Rikki Ducornet - Netsuke

NETSUKE

COPYRIGHT 2011 by Rikki Ducornet
COVER AND BOOK DESIGN by Linda Koutsky
COVER PHOTOGRAPH Michael Eastman

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CIP INFORMATION
Ducornet, Rikki, 1943
Netsuke : a novel / by Rikki Ducornet.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-56689-253-7 (alk. paper)
ISBN 978-1-56689-271-1 (ebook)
I. Title.
PS3554.U279N48 2011
813.54 DC22
2010038004

NETSUKE

I am my own hiding place.

JO BOUSQUET

One

Although it is still very early, the wealth of the day is upon him.

He is running. He is listening to Monteverde and he is running. He is very muscled and lean. He lopes along hungry as a wolf. There is something regal about the canopy of leaves above him. The sun has only just lifted over the rim of the world.

His days are made up of what he calls real time and the interstices. Real time provides an identity, a footing. The interstices, however, provide him with a life. The sun begins to spill onto the path. He runs dappled with light. Hooked to Monteverde, he doesnt hear the birds rioting in the trees. He runs like a creature of the woods before the world truly began. Long before the first great cities of the world had ever been conceived. He is aware of his sex when he runs.

There is a pretty woman, surely half his age, running toward him. As they are about to pass one another, his eyes leap into hers. She slows down and turning, runs backwards, looking at him. When he glances over his shoulder, she bursts into laughter. A gentle breeze lifts. The day shimmers with the music of Monteverde. Still laughing, she turns away and runs into the trees. It is like a movie, maybe an animated cartoon: he playing the centaur to her nymph. Yes, thats it: a centaur.

In an instant the world compresses into one point of heat and light. Off the path now, deep in the trees, they begin to devour one anothers tongue and teeth, panting each time they surface for air. He pushes her up against a tree and takes her. She burns at the center of his life. He will never weary of fucking her. She rides him, he rides her; she drowns, he swims into her depths; she cries out; she trembles; she says wow and laughs again, but very quietly; he emerges from her, and with a graceful, almost imperceptible gesture, rearranges his cock; he hesitates a moment; he tenderly brushes her cheek with the back of his hand and says:

Sorry, Sweetheart. Ive got to go to work.

Yeah. She nods, and beams down at him as he fumbles with the lace of his sneaker. She sighs; she, too, pulls herself together. So whats work? she asks, lightly. Not wanting to appear overly curious. Needful.

Psychoanalysis, he says, eager now to get on his way. He thinks she looks like a kid, her straw-colored hair barely holding in a rubber band. A sweet-looking kid. A daisy, among many of the field.

Bye, Sweetheart, he says, and off he goes, turning once to smile at her and wave, the gesture charming, attentive, and yet

Hey! she calls out after him. He is vanishing down the path. Hey!

Theirs is a big city.

Back home he showers and works up a lather. Hes Neptune in a sea of foam. He is a god leaping from the interstices back to the real world. He recalls that for the gods, the real world was, in fact, the interstices: a playground, a mirror of the heavens, a theater. Each morning after his run is like this: he, in a lather, reflecting, pummeled by water. He will stay in the shower for an hour, making himself over, making himself new. The process, he thinks, is alchemical. Today he is feeling especially philosophical. He considers the nature of women. The daisies of the field, so fuckable, so breakable. The ones who call out Hey! and stamp their feet in irritation, like mares. The ones who blossom early, only to succumb to nerves. Those who startle easily and sour in an instant; love with them is like sucking lemons. The lazy, careless women in need of pedicures, who, when darkness falls, can be seen lolling about, unkempt, in tapas bars. The aging actresses, their sweet vulnerabilities on parade. Incandescent alcoholics as troublesome as fever dreams, fantastic in the early hours of the evening, but only then. The chameleons. The gorgeous exotics prone to outbursts of temper. The luscious North Africans, their balaclava pussies. The antelope who cannot settle downa good fuck on an airplane, taxicab, the train. The new mistress one fucks before sitting down to dinner with ones wife. The women who give courage (these are rare). The wild ones with magenta manes who wear boots in all seasons. The whore who brought down Enkidu, who showed him the things a woman knows how to do. The tribal types who like sex in clusters. The women who, at Christmas, consider suicide. The frisky ones. The ones who talk too much. The ones who kill with silence. The risk takers. The ones with Big Ideas. The death cunts who kill with a look. The tender ones, the Feyaways, like islands, who love in cautious isolation, who rub ones feet; they have juicers. One abandons them judiciously, all the while cooing like a dove. The clients whom one fucks in the name of a Unique Experiment. The wives whom one betrays, extravagantly. The current wife: Akiko. The one for whom the interstices were superseded, if only briefly, by the Real. Akiko. Whose beauty no longer troubles his sleep. (His world is mazed with cunts and he has not yearned for hers in centuries.)

An old Prince of Darknessthis is what he has become. His teeth worn to the gums, his tongue swollen with overuse, his cock, like his heart, close to breaking.

A SMALL PRIVATE PARK that Akiko has transformed into a scene from The Tale of Genji extends beyond the house; it has a broad path that leads to the public trails, thickets, a wetland, a lake.

I run from our house into the public land in the mornings, often alone, in the early light. I can run for over an hour without hearing the hum of city traffic. This early in the day, there is something more than royal about this domain: it is mythical. I run toward the pastnot my own past, mind you, but a distant, primal past. A past in which my own infancy, or the current lousy state of affairs, or even the great city beyond the bluffis unimaginable.

Today when I return to the house, I see the lights are on in Akikos studio. This means I will find a thermos of fresh green tea waiting for me on the kitchen counter. A sweet gesture, considering how evasive I am with her. Akiko has come to confuse my evasiveness with a retiring nature. In her words, I am the silent type. My silence conceals a wealth of worlds best left undisclosed.

We have been together ten years. Long enough for my idiosyncrasies to have faded into invisibility. Akiko, too, has faded. She is the white noise I have come to depend upon and possibly cannot live without. Akiko is witchy, clairvoyant. Her astonishing dreams are astute, surgical. They keep me on my toes. This marriage of ours puts us both at risk. She is in danger because I lie incessantly and the habit of these lies has blunted her gift and confused her. Love has caused her to distrust her own intuitions. Yet I am in danger also, because I cannot help but offer her clues. It is inevitable that sooner or later I will falter, offer one clue too many and in this way bring us both down. When I fall, she will fall with me. Perhaps this is a comfort of a kind.