The Rope Artist
(Sprache: Englisch)
The aftermath of the murder of a bondage teacher reveals the darkest corners of the human mind in this chilling new mystery from the master of Japanese literary noir.
Two detectives. Two identical women. One dead body then two, then three, then...
Two detectives. Two identical women. One dead body then two, then three, then...
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The aftermath of the murder of a bondage teacher reveals the darkest corners of the human mind in this chilling new mystery from the master of Japanese literary noir.Two detectives. Two identical women. One dead body then two, then three, then four. All knotted up in Japan s underground BDSM scene and kinbaku, a form of rope bondage which bears a complex cultural history of spirituality, torture, cleansing, and sacrifice.
As Togashi, a junior member of the police force, investigates the murder of a kinbaku instructor, he finds himself unable to resist his own private transgressive desires. In contrast, Togashi s Sherlock Holmesian colleague Hayama is morally upright to a fault, with a stalwart commitment to the truth and nearly superhuman powers of deduction. When Hayama notices a dangerous measure of darkness within Togashi, he embarks on a parallel investigation, which soon spirals out of control.
Unflinching in its flayed-raw treatment of identity, violence, sexuality, power, the occult, and the divine, The Rope Artist is both viscerally painful and unexpectedly hopeful a genre homage that shines a light on the most dangerous elements of the human psyche.
Lese-Probe zu „The Rope Artist “
1When I was a kid, I got sucked into a tiny whirlpool.
The waves were not especially high. Something heavy pulled me down, then my feet lost touch with the bottom and I went under, sinking into the abyss. Swallowing my juvenile body, the whirlpool did the only thing that it knew how to do: spin downward.
It hit me that this whirlpool was a part of a gigantic ocean, as obvious as that may sound. Appearing out of nowhere, it swallowed me like it had stuffed me in a bag. Water rushed into my throat, ignoring my attempts to cough it out. I felt the whirlpool passing through my body, but a kind stranger scooped me up. My face broke through the surface of the water.
Whirlpool, I told this strange adult, but all he did was shake his head. You d think he thought I had pretended I was drowning. A neglected child, oblivious to all the trouble he might cause, trying to capture the attention of any adult who would listen. To a grown man, the water was embarrassingly shallow. The arm that he had hooked around me was suntanned, two big moles in a row on the part of his skin just under my nose.
She vanished, I thought. When I was being sucked down by the whirlpool, in the middle of it all, I could have sworn I saw the figure of a woman. But no, it must have been some kind of fantasy, washing over me. A woman in the middle of the water, bobbing in the waves. A woman swatting her bony fingers at the waves that threatened to tear off her bathing suit like countless hands. She had to. Otherwise, her body would be seen by all these people. Her long black hair fanned out and undulated in the water. Through the blueness of the moving sea, her body was a distant flash of white. But it had vanished. Had I really seen her? I began to have my doubts. In the kind arms of the stranger, I was pulled out of the water to the safety of the beach.
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My head was spinning. Colorful food carts selling ice cream and soft drinks lined the beach. Watery blue and pink, in harmony with the colors of the ocean and the sky. Little by little, though, the palette of the landscape fell out of balance. It was like the sky itself had sighed at me. As if to say, You had to show up, didn t you? As if to say, We were in perfect harmony. Then you showed up.
THE INVESTIGATORS CRAWLED across the carpet on their hands and knees. The one tasked with capturing pictures flashed his camera. It made a glaring burst of light; the afterimage lingered on my retinae like a bruise. A mass of red, purple and blue, floating persistently before
my eyes.
What s wrong? Ichioka asked. This can t be your first dead body.
I had spaced out. His tone contained an air of ridicule. But I had a way of smiling at this sort of thing.
Sorry about that, I said, trying to come up with an excuse. I m still drunk after last night.
My head ached. Again the camera flashed. I wished I could escape the repeated bursts of light.
What made me think about the woman and the whirlpool? I suppose I could have thought about it voluntarily. Every few years, I seemed compelled to recollect what I had seen that day, as if the memory eclipsed my consciousness. Last year, for instance, that night I stepped out for some cigarettes. At the edge of my vision, I felt a shadow darker than the rest. When I asked myself what it could be, my thoughts turned to the woman and the whirlpool. I moved in the direction of the shadow, but it was nothing, just a bar closed down for the night, no light behind the sign. It was well into fall, but a cicada clung to the telephone p
THE INVESTIGATORS CRAWLED across the carpet on their hands and knees. The one tasked with capturing pictures flashed his camera. It made a glaring burst of light; the afterimage lingered on my retinae like a bruise. A mass of red, purple and blue, floating persistently before
my eyes.
What s wrong? Ichioka asked. This can t be your first dead body.
I had spaced out. His tone contained an air of ridicule. But I had a way of smiling at this sort of thing.
Sorry about that, I said, trying to come up with an excuse. I m still drunk after last night.
My head ached. Again the camera flashed. I wished I could escape the repeated bursts of light.
What made me think about the woman and the whirlpool? I suppose I could have thought about it voluntarily. Every few years, I seemed compelled to recollect what I had seen that day, as if the memory eclipsed my consciousness. Last year, for instance, that night I stepped out for some cigarettes. At the edge of my vision, I felt a shadow darker than the rest. When I asked myself what it could be, my thoughts turned to the woman and the whirlpool. I moved in the direction of the shadow, but it was nothing, just a bar closed down for the night, no light behind the sign. It was well into fall, but a cicada clung to the telephone p
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Autoren-Porträt von Fuminori Nakamura
Fuminori Nakamura was born in 1977 and graduated from Fukushima University in 2000. He has won numerous prizes for his writing, including Japan s prestigious e Prize; the David L. Goodis Award for Noir Fiction; and the Akutagawa Prize. The Thief, his first novel to be translated into English, was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. His other novels include Cult X, The Gun, The Kingdom, Evil and the Mask, The Boy in the Earth, My Annihilation, and Last Winter, We Parted.Sam Bett is a fiction writer and Japanese translator. His translation work has won the Japan-US Friendship Commission Prize and been shortlisted for the International Booker Prize.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Fuminori Nakamura
- 2024, 288 Seiten, Maße: 13,9 x 20,9 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Übersetzer: Sam Bett
- Verlag: Penguin Random House US
- ISBN-10: 1641295694
- ISBN-13: 9781641295697
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
Praise for The Rope ArtistNakamura specializes in combining elements from disparate genres. The Rope Artist, translated by Sam Bett, is his most extreme juxtaposition yet. The book mixes the tropes and trappings of a noir novel with the tortured perceptions of a Poe protagonist and the cruel pleasures of the Marquis de Sade.
Tom Nolan, The Wall Street Journal
[Nakamura] employs the tactics of pulp novelists to tell a story that exists somewhere in the nexus of grindhouse and Shinto religious practices. The surprisingly philosophical narrative also investigates power dynamics in sexual relationships, and the nature of dominance and submission in role play.
The Toronto Star
Nakamura s cool, calculated prose is the perfect fit for this seedy tale.
CrimeReads
Nakamura has a penchant for the dark and depraved . . . A mind-bending mystery that burrows into the brains of its characters and excavates the darkness of their inner lives.
Tokyo Weekender
Nakamura fearlessly portrays violence, eroticism and inner darkness that slowly unravels like a tangled rope.
GaijinPot
A surreal tsunami of sex, politics, religion, imperialism, and haunting memories . . . Identities are altered, licentious secrets revealed in Nakamura s unflinching, emotionally charged rewarding read.
The National Book Review
The Rope Artist is full of damaged lives and dark reflection, more concerned with what (often very twisted things) lurks within the heart than laying out a neat murder-mystery.
The Complete Review
Raw eroticism, untethered justice, unreliable narratives, and psychological twists infuse this complex literary mystery with edgy danger and lingering existential questions.
Booklist
Gorgeous and lurid. Definitely not for the faint of heart.
Deadly Pleasures Mystery Magazine
[Nakamura] produces a stunning climactic surprise that will make you think
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of this particular case, and erotic bondage generally, in a whole new way. Spellbinding.
Kirkus Reviews
Praise for Fuminori Nakamura
Japan Objects' Best Japanese Authors of All Time
[A] lurid and intellectually ambitious new thriller . . . Every time you think you grasp what s going on, Nakamura reminds you that you are not in control here. Perhaps you are never in control.
The New York Times Book Review
Nakamura's impassioned writing is part of a continuum that stretches from Dostoevsky to Camus to e.
Los Angeles Times
You ll think about Nakamura s questions long after you ve closed his book s covers.
NPR
[Nakamura] has made a career out of pushing the boundaries of existential horror, shining a light on the darkest shadows of humanity . . . This chilling psychological mystery about a violent crime promises not to disappoint. Expect anything but a happy ending.
The Japan Times
Kirkus Reviews
Praise for Fuminori Nakamura
Japan Objects' Best Japanese Authors of All Time
[A] lurid and intellectually ambitious new thriller . . . Every time you think you grasp what s going on, Nakamura reminds you that you are not in control here. Perhaps you are never in control.
The New York Times Book Review
Nakamura's impassioned writing is part of a continuum that stretches from Dostoevsky to Camus to e.
Los Angeles Times
You ll think about Nakamura s questions long after you ve closed his book s covers.
NPR
[Nakamura] has made a career out of pushing the boundaries of existential horror, shining a light on the darkest shadows of humanity . . . This chilling psychological mystery about a violent crime promises not to disappoint. Expect anything but a happy ending.
The Japan Times
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