by David Peace
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, Tock.’
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 but resigned smile upon his lips, stepping into the river, wading into the water, he began to hum the tune of the popular ‘Boatman’s Song’, with its refrain, ‘I am dead grass on the riverbank. You are dead grass on the bank as well / I am dead grass on the riverbank …’
‘Stop! Wait,’ shouted a voice. ‘What are you doing?’
Waist-high in the water, weighed down by the stones, Y turned his face back to the bank. And there, at the water’s edge, stood an old man, his arms outstretched, his palms open, beckoning and beseeching him: ‘Stop! Stop! Come back, come here …’
But over the sound of the waves, the call of the current, Y shouted, ‘No! No, I do not deserve to live. I am resolved to die.’
‘Then I will come to you,’ said the old man, stepping into the river, wading through the water, out towards Y, ‘and join you.’
The wind was rising now, the river moving faster now, the old man already unsteady in his footing, the old man quickly slipping under the water. And Y shook his head, and Y cursed his luck; he could not even die in peace. And Y turned back in the river, and Y waded back through the current, pulling the old man back above the water, dragging the old man back to the bank, until they reached the river’s edge and fell upon its bank –
Now side by side, Y and the old man lay upon the land, their faces turned towards the sky, gasping for air and panting for breath, soaked through their skins, soaked to their bones –
‘Thank you,’ said the old man. ‘You saved me.’
Y laughed, Y snorted and said, ‘You left me no choice.’
‘No,’ said the old man. ‘There is always a choice.’
Y laughed again. ‘Yes. Hobson’s choice.’
‘It’s still a choice,’ said the old man. ‘To take it or leave it, to act or not.’
Y sighed. ‘Well, I had made my choice. And I had decided to act. But thanks to you, here I am again, on the riverbank, having failed even to die. So thank you, for nothing.’
‘Don’t despair,’ laughed the old man. ‘You may yet die of hypothermia. But assuming you don’t, I still owe you a debt of thanks for saving my own l
ife. And so if you should survive this night, when you first sense the light of the morning sun, then you will wake to find your reward. Use it or don’t, take it or leave it; that choice will be yours.’
His teeth chattering, his limbs trembling, Y closed his eyes and laughed. ‘If you’re gone, that will be reward enough for me …’
2
The winter sun strangely warm upon his face, its piercing rays dancing on his lids, the sound of boats upon the river, the scent of fukujusō on the breeze, yet with an aching pain in his back and in his neck, Y now opened his eyes. The sky above him was a brilliant bright December blue, with not one single cloud or wisp of smoke from a factory yet. Even the ground on which Y lay seemed no longer hard, his clothes no longer sodden, yet still this dull crick, in his back and in his neck. Rubbing his face, massaging his neck, Y now sat up and looked around him: he had been resting his head upon a pillow, the pillow a large furoshiki, the cloth a pattern of red and white waves, enfolding a giant bundle, held together in its knot.
Uncertain if he was dreaming, Y slowly undid the knot, Y slowly opened up the cloth, and then he froze, froze until Y blinked, and blinked again, and rubbed his eyes, and rubbed his eyes again. Now Y looked away, now Y looked around: the empty bank, the busy river; all here, all real. Y rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Certain now he was not dreaming, Y slowly reached out and touched the contents of the furoshiki: piles and piles of banknotes, all crisp and new, all neatly bound, more than he had ever seen, could ever have imagined. And there, lying on top of the piles of banknotes, was a sheaf of manuscript paper and a fountain pen. Y picked up the pen and the manuscript and quickly began leafing through the papers; all were blank but for the first page, on which was written: A Postscript.
Swiftly now, glancing about him, Y put the papers and the pen back on top of the piles of banknotes. Swifter still, Y retied the knot, picked up the furoshiki and began to hurry away, as fast as he could carry the bundle, to stumble away, back to the city – under the blue sky now bleaching white, to the shrill chords of factory whistles – back to the city, back to its lights, and back to the life, the life he’d thought lost …
In the course of one night, Y had become richer than he had ever dreamed possible, and Y wasted no time in purchasing both a house in Hongō and a villa in Kamakura. But Y knew he had been given a second chance, a second chance he had not deserved, and so he was determined to cherish this chance, this gift he had been given. And so Y began to write again, with the paper and the pen he had been left, soon completing a short shishōsetsu novel that, naturally enough, he called –
A Postscript.
Immediately upon publication, the book was hailed as a masterpiece, embraced by readers of all ages, and welcomed as an antidote to these ever-darkening times of naked self-interest and spiritual bankruptcy.
But lauded and loved as he was, Y struggled to write another work, succumbing once again to the temptations and vices of the Literary Life in the Big City, its pleasures of the flesh, its distractions of the mind. For Y was not short of pleasures and distractions now: friends old and new, all fake now, lovers old and new, all professional now, flocked again to gather around Y as his time passed in nights of oblivion and days of regret, while the papers and pen lay abandoned and forgotten, the nights and days turning to months and years, until first the villa in Kamakura and then the house in Hongō were lost, and Y found himself once again under a black and starless sky, on the banks of the Sumida River, with nowhere to stay, with nothing to eat, not a coin to his name, not a soul to count on, watching the waves, staring at the stones, knowing, knowing there was nothing else for it now…
‘I am dead grass on the riverbank. You are dead grass on the bank as well / I am dead grass …’
‘Well, well, well,’ said a familiar old voice in the cold, dark night. ‘Fancy meeting you here again.’
Shocked, Y turned to see the old man sitting beside him on the riverbank.
‘What luck,’ said the old man, ‘that our paths should cross again.’
Y shook his head and said, ‘It’s hardly luck, is it? You’ve been following me, stalking and spying on me, no doubt. Who are you? What do you want?’
‘I am simply a man with a debt,’ said the old man. ‘A grateful man, wishing to thank the person who saved my life. Nothing more …’
Y shook his head again and said, ‘Well, if that is truly the case, then you more than repaid me. So forget any sense of debt; you owe me nothing.’
‘No! How can you say that,’ asked the old man. ‘The gift of life is the most precious gift there is. It can never be repaid in full. And so lay your head upon these stones, upon this riverbank, and when you first sense the light of the morning sun, then you will wake again to find your reward. Please lay down your head, please now close your eyes …’
Shocked again, Y felt himself caught in a sudden tempest of emotions and sensations: the promise of blank sheets of paper, the urgency of a flowing pen and its words upon those sheets, the applause of his critics, the adulation of his readers, the scent of alcohol, the taste of women, pride and greed, gluttony and lust, oblivion and regret, bankruptcy and despair, a black and starless sky, the riverbank, the stones and the water …
‘No,’ said Y. ‘No, thank you. I return your gift, I refuse your gift. For I am not worthy to receive it. Please give it to someone else. For I would only squander it again. And so I do not want it.’
‘Then tell me,’ asked the old man, ‘what do you want?’
And now, for the first time, Y saw the old man, saw the old man as he truly was: far from being the eccentric philanthropist Y had once imagined, the old man sat beside him now was dressed in threadbare, stinking rags, his hair long and matted, his skin ingrained with dirt, ancient and weather-beaten. And Y reached out and took the old man’s hand, squeezed it in his own and said, ‘I want to live as you live, I want to be as you are. Please take me as your disciple. Please, I beg you. Please teach me …’
For a long while, the old man was silent, staring down at his own hand pressed tightly between Y’s hands. Then slowly, the old man raised his face and stared into Y’s eyes and said, ‘What you are asking is far from easy. What you are asking involves great pain and suffering. So please look into your heart, please ask yourself, Is this truly what I want?’
His grip tightening, Y nodded and said, ‘It is, it is. Believe me, please.’
‘Then if you’re truly certain,’ said the old man, ‘I will do as you ask.’
Elated, Y shouted with joy, ‘Thank you! Thank you!’
‘No,’ whispered the old man. ‘For this you do not need to thank me, and for this you will not thank me. Just remember: you asked for this, and remain certain in your heart, be certain in your heart …’
Y nodded and said, ‘I will, I will …’
‘Then please now close your eyes …’
And Y closed his eyes.
‘And only open them again on the count of three,’ said the old man. ‘One, two …
‘3’
The air thin, the wind biting and his footing precarious, Y opened his eyes; the world had vanished, leaving only the clouds around him and the ground beneath him. Y tried to steady himself, timidly shifting from foot to foot. Y tried to get his bearings, nervously straining to even glimpse his feet: Y seemed to be standing on a flowing heaping of tumbled fragments, rolling and turning under his feet, empty shells bursting beneath him, clattering and crashing down, down, down with soft, hollow echoings as faint, cold fires lighted and died at every breaking far down, down, down below him. Dizzy and nauseous with fear and vertigo, Y closed his eyes, and Y cried out, ‘Where am I? Where am I? What is this place?’
Now Y felt a hand upon his arm, steady and sure, and Y opened his eyes again; the clouds had parted and the old man was stood beside him, dressed in a coat of shining white feathers, his head clean and shaved, his skin translucent and newborn.
Y reached for the old man’s hand, gripping and squeezing
it in his own, tighter and tighter, asking, ‘Where am I? Tell me, what is this place?’
‘Look,’ said the old man. ‘Just look, and then you’ll see.’
And now, for the first time, Y saw this place, saw this place for what and where it truly was: not ground, not ground beneath him, not ground above nor ground about him, but naked steeps, steeps of heapings, yes, but endless heapings, heapings of fragments, yes, but measureless and monstrous, of skulls, of skulls and fragments of skulls, and of teeth and bone, of bone and dust of bone, all strewn, all drifting in the wrack of some eternal tide.
