Silent, we wait. Sooner or later you will come round. They all do. And our patience knows no bounds. You will come our way, and find us. Whether you recognise us or not, we don’t care. We will draw no pleasure from your destruction. It is your fate, and it is ours.
We are mere facilitators. We undo knots. We clear the way. We remove the pieces that don’t fit. And you and your kind certainly no longer fit.
A reading of Killing Commendatore by Haruki Murakami
This is Mr Murakami’s latest work, published in Japan in 2017, and translated by Philip Gabriel and Ted Goossen (I guess: a tour de force). First of all, I must say that, in my view, this is Mr Murakami’s most accomplished work thus far, a fascinating, troubling and at time challenging novel. To be sure, long haul readers will find there a familiar atmosphere, but also the unknown. I will not spoil anything, but mention some ideas and metaphors.
There is a young artist, a portrait painter, and his beautiful, estranged wife. There is a, now dead, beloved little sister. There is a lone timber house, high up in the mountains, which belongs to a famous old painter. There is an owl in the attic. Across the valley, there is a big, strange house, with a stranger owner.
The young artist teaches drawing at a local school. He lives on his own, in the timber house, with the owl in the attic, visits the attic, walks in the woods. Behind a little shrine he discovers a pit, the pit in the woods. There is the start of the quest, with a surprising painting, and a bell.
There is Vienna, at the time of the Anschluss, there is the war in China, but this is the past, with deep consequences for the present. The old painter is famous for his classical formal Japanese paintings, but this one painting…
The novel oscillates between dream and an even more unfathomable reality. There is a lovely, pubescent young girl, her beautiful aunt, and two portraits, or is it three?
Once started this, as with all of Mr Murakami’s work, the book becomes desperately addictive: one dreads the prospect of finishing the book.
Yet the quest has to be completed, through sacrifice and ordeal.
I must add a warning: if readers wish to cross the river, between absence and presence, they must pay the ferryman. So, have your penguin ready!
That’s about the size of it.
Image: der Zeichner (the young draughtsman) by Jean-Baptiste Siméon Chardin (Gemäldegalerie, Berlin)
“We have been here before today, haven’t we?” The question was directed to me, yet I wondered who the “we” included. I guessed perhaps not me, or not just me. For I never was here, on my own or alone with her, but it might have been in a group, in the days “we” were travelling as a bunch of “tree-huggers”, as my son put it once.
Indeed I love trees, and cannot conceive life without them nearby. Trees are sensitive beings, they have their language, their signs, they love, suffer, and die, or rather they are killed. Like us.
I could not recall having been here with the lady, but it did not seem to bother her anyway. We talked about the strange way those trees seem to want to move higher, above the ground, to reach up, maybe for something we could not see. Their roots appear to be gliding, a little off the soil, still keeping contact, as if preparing to float. I had a vision of this part of the forest, resting on clouds, slowly moving, pushed by the wind…
“That would be something to see!” My companion must have had similar thoughts. Tolkien had written about slow moving trees. I looked again at the intricate pattern of roots, then at the magnificent crown of the trees.
We looked at each other, there was still time to explore deeper into those woods. I knew we were close to where fairies, and maybe even ancient dwarves, lived.
“This is where he lives, I am sure of that…” she said in a low voice as they observed the silent house from afar. The front grass was freshly cut, and although it was already dusk, no light was to be seen through the windows.
“There are lots of them there, in the deep cellars, but we won’t see any until it is much darker.” They looked at the sky and the dark clouds accumulating above the property.
“How old do you think this place is?” he asked finally. Their presence was the outcome of a long search. The origin of the house, the people who had built it, how it was finally acquired by the Count, the whole history was shrouded in mystery.
“It goes back at least to Tudor times,” she replied, “although there is disagreement about the exact dates. The Count’s ancestors had something to do with silver mines in South America, and we know that today he is rumoured to be the CEO of a secretive private equity firm…”
“Now is the time. Whoever commissioned us must have good reasons. They knew this sort of operation don’t come cheap.” They smiled.
Calmly, methodically, they pulled out the Uzis from their sheaves, loaded the guns and undid the security, then they started walking toward the building. Their instructions were simple: there had to be no survivors.
Beyond is our world: this is the threshold, how far mortals can trade.
Beyond is where we belong, we, who once lived and haunt these woods.
Beyond you can see us for who we are: the way humans were,
Before the Fall.
We are at the crossroad, there is no way back, we have to chose: darkness, or greed, or the Truth. If we chose the Truth we will have to fight. If we chose darkness we will be, finally, hunted down like rats – and we’ll deserve it. If we chose greed, we will be billions. And we will die, miserable putrefying ruins, in the middle of our riches.
So, Truth it will be. Then, along this most arduous of all paths, we will have to fight, against darkness, and against greed. The Archangel will guide us. For this fight began long ago.
But for Truth to triumph, over darkness and greed, we will have to sacrifice ourselves, like Him.
There, long ago, when we had space, and the air was pure, there we lived: us, the whole tribe, the children, the very old, the wise and the fools. At night we were safe, the sea protected us. We had many friends, and few enemies. We were poor, and strong.
The cave was our home, where we lived, loved, and died. The world wasn’t ours, but we knew our place, and this place was here, on the threshold. Far beyond was eternity.
Often we walked in those woods, you and me, when the bluebells shone, and the sky reminded us that Easter was close by. Today, the air is clear, the ground soft to our feet, as it was then.
“What is the difference?” we could ask. But we don’t. We both know. Our bodies have no shadows, we meet no-one, or rather, no-one meets us. We are invisible, though we still love these woods, the valley below, the old Roman villa nearby, the memories of our lives.
We hear voices too, far, far away: are they people we once knew? Or are they the dreams of ancient ghosts, like us?
“Once the ice was covering this ground, smooth, unchanging. Then the boulders were round still, and the humans nowhere to be seen. The world was young.”
You were reading my mind, but know better. You walked here, often, you and your tribe. Then there was no human eye to see you. Even now, I know you’re here, but only your voice reassures me that it is not a dream.
But I see you as you once were. Proud, agile, attuned to the ice, the rocks, the flying creatures in the air, the growing trees.
Now, you are waiting. The rift will pass, the ice will return. And we, unscrupulous hooligans, will go.
insomnia – meringue – basement
She knew what he liked, what he liked about her, his favourite drink, his taste for violence and meringue. She knew he would ask her to run a hot bath, prepare his Jack Dianel’s on rocks, attend to his needs in his insomnia.
Down, in the basement, she had hidden the short Tanaka, a present from Myriam, her everlasting love. Myriam the wise, Myriam her tender and strong lover.
She would have the bath ready, his whisky just so, the ice still melting. His hand would tease, feel, hit, caress. His bulk would lie in the very hot bath. She would massage his shoulders, serve the meringue. In her hands, silent, lethal, the Tanaka would slice his neck.
Then Myriam would arrive, and take care of everything. Myriam too knew what she liked.
Picture: Mile-High Lemon Meringue Pie
