help out. It doesn’t pay much, but you could make a little extra to live on. You’d only need to teach twice a week, and it shouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“But I’ve never taught painting, and don’t know much about watercolors.”
“It’s simple,” he said. “You’re not training professionals. You just teach the basics. You’ll pick it up in a day. Teaching children should be good for you, too. And if you’re going to live up here all by yourself, you have to get down off the mountain a couple of times a week and be with other people, even if you don’t want to, or else you’ll go a little stir-crazy. Don’t want you ending up like The Shining .”
Masahiko screwed up his face like Jack Nicholson. He’s always been good at impressions.
I laughed. “I’ll give it a try. Whether I’ll do a good job or not, I don’t know.”
“I’ll get in touch with him and let him know,” he said.
Then Masahiko drove me to the used Toyota dealership next to the highway, where I paid cash for the Corolla station wagon. My life alone on a mountaintop in Odawara began that day. I’d been on the move for nearly two months, but now I’d take up a sedentary life. It was quite a switch.
Starting the following week, I began teaching art classes on Wednesdays and Fridays at the arts-and-culture center near Odawara Station. There was a perfunctory interview beforehand, but Masahiko’s introduction meant that I was as good as hired already. I was to teach two classes for adults, plus one for children on Fridays. I quickly got used to teaching the kids. I enjoyed seeing the paintings they did, and, as Masahiko said, it was a good stimulus for me as well. I quickly got to be friends with the children. All I did was go around the room, check on the paintings they did, give them a few words of technical advice, find good points about their paintings, and praise and encourage them. My approach was to have them paint the same subject matter several times, to instill in them the idea that the same object could appear quite different if viewed from a different angle. Just as people had many facets, so too did objects. The kids immediately picked up on how fascinating this could be.
Teaching adults was a bit more of a challenge. The students were either elderly retirees, or housewives whose children were grown and in school, and had time on their hands. As you might imagine, they weren’t as adaptable as the kids, and when I pointed out something, they didn’t easily accept my suggestions. A few of them, though, were willing to learn, and there were a couple who did some pretty appealing paintings. Whenever they asked, I gave them helpful pointers, but for the most part I let them paint however they liked. I confined myself to praising them whenever I found something nice about what they’d done. That seemed to please them. I figured it was enough for them to simply enjoy painting.
And I started sleeping with two housewives, both of whom attended the art classes and received my so-called instruction. Both my students, in other words, and incidentally both fairly decent painters. It’s hard for me to tell whether that was something permissible for a teacher—even a casual teacher like me with no proper license. I basically think mutually consenting adults having sex isn’t a problem, though certainly society might frown at this kind of relationship.
I’m not trying to excuse my actions, but at the time I really didn’t have the mental wherewithal to decide whether I was right or wrong. I was desperately clinging to a scrap of wood that had been swept away. In pitch-black darkness, not a single star, or the moon, visible in the sky. As long as I clung to that piece of wood I wouldn’t drown, but I had no clue where I was, where I was heading.
It was a couple of months after I’d moved there that I discovered Tomohiko Amada’s painting Killing Commendatore . I couldn’t know it at the time, but that one painting changed my world forever.