© Denis-Jose François
CHAPTER SIX - In the police records the inquisitor made a note of his deep sadness for the doctor's untimely death. His tears fell on photosensitive paper, reproducing tiny tearlets that evaporated in brittle air bubbles. Chemistry. Afterwards, he concentrated on the official report.
At first he wrote that the doctor died in unknown circumstances. So much so that a homicide was feared. Or a perfect suicide. And in this case it was necessary to find sound justifications, since the doctor himself didn't kindly leave a message. It so happens, the inquisitor wrote, that some semi-illiterate fellow kills himself and leaves pages of forgiveness (although the semi-illiterate seldom kill themselves, noted the inquisitor). They are pitiful pages, or rather, worthy of pity, full of wishes and farewells.
And it so happens, the inquisitor wrote, that as the level of culture increases, the letters become leaner and more essential (a parable in the form of a question mark, straight to the heart of the reader. A recommendation. A mute sarcasm made of terse and precise allusions). So, the suicide of a man of culture is always the suicide of a man of culture. Cold, maybe. And rational, under certain aspects. A suicide that considers wealth more than it does money. Shame more than honor. That doesn't mend, but erases. The fastest and most painless. A suicide for which one asks that comments not be made. Because the man of culture knows that comments will be made. And since he is so very solicitous, he is afraid that someone may suffer because of them.

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