Vol 2 Chapter 2 Part 3

That Saturday, Holmes and I headed to the Okazaki district where Mr. Takamiya lived. Sitting in the passenger seat of the car, I looked out at Heian Shrine’s large red torii gates, Okazaki Park, and the local zoo. It was quite a spacious area.

“The vermilion of Heian Shrine looks great against the blue sky, doesn’t it?” Holmes said while driving, seeming fascinated.

“It really does. This looks like a good place for a walk.”

“Yes, there’s the shrine as well as the art museum’s large garden. You can also enjoy reading in the library, and Nanzen-ji Temple is within walking distance too. You can easily spend an entire day in Okazaki.”

“I see. Kyoto really is full of sights, huh?”

“Indeed. Let’s come here again when we can take our time to explore,” Holmes said smoothly, making my heart skip a beat.

“Y-Yeah. It’d be great to have you as a guide.” Wouldn’t going to a museum, library, and zoo with Holmes be like an actual date? Then again, we also went to the Hyakumanben market and Mount Kurama together, so maybe he doesn’t consider it anything special. Frustrated that I was the only one flustered by this, I looked out the window to hide my nervousness, knowing that it might be futile.

Eventually we reached the residential area. Unlike in the rest of Kyoto, here there were large houses with plenty of space between them. It had the atmosphere of a rich neighborhood. We turned onto a small lane and suddenly a tall fence came into view.

“This is the Takamiya estate,” Holmes said, looking at the fence.

“Huh?” I gaped in surprise. The high fence practically screamed “No intruders allowed.” On the other side of the large iron gate was a sprawling grassy lawn, and in the center of the lawn was a Western-style house with subdued brick walls. I’d seen my fair share of flashy Western-style estates here and there, but Takamiya’s was different. Instead of feeling new and modern, it had a historical, stately ambiance. Its regal atmosphere was like that of an old castle.

There was a large parking lot in front of the gate, and a big van was parked there. Yoneyama was in the driver’s seat. When he saw us, he smiled weakly as usual and waved. Holmes returned the gesture and then backed the car into a parking space.

“Right on time. Thanks for coming.” Yoneyama opened the trunk of his car and took out a large wrapped painting. That must be the one he painted—the one that’s supposed to be in Diego Velázquez’s style.

“Welcome. Please come this way,” said the attendant who came outside to fetch us. We entered the Takamiya estate and headed towards the study. On the way, I was surprised by the size of the foyer and the height of the atrium. There were dark red carpets, chandeliers, and a large portrait on the wall which was probably of Takamiya and his wife in their younger days. It depicted a young man with masculine features and a beautiful young woman. It was a wonderful painting that I’d imagine was commissioned from a famous artist.

“Here we are.” The attendant stopped in front of the study and slowly opened the door. The first thing I saw was Yoneyama’s rendition of The Guitar Player. I was a bit startled that Takamiya would put it on display despite knowing that it was a fake. In front of the painting was a grand desk, which the man himself was sitting at. He looked around the same age as the owner, which would put him in his late seventies. However, he didn’t have the owner’s glamorous aura. Instead, he seemed calm, gentle, and refined.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, picking up his cane and standing up. He spoke in standard Japanese rather than one of the regional dialects.

The three of us bowed.

“Hello there, Kiyotaka. Long time no see. Seiji told me you’d be coming today,” Takamiya said, smiling at Holmes.

“It’s been quite a while. I see you haven’t changed.”

“Nah, I’ve grown old. I wish I could stay energetic forever like Seiji.” Takamiya then looked at me. “Who’s this?”

“I-I’m Aoi Mashiro,” I said awkwardly.

Holmes immediately followed up, saying, “She’s one of our staff members at Kura.”

“I see. It must be interesting being surrounded by the Yagashiras. Do your best at work, all right?”

Judging from those words, he must’ve been very familiar with the peculiarities of the Yagashira family. I instantly felt a sense of kinship with him. “I will,” I answered happily, bowing again.

Takamiya continued walking to Yoneyama. “You’ve already finished, I see. Are you a fast worker?” he asked, still smiling. His tone was gentle, yet there was something imposing about it.

“Y-Yes, I think I’m fast.” Yoneyama trembled as he nodded. He then saw the easel that had been set up. “Um… Can I put it here?”

“Yes, please do.”

“O-Okay.” Yoneyama put the large wrapped painting on the easel. Watching his shaky movements made me nervous as well. “Th-There,” Yoneyama said, stepping away.

Takamiya had seemed confident up until then, but I noticed him gulp in anticipation. Holmes stood by the wall with a sharp glimmer in his eyes. The study was engulfed in a tense atmosphere.

Takamiya quietly lifted his hand and removed the white cloth surrounding the painting in one swift motion.

“Oh…!” I murmured unconsciously. The painting depicted an adorable, doll-like young girl around seven or eight years old. She had luscious black hair, deep black eyes, and rosy cheeks. She wore a pink dress and had a bit of a prim and proper smile.

Takamiya stood there wordlessly. Behind him, Holmes was smiling. “It’s an oil painting, as Diego Velázquez is known for. I think you’ve done a wonderful job of replicating the master’s style. By the way, who is this girl?”

Takamiya cast his eyes down. “It’s my granddaughter, Satoko.”

Holmes closed his mouth and his face took on a gentle expression.

Yoneyama hesitantly looked up and said, “I heard from Mr. Yagashira that your granddaughter used to be the apple of your eye, so I asked your secretary for a picture of her.” He sounded apologetic for doing that without permission. There was something bitter about the way he said “used to be”—right, Takamiya lost his family in an accident. This painting must be of his late granddaughter.

“I see. Diego Velázquez painted several portraits of Princess Margarita, the beloved daughter of King Philip IV of Spain. The paintings were to be sent to Austria where she was to be married, but it’s true that the king adored her. Did you use that as a hint?” Holmes asked.

Yoneyama nodded silently.

Standing in front of the painting, Takamiya’s hands were trembling and his eyes were moist with tears. “It’s more brilliant than I’d ever imagined. Satoko must be happy in heaven, too.”

“Thank you.” Yoneyama put his hand on his chest in relief and looked ruefully at Takamiya.

Takamiya gazed at the painting and said, “You see, I gained an incredible fortune through successful business operations. For a time, I thought I’d obtained everything the world had to offer. I even boasted that there was nothing that money couldn’t buy. Then divine punishment came for me. Since I was busy with work, my wife and my son’s family went on a trip without me. There was a car accident, and just like that, I lost most of my family. My wife who I had spent decades with, my son who I was ever so proud of, and my beloved granddaughter, Satoko…”

The tyrant who bragged about obtaining everything in the world…lost everything that money could never replace. I could tell how much sorrow and pain he was in. I cast my eyes down, unable to look directly at him.

Yoneyama continued, “Yes, I heard about that too. I was told that your granddaughter was only five at the time.”

“Huh?” I looked back at the painting. This girl is five years old? She…didn’t look like that at all. She was quite tall for that age.

“I see,” Holmes said, nodding. “You drew her at a slightly older age.”

Yoneyama nodded emphatically. “Yes. Based on the picture I borrowed, I imagined what she would look like at elementary school age and painted that.”

At that, Takamiya couldn’t hold back the tears anymore, and they streamed down his face. “Thank you so much. I never would’ve dreamed of being able to meet the seven-year-old Satoko.” He shook Yoneyama’s hand firmly.

“I hope I met your expectations.”

I’m sure his work granted Takamiya’s wish. I felt my chest grow hot too, and tears rose to my eyes.

“You exceeded them,” Takamiya said, gripping Yoneyama’s hand tighter.

Yoneyama looked a bit hesitant. Why doesn’t he seem happy? I wondered.

“The painting itself seems to have exceeded his expectations, but it’s not what he was originally looking for, right?” Holmes asked in a strong tone of voice. The rest of us stopped in our tracks. The painting itself exceeded his expectations, but it’s not what he was originally looking for? I frowned, not knowing what Holmes was talking about.

On the other hand, Yoneyama seemed to be thinking the same thing as Holmes. He nodded with a serious look on his face. “I felt the same way. I was confident when I was painting it, but when I showed the completed portrait to Mr. Yagashira, he went silent for a while before telling me to go to Kiyotaka. I’m guessing that he also sensed something wrong with it that he couldn’t explain in words. You seem to be satisfied with it, but it’s completely irrelevant to your request, right?” Yoneyama spoke confidently, as if his weak nature up until now had been a facade. I was surprised that this feeble man could have such an intense look in his eyes.

Takamiya quickly looked down, as if trying to avoid that gaze. “Yes… The reason why I asked for Diego Velázquez was that there was a specific painting I was hoping for. I wanted to see what kind of painting the genius who once tricked me would come up with under that condition. Would you paint a wonderful piece that picked up on what I hoped to see, or would you bring me a piece that simply mimicked his technique alone?”

I see… Takamiya was testing Yoneyama to see if he’d meet his expectations.

“In the end, you didn’t figure out what I was hoping for, but you went above and beyond it. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that you far exceeded the client’s imagining, so it’s fine. I’m extremely satisfied,” Takamiya said earnestly, staring at the painting.

“But if it’s not what you originally wanted, then I can’t accept this outcome,” Yoneyama said loudly, sounding upset. It really was like he’d become a different person. He used to erase his presence when he was creating forgeries. He reformed himself and now works at an art gallery, but maybe this was the first time that someone requested a painting from him like this—someone who knew everything about him and recognized his talent. Something might’ve been budding within him—the pride of a creator who wholeheartedly wants to meet the client’s expectations…

What does Holmes think? I glanced at him. He was standing by the wall and looking out the window with a pleasant smile on his face. What’s he looking at? I followed his gaze and saw two young children playing in the yard. They were unsteady on their feet, and their young parents seemed to be having fun watching over them.

“Who’s that family?” I asked quietly.

Takamiya gazed out the window with a warm expression. “They’re my only remaining treasure. I lost my family, but one of my grandchildren survived, and that’s his family. My grandson, his wife, and their children, ages two and three. They’re my great-grandchildren. They all love me regardless of who I am, and they’re truly irreplaceable to me.” His face relaxed into a content smile as he watched the happy family playing outside.

Holmes nodded, as if he’d figured out everything. “I understand, Takamiya.”

“Hm?” Takamiya turned to look at Holmes.

“You wanted Yoneyama to paint you something like Las Meninas, right?” Holmes said confidently.

Takamiya’s eyes widened.

“Las Meninas?” Yoneyama and I asked in tandem—but with different inflections. My question was in a confused tone, while Yoneyama’s had a dubious ring to it.

After a moment of silence, Takamiya squinted as if he was looking at something dazzling. “You’re truly a wonder, Kiyotaka.”

Las Meninas. That was one of the paintings Holmes named the other day when he was talking about Diego Velázquez’s famous works. I saw a picture of it, too. “Las meninas” is Spanish for “the court ladies.” If I recall correctly, the painting had Princess Margarita in the center, surrounded by several other court ladies. I also remember reading that it was highly praised for its complex composition. Did Takamiya want Yoneyama to paint a complex composition like that?

As if answering my question, Holmes reached for the bag he’d left on the floor and took out the book. “I brought it just in case,” he said, flipping it open to the page with Las Meninas on it. Princess Margarita was in the middle, just as I’d remembered. To the left, a court lady was holding her hand. To the right were three girls. The youngest of the three was placing one foot on the back of a dog that was lying down. It looked cruel at first glance, but the dog didn’t appear to be bothered, so it seemed to just be childish mischief. What caught my eye was a person who was standing behind a large canvas.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“That’s Diego Velázquez himself.”

“Oh!” So this was a self-portrait, too. If he included himself in the painting, does that mean he was a narcissist? Maybe that’s how artists are? I stared fixedly at the painting, looking for the hint that had to be there. Yoneyama stood next to me.

“Yoneyama, please pay attention to the king and queen in the painting,” Holmes said.

“The king and queen?” Yoneyama squinted, looking confused. After a few moments of silence, he jolted up as if he’d realized something.

“Um, did you figure something out?”

“Y-Yeah. Look at this, Aoi.” He pointed at a picture frame on the back wall in the painting.

“Is this a painting inside a painting?” On the left was a woman in a dress, and on the right was an influential-looking man. It was probably a portrait of the king and queen.

“That’s what I thought too, but it’s not. This isn’t a painting; it’s a mirror. It’s customary for the king to be on the left and the queen on the right in a painting, but here they’re reversed.”

“A mirror?” That meant that the king and queen were in the same room but out of frame. They were where Princess Margarita was facing. In other words, the figure of Velázquez was painting the king and queen on that canvas. So that’s it. Velázquez painted this for the king, from the king’s perspective. Nowadays you can just take a photo, but there was no such thing back then. The young Margarita was going to be married off to Austria before long. To the king, those peaceful, happy days were a precious treasure with a time limit on them. Velázquez captured a snapshot of those precious days in his painting, preserving the king’s view of the princess, the court ladies, and even Velázquez himself.

The moment I realized that, Yoneyama clenched his fist and said, “I-I’ve got it!” He continued in a low voice, “I figured out the secret of the composition of Las Meninas. This is the happy scenery that the king saw, right?”

Holmes nodded. I’d figured it out too. Basically, Takamiya wanted Yoneyama to paint him a happy scene of his grandson’s family playing together, since these days also wouldn’t last forever. Just like Diego Velázquez’s Las Meninas. It was because Takamiya knew how irreplaceable this everyday scene was. The moment I realized, I burst into tears and hurried to wipe my eyes.

“Here,” Holmes said, offering me a handkerchief.

“Th-Thank you.” I wiped my tears with it, feeling embarrassed.

Takamiya smiled at our conversation. “Thank you for understanding. You’re correct, but my request was a bit malicious. I wanted to see how far he’d solve the puzzle, but I underestimated him and assumed he’d have no idea. However, he did paint me a wonderful painting in the style of Velázquez. I’m truly satisfied.” After saying that, he looked at Yoneyama’s painting of Satoko again with a loving smile.

Yoneyama walked up to Takamiya and bowed. “Takamiya, could you give me another chance?”

Takamiya looked him in the eye without saying a word.

“Please let me paint one more. This time, I’ll paint you a work like Las Meninas,” Yoneyama urged.

“Yoneyama…” Takamiya seemed hesitant, but then smiled. “In that case, let me make it a formal request. Would you paint me the happy scene that I see from here right now?”

“Yes, gladly.” Yoneyama placed his hand on his chest and bowed again.

“I’m looking forward to your Las Meninas. But this time, please don’t copy Velázquez’s style. Make it your own painting.”

Yoneyama bowed deeply with an earnest face. “I’ll do my very best.”

It felt like I was watching King Philip IV and Diego Velázquez themselves. A brilliant artist was born right here, in this divine scene before me.

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