7

A DAY OF CONTRASTS. Akiko, taken up with the garden, plants shrubbery, all Japanese. Firs or pines. (Or both. I do not know anything about plants.) She has a longing for a world she never knew, or rather, has caught mere glimpses of on brief visits to the places of her parent’s infancies, having loved, above all, the gardens, simultaneously glamorous and spare. She, too, is glamorous and spare, as is the house, its luminous spaces solarized by things that give off light: lacquer ware, ceramics. (The world solarized is hers; a word I had never heard spoken aloud before I met her.) My irritation with marriage suggests that my wife is precious, perhaps. Snip, snap, she trims the shrubbery; I see her gaze for hours at a thing to assure some perfection invisible to me. For days she considers a view beyond a reach of trees, beneath a bough, between this sprig and that; she considers her entire universe in the same way she does her collages. When I first met her and I asked her what she did, she said, Oh, I rush after beauty! It’s something of a habit, a compulsion—that instant her laughter filled me with joy. And although it had never happened before, our paths began to cross. We met for lunch. She told me about things I had never heard about, let alone thought about. Netsuke. The frottages of Max Ernst. I began to reconsider the collections of Mexican folk art I had bought hastily, without much thought. I began to disengage from my marriage. I scheduled Akiko in. I began to plan my weeks around her.

Today, as Akiko roams the grounds, I am locked away in Drear with a forlorn house painter, a man both self deprecating and pretentious, who obsesses over bushes of another kind, Kaitlin, a high school sweetheart whose thatch bubbled like a sea anemone in the bath. Black, luxuriant. Where, he wonders (he has for years) is Kaitlin now? She’d be sixty-four, as is he. He envies me (we are roughly the same age) for my full head of hair. Kaitlin must be gray by now. And my salary. Gazing out the picture window at one of Akiko’s impeccable vistas, he says: you have more, much more, than I ever even dared aspire to.

“I should have dared!” he cries out, his voice strangled by a sob, “and now I’m bald and Kaitlin, all the Kaitlins, out of reach.”

Then he tells me his terrible tale.

Early in the week he had managed to slip away from his wife, who treats him imperiously and with a chronic distrust—for a full two hours. He found what he wanted: a peepshow. (I know the place he means; a dismal joint that needs an airing out, new carpeting, and better bathroom fixtures, etc.) He paid his money, sat down alone in the little cell provided, and waited breathlessly for a glimpse of Kaitlin in the bath, one last glimpse! For this was exactly how he imagined it, that the peepshow would provide a trip back in time. The woman appeared and without ceremony spread her legs, her pussy as hairless as an omelet. The experience has devastated him.

For the rest of the hour, he rambles on and on about Kaitlin, his own wife’s ineptitudes, her packaged mashed potatoes, the way everything around him is shutting down, the fact that nothing since that view of Kaitlin in the bathtub has answered his hopes; the terrible memory of seeing a fellow named Brad necking with his sweetheart at the drive-in nearly fifty years ago, how the sorrow of that moment has haunted him throughout his life.

“I cannot shake it, Doctor! I cannot shake it!”

My client’s words clatter like gravel on the roof of my mind. I begin to wonder what Akiko has planned for dinner. I think: pad thai, attempting telepathy.

As important as ideas are, nothing serves the self better than the flesh.

Fucking, at its best, is silent. And yet what I have learned in my Practice is this: people want to talk about it all the time.

That evening over Akiko’s gorgeous saffroned scallops I blurted:

“An endless day! Endless. Tedious. How good these are!” I told her, feeling unusually expansive. “The hours away from you are long.”

“It will be good,” said my wife, “when we can finally get away together.”

But I cannot take a vacation. For one thing, a vacation means spending hour after hour in close proximity to Akiko and I might drop another clue. I always do. I cannot help myself. Worse than that I might find myself spilling more than clues.

And she is a sweet person; my wife is a beautiful person. Kind. Perhaps too kind. A love like hers demands too much. She has her own practice. She practices innocence, blindness even. And this despite her worldliness, her sophistication.

We were discussing my book.

“All this talk I do with them!” I blurted out, impatient all at once with everything, “be damned! Let them go out and burn off their defeats with unbridled promiscuity!”

Akiko took this as a joke of course.

“Might work,” she said. “Except sex is pretty much what fucked them up in the first place.”

It is possible that, if I have lost patience with ideas and with the vehicle that conveys them from our teeth and tongue and out into the air, it is because so many of my clients don’t know how to think. Inevitably they confuse apples with oranges. Because their parents confused love with hate, they have never learned how to listen to the inner logic of the flesh. Their lifesaving intuitive capacities must be uncovered, honed, and spurred.

My science is an embodied science.

There was a time, not very long ago, a lifetime ago, when he had loved Akiko as he had never loved before, or, at least, this is how it seemed. In Akiko he was sure he had found someone incapable of viciousness, brilliant, worthy. Yet even this was not enough to keep him from the things he is compelled to do to keep his head above water. He wades in heavy, black water that is always threatening to flood his life. There was a time with Akiko when the danger receded, but one day he awakened beside her and the safety she brought him had dissolved. Now he wears his horror in the world like a cloak and only in Spells or at the offset of a liaison can he shake it off.

The proximity of the house he shares with his wife and the room where he betrays her and establishes his illicit itineraries has become problematic. He begins to consider shifting Spells to an office downtown. A downtown office is easy to justify. There are potential clients put off by the drive out to a residential neighborhood: a drive both time-consuming and expensive. He tells Akiko a downtown office will extend his clientele.

The Cutter has much to do with this. She is his current infatuation and perhaps his most dangerous. Lucy is risky, but she is a lightweight. If Akiko found out, she would be angry but not severely undone. He would be forgiven. But the Cutter. She is acute bad weather.

He knows he must manage the affair better than he has; that he will have to end it before long. Weathers of all kinds have begun to change. He begins to seriously resent his wife’s purity. And yet he is—although he won’t be for long—grateful for her capacity to both love him and give him a great deal of room. He thinks it is fortunate, that she, too, needs room.

For now all the rest is the edge upon which he glides. It is a necessary edge; he would not know how to live without it. But it is growing sharper and soon it will be razor thin. So there is this edge and on either side the dark water that will someday claim him. There is no way out of it. None that he can see.

The downtown cabinet is his way of acknowledging to himself the risk he is in and the essential part risk plays in his life. These days he sleeps little, but when he does it is like sinking in cold mud. He awakens bruised and shaken. At dawn he enters the bathroom to shower. But first he goes to the mirror and examines his teeth.

There is a brief moment when he sees Akiko carrying an armful of pruned branches against her chest. In that moment, there is no understanding why, he is overwhelmed with loss. He wonders if they will survive the winter.

There is a daughter, from a second marriage, he is not allowed to see. He begins to think about her. And then he thinks about other things.