Tock looked up at me with a start, trying to place me, and then said, ‘Ah, ah, A-san, you came at last. Thank you …’
Tock stood up. His body seemed almost emaciated as he walked over to one of his many piles of books and papers. He picked up an envelope, then handed it to me, saying, ‘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 abrupt and demanding,’ said Tock. ‘But if you are inclined to read the shabby story contained inside that envelope, I’d be very grateful if you would do so later, at your leisure.’
‘Of course,’ I replied, ‘but thank you. I’m honoured.’
‘The honour is mine,’ said Tock. ‘And if I could beg one last honour, would you stroll with me a while and allow me to treat you to some tea and sweets?’
And so that day, the two of us strolled through the twilight until very late in the evening, spending some hours in one particular sweet parlour. Sadly, I cannot now recall all our conversations, all Tock said that night. However, I do remember one moment, as we were both indulging in a second bowl of sweet-bean soup, when Tock 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.’
Tock looked forlorn as he said, ‘Would that were true for me, too! In my case, I’m 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 Tock. ‘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, and so on, and so on …’
‘And you’ve had this dream more than once?’
‘Every night,’ sighed Tock. ‘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 Tock 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 …
The Book of Tock: A Postscript
In the land of the Humans, in the country of Japan, at the heart of their capital in Tokyo, lies Jimbōchō, an area which is home to hundreds of bookstores, some large and selling new books, but mostly small and dealing in old or rare texts. Recently, on one of my nocturnal excursions to this land downriver, sneaking into Tamura Shoten for the night, I came across a compendium entitled Taishō Monogatari. Among the many interesting stories in this diverse collection was one by a certain Yasukichi Horikawa. I had not heard of Yasukichi Horikawa and, despite extensive enquiries on my part, I have been unable to find any record of the author, other than his story …
La Mort d’un Auteur
… and which Horikawa introduces with the following note:
This poor excuse for a story is based upon Tu Tze-ch’un, a T’ang era tale, and the more recent popular retelling by my esteemed contemporary Mr Ryūnosuke Akutagawa. And so I make no claims for the originality of the following words, and can only beg any reader’s forgiveness for the liberties I have taken with the two preceding and vastly superior masterpieces upon which I have based my own shabby, sorry story …
And then it begins …
1
In the Age of Winter, at the death of Taishō, under a black and starless sky, north of Asakusa and south of Senju, on the banks of the Sumida River, Y was cold and hungry. Once Y had been a celebrated and successful author, well praised and widely read. But Y had succumbed to the temptations and vices of the Literary Life in the Big City, with all its pleasures of the flesh, its distractions of the mind, and Y had squandered first his talent and then his means. And so Y had lost all he had been given: his readers, his publishers, his friends, fake and real, his lovers, professional and amateur, and finally even his family. And now Y found himself here, in the winter night, on the riverbank, with nowhere to stay, with nothing to eat, not a coin to his name, not a soul to count on. And Y looked up at the black sky, and Y looked down at the black river, looked down and then stared out, across the dark water, over its polluted depths, his eyes smarting in the wind, his voice cracking in the night. ‘There is nothing else for it …’
Slowly, Y got to his feet. Methodically, Y began to search the riverbank for stones. And one by one, Y picked up the stones he found, and one by one, Y put them in the pockets of his thin and tattered overcoat, until the coat hung heavy upon his shoulders.
Slowly, Y walked down to the river’s edge and, with a certain sad
