Chapter One
20XX
“Would you prefer Japanese, European, or American breakfast, Madam?”
Regina hesitates for a second. She doesn’t want to disappoint the painfully immaculate flight attendant. But in Business Class of Japan Airline, American breakfast means eggs and toast. She researched that. She always researches everything.
“American. Canadian bacon if you have it, please. Thank you.”
“Certainly. And for you, Miss Cohen?” The porcelain doll smiles and bows to Cassandra, still horizontal under the two blankets next to her mother.
“What are you having, mom?” she asks without taking her eyes off the flight attendant.
“American – eggs and toast.”
“Japanese, please. Arigato.” Cassandra composes her beautiful face into an exact replica of the flight attendant’s smile. For a few moments she transforms, looking very much Japanese herself.
Wow!
“Damn! These girls are really something else…” Andy says, bringing her seat up into a reclining position as the flight attendant moves to the next row.
“Yes, they are,” Regina smiles at her.
* * *
If anyone told fifteen-year-old Regina – sitting on the floor of Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci airport with her parents amidst a group of Russian-Jewish political refugees heading for New York – that eventually she’d be flying to Europe, Asia and the Americas in Business and First Class, she wouldn’t be able to appreciate the distinction. You don’t learn about gradations of air services reading Faulkner and watching Fellini. And her experience with Russian air travel was flying on holidays from her home in Leningrad in a one-salon Tupolev stuffed with tiny seats from nose to tail.
Two decades later, she could easily compare the quality of service in upper-class levels of most top international airlines. Yet, this happened to be her first trip to Japan.
She’s been enthralled by Japanese culture and aesthetics since she was ten and her father bought for her Ovchinnikov’s ‘Sakura Branch’. She reread it countless times. She’s seen every Japanese movie that came into Russian distribution – mostly Kurosawa, of course. She stood in front of Hermitage’s small netsuke selection for hours, studying every tiny detail and marveling at the carvers who transformed a humble fastener of a man-purse into a miniature art form that persisted through centuries.
When she finally could afford to start her own collection, she leaned towards early Meiji period, because she was attracted to things for their beauty and their story rather than their ‘market value’. And in mid-nineteenth century, Japanese artists were creating enchanting, storytelling pieces.
Little Cassandra got immersed into the magical realism of stories populated by unbearably cute and profoundly quirky characters watching Miyazaki’s movies and shopping in Japanese specialty stores with her mother. Naturally, as she was growing up and developing her own unique artistic aesthetics, the cardinal essence of Japanese culture, both old and new, remained prominent in the eclectic spectrum of her influences.
Regina felt that Andy’s last high-school spring break was an ideal time for them to finally go to Japan.
If you let it, Tokyo will hit you in the face with a demolition ball of excesses and extremes. Heights, breadths, lights, sounds, and unimaginable plentitude. Asphalt vistas and sweeping bridges of numerous counts interspersed with areas of overbearing density. Vividly real titan-size women of alien beauty scream from the buildings completely covered in enormous screens. For a moment it made Regina feel as if she got transported straight into ‘Minority Report’.
Andy navigates them through Harajuku with the ease of a habitual shopper. There, seemingly real girls – you have to question it still, because they look like blindingly colorful anime dolls – strain their high-pitch voices, imploring them to check out the merchandise that couldn’t possibly be designed anywhere but Japan.
Arcades packed with mindbogglingly advanced games, generating so much colorful light that it spills onto the streets. Vending machines that sell things you are unable to identify, yet can easily obtain using the tiny Japanese cell loaner in your pocket.
The city thrives on its native and global consumerism. ‘Making a choice’ becomes an insane proposition. Six stories of character merch! Three stories of kimonos – and that’s in a $500 and above range!
The flagship Mikimoto store in Ginza totally KO’d Regina with its six-floor expanse; one entire floor devoted to just bridal pearls. She discovered mesmerizing pieces there, of the kinds that never appear in the lovely Fifth Avenue hole-in-the-wall.
Twelve stand-alone Louis Vuitton stores? Are you, people, for real? And it’s still not enough to satisfy the gluttonous demand: multilingual banners inside sternly alert the incoming traffic that the limit is two bags per shopper. The converted prices are about 80% higher. Then again, they find what they were looking for – completely sold out back home.
Akihabara! A whole DISTRICT of electronics?! The nerdy hero of ‘Train Man’ himself must be wondering through here – right next to them…
It’s the side of Japan that’s way out there, in the future. Created by the overachievers who in one leap jumped straight from feudalism to the-most-advanced-in-the-world, it leaves even the hardcore Manhattanites somewhat shell-shocked.
* * *
Regina, sick of it all, lets Cassandra run around the gargantuan body of Mitsukoshi by herself and heads straight to the subterranean levels. Here in Ginza, they hide the gourmet shops with their exquisite delicacies and sweets under the ground. She picks trays of sushi and sashimi, French chocolates, artificial-looking in their perfection fruit, a few packages of extraterrestrial jellied sweets, and then goes straight to the roof – to wait for Andy in the quiet garden, by the shrine…
Even knowing about it in advance did not fully prepare Regina for the emotional impact Tokyo’s devastating sparsity of old Japanese authenticity has on her. Wrong city, bro! At least for someone who grew up dreaming of wood-carved pagodas, robed calligraphers with unmanageably large brushes and thoughts, geishas strumming their shamisen, and Hokusai waves. By mid-twentieth century, Tokyo geishas were already so westernized they rarely played shamisen or wore kimonos.
The city has been demolished so many times by the centuries of fires and the years of bombings, it simply had no choice but to keep up with the advancement of the Time. And that turned large parts of Tokyo into architectural neutralities. It also forced the capital’s citizenry so far into the future, they’ve already dealt with the urban problems the West still treated as the science-fiction material.
Looking out of the window of their suite on the thirty-fifth floor of Mandarin Oriental, Regina wonders if some of the tall polished buildings in her view have been simply transplanted to Nihonbashi from New York, or Milan, or London, or Berlin… The Financial Districts, the so-called Cities of the ‘civilized’ countries – the hubs of the internationally homogenized world, where Regina must function, making sure she can pay for trips like this, and everything else…
* * *
Of all the terrible things her mother did to make Regina as insecure as she was, the worst was not escaping Russia while she was still a small child. They had the opportunity to do so too. That would be something a thoughtful parent would do… But they were no parents, her mother and father, so they hesitated, missed their chance, and then all options to get out were closed for ten years…
Not only that it left Regina with a lingering hint of an accent, which she hated, she was also too late to set herself up for the Ivy League track. Not that it would matter if she was allowed to pursue her dreams… But as long as she had to go into a white-collar servitude… Yeah, they should’ve thought of that.
Left to her own devices, she gave herself no time to find her bearings, to absorb the reality of American life. At fifteen, she already held an internationally accredited straight-A high-school diploma. Still, it probably would’ve been a good idea to spend at least a year in some high school – just to listen to other kids mulling over their choices and making decisions about their immediate futures. A conversation with a guidance counselor wouldn’t hurt too much either. But there was nobody around to advise her on this sort of things and she had to do her best by self-navigating. So, she focused on college-entry tests instead.
Her mother was very proud of ‘her Regina’ demolishing all American examinations like a tsunami. She contributed only two tidbits into Regina’s decision process: “Make sure that you can support yourself for the rest of your life” – that threw all her creative aspirations straight into the trash can – and “Don’t go into medicine. You are too sensitive.” Her father has contributed nothing.
Of course, they were very busy on the path well-trotted by every immigrant doctor. They were in the Kaplan program studying for the exams to confirm their MD’s, applying for hospital residences, eventually taking boards.
Restricted by her mother’s conditions, Regina figured there were two primary choices for her: information technology or finance. Both were equally utilitarian. She considered Law for a long minute, as it was something very American to her. Yet, she could not shake off the creepiness of the corrupt courtroom shenanigans in Sidney Lumet’s ‘The Verdict’. She did not want to be one of those brown-nosing junior lawyers so eager to please their ruthless and despicably amoral boss. That was out of the question. On the other hand, through various stages of the immigration process she has met so many programmers, she eventually developed a notion that most Russian immigrants and their mothers, literally, were C++ coders. And so, she has settled on Finance and went to NYU’s Stern.
The soul-crushing struggle for success in faceless financial districts across the globe… Regina lives and breathes that shit.
But wait…
In the gardens of the Imperial Palace, Cassandra finds a spot where the stone wall is covered with a mossy patch in the most intricate, most Japanese way…
And a tiny old shrine with cracks of wear…
And a barely noticeable brook running through the grass speckled with minuscule flowers…
And a two-hundred-year-old bronze drain cover with design so magnificent it transcends its utilitarian use…
And a small bark-less tree with its naked trunk and branches overwrought in such a painful way, it wrenches the cruelty of Lord Matsudaira out of the depths of Regina’s memory…
And a cluster of Sakura flowers in full bloom…
And she frames them in such a way that it takes her mother’s breath away, filling her with pride, satisfaction, and anxiety – all at the same time…
* * *
There is an alcove in the common room of the suite set up as an office. Regina uses it to deal with whatever work matters she deems important enough to spare the precious time. Absorbed by the KPI report in front of her, she suddenly senses movement and raises her head to see Andy coming from the bedroom, where she was scrubbing through her morning work. She turns the Mammia in her hands so that her mother can see the back screen. It’s a shot of Regina. Caught unawares, she looks as if she is at a funeral, mourning, or something…
“Mom, why are you always so miserable? I am here with you.”
Regina stares through her tearful eyes at the morbid image on the little screen, too scared to look up into Andy’s face. “I’m sorry,” she whispers as her gentle child sighs and plants a kiss on the top of her head.
“You don’t have to be sorry, mama. Just try to enjoy…”
As Andy walks back to the bedroom, Regina remains at the desk. She closes her eyes. What can I tell her? That I’m ungratefully lonely, even though she is here with me? It’s devastating to feel like that. I love her so much! What can I say? That I’m sad because I forgo fulfillment for compensation? That I’m always worried about tomorrow… That I feel trapped…
The old store in Chiyoda was hailed as a quintessential source for books on traditional arts. Regina simply had to fit it into their dense Tokyo plans. They bow to the smiling gray-haired man, who turns out to be the shopkeeper himself. As Cassandra rushes straight to the large collection of old prints, Regina answers the man’s Japanese-English inquiry after her own interests with one word, “Kinbaku.” He bows again and leads her to a huge table at the far end of the store.
It’s laid out with volumes of various formats filled with images – ranging from seventeenth-century drawings to contemporary high-definition photos – of meticulously sensual arrangements: breathtaking Japanese women tied by thick jute ropes into complex poses. Many suspended in the air. Seeming disarray of hair and traditional clothing accentuates the eroticism of the artistic process itself and the attained results, without breaking the strict censorship customs.
Regina could’ve spent hours here, but she forces herself to make her picks and then carries the heavy books to the front, where Andy is already waiting with her own stack of prints and books. The shop’s owner bows deeply, expressing both his commercial gratitude and the appreciation of their love of arts. One by one, he praises their choices, which pleases both the mother and the daughter beyond measure. They respond with even deeper bows.
The old guy reaches towards a stack of little pamphlets on the counter and hands one to Regina. It looks like an advertisement for a show, and even though it is entirely in Japanese, the glossy picture on the front leaves no doubt about its nature. A tiny woman with skin as translucent as a fine piece of porcelain and a waterfall of jet-black hair hangs in the air, packaged tightly into a length of broad red rope. The supple flesh yields under each snaking loop, which modestly runs over her nipples and between her legs.
“Live show. Tomorrow,” the man points through the side window to a festive-looking place across the street – possibly a club.
Regina sighs sadly and shakes her head, “We are leaving for Shuzenji Onsen tomorrow morning… Hot springs…” She still holds the brochure in her hand, “May I keep this?”
The proprietor nods and suddenly dives somewhere under the counter, startling both Cassandra and Regina. In a few moments he pops back up holding what looks to be a twelve by fifteen inches two-inch thick volume bound in embossed black-and-red leather. He flings it open at random and places it onto the counter facing Regina. She looks at the large picture in front of her for a long moment; then flips the page, then another…
Unlike the albums she already selected, this collection does not hide anything – no covers, no cleverly discrete compositions of hair, fabric, and body. The photos are as explicit and unapologetic as the art they depict.
“These are almost as good as your nudes,” Regina whispers to Andy.
“Almost… These are original artists’ prints…” Cassandra states more than asks, and both her mother and the Japanese man nod at the same time.
Regina closes the book, but firmly keeps her hands on it. She bows and smiles at the shrewd merchant. He bows back, charges an additional amount with two extra zeros, and carefully packs all their purchases together.
If Cassandra didn’t mandate it, Regina probably wouldn’t go to a ryokan on this trip.
She would never openly admit it to anyone, but the truth is that, as much as she adores Japan’s culture in most of its manifestations, she is somewhat afraid of its domestic customs. When it comes to her personal routines and habits, she is so deeply urbanized and westernized and sissified that the thought of facing a traditional Japanese toilet gives her a panic attack.
“Ryokan?” she asked, “They usually have public baths, don’t they?”
“Mom! Are you afraid to go a bit off the beaten path? Some seeker of authenticity you are!” Andy shamed her.
“I know, I feel ridiculous!”
Of course, when she looked into it, she found a few guest houses that reputably had elevated their accommodations to appeal to the most fastidious travelers. Yagyu-no-sho was advertised to be a very traditional inn with tatami rooms, sliding doors and windows, stow-away futons, and floor sitting; but it had villa-suites with private gardens, outdoor hot-spring baths, and western toilet-rooms for cowardly freaks.
* * *
Some people were concerned about Regina’s and Andy’s decision to go to Japan independently, without a group. But the pair of them never did groups and they weren’t going to do that on this trip either. They did what they always do: studied, planned, arranged, and booked every detail ahead of time, from home in New York…
“But this is different! This is Japan!” one of Andy’s friends said.
She laughed, “Dude! In Florence, the line to see David at the Accademia was two-blocks long. But my mom and I just passed all of those people and walked right through. Because she bought the tickets three months in advance from home. We’re going to be fine…”
In spite of its global influence, we tend to think of Japan as a very introverted and self-sufficient country, wary of incoming strangers. Or maybe we just tend to project… It shocked Regina to discover how much information on traveling through Japan and how many deeply discounted services, including rail passes, were available to Americans through government-supported Japanese travel organizations.
Developing their itinerary, Regina and Cassandra came across many wonderfully practical aspects of Japanese life you don’t read about in cultural essays. Regina was particularly overwhelmed by the networks of luggage-forwarding services that crisscrossed the entire country. She thought it was an incredible example of efficiency as a national trait.
* * *
At 200 mph, it takes the bullet train just ninety minutes to reach the Izu Peninsula and its breathtaking landscapes. Mountains covered by evergreens, the symbolic volcano, blue patches of the Pacific, bamboo groves, clusters of pagoda roofs, the elaborate gardens – the whole picturesque dream of Hokusai’s scrolls, finally unrolling in front of Regina’s eyes on a life-size scale.
She even feels somewhat regretful when the train starts slowing down and then comes to a full stop at the tiny platform of the Shuzenji Onsen station. It issues a handful of alighting passengers – Regina and Cassandra, with their rolling carry-ons, among them.
Once on the platform, Regina suddenly stops. She feels overwhelmed by an instant transformation she experiences. It’s almost physiological and unmistakably tangible. Her ever-present purposefulness simply evaporates from her body and, even more shockingly, from her mind. By some unknown magic, for the first time in years, she is capable to let go of all her worries. And her soul opens to the beauty of every single breath.
From that moment on, the magnetic power of this dot of a place on the edge of the world will keep Regina completely enthralled. The forty-eight hours of this novel sensation will turn into tactile memories of such strength, they become irrevocably engraved into her soul. And in the future, she will be able to invoke them by simply thinking of the little station, the red bridges, the sun-drenched bamboo forest, the 1200-year-old temple. Their private garden with koi ponds – right behind their luxurious dwelling. Tiny immaculate Miho in her pastel kimono cooking incredible dishes for them over an open-fire pit…
* * *
In their light cotton yukatas, Regina following Cassandra and her infallible sense of direction, they pick their way through the covered flagstone passage towards the ryokan’s outdoor hot-spring bath. All of Regina’s reservations about public nudity evaporate as soon as she absorbs the serenity of the giant granite boulders, the overhanging trees, and the bright exotic flowers that encase the cavern of bubbling water.
She is surprised by the size of the pre-wash room, accessorized and outfitted top to bottom in the traditional teak. It appears unnecessarily large with just two other women inside. Regina cannot stop herself from staring, mesmerized by the thoroughness of their cleaning ritual. Thankfully, Cassandra tags her back to civility and she turns attention to her own body…
* * *
No matter how many times you say the words ‘hot spring’, the first dip will invariably surprise you with the intensity of the temperature. It’s not boiling or anything, but it’s quite warm. Plus, it’s heavy mineral water that comes deep from inside the Earth. Hypertensive people beware! But Regina doesn’t care. And not just because she adores the water and the heat. The immersion, the quiet and the beauty of the natural surroundings – she forgets everything that suggests caution, fear, torment…
* * *
Afterwards, she feels cleansed… And very sleepy. Nevertheless, she is a bit wary – this luxurious Japanese futon is no match for her plush pillowtop mattress at home. It took her long time to fall asleep last night. Well, maybe tonight…
…Kaboom‼‼
Something terrifying pulls her out of the deep, dreamless, restful slumber. She jumps up in a synchronized movement with Andy. “What the fuck was that?”
The loud hollow bellow sounded as if some giant old canon shot at something in the pitch-black darkness right outside of their glass garden doors. Neither of them ever experienced this before, but after the initial shock their rational minds quickly serve up the answer.
“The seismic activity,” Andy acknowledges.
“So, this is what it sounds like when the ground shakes…” Regina is trying really hard to subdue her fast-beating heart. “Shall we get dressed and go towards the exit? They probably will be coming for us?”
“Let’s wait for a bit. The lights didn’t go on anywhere… If we hear people running, then…”
They sit there on their futons for ten minutes trying to listen to any sounds of commotion; fearing to hear Earth’s voice again… Until Andy finally laughs, “This probably happens all the time here. We are in the hot springs after all! The locals probably don’t even wake up to this shit!”
“You think so?”
“Definitely! Let’s go back to sleep, mom… There is no earthquake. No one is coming to rescue us…”
Still, when Miho came in the morning to roll away their futons and feed them breakfast, Regina half-expected her to say something about the noise of the night. But no, she was smiling and skipping around like a little bird, as if nothing happened.
* * *
There are several places in the world that Regina truly loves. Yet, never before she felt this heartbroken leaving… Waiting on the platform for the bullet train to take them away, she feels as if a cruel hand is squeezing her heart… What would she give to be able to stay here forever? She swallows the tears and vows that she will always remember the tranquility she experienced on Katsura Bridge, looking at the water rushing over the stones five hundred feet below, soaking up the deep understanding that this gift should be enough…
Regina needed no inspiration from gods of travel-planning about this. She knew well in advance that they had to go further west to satisfy her unquenchable need to see the parts of the country where the passing of time imposed only a bearable modicum of change. What else could’ve satisfied her yearnings for Japan of her dreams if not its exquisite old imperial capital?
She picked a hotel surrounded by the city’s oldest Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines. And everything else is pretty much within a walking distance. They stroll the Philosopher’s Path. Watch artists work with graphite, ink, and clay. They make tall stacks of plates in conveyor-belt sushi joints, get bold and adventurous with the street fare, and make a thorough use of the point-at-the-picture menu at a traditional diner.
As many a Kyoto travel guide recommends, they go to Gion in the evening to see traditional houses surrounded by gardens enchantingly lit with soft glowing lights. Regina thinks of the geishas that used to teeter along these dark passages from their okiyas to the teahouses. There is only a handful of them left nowadays…
And she cannot believe her eyes when a small gate on her right suddenly opens and an actual geisha comes out and starts walking down the street right next to them. Andy elbows her mother to make sure that she watches. How could she not? The young woman is so close, Regina is able to catch every single detail of her outfit, makeup, hair…
To her utter surprise, she is deeply disturbed by the creepy sensation that comes over her at the sight of the pink ear and a strip of flesh between the white paint covering geisha’s face and the jet-black hair in the back. She knew about this old rule of the traditional makeup and its supposedly flirtatious intentions. But in this proximity, it seems to her a bit horrifying. As if witnessing a porcelain doll turning human.
* * *
It’s shocking how differently Gion looks at daylight, when the shops are open for business. If such a choice was ever proposed to Regina, she would’ve given up all the shopping in the world for this – the famous antiques quarter.
Shinmonzen-dori – a humble narrow street lined with two-story wooden buildings, some looking almost worse for wear – will not strike the uninitiated as a shopping mecca. Yet, that’s exactly what this cluster of fifteen or so shops is to those interested in traditional Japanese arts and antiques, especially to netsuke collectors and dealers.
Looking at the close-up map of the area back in New York, Regina figured that, no matter how long, a vacation could not possibly allow for exploring each store and each gallery in detail. She would need a couple of diligently dedicated months for that. And it would be a waste of the valuable time to keep walking in and out, deliberately avoiding any type of focused veneration. She decided that she would stroll through the street first, looking at the windows, feeling for the pull. And if such sensation comes, she will trust it and go in.
Is she surprised now that it is the smallest, the most stuffed, the impossible to navigate shop with an unfriendliest shopkeeper imaginable that’s called to her? Not at all. The woman is mad at her for something and clearly wants her and Cassandra to leave.
Regina quickly absorbs the situation. There is a Japanese-speaking American guy inside. In his hands is a tray that already holds about twelve netsukes and okimonos. The guy looks like a dealer. Not a New Yorker, but definitely East Coast. Maybe Boston. A regular customer. Looking straight at Regina, he says something to the Japanese woman and laughs. They probably think that she is just an idle tourist. They, on the other hand, are conducting business. It’s understandable. Regina turns around and leaves the place with Cassandra right behind her.
They go across the street. It’s a gallery exhibiting some middlebrow vintage prints. Regina gives it a brief glance and then turns to watch the door of the shop they just left. It doesn’t take long. She didn’t think it would – the dude looked to be at the limit of his investment capital over there. She waits for him to clear the door and walk away.
They go back. The door is now locked and there is no bell. Hmm, does she think she’s done for today? Regina knocks. And she knocks again. The angry woman appears in the door’s glass. Japanese or not, she cannot hide her surprise: idle tourists would be back in their hotels already. Regina and Cassandra both bow. Deep. The door cracks. “Sumimasen,” they sing in unison. And they are in.
The first item Regina points at is a kagamibuta netsuke she spotted on her first entrance. One-inch button with a bronze inset inlaid with gold and silver. It depicts an old Japanese man sitting under a pine playing cat’s cradle on his fingers and toes. It signifies the importance of idle times. She doesn’t ask how much. They can haggle after she finishes her selection.
After that everything goes as smoothly as in a dream. The seven gods, all clustered together into a two-inch mountain of formidable spiritual powers. Regina’s favorite mythological character – smiling Kitsune with his walking stick, nine tails hidden under the long robe. A couple of Oni demons whiling their time in a friendly wrestling match. A rare find – a breathtaking female samurai bent against the wind, her entire body showing strain and tiredness. Regina gently caresses the intricate ornaments of the kimono, the sword, and the traveling hat.
The shopkeeper is not angry anymore. She motions Regina towards a small ancient cabinet and opens its doors. Wow… The narrow shelves hold a selection of netsukes – all depicting geishas in elaborate roping. Kinbaku… No, it’s a much older style… Shibari. This is not roping just for the sake of the art… What’s up with these Japanese shopkeepers? What do they see?
Regina takes one of them. The young woman is exquisite. Naked. Very elaborately tattooed. The ivory skin has nearly translucent quality and the flesh gives in under the rope, slightly swelling from the tightness. Carefully turning it over and over in her fingers, Regina absorbs the expressiveness of the facial features, the twist of the shoulders, the curl of fingers and toes, the turn of the head, the strand of hair crawling down the neck… The knots and the coils… The legs are tied bent but nothing fixes them into their raised position… She sets the netsuke down on the counter in front of her – first the back up, then breasts up… There is something…
The tiny figurine holds within itself two distinct images: When she is on her back, her head is turned up and away, the neck is strained, and there are faint marks of bruises on her cheek, knee, and thighs; her shut eyes and opened mouth make her face look distorted. But when you set it with her tattooed back and buttocks up, her whole body looks relaxed, there are no bruises, and her face – turned sideways, cheek pressed to the surface – is an expression of pure ecstasy…
Regina holds her breath, astonished by the carver’s mastery in expressing the duality of sex – pain and pleasure, punishment and glory… The intricacy of the geisha’s story…
A long time ago, when artists were still regarded as treasures and warriors still carried their swords, there lived a courtesan named Niko – famous for her conversation, singing, and versatility. All her patrons were celebrated and powerful men…
This is what I heard…
The Artist comes early in the morning, when the sun just begins painting the sky with strokes of mauve, peach, and sage. On his right shoulder he carries a silk furoshiki full of parchments, inks, brushes, and other tools of his art. He wakes his lover with butterfly kisses and gentle caresses, making sure that he attends to every mō of her smooth and supple body. He takes silk ropes from his bundle and watches Niko in wonder, composing in his mind a shibari he is about to create. The Artist takes time binding his lover with skill and care, assuring her utmost pleasure. As he advances from one stage to the next, he tests his work as well as the depths and heights of Niko’s pleasure, cherishing every climax she achieves. And when he judges the masterpiece complete, he slides his loving hands over Niko’s slender shoulders and back towards her hips and slowly pulls her onto himself, moving deep into her, as she screams in joy and ecstasy…
The Warrior comes when the pines around the house are drowned in darkness, carrying on his left shoulder a coil of the coarsest ropes. As she listens to the sounds of her servants unbuckling the Warrior out of his armor, Niko braces herself for a struggle. She knows that it is expected of her. This is what the Warrior enjoys. As he grabs her, Niko flutters in his rough and brutal hands like a precious koi. The coarse rope scrapes Niko’s pearly skin; deep clutches and hard pinches bruise her flesh. Her back pressed to the tatami, she clenches her teeth and turns her face away from his cruel smile, while he attacks her insides and twists her roped breasts with all his savage might. He slams deeper and deeper into her until she cries out in anguish and ecstasy…
“Eh, Mom!”
Regina shakes her head to come back to reality. Cassandra looks at her in that special way Regina knows well, indicating that she is acting nutsy-cuckoo to the point of embarrassing her daughter. She raises her eyes to the now-smiling Japanese woman behind the counter and carefully places her Niko together with the other netsukes she already selected.
Ready to check out, Regina reaches into her cross-body bag for the card holder, but the shopkeeper pays her no attention. She walks toward another glass case and comes back with what looks like a two-inch okimono of an oblong peach covered with all sorts of leaves, tiny flowers, insects, a bird perched on the top. The fruit’s skin is highly polished, but all the adorning carvings are decorated in polychrome and encrusted with mother-of-pearl. Cassandra takes a deep breath, “Wow!” And yes, it’s magnificent.
Regina shakes her head, though—she collects netsukes. “Okimono?” she says, raising her voice on the last syllable to indicate her doubts.
The shopkeeper shakes her head in dissent, places two fingers on the five-millimeter bird and pulls it up. It’s a tiny spoon. Cassandra gasps, “It’s a cocaine vial!”
How does she know these things?
Regina envisions Niko—wrapping kimono around her tiny shoulders, kneeling in front of the black-lacquer vanity, pulling on the bird, and sniffing a bit of the white powder to subdue her soul…
How can I leave it behind?
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