Killing Commendatore: A novel Read Online Free Page A

lived there a long time, and it should have been familiar, but it had now transformed into a scene from a remote, strange land.
    Just one element?
    What does that mean, just one? I gave it some thought. She was having sex with some man other than me. But that was “just one element.” Then what were all the others?
    “I’ll move out in a few days,” my wife said. “So you don’t need to do anything. I’m responsible, so I should be the one who leaves.”
    “You already decided where you’re going to go?”
    She didn’t answer, but seemed to have already decided on a place. She must have made all kinds of preparations before bringing this up with me. When I realized this, I felt helpless, as if I’d lost my footing in the darkness. Things had been steadily moving forward, and I’d been totally oblivious.
    “I’ll get the divorce procedures going as quickly as I can,” my wife said, “and I’d like you to be responsive. I’m being selfish, I know.”
    I turned from the rain and gazed at her. And once again it struck me. We’d lived under the same roof for six years, yet I knew next to nothing about this woman. In the same way that people stare up at the sky to see the moon every night, yet understand next to nothing about it.
    “I have one request,” I ventured. “If you’ll grant me this, I’ll do whatever you say. And I’ll sign the divorce papers.”
    “What is it?”
    “That I’m the one who leaves here. And I do it today. I’d like you to stay behind.”
    “Today?” she asked, surprised.
    “The sooner the better, right?”
    She thought it over. “If that’s what you want,” she said.
    “It is, and that’s all I want.”
    Those were my honest feelings. As long as I wasn’t left behind alone in this wretched, cruel place, in the cold March rain, I didn’t care what happened.
    “And I’ll take the car with me. Are you okay with that?”
    I really didn’t need to ask. The car was an old, stick-shift model a friend of mine had let me have for next to nothing back before I got married. It had well over sixty thousand miles on it. And besides, my wife didn’t even have a driver’s license.
    “I’ll come back later to get my painting materials and clothes and things. Does that work for you?”
    “Sure, that’s fine. By ‘later,’ how much later do you mean?”
    “I have no idea,” I said. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the future. There was barely any ground left under my feet. Just remaining upright was all I could manage.
    “I might not stay here all that long,” my wife said, sounding reluctant.
    “Everyone might go to the moon,” I said.
    She seemed not to have caught it. “Sorry?”
    “Nothing. It’s not important.”
----
    —
    By seven that evening I’d stuffed my belongings into an oversized gym bag and thrown that into the trunk of my red Peugeot 205. Some changes of clothes, toiletries, a few books and diaries. A simple camping set I had always had for hiking. Sketchbooks and a set of drawing pencils. Other than these few items, I had no idea what else to take. It’s okay, I told myself, if I need anything I can buy it somewhere. While I packed the gym bag and went in and out of the apartment, she was still seated at the kitchen table. The coffee cup was still on top of the table, and she continued to stare inside it…
    “I have a request, too,” she said. “Even if we break up like this, can we still be friends?”
    I couldn’t grasp what she was trying to say. I’d finished tugging on my shoes, had shouldered the bag, and stood, one hand on the doorknob, to stare at her.
    “Be friends?”
    “I’d like to meet and talk sometimes. If possible, I mean.”
    I still couldn’t understand what she meant. Be friends? Meet and talk sometimes? What would we talk about? It’s like she’d posed a riddle. What could she be trying to convey to me? That she didn’t have any bad feelings toward me? Was that it?
    “I’m not sure about that,” I said. I