Killing Commendatore: A novel by Haruki Murakami, Philip Gabriel, Ted Goossen Page B

realm lay beneath. Where in the world had he come from? And what did he do there? Would that lid be closed up again, or would it be left open?
    As I stared at the painting I listened to that scene from Don Giovanni over and over. Act 1, scene 3, soon after the overture. And I nearly memorized the lyrics and the lines.
    DONNA ANNA: Ah, the assassin
    has struck him down! This blood…
    this wound…his face
    discolored with the pallor of death…
    He has stopped breathing…his limbs are cold.
    Oh father, dear father, dearest father!
    I’m fainting…I’m dying!

6
AT THIS POINT HE’S A FACELESS CLIENT
    Summer was winding down when the call came in from my agent. It had been a while since anyone had called me. The summer heat still lingered during the day, though when the sun set the air in the mountains was chilly. The noisy clamor of the summer cicadas was slowly fading away, but now a chorus of other insects had taken their place. Unlike when I lived in the city, I was surrounded by nature now and one season freely chipped away at portions of the preceding one.
    We brought each other up to date, though there wasn’t much to tell on my end.
    â€œHow’s your painting coming along?” he asked.
    â€œSlowly but surely,” I said. This was a lie, of course. It was more than four months since I’d moved here, yet the canvas I’d prepared was still blank.
    â€œGlad to hear it,” he said. “I’d like to see how you’re doing sometime. Maybe there’s something I can do to help out.”
    â€œThanks. We’ll do that sometime.”
    Then he told me why he’d called. “I have a request. Are you sure you’re not willing to do one more portrait? What do you think?”
    â€œI told you I’ve given up doing portraits.”
    â€œI know. But the fee this time is unbelievable.”
    â€œUnbelievable?”
    â€œIt’s amazing.”
    â€œHow amazing?”
    He told me the figure. I nearly let out a whistle of surprise. “There have got to be a lot of other people besides me who specialize in portraits,” I replied calmly.
    â€œThere aren’t all that many, really, though there are a few besides you who are fairly decent.”
    â€œThen you should ask them. With a fee like that anybody would jump at the chance.”
    â€œThe thing is, the other party specifically asked for you . That’s their condition. No one else will do.”
    I shifted the phone to my left hand and scratched behind my right ear.
    The agent went on. “The person saw several portraits you’ve done and was very impressed. He felt that the vitality in your paintings can’t easily be found elsewhere.”
    â€œI don’t get it. How could an ordinary person have seen several of my portraits? It’s not like I have a one-man show at a gallery every year.”
    â€œI really don’t know the details,” he said, sounding perplexed. “I’m just passing along what the other party told me. I told him up front that you were no longer doing portraits. I said you seemed pretty firm about it, and even if I asked you you’d most likely turn him down. But he wouldn’t give up. That’s when this figure came up.”
    I mulled over the offer. Honestly, it was a tempting amount. And I felt a bit of pride that someone saw that much value in my paintings—even if it was work I’d done half mechanically for money. But the thing was, I’d sworn I’d never paint commissioned portraits again. When my wife left me it spurred me to start over again, and I couldn’t reverse my decision just because somebody was willing to shell out a pile of money.
    â€œWhy is he being so generous?” I asked.
    â€œEven though we’re in a recession, there are still people who have so much money they don’t know what to do with it. There are a lot of people like that—ones who made a killing in