‘Thank you for inviting me, Sensei.’
Akutagawa stood up. His yukata was loose, his underwear clearly visible and very grey, and his body beneath seemed even more emaciated. He walked over to one of his many piles of books and papers. He picked up an envelope, then handed it to me and said, ‘If it’s not a great burden and inconvenience for you, I’d like to entrust this manuscript to you.’
Of course, I gratefully received the envelope and started to open it.
‘I’m sorry to be so abrupt and demanding,’ said Akutagawa, ‘but if you are inclined to read the shabby story contained inside that envelope, I’d be most grateful if you would do so later.’
‘Of course,’ I replied, ‘and thank you. I am honoured, Sensei.’
‘The honour is mine,’ said Akutagawa. ‘And if I could beg one last honour, would you stroll with me a while, allow me to treat you to some tea and sweets?’
And so that summer day, the two of us strolled through the twilight until late in the evening, spending some hours in one particular sweet parlour. Sadly, I cannot now recall all our conversations, all Akutagawa said that night. However, I do remember one moment, as we were both indulging in a second bowl of sweet-bean soup, when Akutagawa stifled a yawn and then suddenly said, ‘I’m having such terrible trouble sleeping, you know.’
‘Yes, it happens to me, too, from time to time,’ I said. ‘But usually after too much caffeine and tobacco.’
Akutagawa looked forlorn as he said, ‘Would that were true for me, too. In my case, I am being haunted by a horrible dream. But forgive me, it’s such a bore to have to suffer the dreams of others …’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘If in any way it may help you to share such a horrible dream, then by all means please do.’
‘Thank you,’ said Akutagawa. ‘Well then, in this dream, in a deserted, ruined and wasted garden, there is an iron castle with iron grilles on its narrow windows. Inside the iron castle, there is only one room. In the room, there is only one desk. At that desk, a creature who looks like me is writing in letters I cannot read a long poem about a creature who in another room is writing a poem about another creature who in another room is writing a poem, and so on on, and so on …’
‘And you’ve had this dream more than once?’
‘Every night,’ sighed Akutagawa. ‘The dream recurs, it never ends, but I can never read the poem. That is the most terrifying aspect; eternally, I will never be able to read the poem …’
I did not know what to say, nor can I now recall if in fact I did say anything. But I do remember thinking, that explained why Akutagawa was so keen to stay out so late, so reluctant to return home that night to sleep.
It was well past midnight when I returned to my own home. However, my curiosity outweighed my tiredness, so I opened up the envelope, took out the manuscript, and I began to read, to read and to read …
Kappa: A Postscript
Late one morning, I received a telegram from Tock asking me to come as soon as I possibly could to his house.
Early on, after I had first found myself in the land of the Kappa, I had been befriended by a student called Lap. In turn, Lap had introduced me to Tock; Tock was a poet, and I often went to visit him as a way of passing time. I would always find him smoking and writing at his desk in his study, among his books and his papers, Kappa texts and Human texts – Jonathan Swift and William Morris, Hirata Atsutane and Kunio Yanagita, Oscar Wilde and Anatole France – so many texts, so many more, Tock surrounded by pots of alpine plants, a female Kappa sat in a corner of the room, silently knitting or sewing. Tock seemed not to have a care in the world, always greeting and welcoming me with a big warm smile, and we would sit for hours, talking about the life and art of the Kappa. Tock had very strong opinions and views on art, insisting art should be unfettered by any rules of life, art being purely for art’s sake and therefore the true artist should first and foremost be a Super-Kappa, existing beyond good and evil. Tock was not alone in holding such views, and he would occasionally take me to the Super-Kappa Club. In this salon, under bright electric lights, I found all sorts of other Super-Kappa: poets, novelists, dramatists, critics, painters, musicians and sculptors, both professional and amateur. Long into the night, they would smoke and drink and talk and shout and argue and fight about life and art, the meaning and worth of the one and the other. More-often-than-not, at the end of such an evening, Tock and I would stagger off arm in arm, slowly making our way home, occasionally even singing a song or two. As I say, Tock always seemed the most carefree Kappa I knew, and I could not imagine what had prompted his telegram, and so I hurried as fast as I could to his house.
On arriving, I was shown up to the second floor and entered Gakikutsu, the name Tock had given to his study, and which meant something like ‘Demon’s Cave’ or ‘Demon’s Lair’, after Gaki or ‘Demon Self’, a nom de plume he sometimes adopted. As usual, Tock was seated on the floor at his writing desk, among his books and plants, but today he was drawing thin, black, avian figures with one hand and chain-smoking with the other, his hair hanging long over his face, his eyes staring down at the paper.
I coughed and said, ‘Good afternoon,
