Killing Commendatore: A novel Read Online Free

following month. A cold rain had been falling since morning. The first thing I did when I heard her news was turn toward the window and check out the rain. It was a quiet, gentle rain, with hardly any wind. Still, it was the kind of rain that carried with it a chill that slowly but surely seeped into the skin. Cold like this meant that spring was still a long ways off. The orangish Tokyo Tower was visible through the misty rain. The sky was bereft of birds. All of them must have quietly sought shelter.
    “I don’t want you to ask me why. Can you do that?” my wife asked.
    I shook my head slightly. Neither yes nor no. I had no idea what to say, and just reflexively shook my head.
    She had on a thin, light purple sweater with a wide neckline. The soft strap of her white camisole was visible beside her collarbone. It looked like some special kind of pasta used in some specific recipe.
    Finally, I was able to speak. “I do have one question, though,” I said, gazing blankly at that strap. My voice was stiff, dry, and flat.
    “I’ll answer, if I can.”
    “Is this my fault?”
    She thought this over. Then, like someone who has been underwater for a long time, she finally broke through to the surface and took a deep, slow breath.
    “Not directly, no.”
    “Not directly ?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    I considered the subtle tone of her voice. Like checking the weight of an egg in my palm. “Meaning that I am, in directly?”
    She didn’t answer.
    “A few days ago, just before dawn, I had a dream,” she said instead. “A very realistic dream, the kind where you can’t distinguish between what is real and what’s in your mind. And when I woke up that’s what I thought. I was certain of it, I mean. That I can’t live with you anymore.”
    “What kind of dream was it?”
    She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that here.”
    “Because dreams are personal?”
    “I suppose.”
    “Was I in the dream?” I asked.
    “No, you weren’t. So in that sense, too, it’s not your fault.”
    Just to make sure I got it all, I summarized what she’d just said. When I don’t know what to say I have a habit of summarizing. (A habit that, obviously, can be really irritating.)
    “So, a few days ago you had a very realistic dream. And when you woke up you were certain you can’t live with me anymore. But you can’t tell me what the dream was about, since dreams are personal. Did I get that right?”
    She nodded. “Yes. That’s about the size of it.”
    “But that doesn’t explain a thing.”
    She rested her hands on the tabletop, staring down at the inside of her coffee cup, as if an oracle was floating there and she was deciphering the message. From the look in her eyes the words must have been very symbolic and ambiguous.
    My wife puts great stock in dreams. She often makes decisions based on dreams she had, or changes her decisions accordingly. But no matter how crucial you think dreams can be, you can’t just reduce six years of marriage to nothing because of one vivid dream, no matter how memorable.
    “The dream was just a trigger, that’s all,” she said, as if reading my mind. “Having that dream made lots of things clear for me.”
    “If you pull a trigger, a bullet will come out.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “A trigger is a critical part of a gun. ‘Just a trigger’ isn’t the right expression.”
    She stared at me silently, as if she couldn’t understand what I was getting at. I don’t blame her. I couldn’t understand it myself.
    “Are you seeing someone else?” I asked.
    She nodded.
    “And you’re sleeping with him?”
    “Yes, and I feel bad about it.”
    Maybe I should have asked her who it was, and when it had started. But I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to think about those things. So I gazed again outside the window at the falling rain. Why hadn’t I noticed all this before?
    “This was just one element among many,” my wife said.
    I looked around the room. I’d