‘What utter rot,’ snorted Gael. ‘That Kappa is nothing but an attention-seeker, as self-obsessed as all artists are …’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Judge Pep quietly, staring at the end of one of his gold-tipped cigarettes. ‘I saw him, too, the other night. He was standing with his arms folded in front of a small house, staring in through the window at a family of Kappa at dinner: a husband, a wife and their three children. Of course, I asked him what on earth he was doing, peeping in on this family. But Tock sighed and then, shaking his head, said something about envying such scenes of family life, and how a good plate of scrambled eggs is much more wholesome than any love affair or work of art …’
‘Tock might have a point there,’ I said. ‘But I really do think we should encourage him to seek some help.’
‘I’ve already tried,’ said Mag. ‘I suggested he consult our good friend Dr Chack here, but Tock simply would not listen to me, muttering something about not being an anarchist, how I should always remember that, and how he would never have anything to do with doctors anyway, even with our good Dr Chack here …’
The doctor adjusted his pince-nez on his beak, then declared, ‘There is no such thing as a lost cause.’
‘You’re all wasting your breath,’ said Gael. ‘That Kappa is too narcissistic and self-absorbed to ever contemplate suicide, trust me …’
But at that very moment, the sharp report of a revolver rang out, echoing and reverberating, shaking the walls and the air, outside and in –
‘Tock,’ shouted Mag. ‘That came from Tock’s house, I’m certain, quite certain. Quick, quick, to Tock’s house!’
We all sprang to our feet and rushed round to Tock’s house, running up the stairs into Gakikutsu –
There in his study, amidst the piles of books and papers, sprawled among the pots of alpine plants, Tock lay face up on the mats, a revolver in his right hand, blood still pouring, streaming and spurting from the concave saucer on the top of his head, and by his side, on her knees, her face buried in his breast, a female Kappa was wailing and weeping loudly.
Gently, fighting my instinctive aversion to touching the slimy skin of a Kappa, I lifted her to her feet and asked, ‘What on earth happened?’
‘I don’t know,’ she cried. ‘I don’t know. He was just writing something, when, before I knew it, he’d picked up the revolver, stuck it to his head and pulled the trigger. Oh, what shall I do? Whatever shall I do?’
‘How thoughtless, self-centred and selfish Tock truly was,’ said Gael to Judge Pep. ‘Never thinking of others, always wanting his own way …’
Judge Pep lit another of his gold-tipped cigarettes and said nothing, silently watching Dr Chack at work.
The doctor was kneeling over Tock, examining the wound. Now he stood up, adjusted his pince-nez and announced, ‘There is nothing to be done. Tock is dead. I know he was suffering from chronic dyspepsia, and that alone would be enough to give someone of his disposition the excuse he needed.’
‘His woman said he was writing something,’ murmured Mag to himself, picking up a piece of paper from the desk. And as the others craned their necks, I looked down over Mag’s shoulder to read –
Now I shall up and go
to the valley which divides this secular world.
The rock-face is steep,
the mountain-spring clear,
this valley scented with flowering herbs.
Mag put down the piece of paper and, with a tart smile, he said, ‘Those words are by Goethe, from his poem “Mignon”. So even Tock’s last testament, even his suicide note, his very last words are cribbed from the work of somebody else. No wonder Tock blew out his brains! Our poet knew he was completely, totally and utterly burnt out.’
Of course, as they were all reading and discussing Tock’s last words, I was thinking of the postscript to The Book of Tock, the manuscript sitting on my desk back in my own study, wondering whether or not I should say anything. But motor cars were arriving now, crowds gathering outside, the room filling up; Craback the musician was already here, and Lap the student, too. And all the while, the female Kappa was still weeping bitterly, and the sight of one so lost and suffering so touched and tugged on my heart.
Softly, I put my arm around her shoulders and led her towards a sofa in the corner of the room where a very young Kappa, no more than two years old, was innocently still smiling. I began to play with the child, hoping to distract it and so ease its poor mother’s burden, until I felt the tears in my own eyes welling up, too; I confess, throughout my whole time in the land of the Kappa, this was the only moment I ever shed tears.
‘What a pitiful misfortune,’ Gael was saying, ‘what a sorry lot, to find oneself a member of the family of such a selfish, self-centred and self-obsessed Kappa as Tock, don’t we all agree?’
‘Quite so,’ replied Judge Pep, lighting another gold-tipped cigarette. ‘Tock gave no thought whatsoever to his family, his poor offspring, and made no provision whatsoever for their future.’
‘Capital!’ cried Craback the musician to the surprise of us all, the draft of Tock’s last poem still clutched in his hand. ‘I’ve just thought of an absolutely splendid funeral march. I’ve not a moment to lose. Farewell
