Author's NOTE This book was born as I was hungry. Let me explain. In the spring of 1996, my second book, a novel, came out in Canada. It didn't fare well. Reviewers were puzzled, or damned it with faint praise. Then readers ignored it. Despite my best efforts at playing the clown or the trapeze artist, the media circus made no difference. The book did not move. Books lined the shelves of bookstores like kids standing in a row to play baseball or soccer, and mine was the gangly, unathletic kid that no one wanted on their team. It vanished quickly and quietly. The fiasco did not affect me too much. I had already moved on to another story, a novel set in Portugal in 1939. Only I was feeling restless. And I had a little money. So I flew to Bombay. This is not so illogical if you realize three things: that a stint in India will beat the restlessness out of any living creature; that a little money can go a long way there; and that a novel set in Portugal in 1939 may have very little to do with Portugal in 1939. I had been to India before, in the north, for five months. On that first trip I had come to the subcontinent completely unprepared. Actually, I had a preparation of one word. When I told a friend who knew the country well of my travel plans, he said casually, "They speak a funny English in India. They like words like bamboozle." I remembered his words as my plane started its descent towards Delhi, so the word bamboozle was my one preparation for the rich, noisy, functioning madness of India. I used the word on occasion, and truth be told, it served me well. To a clerk at a train station I said, "I didn't think the fare would be so expensive. You're not trying to bamboozle me, are you?" He smiled and chanted, "No sir! There is no bamboozlement here. I have quoted you the correct fare." This second time to India I knew better what to expect and I knew what I wanted: I would settle in a hill station and write my novel. I had visions of myself sitting at a table on a large veranda, my notes spread out in front of me next to a steaming cup of tea. Green hills heavy with mists would lie at my feet and the shrill cries of monkeys would fill my ears. The weather would be just right, requiring a light sweater mornings and evenings, and something short-sleeved midday. Thus set up, pen in hand, for the sake of greater truth, I would turn Portugal into a fiction. That's what fiction is about, isn't it, the selective transforming of reality? The twisting of it to bring out its essence? What need did I have to go to Portugal? The lady who ran the place would tell me stories about the struggle to boot the British out. We would agree on what I was to have for lunch and supper the next day. After my writing day was over, I would go for walks in the rolling hills of the tea estates. Unfortunately, the novel sputtered, coughed and died. It happened in Matheran, not far from Bombay, a small hill station with some monkeys but no tea estates. It's a misery peculiar to would-be writers. Your theme is good, as are your sentences. Your characters are so ruddy with life they practically need birth certificates. The plot you've mapped out for them is grand, simple and gripping. You've done your research, gathering the facts— historical, social, climatic, culinary—that will give your story its feel of authenticity. The dialogue zips along, crackling with tension. The descriptions burst with colour, contrast and telling detail. Really, your story can only be great. But it all adds up to nothing. In spite of the obvious, shining promise of it, there comes a moment when you realize that the whisper that has been pestering you all along from the back of your mind is speaking the flat, awful truth: it won't work. An element is missing, that spark that brings to life a real story, regardless of whether the history or the food is right. Your story is emotionally dead, that's the crux of it. The discovery is something soul-destroying, I tell you. It leaves you with an aching hunger. From Matheran I mailed the notes of my failed novel. I mailed them to a fictitious address in Siberia, with a return address, equally fictitious, in Bolivia. After the clerk had stamped the envelope and thrown it into a sorting bin, I sat down, glum and disheartened. "What now, Tolstoy? What other bright ideas do you have for your life?" I asked myself. Well, I still had a little money and I was still feeling restless. I got up and walked out of the post office to explore the south of India. I would have liked to say, "I'm a doctor," to those who asked me what I did, doctors being the current purveyors of magic and miracle. But I'm sure we would have had a bus accident around the next bend, and with all eyes fixed on me I would have to explain, amidst the crying and moaning of victims, that I meant in law; then, to their appeal to help them sue the government over the mishap, I would have to confess that as a matter of fact it was a Bachelor's in philosophy; next, to the shouts of what meaning such a bloody tragedy could have, I would have to admit that I had hardly touched Kierkegaard; and so on. I stuck to the humble, bruised truth. Along the way, here and there, I got the response, "A writer? Is that so? I have a story for you." Most times the stories were little more than anecdotes, short of breath and short of life. I arrived in the town of Pondicherry, a tiny self-governing Union Territory south of Madras, on the coast of Tamil Nadu. In population and size it is an inconsequent part of India—by comparison, Prince Edward Island is a giant within Canada—but history has set it apart. For Pondicherry was once the capital of that most modest of colonial empires, French India. The French would have liked to rival the British, very much so, but the only Raj they managed to get was a handful of small ports. They clung to these for nearly three hundred years. They left Pondicherry in 1954, leaving behind nice white buildings, broad streets at right angles to each other, street names such as rue de la Marine and rue Saint-Louis, and kepis, caps, for the policemen. I was at the Indian Coffee House, on Nehru Street. It's one big room with green walls and a high ceiling. Fans whirl above you to keep the warm, humid air moving. The place is furnished to capacity with identical square tables, each with its complement of four chairs. You sit where you can, with whoever is at a table. The coffee is good and they serve French toast. Conversation is easy to come by. And so, a spry, bright-eyed elderly man with great shocks of pure white hair was talking to me. I confirmed to him that Canada was cold and that French was indeed spoken in parts of it and that I liked India and so on and so forth—the usual light talk between friendly, curious Indians and foreign backpackers. He took in my line of work with a widening of the eyes and a nodding of the head. It was time to go. I had my hand up, trying to catch my waiter's eye to get the bill. Then the elderly man said, "I have a story that will make you believe in God." I stopped waving my hand. But I was suspicious. Was this a Jehovah's Witness knocking at my door? "Does your story take place two thousand years ago in a remote corner of the Roman Empire?" I asked. "No." Was he some sort of Muslim evangelist? "Does it take place in seventh-century Arabia?" "No, no. It starts right here in Pondicherry just a few years back, and it ends, I am delighted to tell you, in the very country you come from." "And it will make me believe in God?" "Yes." "That's a tall order." "Not so tall that you can't reach." My waiter appeared. I hesitated for a moment. I ordered two coffees. We introduced ourselves. His name was Francis Adirubasamy. "Please tell me your story," I said. "You must pay proper attention," he replied. "I will." I brought out pen and notepad. "Tell me, have you been to the botanical garden?" he asked. "I went yesterday." "Did you notice the toy train tracks?" "Yes, I did" "A train still runs on Sundays for the amusement of the children. But it used to run twice an hour every day. Did you take note of the names of the stations?" "One is called Roseville. It's right next to the rose garden." "That's right. And the other?" "I don't remember." "The sign was taken down. The other station was once called Zootown. The toy train had two stops: Roseville and Zootown. Once upon a time there was a zoo in the Pondicherry Botanical Garden." He went on. I took notes, the elements of the story. "You must talk to him," he said, of the main character. "I knew him very, very well. He's a grown man now. You must ask him all the questions you want." Later, in Toronto, among nine columns of Patels in the phone book, I found him, the main character. My heart pounded as I dialed his phone number. The voice that answered had an Indian lilt to its Canadian accent, light but unmistakable, like a trace of incense in the air. "That was a very long time ago," he said. Yet he agreed to meet. We met many times. He showed me the diary he kept during the events. He showed me the yellowed newspaper clippings that made him briefly, obscurely famous. He told me his story. All the while I took notes. Nearly a year later, after considerable difficulties, I received a tape and a report from the Japanese Ministry of Transport. It was as I listened to that tape that I agreed with Mr. Adirubasamy that this was, indeed, a story to make you believe in God. It seemed natural that Mr. Patel's story should be told mostly in the first person, in his voice and through his eyes. But any inaccuracies or mistakes are mine. I have a few people to thank. I am most obviously indebted to Mr. Patel. My gratitude to him is as boundless as the Pacific Ocean and I hope that my telling of his tale does not disappoint him. For getting me started on the story, I have Mr. Adirubasamy to thank. For helping me complete it, I am grateful to three officials of exemplary professionalism: Mr. Kazuhiko Oda, lately of the Japanese Embassy in Ottawa; Mr. Hiroshi Watanabe, of Oika Shipping Company; and, especially, Mr. Tomohiro Okamoto, of the Japanese Ministry of Transport, now retired. As for the spark of life, I owe it to Mr. Moacyr Scliar. Lastly, I would like to express my sincere gratitude to that great institution, the Canada Council for the Arts, without whose grant I could not have brought together this story that has nothing to do with Portugal in 1939. If we, citizens, do not support our artists, then we sacrifice our imagination on the altar of crude reality and we end up believing in nothing and having worthless dreams.—YANN MARTEL(Author of "Life of Pi") |
作者序 这本书是在我饥饿的时候诞生的。我来解释一下吧。1996年春天，我的第二本书—一本小说—在加拿大问世了。那本书并不成功。书评家不是对它感到迷惑不解，就是用轻描淡写的赞扬让它显得一文不值。读者也对它置之不理。尽管我费劲地扮演小丑或高空秋千表演者的角色，却对媒体这个马戏团不起任何作用。我的书仍然卖不动。一本本书排列在书店的书架上，就像一个个孩子在排队等着打棒球或踢足球，而我那本书就像一个瘦长而笨拙、根本不适合做运动员的孩子，谁都不愿意让他加入自己的球队。它很快便悄无声息地消失了。 失败的结局并没有对我造成太大的影响。我已经开始创作另一个故事了，一个1939年发生在葡萄牙的故事。只是我感到焦躁不安。而且我只有很少的一点钱。 于是我飞到了孟买。这么做并不缺乏逻辑性，如果你能认识到三件事：在印度完成限期工作会让任何人都不再焦躁不安；在那里可以用很少的钱生活很长时间；以1939年的葡萄牙为背景的小说也许和1939年的葡萄牙几乎没有任何关系。 我到印度去过一次，在北方待了5个月。第一次我是在毫无准备的情况下来到这座次大陆的。实际上，我准备了一个词。当我对一位了解印度的朋友谈起我的旅行计划时，他随口说：“印度人说英语很滑稽。他们喜欢唬弄（bamboozle）之类的词。”当飞机开始在德里缓缓着陆时，我记起了这个词，于是这个词成了我在面对鲜艳的色彩、嘈杂的声响和各种仪式所营造的印度的疯狂之前所做的惟一准备。我有时会用这个词，而且，说实诺，这个词很有用。我对火车站的职员说：“我没想到车票会这么贵。你不是想唬弄我吧，是不是？”他笑了，唱歌似的说：“不是的，先生！这儿没有唬弄人的事儿。我给你报的票价是对的。” 第二次去印度，我知道会遇上什么，也知道自己想要什么了：我要在一处山间驻地住下来写小说。我想像，宽大的阳台上放着一张桌子，我正坐在桌前，面前摊放着笔记，笔记旁边放着一杯茶，正冒着缕缕热气。在我脚下是浓雾笼簞的青山，在我耳中是猿猴的啼声。那里气候宜人，早晨和傍晚需要穿一件薄毛衣，中午只需穿短袖。这样安排好了之后，我手中握着笔，为了更加高度的真实，要把葡萄牙写进一部虚构的小说。小说就是有选择地改变其实，不是吗？不就是通过扭曲真实而揭示其本质吗？我又有什么必要到葡萄牙去呢？ 经营驻地的女主人会告诉我当地人为了把英国人赶出去而进行的斗争。我们对我午饭吃什么和第二天晚饭吃什么会有一致的意见。写作了一天之后，我会在茶园里起伏的山岗上散步。 不幸的是，小说结巴了一阵，咳嗽了几声，便一命呜呼了。那是发生在梅特兰的事，那里离孟买不远，是一处很小的山间驻地，有猴子，但没有茶园。这是未来作家特有的苦恼。你的主题很好，句子也不错。你的人物如此栩栩如生，几乎需要出生证明。你为他们铺排的情节既宏大又简单，扣人心弦。你做了调查，搜集了事实——有关历史、社会、气候、烹任等方面的事实，这些会让你的故事具有其实感。对话流畅，充满了紧张。描写充满了华丽的词藻、鲜明的对比和有力的细节。真的，你的故事不可能不了不起。但是所有这些都无济于事。尽管故事有着显而易见的光明前途，却有那么一刻，你意识到你脑后那个不断缠绕着你的低语声说的是明白无误的可怕事实：这没有用。故事缺少某种因素，即无论有关历史或食物的事实是否正确，都会让一个真正的故事具有生气的那种活力。你的故事在情感上毫无生机，这就是关键所在。这一发现令人沮丧，我告诉你。它让你产生一种令人痛苦的渴望。 我把那本失败的小说的笔记从梅特兰寄了出去，寄往西伯利亚一个虚构的地址，回信地址是玻利维亚一个虚构的地方。邮局的工作人员在信封上盖上邮戳，把信扔进分拣箱后，我闷闷不乐、灰心丧气地坐了下来。“现在做什么呢，托尔斯泰？你对自己的生活还有什么其他好主意？”我问自己。 嗯，我还有一点点钱，我仍然感到焦躁不安。我站起来，走出邮局，去探索印度南部。 对那些问我是做什么的人，“我想说我是个医生。”因为医生是具有魔力、能够带来奇迹的人。但是我敢肯定下一个拐弯处会发生车祸，当所有人都看着我的时候，我就得在受害者的哭泣声和呻吟声中解释，说其实我是律师；然后，当他们恳求我为这次不幸事故起诉政府的时候，我就得承认说其实我只有哲学学士学位；接着，当人们大声问我这样的流血悲剧有什么意义的时候，我就得承认我几乎没读过克尔凯郭尔的作品，等等。我坚守着卑微而脆弱的真实。 在这一过程中，不时有人对我的职业作出反应：“作家？是吗？我有一个故事要告诉你。”大多数时候，这些故事只是一些轶事，缺乏生气也缺乏活力。 我来到了本地治里镇，那是一座直辖区自治小镇，位于马德拉斯南部，在泰米尔纳德沿海地区。无论从人口还是从面积来看，本地治里都是印度的一个微不足道的组成部分——相比之下，爱德华王子岛是加拿大的一个巨大的组成部分——但是历史却将它与印度分离开来，因为本地治理曾经是那个最小的殖民帝国——法属印度——的首都。法国人很想与英国人竞争，非常想，但是他们惟一取得的只有对几座小港口的主权。他们在这些港口坚守了大约三百年。1954年，他们离开本地治里，留下漂亮的白色楼房，垂直交叉的宽阔街道，诸如海运大街和圣路易大街之类的街名，还有对警察戴的帽子的叫法——凯皮①。 【①原文为法语，意为“法国军帽”。】 我当时正在尼赫鲁大街的“印度咖啡馆”。咖啡馆只有一间大房间，墙壁是绿色的，天花板很高。风扇在你头顶旋转着，好让温暖潮湿的空气流动起来。房间里放满了并排摆放的长方桌，每张桌边放着四张椅子。哪儿有空座位你就坐在哪儿，不管桌前坐的是什么人。那里的咖啡不错，还有法国烤面包片卖。客人很容易相互交谈。于是，一位满头蓬乱的银发、双眼炯炯有神的活跃的老人和我聊了起来。我向他证实加拿大很冷，这个国家的确有几个地区说法语，我很喜欢印度，等等等等——友好好奇的印度人和背包徒步旅行的外国人之间轻松随意的交谈。他听我说我干的是哪一行的时候睁大了眼睛，点了点头。我该走了。我抬起手，想让侍者看见我，让他把账单拿来。 这时老人说：“我有一个故事，它能让你相信上帝。” 我停止了招手。但是我很怀疑。是耶和华见证人在敲我的门吗？"你的故事是不是发生在两千年前罗马帝国一个偏僻的角落？"我问。 "不是。" 他是个伊斯兰教的狂热鼓吹者吗？"是不是发生在7世纪的阿拉伯半岛？" "不，不是的。几年前故事就在这儿，在本地治里开始，而且，我很高兴地告诉你，就在你来自的那个国家结束。" "而这个故事能让我相信上帝？" "是的。" "这个要求过高了。" "没那么高，你能达到。" 侍者来了。我犹豫了片刻，然后要了两杯咖啡。我们互相做了自我介绍。?他叫弗朗西斯?阿迪鲁巴萨米。"请把你的故事讲给我听吧。"我说。 "你一定要认真听。"他回答。 "我会的。"我拿出了钢笔和笔记本。 "告诉我，你去过植物园吗？"他问。 "昨天刚去过。" "你注意到小型火车轨道吗？" "是的，我注意到了。" "星期天仍然有火车开，是给孩子们玩的。但是以前火车每天都开，每小时开两次。你注意到站名了吗？" "有一站叫玫瑰谷，就在玫瑰园旁边。" "是的。另一站呢？" "我不记得了。" "站牌已经被拿下来了。另一站以前叫动物园城。小型火车停两站：玫瑰谷和动物园城。从前，本地治里植物园里有一座动物园。" 他接着说下去。我把故事的主要部分记了下来。"你一定要和他谈谈。"他说，他指的是故事的主人公。"我非常非常了解他。他现在已经是成人了。你一定要问他所有你想问的问题。"后来，在多伦多，在电话号码薄里九排姓帕特尔的人名中，我找到了他，那个主人公。在拨他的电话号码时，我的心怦怦直跳。接电话的人的加拿大口音里带有一种轻快的印度声调，尽管不明显，但肯定有，就像空气中香烟的痕迹。"那是很久以前的事了。"他说。但是他同意和我见一面。我们见了很多次面。他给我看了事情发生的过程中他记的日记。他给我看了使他出名的发黄的剪报，但这名气很快便被人们遗忘了。他对我说了他的故事。我一直在记笔记。大约一年以后，在克服了很多困难之后，我收到了日本运输部寄来的一盒磁带和一份报告。就在听磁带的时候，我接受了阿迪鲁巴萨米的观点，这的确是一个能让你相信上帝的故事。 自然，帕特尔先生的故事应该以第一人称叙述，通过他的声音讲述，通过他的眼睛观察。但是，如果故事里有任何不精确之处，或是任何错误，责任都在我。 我要感谢几个人。我最应该感激的是帕特尔先生。我对他的感激就像太平洋的海水一样无边无际，我希望我的叙述不会令他失望。我要感谢让我开始写这个故事的阿迪鲁巴萨米先生。我要感谢帮助我完成达个故事的三位具有模范职业精神的官员，他们是日本驻渥太华大使馆的太田一彦先生、小井科船运公司的渡边宏先生，特别是日本运输部现已退休的冈本友广先生。我要感谢莫西尔，斯克里尔先生让故事有了活力。最后，我要衷心感谢加拿大艺术委员会这个了不起的机构，没有它的资助，我不可能完成这个和1939年的葡萄牙毫无关系的故事。如果我们，市民们，不支持我们的艺术家们，那么我们就会在不加修饰的真实的祭坛上牺牲了我们的想像力，最终我们就会没有任何信仰，我们的梦想就会变得毫无价值。 |
PART ONE Toronto and Pondicherry CHAPTER 1 My suffering left me sad and gloomy. Academic study and the steady, mindful practice of religion slowly wrought me back to life. I have kept up with what some people would consider my strange religious practices. After one year of high school, I attended the University of Toronto and took a double-major Bachelor's degree. My majors were religious studies and zoology. My fourth-year thesis for religious studies concerned certain aspects of the cosmogony theory of Isaac Luria, the great sixteenth-century Kabbalist from Safed. My zoology thesis was a functional analysis of the thyroid glandof the three-toed sloth. I chose the sloth because its demeanour—calm, quiet and introspective—did something to soothe my shattered self. There are two-toed sloths and there are three-toed sloths, the case being determined by the forepaws of the animals, since all sloths have three claws on their hind paws. I had the great luck one summer of studying the three-toed sloth in situ (in its natural place or position) in the equatorial jungles of Brazil. It is a highly intriguing creature. Its only real habit is indolence. It sleeps or rests on average twenty hours a day. Our team tested the sleep habits of five wild three-toed sloths by placing on their heads, in the early evening after they had fallen asleep, bright red plastic dishes filled with water. We found them still in place late the next morning, the water of the dishes swarming with insects. The sloth is at its busiest at sunset, using the word busy here in the most relaxed sense. It moves along the bough of a tree in its characteristic upside-down position at the speed of roughly 400 metres an hour. On the ground, it crawls to its next tree at the rate of 250 metres an hour, when motivated, which is 440 times slower than a motivated cheetah. Unmotivated, it covers four to five metres in an hour. The three-toed sloth is not well informed about the outside world. On a scale of 2 to 10, where 2 represents unusual dullness and 10 extreme acuity, Beebe (1926) gave the sloths senses of taste, touch, sight and hearing a rating of 2, and its sense of smell a rating of 3. If you come upon a sleeping three-toed sloth in the wild, two or three nudges should suffice to awaken it; it will then look sleepily in every direction but yours. Why it should look about is uncertain since the sloth sees everything in a Magoo-like blur. As for hearing, the sloth is not so much deaf as uninterested in sound. Beebe reported that firing guns next to sleeping or feeding sloths elicited little reaction. And the sloth's slightly better sense of smell should not be overestimated. They are said to be able to sniff and avoid decayed branches, but Bullock (1968) reported that sloths fall to the ground clinging to decayed branches "often". How does it survive, you might ask. Precisely by being so slow. Sleepiness and slothfulness keep it out of harm's way, away from the notice of jaguars, ocelots, harpy eagles and anacondas. A sloth's hairs shelter an algae that is brown during the dry season and green during the wet season, so the animal blends in with the surrounding moss and foliage and looks like a nest of white ants or of squirrels, or like nothing at all but part of a tree. The three-toed sloth lives a peaceful, vegetarian life in perfect harmony with its environment. "A good-natured smile is forever on its lips," reported Tirler (1966). I have seen that smile with my own eyes. I am not one given to projecting human traits and emotions onto animals, but many a time during that month in Brazil, looking up at sloths in repose, I felt I was in the presence of upside-down yogis deep in meditation or hermits deep in prayer, wise beings whose intense imaginative lives were beyond the reach of my scientific probing. Sometimes I got my majors mixed up. A number of my fellow religious-studies students—muddled agnostics who didn't know which way was up, who were in the thrall of reason, that fool's gold for the bright—reminded me of the three-toed sloth; and the three-toed sloth, such a beautiful example of the miracle of life, reminded me of God. I never had problems with my fellow scientists. Scientists are a friendly, atheistic, hard-working, beer-drinking lot whose minds are preoccupied with sex, chess and baseball when they are not preoccupied with science. I was a very good student, if I may say so myself. I was tops at St. Michael's College four years in a row. I got every possible student award from the Department of Zoology. If I got none from the Department of Religious Studies, it is simply because there are no student awards in this department (the rewards of religious study are not in mortal hands, we all know that). I would have received the Governor General's Academic Medal, the University of Toronto's highest undergraduate award, of which no small number of illustrious Canadians have been recipients, were it not for a beef-eating pink boy with a neck like a tree trunk and a temperament of unbearable good cheer. I still smart a little at the slight. When you've suffered a great deal in life, each additional pain is both unbearable and trifling. My life is like a memento mori painting from European art: there is always a grinning skull at my side to remind me of the folly of human ambition. I mock this skull. I look at it and I say, "You've got the wrong fellow. You may not believe in life, but I don't believe in death. Move on!" The skull snickers and moves ever closer, but that doesn't surprise me. The reason death sticks so closely to life isn't biological necessity—it's envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can. But life leaps over oblivion lightly, losing only a thing or two of no importance, and gloom is but the passing shadow of a cloud. The pink boy also got the nod from the Rhodes Scholarship committee. I love him and I hope his time at Oxford was a rich experience. If Lakshmi, goddess of wealth, one day favours me bountifully, Oxford is fifth on the list of cities I would like to visit before I pass on, after Mecca, Varanasi, Jerusalem and Paris. I have nothing to say of my working life, only that a tie is a noose, and inverted though it is, it will hang a man nonetheless if he's not careful. I love Canada. I miss the heat of India, the food, the house lizards on the walls, the musicals on the silver screen, the cows wandering the streets, the crows cawing, even the talk of cricket matches, but I love Canada. It is a great country much too cold for good sense, inhabited by compassionate, intelligent people with bad hairdos. Anyway, I have nothing to go home to in Pondicherry. Richard Parker has stayed with me. I've never forgotten him. Dare I say I miss him? I do. I miss him. I still see him in my dreams. They are nightmares mostly, but nightmares tinged with love. Such is the strangeness of the human heart. I still cannot understand how he could abandon me so unceremoniously, without any sort of goodbye, without looking back even once. That pain is like an axe that chops at my heart. The doctors and nurses at the hospital in Mexico were incredibly kind to me. And the patients, too. Victims of cancer or car accidents, once they heard my story, they hobbled and wheeled over to see me, they and their families, though none of them spoke English and I spoke no Spanish. They smiled at me, shook my hand, patted me on the head, left gifts of food and clothing on my bed. They moved me to uncontrollable fits of laughing and crying. Within a couple of days I could stand, even make two, three steps, despite nausea, dizziness and general weakness. Blood tests revealed that I was anemic, and that my level of sodium was very high and my potassium low. My body retained fluids and my legs swelled up tremendously. I looked as if I had been grafted with a pair of elephant legs. My urine was a deep, dark yellow going on to brown. After a week or so, I could walk just about normally and I could wear shoes if I didn't lace them up. My skin healed, though I still have scars on my shoulders and back. The first time I turned a tap on, its noisy, wasteful, superabundant gush was such a shock that I became incoherent and my legs collapsed beneath me and I fainted in the arms of a nurse. The first time I went to an Indian restaurant in Canada I used my fingers. The waiter looked at me critically and said, "Fresh off the boat, are you?" I blanched. My fingers, which a second before had been taste buds savouring the food a little ahead of my mouth, became dirty under his gaze. They froze like criminals caught in the act. I didn't dare lick them. I wiped them guiltily on my napkin. He had no idea how deeply those words wounded me. They were like nails being driven into my flesh. I picked up the knife and fork. I had hardly ever used such instruments. My hands trembled. My sambar lost its taste. CHAPTER 2 He lives in Scarborough. He's a small, slim man—no more than five foot five. Dark hair, dark eyes. Hair greying at the temples. Can't be older than forty. Pleasing coffee-coloured complexion. Mild fall weather, yet puts on a big winter parka with fur-lined hood for the walk to the diner. Expressive face. Speaks quickly, hands flitting about. No small talk. He launches forth. CHAPTER 3 I was named after a swimming pool. Quite peculiar considering my parents never took to water. One of my father's earliest business contacts was Francis Adirubasamy. He became a good friend of the family. I called him Mamaji, mama being the Tamil word for uncle and ji being a suffix used in India to indicate respect and affection. When he was a young man, long before I was born, Mamaji was a champion competitive swimmer, the champion of all South India. He looked the part his whole life. My brother Ravi once told me that when Mamaji was born he didn't want to give up on breathing water and so the doctor, to save his life, had to take him by the feet and swing him above his head round and round. "It did the trick!" said Ravi, wildly spinning his hand above his head. "He coughed out water and started breathing air, but it forced all his flesh and blood to his upper body. That's why his chest is so thick and his legs are so skinny." I believed him. (Ravi was a merciless teaser. The first time he called Mamaji "Mr. Fish" to my face I left a banana peel in his bed.) Even in his sixties, when he was a little stooped and a lifetime of counter-obstetric gravity had begun to nudge his flesh downwards, Mamaji swam thirty lengths every morning at the pool of the Aurobindo Ashram. He tried to teach my parents to swim, but he never got them to go beyond wading up to their knees at the beach and making ludicrous round motions with their arms, which, if they were practising the breaststroke, made them look as if they were walking through a jungle, spreading the tall grass ahead of them, or, if it was the front crawl, as if they were running down a hill and flailing their arms so as not to fall. Ravi was just as unenthusiastic. Mamaji had to wait until I came into the picture to find a willing disciple. The day I came of swimming age, which, to Mother's distress, Mamaji claimed was seven, he brought me down to the beach, spread his arms seaward and said, "This is my gift to you." "And then he nearly drowned you," claimed Mother. I remained faithful to my aquatic guru. Under his watchful eye I lay on the beach and fluttered my legs and scratched away at the sand with my hands, turning my head at every stroke to breathe. I must have looked like a child throwing a peculiar, slow-motion tantrum. In the water, as he held me at the surface, I tried my best to swim. It was much more difficult than on land. But Mamaji was patient and encouraging. When he felt that I had progressed sufficiently, we turned our backs on the laughing and the shouting, the running and the splashing, the blue-green waves and the bubbly surf, and headed for the proper rectangularity and the formal flatness (and the paying admission) of the ashram swimming pool. I went there with him three times a week throughout my childhood, a Monday, Wednesday, Friday early morning ritual with the clockwork regularity of a good front-crawl stroke. I have vivid memories of this dignified old man stripping down to nakedness next to me, his body slowly emerging as he neatly disposed of each item of clothing, decency being salvaged at the very end by a slight turning away and a magnificent pair of imported athletic bathing trunks. He stood straight and he was ready. It had an epic simplicity. Swimming instruction, which in time became swimming practice, was gruelling, but there was the deep pleasure of doing a stroke with increasing ease and speed, over and over, till hypnosis practically, the water turning from molten lead to liquid light. It was on my own, a guilty pleasure, that I returned to the sea, beckoned by the mighty waves that crashed down and reached for me in humble tidal ripples, gentle lassos that caught their willing Indian boy. My gift to Mamaji one birthday, I must have been thirteen or so, was two full lengths of credible butterfly. I finished so spent I could hardly wave to him. Beyond the activity of swimming, there was the talk of it. It was the talk that Father loved. The more vigorously he resisted actually swimming, the more he fancied it. Swim lore was his vacation talk from the workaday talk of running a zoo. Water without a hippopotamus was so much more manageable than water with one. Mamaji studied in Paris for two years, thanks to the colonial administration. He had the time of his life. This was in the early 1930s, when the French were still trying to make Pondicherry as Gallic as the British were trying to make the rest of India Britannic. I don't recall exactly what Mamaji studied. Something commercial, I suppose. He was a great storyteller, but forget about his studies or the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre or the cafes of the Champs-Elysees. All his stories had to do with swimming pools and swimming competitions. For example, there was the Piscine Deligny, the city's oldest pool, dating back to 1796, an open-air barge moored to the Quai d'Orsay and the venue for the swimming events of the 1900 Olympics. But none of the times were recognized by the International Swimming Federation because the pool was six metres too long. The water in the pool came straight from the Seine, unfiltered and unheated. "It was cold and dirty," said Mamaji. "The water, having crossed all of Paris, came in foul enough. Then people at the pool made it utterly disgusting." In conspiratorial whispers, with shocking details to back up his claim, he assured us that the French had very low standards of personal hygiene. "Deligny was bad enough. Bain Royal, another latrine on the Seine, was worse. At least at Deligny they scooped out the dead fish." Nevertheless, an Olympic pool is an Olympic pool, touched by immortal glory. Though it was a cesspool, Mamaji spoke of Deligny with a fond smile. One was better off at the Piscines Chateau-Landon, Rouvet or du boulevard de la Gare. They were indoor pools with roofs, on land and open year-round. Their water was supplied by the condensation from steam engines from nearby factories and so was cleaner and warmer. But these pools were still a bit dingy and tended to be crowded. "There was so much gob and spit floating in the water, I thought I was swimming through jellyfish," chuckled Mamaji. The Piscines Hebert, Ledru-Rollin and Butte-aux-Cailles were bright, modern, spacious pools fed by artesian wells. They set the standard for excellence in municipal swimming pools. There was the Piscine des Tourelles, of course, the city's other great Olympic pool, inaugurated during the second Paris games, of 1924. And there were still others, many of them. But no swimming pool in Mamaji's eyes matched the glory of the Piscine Molitor. It was the crowning aquatic glory of Paris, indeed, of the entire civilized world. "It was a pool the gods would have delighted to swim in. Molitor had the best competitive swimming club in Paris. There were two pools, an indoor and an outdoor. Both were as big as small oceans. The indoor pool always had two lanes reserved for swimmers who wanted to do lengths. The water was so clean and clear you could have used it to make your morning coffee. Wooden changing cabins, blue and white, surrounded the pool on two floors. You could look down and see everyone and everything. The porters who marked your cabin door with chalk to show that it was occupied were limping old men, friendly in an ill-tempered way. No amount of shouting and tomfoolery ever ruffled them. The showers gushed hot, soothing water. There was a steam room and an exercise room. The outside pool became a skating rink in winter. There was a bar, a cafeteria, a large sunning deck, even two small beaches with real sand. Every bit of tile, brass and wood gleamed. It was—it was..." It was the only pool that made Mamaji fall silent, his memory making too many lengths to mention. Mamaji remembered, Father dreamed. That is how I got my name when I entered this world, a last, welcome addition to my family, three years after Ravi: Piscine Molitor Patel. |
第一部 多伦多与本地治里 第1章 痛苦令我优伤又沮丧。 学术研究和坚持不懈、全心全意的宗教修行渐渐使我恢复了生气。某些人可能会认为我的宗教行为很古怪，但我一直在坚持。上了一年高中以后，我进了多伦多大学，拿到了双学士学位。我学的专业是宗教学和动物学。我的宗教学毕业论文与伊萨克·卢里亚的宇宙起源理论的几个方面有关，卢里亚是16世纪萨法德伟大的犹太教神秘哲学家。我的动物学毕业论文写的是对三趾树懒的甲状腺功能的分析。我决定写树懒是因为它镇定自若，温文尔雅，喜欢自省——这样的行为抚慰了心烦意乱的我。 树懒有两趾的也有三趾的，究竟是哪一种情况要取决于它们的前爪，因为所有树懒的后爪都有三趾。有一年夏天，我非常幸运，有机会在巴西的赤道丛林里研究生活在原产地的三趾树懒。这是一种非常令人感兴趣的动物。它惟一真正的习惯就是懒散。它平均每天睡眠或休息20个小时。我们小组研究了五只野生三趾树懒的睡眠习惯。傍晚，它们入睡后，我们在它们的头顶放上鲜红色的塑料盘子，盘子里盛满了水。第二天上午，盘子仍在原处，水里挤满了昆虫。日落时分是树懒最忙碌的时候，这里的"忙碌"是一种最轻松的意义上的忙碌。它以每小时400米的速度，以特有的头朝下的姿势在树干上移动。在地面上，受到刺激时，它会以每小时250米的速度爬向旁边一棵树，这比猎豹受刺激时的奔跑速度慢440倍。在没有刺激的情况下，它每小时只能挪动4至5米。 三趾树懒对外部世界的了解不多。用标有2到10九个分值的量表（2代表极端迟钝，10代表极度敏锐）衡量树懒的官能，毕比（1926）给它的味觉、触觉、视觉和听觉打2分，嗅觉打3分。如果你在野外看见一只熟睡的三趾树懒，轻轻推它两三下就能把它弄醒；然后，它会睡眼惺忪地四处张望，但就是不朝你望。为什么它会四处张望，这一点我还不能确定，因为在树懒眼里，就像在高度近视却又没戴眼镜的人眼里一样，一切都一片模糊。至于听觉，树懒并不聋，只是它对声音不感兴趣。根据毕比的报告，在正在睡觉或吃东西的树懒身边开熗也不会引起它什么反应。树懒的嗅觉稍微灵敏一些，但也不能过高估计。据说它们能够闻出腐朽的树干在哪里并避开，但是根据布洛克的报告（1986），树懒“常常”因为抓住腐朽的树干而掉到地上。 那么它怎么生存呢,也许你会问。 就靠行动迟缓而生存。它总是睡意朦胧，懒懒散散，这使它远离伤害，躲开美洲豹、豹猫、热带大雕和森蚺的注意。树懒的毛下面寄生着藻类，干季是棕色的，湿季是绿色的，因此它与周围环境中的苔藓和树叶融为一体，看上去像一窝白蚁或一窝松鼠，或者就像树的一部分。 三趾树懒是素食主义者，生活和平，与环境十分和谐。"它嘴上总是挂着和善的微笑。"蒂勒报告说我亲眼看见了那种微笑。我不喜欢将人类的特征和感情投射到动物身上，但是在巴西的那一个月里，有很多次，当我抬头看着憩息的树懒时，感到自己面对的是头朝下陷人深深沉思的瑜伽修行者，或是虔心祈祷的隐士，这些智者充满想像的生活是我无法通过科学探索所能了解的。 有时候我把两个专业混淆起来了。我的几个宗教学专业的同学——那些本末倒置的不可知论者，他们被理性所束缚，而在这些聪明人眼里有着黄金般价值的理性其实只是黄铁矿——让我想起了三趾树懒；而三趾树懒，这一生命奇迹的如此出色的例证，让我想起了上帝。 我和我的科学家同行之间从来没有什么问题。科学家是一群待人友善，不信神灵，工作努力，爱喝啤酒的人，他们的脑子不在想着科学的时候，就想着性、国际象棋和棒球。 我是一个出色的学生，如果我可以自己这么说的话。我在圣迈克尔学院连续4年名列前茅。我在动物学系拿到了所有学生奖。我在宗教学系没有拿到奖，这只是因为这个系不设学生奖（我们都知道宗教研究的奖赏不掌握在凡人手里）。要不是因为―个脖子粗得像树干，脾气好得让人受不了，因为吃牛肉而面色红润的小伙子，我就拿到总督学术奖章了，这是多伦多大学颁给本科生的最高奖,很多杰出的加拿大人都得过这个奖。 我仍然因为这次受冷落而感到有点儿难过。当你在生活中经历了很多痛苦折磨之后，每一次新的痛苦都既令人无法忍受又让人感到微不足道。我的生命就像欧洲艺术中使人想到死亡的绘画：我身边总有一只龇牙咧嘴的骷髅，提醒我人类的野心是多么愚蠢。我嘲笑这只骷髅。我看着它,说：“你找错人了。也许你不相信生命，而我却不相信死亡。走开！”骷髅窃笑一声，靠得更近了。但这并不让我感到惊讶。死亡如此紧紧地跟随着生命，并不是因为生理需要，而是因为嫉妒。生命太美了，死亡爱上了它，这是一种充满了嫉妒心和占有欲的爱，它紧紧抓住所能抓到的一切。但是生命轻盈地跃过死亡，只失去了一两样不重要的东西。沮丧只是云朵飘过时投下的阴影，很快便消失了。那个面色红润的小伙子也得到了罗兹奖学金评选委员会的首肯。我爱他，我希望他在牛津能有丰富的经历。如果财富女神吉祥天女①有一天对我大加垂青，那么牛津是我转到来世之前想去的第五座城市，前四座是麦加、瓦拉纳西、耶路撒冷和巴黎。 【①吉祥天女，又称"室利"，毗湿奴之妻，主财富和吉祥。】 对于我的上班生活，我没什么好说的，我只想说领带就是一个套索，虽然是倒过来的,但还是能吊死人，如果他不小心的话。 我爱加拿大。我想念印度炎热的天气，那里的食物，墙上的四脚蛇，银幕上的音乐剧，大街上闲逛的牛群，呱呱叫的乌鸦，甚至关于斗蟋蟀的闲话，但是我爱加拿大。这是一个伟大的国家，这里太冷了，让人无法拥有良好的判断力，住在这里的人富有同情心，头脑聪明，留着糟糕的发式。不管怎样，本地治里已经没有什么可以让我回家的东西了。 理查德·帕克仍然和我在一起。我一直没有忘记他。我敢说自己想他吗？我敢这么说。我想他。我仍然在梦里见到他。大多是歷梦，但却是带着爱的气息的噩梦。这就是人心的奇怪之处。我仍然无法理解他怎么能如此随便地抛下我，不用任何方式说再见，甚至不回头看一眼。那种痛就像一把利斧在砍我的心。 墨西哥医院里的医生护士们对我好极了。病人也是。癌症病人或是因车祸受伤的人一旦听说我的故事，就一瘸一拐地走过来，或是摇着轮椅过来看我，他们的家人也来了，尽管他们都不会说英语，而我也不会说西班牙语。他们对我笑，握我的手，拍我的头，把送给我的食物和衣服放在我床上。他们令我感动得无法控制自己，爆发出一阵阵大笑，一阵阵大哭。 几天后我就能站起来了，甚至能走上两三步，尽管我仍感到恶心、头晕、浑身乏力。验血结果表明我贫血，钠水平非常高，而钾水平却很低。我的体内有积液，腿肿得厉害。我看上去就像被移植了一双大象腿。我的小便是接近棕色的很深的暗黄色。大约一个星期以后，我能正常走动了，而且还能穿上鞋，如果不系鞋带的话。我皮肤上的伤痊愈了，但肩上和背上还有疤。 我第一次拧开水龙头的时候，哗哗哗喷涌而出的大量的水让我吓了一大跳，我变得慌乱起来，两腿一软，晕在了护士怀里。 我第一次去加拿大的一家印度餐馆，是用手指拿东西吃。侍者用批评的眼光看着我说：“你是刚下船的吧？”我的脸色变得苍白。一秒钟之前我的手指还是先于嘴巴品尝食物的味蕾，现在在他的注视下却变得肮脏，像罪犯被逮个正着一样僵住了。我不敢去舔手指。我带着负罪感在餐巾上擦了擦手。他不知道这句话伤我有多深。一个个字就像一枚枚钉子钉进我的肉里。我拿起刀叉。我以前几乎从来没有用过这些器具。我的双手在颤抖。浓味小扁豆肉汤变得索然无味。 第2章 他也住在斯卡伯勒。他身材矮小、瘦削——只有5英尺5英寸高。黑头发，黑眼睛。两髮的头发已经开始发白了。年龄不会超过40岁。脸色是讨喜的咖啡色。正是温暖的秋天，他却穿了一件冬天穿的带镶毛边风帽的毛皮风雪大衣走去吃饭。表情丰富的脸。说话很快，边说话边轻快地挥动着双手。没有闲聊。他精力充沛地开始了。 第3章 我的名字是根据一座游泳池的名字取的。这很奇怪，因为我父母从来不喜欢水。父亲最早的商业伙伴之一是弗朗西斯·阿迪鲁巴萨米。他成了我们家的好朋友。我叫他玛玛吉。"玛玛"在泰米尔语里是"叔叔"的意思，"吉"是一个后缀，在印度表示尊敬和喜爱。早在我出生之前，在玛玛吉还是个年轻人的时候，他是个很有实力的游泳冠军，是整个印度南部的冠军。他一辈子看上去都像个冠军的样子。我哥哥拉维有一次告诉我说，玛玛吉出生时，他不愿意放弃呼吸水，于是，为了救他的命，医生不得不抓住他的两条腿,把他提起来，头朝下转了一圈又一圈。 "这一招真管用！"拉维说，同时一只手在头顶上飞快地绕着圈。“他把水咳了出来，开始呼吸空气，但这把他所有的肌肉和血液都挤压到了上半身。所以他的胸脯才这么厚实，而他的腿却那么细。” 我信了他。（拉维取笑起人来毫不留情。他第一次当着我的面叫玛玛吉"鱼先生"的时候，我在他床上放了一根香蕉皮。）甚至到了六十几岁，玛玛吉的背已经有些驼了，一辈子不断起作用的反产科学的重力已经开始将他的肌肉往下拉，这时他仍然每天早晨在奥罗宾多静修处的游泳池游十五个来回。 他试图教我父母游泳，但他们最多只能在沙滩上走进齐膝深的水里，用胳膊可笑地划着圆圈。如果他们在练习蛙泳，那动作就会让他们看上去好像在走过一片丛林，边走边分开前面高的草；如果他们在练习自由泳，那动作就会让他们看上去好像正跑下一座山坡，边跑边挥动着手臂，以防止跌倒。拉维对游泳同样没什么热情。 玛玛吉不得不等到我来到这个家里，好找到一个愿意追随他的人。在我达到游泳年龄的那一天——让妈妈感到苦恼的是，玛玛吉说能够游泳的年龄是7岁——他带我到海滩去，面对大海伸开双臂，说：“这是我送给你的礼物。” "然后他差点儿把你给淹死。"妈妈说。 我一直忠实于我的水上古鲁①。在他的注视下，我躺在沙滩上，拍打着双腿，在沙子上划着，每划一下就转过头来呼吸。我看上去一定像一个孩子在用慢动作以古怪的姿势发脾气。在水里，他把我托在水面上，我尽力地游。这比在岸上困难多了。但是玛玛吉很有耐心，而且不断鼓励我。 【①古鲁,指印度教、镉克教的宗教教师或领袖。这里指导师、指导者。】 当他感到我已经有了足够的进步时，我们便不再大笑大叫，跑进海里，溅起浪花，而是离开了蓝绿色的海浪和冒着泡沫的激流,去了有着规则的长方形状和正式的浅水池(并且需要付钱才能进去）的静修处的游泳池。 整个童年，我每星期都和他到那里去三次，这成了每星期一、星期三和星期五一大早的老规矩，每次都游极有规律的漂亮的自由泳。我清晰地记得这位站在我身边脱光了衣服的庄重的老人，他一件一件地把所有衣服都脱了下来，他的身体渐渐显露出来，只是在最后，他稍稍转过身子的动作，和他那条运动员穿的漂亮的进口游泳裤挽回了他的体面。他笔直地站着，已经准备好了。这一切仿佛史诗一般简洁。游泳指导，以及后来的游泳实践，能把人累垮，但是能够越来越轻松、越来越快地做一个游泳动作，一遍又一遍地做，直到这几乎成了一种催眠，水从铅铸般沉重，变得液体般轻盈，这能给我带来深深的快乐。 我响应有力的海浪的召唤，独自一人回到大海。海浪哗啦啦打下来，谦恭的细碎的浪花追逐着我，像温柔的套索，套住了心甘情愿的印度男孩。这在让我快乐的同时又让我感到负疚。 有一次玛玛吉过生日时，我送给他一件礼物。那时我一定是13岁左右。礼物是用蝶泳游了一个来回。游完后我太累了，几乎连向他挥挥手的力气都没有了。 除了去游泳，我们还谈论游泳。父亲喜欢的是谈论游泳。他越是不愿意真的去游泳，就越是对游泳充满了幻想。休假时他谈论关于游泳的所有知识，工作时他便谈论经营一座动物园。水里没有河马比有河马好对付多了。 玛玛吉在巴黎学习过两年,多亏了殖民地政府。他一生中从没有像在巴黎那么快乐过。那是20世纪30年代早期，当时法国人还在试图使本地治里成为高卢人的地方，而英国人正在试图使印度其他地方成为大不列颠的地盘。我想不起来玛玛吉具体学的是什么了。我想是与商业有关的什么专业吧。他很会讲故事，却忘记了自己学的是什么，也忘记了埃菲尔铁塔、卢浮宫或香榭丽舍大道上的咖啡馆。他所说的所有事情都与游泳池和游泳比赛有关。例如，巴黎有一座德利尼游泳池，是这座城市最古老的游泳池，建于1796年，是停泊在凯道赛的一只露天平底船，也是1900年奥林匹克运动会游泳比赛的场地。但这两个年代都不被国际游泳联合会承认，因为这座游泳池的长度比标准游泳池长六米。池里的水直接来自塞纳河，没有经过过滤，也没有经过加热。"这座游泳池又冷又脏。"玛玛吉说，"水在流进游泳池里之前从整个巴黎流过，已经够臭的了，池里的人更是把水弄得恶心极了。"他仿佛在和我们计划阴谋一般，低声用令人震惊的细节证明自己的说法，向我们保证说法国人的个人卫生水平很差。"德利尼已经够糟的了。皇家浴场更糟，那简直是塞纳河上的一座公共厕所。他们至少还从德利尼里把死鱼捞出来。"尽管如此,奥林匹克游泳池就是奥林匹克游泳池，它有着不朽的光荣。尽管这是座污水池，玛玛吉在谈到它时，脸上还是带着深情的微笑。 朗东城堡、鲁韦或是加勒大道的游泳池要好多了。这些游泳池都是室内的，有屋顶，建在陆地上，全年开放。池水经过附近工厂的蒸汽机的冷凝处理，因此干净多了，也温暖多了。但是这些游泳池仍然有些脏，而且往往很拥挤。"水里漂了太多的唾液和黏黏的一团团的东西，我以为自己是从水母群中间游过呢。"玛玛吉格格笑着说。 埃贝尔、勒德律-罗兰和鹌鹑坡游泳池是明亮宽敞的现代化游泳池，池水来自自流井。它们是优秀城市游泳池的楷模。当然，还有图埃尔游泳池，这座城市的另一座奥林匹克游泳池，于1924年第二次巴黎运动会时启用。还有其他游泳池，很多很多。 但是在玛玛吉的眼里，没有哪一座游泳池能够比得上莫利托游泳池。它是巴黎乃至整个文明世界的水上运动场的最高光荣。 "神仙也会喜欢在里面游泳的。莫利托有全巴黎最好的竞技游泳俱乐部。它包括两座池子，一座室内的，一座室外的。两个池子大得像两小片海。室内池总是为想游来回的人留下两条泳道。池水那么干净，那么清澈，简直可以用来煮早晨的咖啡。游泳池周围两层楼上是蓝白相间的木板更衣室。你可以俯瞰每一个人和每一件东西。用粉笔在更衣室门上画上有人标记的杂工是些瘸腿的老人，脾气暴躁，却很友好。无论多大的叫声，无论什么样的傻话，都不会让他们生气。淋浴时，热水从莲蓬头哗哗地冲出来，真舒服。还有一间蒸汽房和一间健身房。室外池在冬天就成了溜冰场。还有一间酒吧，一间咖啡馆，一个大日光浴平台，甚至还有两处小沙滩，沙滩上是真正的沙子。每一片瓷砖，每一个铜件，每一块木头，都闪闪发光。它是——它是……" 这是惟一一座让玛玛吉沉默的游泳池，记忆中他在那里游过的来回太多了,说也说不完。 玛玛吉在回忆，父亲在梦想。 于是，当我来到这个世界，在拉维出生三年之后，成为家里最后添的一个受欢迎的孩子时，我有了这样一个名字：派西尼①·莫利托·帕特尔。 ①派西尼：Piscine，法语"游泳池"的意思。 |
CHAPTER 4 Our good old nation was just seven years old as a republic when it became bigger by a small territory. Pondicherry entered the Union of India on November 1,1954. One civic achievement called for another. A portion of the grounds of the Pondicherry Botanical Garden was made available rent-free for an exciting business opportunity and—lo and behold—India had a brand new zoo, designed and run according to the most modern, biologically sound principles. It was a huge zoo, spread over numberless acres, big enough to require a train to explore it, though it seemed to get smaller as I grew older, train included. Now it's so small it fits in my head. You must imagine a hot and humid place, bathed in sunshine and bright colours. The riot of flowers is incessant. There are trees, shrubs and climbing plants in profusion—peepuls, gulmohurs, flames of the forest, red silk cottons, jacarandas, mangoes, jackfruits and many others that would remain unknown to you if they didn't have neat labels at their feet. There are benches. On these benches you see men sleeping, stretched out, or couples sitting, young couples, who steal glances at each other shyly and whose hands flutter in the air, happening to touch. Suddenly, amidst the tall and slim trees up ahead, you notice two giraffes quietly observing you. The sight is not the last of your surprises. The next moment you are startled by a furious outburst coming from a great troupe of monkeys, only outdone in volume by the shrill cries of strange birds. You come to a turnstile. You distractedly pay a small sum of money. You move on. You see a low wall. What can you expect beyond a low wall? Certainly not a shallow pit with two mighty Indian rhinoceros. But that is what you find. And when you turn your head you see the elephant that was there all along, so big you didn't notice it. And in the pond you realize those are hippopotamuses floating in the water. The more you look, the more you see. You are in Zootown! Before moving to Pondicherry, Father ran a large hotel in Madras. An abiding interest in animals led him to the zoo business. A natural transition, you might think, from hotelkeeping to zookeeping. Not so. In many ways, running a zoo is a hotelkeeper's worst nightmare. Consider: the guests never leave their rooms; they expect not only lodging but full board; they receive a constant flow of visitors, some of whom are noisy and unruly. One has to wait until they saunter to their balconies, so to speak, before one can clean their rooms, and then one has to wait until they tire of the view and return to their rooms before one can clean their balconies; and there is much cleaning to do, for the guests are as unhygienic as alcoholics. Each guest is very particular about his or her diet, constantly complains about the slowness of the service, and never, ever tips. To speak frankly, many are sexual deviants, either terribly repressed and subject to explosions of frenzied lasciviousness or openly depraved, in either case regularly affronting management with gross outrages of free sex and incest. Are these the sorts of guests you would want to welcome to your inn? The Pondicherry Zoo was the source of some pleasure and many headaches for Mr. Santosh Patel, founder, owner, director, head of a staff of fifty-three, and my father. To me, it was paradise on earth. I have nothing but the fondest memories of growing up in a zoo. I lived the life of a prince. What maharaja's son had such vast, luxuriant grounds to play about? What palace had such a menagerie? My alarm clock during my childhood was a pride of lions. They were no Swiss clocks, but the lions could be counted upon to roar their heads off between five-thirty and six every morning. Breakfast was punctuated by the shrieks and cries of howler monkeys, hill mynahs and Moluccan cockatoos. I left for school under the benevolent gaze not only of Mother but also of bright-eyed otters and burly American bison and stretching and yawning orang-utans. I looked up as I ran under some trees, otherwise peafowl might excrete on me. Better to go by the trees that sheltered the large colonies of fruit bats; the only assault there at that early hour was the bats' discordant concerts of squeaking and chattering. On my way out I might stop by the terraria to look at some shiny frogs glazed bright, bright green, or yellow and deep blue, or brown and pale green. Or it might be birds that caught my attention: pink flamingoes or black swans or one-wattled cassowaries, or something smaller, silver diamond doves, Cape glossy starlings, peach-faced lovebirds, Nanday conures, orange-fronted parakeets. Not likely that the elephants, the seals, the big cats or the bears would be up and doing, but the baboons, the macaques, the mangabeys, the gibbons, the deer, the tapirs, the llamas, the giraffes, the mongooses were early risers. Every morning before I was out the main gate I had one last impression that was both ordinary and unforgettable: a pyramid of turtles; the iridescent snout of a mandrill; the stately silence of a giraffe; the obese, yellow open mouth of a hippo; the beak-and-claw climbing of a macaw parrot up a wire fence; the greeting claps of a shoebill's bill; the senile, lecherous expression of a camel. And all these riches were had quickly, as I hurried to school. It was after school that I discovered in a leisurely way what it's like to have an elephant search your clothes in the friendly hope of finding a hidden nut, or an orang-utan pick through your hair for tick snacks, its wheeze of disappointment at what an empty pantry your head is. I wish I could convey the perfection of a seal slipping into water or a spider monkey swinging from point to point or a lion merely turning its head. But language founders in such seas. Better to picture it in your head if you want to feel it. In zoos, as in nature, the best times to visit are sunrise and sunset. That is when most animals come to life. They stir and leave their shelter and tiptoe to the water's edge. They show their raiments. They sing their songs. They turn to each other and perform their rites. The reward for the watching eye and the listening ear is great. I spent more hours than I can count a quiet witness to the highly mannered, manifold expressions of life that grace our planet. It is something so bright, loud, weird and delicate as to stupefy the senses. I have heard nearly as much nonsense about zoos as I have about God and religion. Well-meaning but misinformed people think animals in the wild are "happy" because they are "free". These people usually have a large, handsome predator in mind, a lion or a cheetah (the life of a gnu or of an aardvark is rarely exalted). They imagine this wild animal roaming about the savannah on digestive walks after eating a prey that accepted its lot piously, or going for callisthenic runs to stay slim after overindulging. They imagine this animal overseeing its offspring proudly and tenderly, the whole family watching the setting of the sun from the limbs of trees with sighs of pleasure. The life of the wild animal is simple, noble and meaningful, they imagine. Then it is captured by wicked men and thrown into tiny jails. Its "happiness" is dashed. It yearns mightily for "freedom" and does all it can to escape. Being denied its "freedom" for too long, the animal becomes a shadow of itself, its spirit broken. So some people imagine. This is not the way it is. Animals in the wild lead lives of compulsion and necessity within an unforgiving social hierarchy in an environment where the supply of fear is high and the supply of food low and where territory must constantly be defended and parasites forever endured. What is the meaning of freedom in such a context? Animals in the wild are, in practice, free neither in space nor in time, nor in their personal relations. In theory—that is, as a simple physical possibility—an animal could pick up and go, flaunting all the social conventions and boundaries proper to its species. But such an event is less likely to happen than for a member of our own species, say a shopkeeper with all the usual ties—to family, to friends, to society—to drop everything and walk away from his life with only the spare change in his pockets and the clothes on his frame. If a man, boldest and most intelligent of creatures, won't wander from place to place, a stranger to all, beholden to none, why would an animal, which is by temperament far more conservative? For that is what animals are, conservative, one might even say reactionary. The smallest changes can upset them. They want things to be just so, day after day, month after month. Surprises are highly disagreeable to them. You see this in their spatial relations. An animal inhabits its space, whether in a zoo or in the wild, in the same way chess pieces move about a chessboard—significantly. There is no more happenstance, no more "freedom", involved in the whereabouts of a lizard or a bear or a deer than in the location of a knight on a chessboard. Both speak of pattern and purpose. In the wild, animals stick to the same paths for the same pressing reasons, season after season. In a zoo, if an animal is not in its normal place in its regular posture at the usual hour, it means something. It may be the reflection of nothing more than a minor change in the environment. A coiled hose left out by a keeper has made a menacing impression. A puddle has formed that bothers the animal. A ladder is making a shadow. But it could mean something more. At its worst, it could be that most dreaded thing to a zoo director: a symptom, a herald of trouble to come, a reason to inspect the dung, to cross-examine the keeper, to summon the vet. All this because a stork is not standing where it usually stands! But let me pursue for a moment only one aspect of the question. If you went to a home, kicked down the front door, chased the people who lived there out into the street and said, "Go! You are free! Free as a bird! Go! Go!"—do you think they would shout and dance for joy? They wouldn't. Birds are not free. The people you've just evicted would sputter, "With what right do you throw us out? This is our home. We own it. We have lived here for years. We're calling the police, you scoundrel." Don't we say, "There's no place like home"? That's certainly what animals feel. Animals are territorial. That is the key to their minds. Only a familiar territory will allow them to fulfill the two relentless imperatives of the wild: the avoidance of enemies and the getting of food and water. A biologically sound zoo enclosure—whether cage, pit, moated island, corral, terrarium, aviary or aquarium—is just another territory, peculiar only in its size and in its proximity to human territory. That it is so much smaller than what it would be in nature stands to reason. Territories in the wild are large not as a matter of taste but of necessity. In a zoo, we do for animals what we have done for ourselves with houses: we bring together in a small space what in the wild is spread out. Whereas before for us the cave was here, the river over there, the hunting grounds a mile that way, the lookout next to it, the berries somewhere else—all of them infested with lions, snakes, ants, leeches and poison ivy—now the river flows through taps at hand's reach and we can wash next to where we sleep, we can eat where we have cooked, and we can surround the whole with a protective wall and keep it clean and warm. A house is a compressed territory where our basic needs can be fulfilled close by and safely. A sound zoo enclosure is the equivalent for an animal (with the noteworthy absence of a fireplace or the like, present in every human habitation). Finding within it all the places it needs—a lookout, a place for resting, for eating and drinking, for bathing, for grooming, etc.—and finding that there is no need to go hunting, food appearing six days a week, an animal will take possession of its zoo space in the same way it would lay claim to a new space in the wild, exploring it and marking it out in the normal ways of its species, with sprays of urine perhaps. Once this moving-in ritual is done and the animal has settled, it will not feel like a nervous tenant, and even less like a prisoner, but rather like a landholder, and it will behave in the same way within its enclosure as it would in its territory in the wild, including defending it tooth and nail should it be invaded. Such an enclosure is subjectively neither better nor worse for an animal than its condition in the wild; so long as it fulfills the animal's needs, a territory, natural or constructed, simply is, without judgment, a given, like the spots on a leopard. One might even argue that if an animal could choose with intelligence, it would opt for living in a zoo, since the major difference between a zoo and the wild is the absence of parasites and enemies and the abundance of food in the first, and their respective abundance and scarcity in the second. Think about it yourself. Would you rather be put up at the Ritz with free room service and unlimited access to a doctor or be homeless without a soul to care for you? But animals are incapable of such discernment. Within the limits of their nature, they make do with what they have. A good zoo is a place of carefully worked-out coincidence: exactly where an animal says to us, "Stay out!" with its urine or other secretion, we say to it, "Stay in!" with our barriers. Under such conditions of diplomatic peace, all animals are content and we can relax and have a look at each other. In the literature can be found legions of examples of animals that could escape but did not, or did and returned. There is the case of the chimpanzee whose cage door was left unlocked and had swung open. Increasingly anxious, the chimp began to shriek and to slam the door shut repeatedly—with a deafening clang each time—until the keeper, notified by a visitor, hurried over to remedy the situation. A herd of roe-deer in a European zoo stepped out of their corral when the gate was left open. Frightened by visitors, the deer bolted for the nearby forest, which had its own herd of wild roe-deer and could support more. Nonetheless, the zoo roe-deer quickly returned to their corral. In another zoo a worker was walking to his work site at an early hour, carrying planks of wood, when, to his horror, a bear emerged from the morning mist, heading straight for him at a confident pace. The man dropped the planks and ran for his life. The zoo staff immediately started searching for the escaped bear. They found it back in its enclosure, having climbed down into its pit the way it had climbed out, by way of a tree that had fallen over. It was thought that the noise of the planks of wood falling to the ground had frightened it. But I don't insist. I don't mean to defend zoos. Close them all down if you want (and let us hope that what wildlife remains can survive in what is left of the natural world). I know zoos are no longer in people's good graces. Religion faces the same problem. Certain illusions about freedom plague them both. The Pondicherry Zoo doesn't exist any more. Its pits are filled in, the cages torn down. I explore it now in the only place left for it, my memory. CHAPTER 5 My name isn't the end of the story about my name. When your name is Bob no one asks you, "How do you spell that?" Not so with Piscine Molitor Patel. Some thought it was P. Singh and that I was a Sikh, and they Wondered why I wasn't wearing a turban. In my university days I visited Montreal once with some friends. It fell to me to order pizzas one night. I couldn't bear to have yet another French speaker guffawing at my name, so when the man on the phone asked, "Can I 'ave your name?" I said, "I am who I am." Half an hour later two pizzas arrived for "Ian Hoolihan". It is true that those we meet can change us, sometimes so profoundly that we are not the same afterwards, even unto our names. Witness Simon who is called Peter, Matthew also known as Levi, Nathaniel who is also Bartholomew, Judas, not Iscariot, who took the name Thaddeus, Simeon who went by Niger, Saul who became Paul. My Roman soldier stood in the schoolyard one morning when I was twelve. I had just arrived. He saw me and a flash of evil genius lit up his dull mind. He raised his arm, pointed at me and shouted, "It's Pissing Patel!" In a second everyone was laughing. It fell away as we filed into the class. I walked in last, wearing my crown of thorns. The cruelty of children comes as news to no one. The words would waft across the yard to my ears, unprovoked, uncalled for: "Where's Pissing? I've got to go." Or: "You're facing the wall. Are you Pissing?" Or something of the sort. I would freeze or, the contrary, pursue my activity, pretending not to have heard. The sound would disappear, but the hurt would linger, like the smell of piss long after it has evaporated. Teachers started doing it too. It was the heat. As the day wore on, the geography lesson, which in the morning had been as compact as an oasis, started to stretch out like the Thar Desert; the history lesson, so alive when the day was young, became parched and dusty; the mathematics lesson, so precise at first, became muddled. In their afternoon fatigue, as they wiped their foreheads and the backs of their necks with their handkerchiefs, without meaning to offend or get a laugh, even teachers forgot the fresh aquatic promise of my name and distorted it in a shameful way. By nearly imperceptible modulations I could hear the change. It was as if their tongues were charioteers driving wild horses. They could manage well enough the first syllable, the Pea, but eventually the heat was too much and they lost control of their frothy-mouthed steeds and could no longer rein them in for the climb to the second syllable, the seen. Instead they plunged hell-bent into sing, and next time round, all was lost. My hand would be Up to give an answer> and j would be acknowledged with a "Yes, Pissing." Often the teacher wouldn't realize what he had just called me. He would look at me wearily after a moment, wondering why I wasn>t coming Qut ^ the answer. And sometimes the class, as beaten down by the heat as he was, wouldn't react either. Not a snicker or a smile. But I always heard the slur. I spent my last year at St. Joseph's School feeling like the persecuted prophet Muhammad in Mecca, peace be upon him. But just as he planned his flight to Medina, the Hejira that would mark the beginning of Muslim time, I planned my escape and the beginning of a new time for me. After St. Joseph's, I went to Petit Seminaire, the best private English-medium secondary school in Pondicherry. Ravi was already there, and like all younger brothers, I would suffer from following in the footsteps of a popular older sibling. He was the athlete of his generation at Petit Seminaire, a fearsome bowler and a Powerful batter, the captain of the town's best cricket team, our very own Kapil Dev. That I was a swimmer made no waves; it seems to be a law of human nature that those who live by the sea are suspicious of swimmers, just as those who live in the mountains are suspicious of mountain climbers. But following in someone's shadow wasn't my escape, though I would have taken any name over "Pissing", even "Ravi's brother". I had a better plan than that. I put it to execution on the very first day of school, in the very first class. Around me were other alumni of St. Joseph's. The class started the way all new classes start, with the stating of names. We called them out from our desks in the order in which we happened to be sitting. "Ganapathy Kumar," said Ganapathy Kumar. "Vipin Nath," said Vipin Nath. "Shamshool Hudha," said Shamshool Hudha. "Peter Dharmaraj," said Peter Dharmaraj. Each name elicited a tick on a list and a brief mnemonic stare from the teacher. I was terribly nervous. "Ajith Giadson," said Ajith Giadson, four desks away... "Sampath Saroja," said Sampath Saroja, three away... "Stanley Kumar," said Stanley Kumar, two away... "Sylvester Naveen," said Sylvester Naveen, right in front of me. It was my turn. Time to put down Satan. Medina, here I come. I got up from my desk and hurried to the blackboard. Before the teacher could say a word, I picked up a piece of chalk and said as I wrote: My name is Piscine Molitor Patel, known to all as —I double underlined the first two letters of my given name- Pi Patel. For good measure I added Pi=3.14 and I drew a large circle, which I then sliced in two with a diameter, to evoke that basic lesson of geometry. There was silence. The teacher was staring at the board. I was holding my breath. Then he said, "Very well, Pi. Sit down. Next time you will ask permission before leaving your desk." "Yes, sir." He ticked my name off. And looked at the next boy. "Mansoor Ahamad," said Mansoor Ahamad. I was saved. "Gautham Selvaraj," said Gautham Selvaraj. I could breathe. "Arun Annaji," said Arun Annaji. A new beginning. I repeated the stunt with every teacher. Repetition is important in the training not only of animals but also of humans. Between one commonly named boy and the next, I rushed forward and emblazoned, sometimes with a terrible screech, the details of my rebirth. It got to be that after a few times the boys sang along with me, a crescendo that climaxed, after a quick intake of air while I underlined the proper note, with such a rousing rendition of my new name that it would have been the delight of any choirmaster. A few boys followed up with a whispered, urgent "Three! Point! One! Four!" as I wrote as fast as I could, and I ended the concert by slicing the circle with such vigour that bits of chalk went flying. When I put my hand up that day, which I did every chance I had, teachers granted me the right to speak with a single syllable that was music to my ears. Students followed suit. Even the St. Joseph's devils. In fact, the name caught on. Truly we are a nation of aspiring engineers: shortly after, there was a boy named Omprakash who was calling himself Omega, and another who was passing himself off as Upsilon, and for a while there was a Gamma, a Lambda and a Delta. But I was the first and the most enduring of the Greeks at Petit Seminaire. Even my brother, the captain of the cricket team, that local god, approved. He took me aside the next week. "What's this I hear about a nickname you have?" he said. I kept silent. Because whatever mocking was to come, it was to come. There was no avoiding it. "I didn't realize you liked the colour yellow so much." The colour yellow? I looked around. No one must hear what he was about to say, especially not one of his lackeys. "Ravi, what do you mean?" I whispered. "It's all right with me, brother. Anything's better than 'Pissing'. Even 'Lemon Pie'." As he sauntered away he smiled and said, "You look a bit red in the face." But he held his peace. And so, in that Greek letter that looks like a shack with a corrugated tin roof, in that elusive, irrational number with which scientists try to understand the universe, I found refuge. CHAPTER 6 He's an excellent cook. His overheated house is always smelling of something delicious. His spice rack looks like an apothecary's shop. When he opens his refrigerator or his cupboards, there are many brand names I don't recognize; in fact, I can't even tell what language they're in. We are in India. But he handles Western dishes equally well. He makes me the most zesty yet subtle macaroni and cheese I've ever had. And his vegetarian tacos would be the envy of all Mexico. I notice something else: his cupboards are jam-packed. Behind every door, on every shelf, stand mountains of neatly stacked cans and packages. A reserve of food to last the siege of Leningrad. |
第4章 我们古老美好的祖国刚刚度过共和国7岁生日就因为又增加了一小块疆域而变得更加辽阔了。本地治里于1954年11月1日加人了印度联邦。一项城市建设成就带来了另一项成就。本地治里植物园的一块场地可以用来发展令人兴奋的商机,租金全免，于是一你瞧——印度有了崭新的动物园，完全按照最现代、最符合生物学原理的标准设计和管理。 那是一座巨大的动物园，占地无数公顷，大到需要乘火车探索，尽管随着我年龄的增长，它渐渐变小了，火车也变小了。现在它已经太小了，只存在于我的脑海里。你得想像一个炎热潮湿的地方，洒满了阳光，到处是鲜艳的色彩。五颜六色的鲜花争相开放，四季不断。那里有茂盛的乔木、灌木和攀缘植物——菩提树、火焰树、凤凰木、红色丝光木棉、蓝花楹、芒果树、木波罗和很多其他植物,要不是这些植物脚下有简明的标签，你是不会认识它们的。园里有长凳子。你能看见有人在长凳上睡觉，舒展着身子，或者有对对情侣坐在长凳上，年轻的情侣，害羞地偷偷瞟对方一眼，手在空中挥动着，碰巧碰到了对方的手。突然，你看到在前面几株又高又细的树之间有两头长颈鹿正静静地观察你。这可不是最后一幅让你惊讶的景象。紧接着你被一大群猴子突然发出的愤怒叫声吓了一跳，而这声音又被陌生鸟类的尖声鸣叫压了下去。你来到一道旋转栅栏门前。你心不在焉地付了一小笔钱。你继续往前走。你看到一堵矮墙。你能指望在矮墙后面看到什么呢？肯定不是里面有两头庞大的印度犀牛的浅坑。但你发现的就是这个。当你转过头去时，你看见了一直在那儿的大象，它太大了，刚才你都没注意到它。你意识到浮在池水里的是河马。你看得越多，看到的便越多。你现在是在动物园城里！ 在搬到本地治里之前，父亲在马德拉斯经营一家旅馆。对动物的持久兴趣使他转向了经营动物园这一行。也许你认为从经营旅馆到经营动物园是一个自然的转变。并非如此。在很多方面，经营动物园都是旅馆经营者的最糟糕的噩梦。想想吧：客人从不离开自己的房间；它们不仅需要住处，而且需要全食宿；它们不停地接待客人，其中有些客人吵吵嚷嚷,不守规矩。你得等到它们到所谓的阳台上散步时才能打扫房间，然后得等到它们对外面的景色感到厌烦了，回到房间时，才能打扫阳台；有很多清扫工作要做，因为这些客人就像醉鬼一样不讲卫生。每一位客人都对自己的饮食十分挑剔，不停地抱怨菜上得太慢，而且从来、从来不给小费。坦白地说，有很多客人性行为异常，不是可怕地压抑，易于爆发疯狂的淫乱，就是公开地堕落，无论是哪一种情况，它们都经常以极端肆无忌惮的自由性行为和乱伦行为冒犯管理者。你会欢迎这样的客人到你的酒店去吗？本地治里动物园给桑托什·帕特尔先生——动物园创建人、拥有者、园长、53名员工的头和我的父亲——带来了些许快乐和许多令人头疼的麻烦。 对我来说,那里是人间天堂。在动物园长大的经历给我留下了最美好的回忆。我生活得像一位王子。哪一位土邦主的儿子有如此广阔的郁郁葱葱的场地可以玩耍？哪一座宫殿有如此多的野生动物？我童年时代的闹钟是一群狮子。它们不是瑞士钟，但是每天早晨五点半到六点之间它们一定会大声吼叫。早餐被吼猴、鹩哥和摩鹿加群岛凤头鹦鹉的尖声鸣叫和大声叫喊打断。我离家去上学时，和蔼地注视着我的不仅有母亲，还有眼睛亮晶晶的水獭，高大结实的美洲野牛和伸着懒腰、打着哈欠的猩猩。我从几棵树下跑过时抬起头来，否则孔雀就可能排泄在我身上。最好从栖息着大群狐蝠的树下走过；一大清早，那里惟一的攻击就是蝙蝠刺耳的吱吱吱唧唧唧的叫声。在出去的路上，我也许会在陆栖小动物饲养箱旁边停下来，看看那些有着明亮光泽的青蛙，闪着非常、非常鲜艳的绿色，或是黄色和深蓝色，或是棕色和淡绿色。或者，也许吸引了我的注意力的是鸟儿：粉红色鹳鸟或是黑天鹅或是有一只肉垂的食火鸡，或是小一些的鸟，银色钻石鸠，好望角彩椋，桃红色脸的情侣鹦鹉，黑冠锥尾鹦鹉，橘黄色胸脯的长尾小鹦鹉。大象、海豹、大型猫科动物或熊不大可能已经起来活动了，但是狒狒、弥猴、白眉猴、长臂猿、鹿、貘、美洲驼、长颈鹿和獴都起得早。每天早晨，在走出大门之前，我都会有一个既平常又难忘的印象：海龟堆得像一座金字塔；山魈口鼻的颜色仿佛一道彩虹；长颈鹿威严地沉默着；河马张开肥肥的黄色的嘴；金刚鹦鹉嘴脚并用地在爬金属丝围栏；鲸头鹳拍打着长嘴，仿佛在向人问好；骆驼脸上一副老态龙钟的好色的表情。所有这些财富都是我在匆匆忙忙去学校的时候迅速拥有的。放学后我才从容地发现，大象搜你的衣服，友好地希望找到里面藏着的坚果，或者猩猩在你的头发里翻找虱蝇做零食，发现你的脑袋是个空空如也的食品室时失望地呼哧呼哧直喘气，这是一种什么样的感觉。我真希望自己能够传达海豹滑进水里或蛛猴从一个地方荡到另一个地方或狮子仅仅转过头那一瞬间的动作的完美。但是语言在这里无能为力。如果你想感受这一切，最好在心里想像。 在动物园里和在大自然中一样，观赏动物的最佳时机是日出和日落的时候。那时大多数动物都活跃起来。它们起身离开栖息处，悄悄来到水边。它们展示自己的服饰。它们放声歌唱。它们互相面对，举行仪式。善于观察的眼睛和善于倾听的耳朵得到的回报是巨犬的。我数不清自己花了多少个小时，静静地观看这些给我们的行星增光的非常别具一格的多种多样的生命形式。这一切是如此地鲜艳、响亮、神秘又优美，让人丧失了所有的知觉。 我所听到的关于动物园的荒唐说法与关于上帝和宗教的荒唐说法一样多。好心但有误解的人们以为生活在野生环境的动物是"快乐的"，因为它们是"自由的"。这些人通常想到的是大型的漂亮的食肉动物,例如狮子或猎豹(很少有人会抬举牛羚或土豚的生活他们想像这只野生动物在吃了虔诚地接受自己命运的猎物之后，在热带稀树草原上闲逛，散步消食，或者在吃得过多之后去跑步健美，以保持苗条身材。他们想像这只动物骄傲地温柔地照顾自己的后代，全家在树枝上观赏日落，发出快乐的叹息。他们想像野生动物的生活简单、高贵、充满意义。后来它被邪恶的人捉住了，扔进了狭小的监牢。它的"快乐"被击得粉碎。它深深地渴望"自由"，用尽一切方法逃跑。由于被剥夺"自由"的时间太久了，这只动物成了自己的影子，它的精神垮了。有些人就是这么想像的。 事情并不是这样。 野生环境中的动物生活在一个有很多恐惧却只有很少食物，需要不断保卫地盘，只能永远忍受寄生虫的环境中。在一个无情的等级严格的群体中，它们所做的一切完全是出于必要，被迫如此。在这样的情况下，自由的意义何在？实际上，野生环境中的动物无论在空间上、时间上，还是在个体关系上都不自由。在理论上——也就是说，作为一种简单的实际可能性——动物可以收拾东西离开，藐视它这个物种认为合适的一切群体准则和界限。但是这样的事情比在我们人类成员身上更不可能发生，比如一个有着所有常见的联系——与家庭、朋友、社会的联系——的店主，他不可能丢下一切，只带着口袋里的零钱和身上的衣服就从自己的生活里走开。如果一个人，最大胆、最聪明的生物，不可能从一个地方游荡到另一个地方，所有人都不认识他，他也不依赖于任何人，那么为什么性情保守得多的动物会这么做呢？动物就是如此，保守，甚至可以说极端保守。最微小的变化也会让它们心烦意乱。它们希望一天又一天，一月又一月，事物丝毫不变。意外的事物令它们十分不快。你在它们的空间关系上能看到这一点。无论是在动物园里还是在野生环境中，动物在它的空间里的居住方式和棋子在棋盘上移动的方式一样——意味深长。一条蜥蜴或一头熊或一只鹿所在的位置不比棋盘上的马所在的位置有更多的巧合,或更多的"自由"。两者的位置都说明了方式和目的。在野生环境中，一季又一季，动物因为同样迫切的原因，每次都走同样的小路。在动物园里，如果一只动物没有在惯常的时间以固定的姿势出现在平常的地点，那么这就说明有问题了。也许这只是对环境中一个微小变化的反应。饲养员留在外面的卷起来的水管让它感到了威胁。一个水坑刚刚形成，让它感到紧张。一架梯子投下了阴影。但是这也可能说明更多的问题。最糟糕的是，这可能是动物园园长最担忧的：这是一个症状，是麻烦即将来临的预告，是检査粪便、盘问饲养员、召来兽医的原因。所有这一切都是因为一只鹳没有站在它平常站的地方！ 但是让我花一点儿时间只对这个问题的一个方面继续进行阐述吧。 如果你到一户人家去，把前门踢开，把住在里面的人赶到大街上去，说："去吧！你们自由了！像小鸟一样自由！去吧！去吧！"你以为他们会高兴得又叫又跳吗？他们不会。小鸟并不自由。你刚刚赶走的人会气急败坏地说：“你有什么权力把我们扔出去？这是我们的家。我们是这里的主人。我们在这儿住了很多年了。我们这就叫警察，你这个流氓。” 我们不是说"金窝银窝，不如自己的穷窝"吗？动物肯定就是这么感觉的。动物的地盘意识很强。这是它们大脑的关键所在。只有熟悉的地盘才能让它们完成野生环境中两件需要不断去做的极其重要的事情：躲避敌人以及获取食物和水。符合生物学原理的动物园里的场地——无论是笼子、兽栏、四周有深沟的小岛、围栏、陆栖小动物饲养箱、大型鸟舍还是水族馆——只是另一个地盘，只不过大小和与人类地盘的靠近程度有些特别。这个地盘比大自然中的地盘小得多,这是合情合理的。野生环境中的地盘很大,这不是出于喜好，而是出于必要。在动物园里，我们为动物所做的就是我们在家里为自己所做的一切：我们把在野生环境中分散在各处的东西集中到一个小地方来。以前洞穴在这里，小河在那边，狩猎场在一英里以外，瞭望台在狩猎场旁边，浆果还在别的地方——所有这些都要受到狮子、蛇、蚂蚁、水蛭和毒藤蔓的侵扰——而现在河水从近在手边的龙头里流出来，我们可以在睡觉的地方的旁边洗澡，我们可以在烧饭的地方吃饭，我们可以把所有这些起保护作用的墙围起来，让里面保持干净和温暖。一座房子就是一个缩小了的地盘，在那里，我们的基本需要可以在附近安全地得到满足。一座合理的动物园就相当于动物的房子（值得注意的是这里没有每一处人类住所都有的火炉或类似的东西）。动物发现这里有它需要的所有地方——瞭望台，休息、进食、饮水、洗澡、梳毛的地方，等等——而且发现不必去捕猎,一星期六天都会有食物出现，它便会像在野生环境中将一个新地方据为己有一样占据它在动物园里的地方，仔细察看这个地方，用它这个物种常用的方式，也许是撒尿，把这个地方划归己有。一旦完成了这个乔迁仪式，安顿了下来，动物便不会感觉自己像紧张的房客，更不会感觉自己像囚徒，而会感到自己是土地拥有者，它会像在野生环境中的地盘上一样在它自己的场地上活动，包括在地盘受到侵犯时竭尽全力地保卫它。从主观上看,对于一只动物来说，这样的场地不比野生环境中的条件好，也不比野生环境中的条件差；只要能满足动物的需要，无论是自然的还是人造的地盘都仅仅是一个客观情况，一个已知事实，就像豹子身上的斑点。你甚至可以说，如果动物能凭智慧作出判断，它一定会选择住在动物园里，因为动物园和野生环境的主要区别在于，前者没有寄生虫和敌人，有充足的食物，而后者却有很多寄生虫和敌人,还缺少食物。你自己想想吧。你是愿意住在豪华旅馆里，享受免费客房服务，可以随便看医生，还是愿意无家可归，没有一个照顾你的人？但是动物没有这样的识别能力。它们在自己本性的范围内，靠自己有的东西凑和着过。 一座好动物园是一个充满了细心设计的巧合的地方：就在动物用尿或其他分泌物对我们说"别进来"的地方，我们用障碍物对它说：“别出来！”在这样的和平外交条件下，所有动物都很满意，我们也可以放松自己，互相看看了。 文献里可以找到很多动物能逃跑但没有逃，或者逃跑了又回来的例子。有这样一个例子，一只黑猩猩的笼门没有上锁，门开了。黑猩猩越来越焦虑，它开始尖声叫喊，一次又一次猛地把门关上。每次都发出震耳欲聋的当当声。最后饲养员被一位游客提醒，急忙去采取了补救措施。一座欧洲动物园里的一群狍在大门开着的时候走出了围栏。因为受了游客的惊吓，它们逃进了附近的森林。那里有一群野生狍，还可以养活更多的狍。尽管如此，动物园里的狍还是很快回到了围栏里。在另一座动物园里,一个工人大清早扛着木板正朝工作地点走去，他惊恐地发现清晨的薄雾中出现了一头熊，正迈着自信的步子径直朝他走来。那个人丢下木板逃命去了。动物园的工作人员立即开始寻找逃跑的熊。他们发现它回到了围栏里，它是像爬出去时那样从一棵倒下的树上爬进去的。有人认为是木板掉在地上的声音让它受了惊吓。 但是我不想坚持。我并不是要为动物园辩护。要是你愿意，你可以把所有动物园都关闭（让我们希望仅剩的野生动物能在仅剩的自然环境中生存下去吧）我知道动物园已经不被人们喜欢。宗教面临着同样的问题。关于自由的某些错误观念使两者都遭了殃。 本地治里动物园已经不再存在。它的兽栏已经被填平，笼子已经被拆掉。我现在要去四处走走看看,只能在它存在的惟一地方，在我的记忆里。 第5章 我有了名字，可是关于我的名字的故事并没有结束。如果你叫鲍勃，没有人会问你：“怎么拼？”叫派西尼·莫利托，帕特尔就不一样了。 有人以为我的名字是P·辛格①，而我是锡克教徒，于是他们想知道我为什么不戴包头巾。 【①锡克族男子的姓。】 上大学的时候，有一次我和几个朋友一起去蒙特利尔。有一天晚上，订比萨饼的事落到了我头上。我无法忍受另一个说法语的人放声嘲笑我的名字，因此当接电话的人问：“请问你叫什么？”时，我说：“我的名字是你叫的吗？”半个小时后，比萨饼送到了，是给"李乔·德曼"的。 的确，我们遇见的人可能改变我们，有时改变如此深刻，在那之后我们成了完全不同的人，甚至我们的名字都不一样了。注意西蒙也叫彼得，马太也叫利未，拿但业也叫巴多罗马，是犹大而不是加略人叫达太，西缅被叫做尼结，扫罗成了保罗。 我12岁的时候，有一天早晨，我的罗马士兵站在校园里。我刚到学校。他看见了我，一道邪恶的天才之光照亮了他愚钝的大脑。他抬起胳膊，指着我叫道："是排泄哩②·帕特尔！" 【②派西尼的名字与英文中表示小便的俚语Pissing谐音。】 所有人都立刻大笑起来。我们鱼贯走进教室时，笑声停止了。我头戴荆棘冠，最后一个走进去。 孩子的无情对谁都不是新闻。没有人煽动，没有人要求，这几个字随风飘过校园，传进我耳朵里："排泄哩在哪里？我得走了。"或者：“你正面对着墙，你在排泄呢？”或者类似的话。我会 一动不动，或者相反，继续做自己的事，假装没有听见。声音会消失，但伤害却留了下来，像小便蒸发后留下的气味。 老师也开始这么做。是天太热的原因。随着一天的时间渐渐地过去，早晨还像一片绿洲一样紧凑的地理课开始像塔尔沙漠一样拉长了；一天刚开始的时候如此充满活力的历史课变得干巴巴灰蒙蒙的；最初如此精确的数学课变得糊里糊涂。老师们下午疲惫不堪，用手帕擦着额头和颈背，他们并不是想伤害我的感情,也不是想让大家发笑，但是甚至他们也忘记了我的名字所能激发的独特联想，很不体面地将它扭曲了。从几乎难以察觉的语调变化中我能听出来。好像他们的舌头是赶着野马的驾车人。他们能勉强发出第一个音节，但是最后，天太热了，他们对口喷白沫的战马失去了控制，不再能勒住缰绳让马走过第二个音节，而是不顾一切地向下冲到了第三个音节，下一次再叫的时候，一切都变了味儿。我会举起手来回答问题，老师点名让我回答时会说：“排泄哩，你说。”通常老师意识不到他刚才叫了我什么。他会疲惫地看我一会儿，不知道为什么我没有说出答案。有时候全班似乎像他一样被炎热打倒了，对此也没有反应。没有一声窃笑或一个微笑。但我总是能听见那含糊的声音。 在圣约瑟学校的最后一年，我感到自己就像在麦加遭受迫害的先知穆罕默德，愿他安息。但是就像他准备逃往麦地那，准备进行标志着穆斯林纪元开始的逃亡一样，我也在计划自己的逃亡，在为自己计划一个新的开始。 在圣约瑟学校毕业之后，我进了小修院①，那是本地治里最好的一所说英语的中学。拉维已经在那儿了。像所有弟弟一样，我会因为追随一个受到大家喜爱的兄长的足迹而感到痛苦。在小修院他是同龄人中的运动员，一个令人生畏的投球手和有力的击球员，城里最好的板球队，我们自己的卡皮尔·德福②的队长。我是个游泳健将，这一点并没有惊起什么波澜；似乎人性的法则便是如此，生活在海边的人觉得游泳健将可疑，就像生活在山里的人觉得登山健将可疑一样。但是跟随某个人的影子，这并不是我要的逃跑，尽管除了"排泄哩"我愿意叫任何名字，哪怕"拉维的弟弟"也行。我有比这更好的计划。 【①原文为法语。②印度有名的板球队。】 第一天上学，在第一堂课上，我便将这个计划付诸实施了。我周围还有其他圣约瑟的校友。和所有新课一样，那堂课也是从报名字开始的。我们按照碰巧坐的位子的顺序在座位上报出自己的名字。 “库马尔。”加纳帕蒂·库马尔说。 “维平·纳特。”维平·纳特说。 "沙姆舒尔·胡达。"沙姆舒尔·胡达说。 "彼得·达马拉杰。"彼得·达马拉杰说。 每个名字报出来之后，老师都会在名册上把这个名字勾掉，并且很快地看那个学生一眼，以帮助自己记住他。 "阿吉特·贾得桑。"阿吉特·贾得桑说，离我还有四张桌子。 "萨帕特·萨罗贾。"萨帕特·萨罗贾说，还有三张桌子。 "斯坦利·库马尔。"斯坦利·库马尔说，还有两张桌子。 "西尔维斯特·纳维恩。"西尔维斯特·纳维恩说,他就在我前面。 轮到我了。是解决这个讨厌问题的时候了。麦地那，我来了。 我从座位上站起来，匆匆朝黑板走去。老师还没来得及说一个字，我已经拿起一枝粉笔，边说边在黑板上写道： 我的名字叫 派西尼·莫利托·帕特尔 大家都叫我 ——我在名字前面两个字母下面画了两道线—— 派①帕特尔 【①原文作Pi，在原文中颇富谐趣。任何中文译法均难以曲尽其妙,故书名中未译,但为读者阅读方便,文中有作“派”】 另外我又加上了 π=3·14 然后我画了一个大圆圈，又画了一条直径，把圆一分为二，以此让大家想起几何初级课程。 教室里鸦雀无声。老师盯着黑板。我屏住了呼吸。接着他说："很好，派。坐下。下次离开座位之前要请求老师的同意。" "是，老师。" 他把我的名字勾掉了。然后看着下一个男孩子。 "曼苏尔·阿哈迈德。"曼苏尔·阿哈迈德说。 我得救了。 "戈坦姆·萨尔瓦拉吉。"戈坦姆·萨尔瓦拉吉说。 我能呼吸了。 "阿伦·安奈吉。"阿伦·安奈吉说。 一个新的开始。 我对每个老师都重复这个表演。重复很重要，不仅在训练动物时是这样，在训练人时也是如此。在一个姓名平常的男孩子和下一个姓名平常的男孩子之间，我冲上前去，用鲜艳的色彩，有时还有粉笔写在黑板上发出的可怕的刺耳的声音，来装饰我重生的细节。这样重复了几次之后，男孩子们开始像唱歌一样跟着我一起说，我一边在正确的音符下面画线，一边迅速吸一口气，这时声音渐强，达到了高潮，我的新名字被演奏得如此激动人心,任何唱诗班指挥都会感到高兴的。有几个男孩子还接着低声地急迫地喊：“三！点！一！四！”同时我尽快地写着，用将圆一分为二的动作结束了合唱，因为用力太猛了，碎掉的粉笔飞了出去。 每次有机会我都举手，那天我举手时，老师给了我用一个音节报出名字的权利，这个音节在我听来就像音乐一样优美。学生们也这么叫我。甚至圣约瑟的淘气鬼们。事实上，这个名字流行起来。一点不错，我们国家人人都是有志气的工程师：很快就有―个叫欧普拉卡什的男孩开始叫自己欧米茄（Omega），还有一个假装是尤普赛伦（Upsilon），过了一阵子又有了一个迦玛（Gamma），一个兰姆达（Lambda）和一个德尔塔（Delta）。但是在小修院，我的名字是第一个也是叫得最长久的一个希腊字母。甚至我哥哥，板球队的队长，学生崇拜的偶像，也表示认可了。第二个星期，他把我拉到了一边。 "我听说你有个外号，这是怎么回事？"他说。 我没有说话。因为无论会是什么样的嘲讽，要来的总是来要的。躲也躲不掉。 "我不知道你这么喜欢黄色。"? 黄色？我朝四周看了看。不能让任何人听见他要说的话，尤其是他的跟班。"拉维，你是什么意思？"我低声说。 "我没意见，弟弟。什么都比‘排泄哩’好。甚至‘柠檬派’。"他边急急忙忙地走开边笑着说：“你的脸有点儿红了。” 但是他保持了沉默。 于是，在那个像一间盖着波纹铁屋顶的棚屋的希腊字母里，在那个科学家试图用来理解宇宙的难以表述的无理数里，我找到了避难所。 |
CHAPTER 7 It was my luck to have a few good teachers in my youth, men and women who came into my dark head and lit a match. One of these was Mr. Satish Kumar, my biology teacher at Petit Seminaire and an active Communist who was always hoping Tamil Nadu would stop electing movie stars and go the way of Kerala. He had a most peculiar appearance. The top of his head was bald and pointy, yet he had the most impressive jowls I have ever seen, and his narrow shoulders gave way to a massive stomach that looked like the base of a mountain, except that the mountain stood in thin air, for it stopped abruptly and disappeared horizontally into his pants. It's a mystery to me how his stick-like legs supported the weight above them, but they did, though they moved in surprising ways at times, as if his knees could bend in any direction. His construction was geometric: he looked like two triangles, a small one and a larger one, balanced on two parallel lines. But organic, quite warty actually, and with sprigs of black hair sticking out of his ears. And friendly. His smile seemed to take up the whole base of his triangular head. Mr. Kumar was the first avowed atheist I ever met. I discovered this not in the classroom but at the zoo. He was a regular visitor who read the labels and descriptive notices in their entirety and approved of every animal he saw. Each to him was a triumph of logic and mechanics, and nature as a whole was an exceptionally fine illustration of science. To his ears, when an animal felt the urge to mate, it said "Gregor Mendel", recalling the father of genetics, and when it was time to show its mettle, "Charles Darwin", the father of natural selection, and what we took to be bleating, grunting, hissing, snorting, roaring, growling, howling, chirping and screeching were but the thick accents of foreigners. When Mr. Kumar visited the zoo, it was to take the pulse of the universe, and his stethoscopic mind always I confirmed to him that everything was in order, that everything was order. He left the zoo feeling scientifically refreshed. The first time I saw his triangular form teetering and tottering about the zoo, I was shy to approach him. As much as I liked him as a teacher, he was a figure of authority, and I, a subject. I was a little afraid of him. I observed him at a distance. He had just come to the rhinoceros pit. The two Indian rhinos were great attractions at the zoo because of the goats. Rhinos are social animals, and when we got Peak, a young wild male, he was showing signs of suffering from isolation and he was eating less and less. As a stopgap measure, while he searched for a female, Father thought of seeing if Peak couldn't be accustomed to living with goats. If it worked, it would save a valuable animal. If it didn't, it would only cost a few goats. It worked marvellously. Peak and the herd of goats became inseparable, even when Summit arrived. Now, when the rhinos bathed, the goats stood around the muddy pool, and when the goats ate in their corner, Peak and Summit stood next to them like guards. The living arrangement was very popular with the public. Mr. Kumar looked up and saw me. He smiled and, one hand holding onto the railing, the other waving, signalled me to come over. "Hello, Pi," he said. "Hello, sir. It's good of you to come to the zoo." "I come here all the time. One might say it's my temple. This is interesting..." He was indicating the pit. "If we had politicians like these goats and rhinos we'd have fewer problems in our country. Unfortunately we have a prime minister who has the armour plating of a rhinoceros without any of its good sense." I didn't know much about politics. Father and Mother complained regularly about Mrs. Gandhi, but it meant little to me. She lived far away in the north, not at the zoo and not in Pondicherry. But I felt I had to say something. "Religion will save us," I said. Since when I could remember, religion had been very close to my heart. "Religion?" Mr. Kumar grinned broadly. "I don't believe in religion. Religion is darkness." Darkness? I was puzzled. I thought, Darkness is the last thing that religion is. Religion is light. Was he testing me? Was he saying, "Religion is darkness," the way he sometimes said in class things like "Mammals lay eggs," to see if someone would correct him? ("Only platypuses, sir.") "There are no grounds for going beyond a scientific explanation of reality and no sound reason for believing anything but our sense experience. A clear intellect, close attention to detail and a little scientific knowledge will expose religion as superstitious bosh. God does not exist." Did he say that? Or am I remembering the lines of later atheists? At any rate, it was something of the sort. I had never heard such words. "Why tolerate darkness? Everything is here and clear, if only we look carefully." He was pointing at Peak. Now though I had great admiration for Peak, I had never thought of a rhinoceros as a light bulb. He spoke again. "Some people say God died during the Partition in 1947. He may have died in 1971 during the war. Or he may have died yesterday here in Pondicherry in an orphanage. That's what some people say, Pi. When I was your age, I lived in bed, racked with polio. I asked myself every day, 'Where is God? Where is God? Where is God?' God never came. It wasn't God who saved me—it was medicine. Reason is my prophet and it tells me that as a watch stops, so we die. It's the end. If the watch doesn't work properly, it must be fixed here and now by us. One day we will take hold of the means of production and there will be justice on earth." This was all a bit much for me. The tone was right—loving and brave—but the details seemed bleak. I said nothing. It wasn't for fear of angering Mr. Kumar. I was more afraid that in a few words thrown out he might destroy something that I loved. What if his words had the effect of polio on me? What a terrible disease that must be if it could kill God in a man. He walked off, pitching and rolling in the wild sea that was the steady ground. "Don't forget the test on Tuesday. Study hard, 3.14!" "Yes, Mr. Kumar." He became my favourite teacher at Petit Seminaire and the reason I studied zoology at the University of Toronto. I felt a kinship with him. It was my first clue that atheists are my brothers and sisters of a different faith, and every word they speak speaks of faith. Like me, they go as far as the legs of reason will carry them—and then they leap. I'll be honest about it. It is not atheists who get stuck in my craw, but agnostics. Doubt is useful for a while. We must all pass through the garden of Gethsemane. If Christ played with doubt, so must we. If Christ spent an anguished night in prayer, if He burst out from the Cross, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" then surely we are also permitted doubt. But we must move on. To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation. |
第6章 他是个高明的厨师。他那暖气开得太足的家里总是飘散着某种美味佳肴的气味。他放调味品的架子就像一家药店。当他打开冰箱或碗橱的时候，那里面有很多商标名称都是我不认识的。我甚至不知道那些名称是哪一个国家的语言。我们是在印度。但是他的西式菜肴同样烧得很好。他给我做了我所尝过的最有滋味然而又是最清淡的通心粉和奶酪。他做的墨西哥煎玉米卷会让全墨西哥都羡慕的。 我还注意到一件事：他的几只碗橱都塞得满满的。在每一扇橱门后面，在每一层架子上，整整齐齐地堆着像山一样高的罐子和盒子。食物储备足够度过列宁格勒包围战。 第7章 我很幸运，年轻的时候遇到了几位好老师，这些男女老师走进我黑暗的头脑，划亮了一根火柴。其中一位老师就是萨蒂什·库马尔先生，他是我在小修院的生物老师，也是个活跃的共产主义者,总是希望泰米尔纳德能停止选举电影明星，而走喀拉拉邦的道路。他的长相十分奇特。他光秃秃的头顶是尖的，却长着我所见过的最让人难忘的双下巴，窄窄的肩膀陡然让位于像一座山一样巨大的肚子，只是这座山是立在空中的，因为它戛然而止，垂直消失在裤子里。让我苦恼的是，他那两条细棍子一样的腿是怎么支撑住上面的重量的，但它们撑住了，尽管有时候移动的样子令人惊奇，好像他的膝盖能向任何方向弯曲。他的身体是由几何图形构成的：他看上去就像一大一小两个三角形放在两条平行线上。但他却是个有机体，实际上很像一个大瘤，一根根黑毛像小树枝一样从耳朵里伸出来。而且友好。他的微笑似乎占满了他那个三角形脑袋的底部。 库马尔先生是我遇见的第一个公开承认自己是无神论者的人。我不是在课堂上，而是在动物园里发现这一点的。他是动物园的常客，每一张标签和标签上的描述性简介他都读，每一只他所看见的动物他都表示赞许。对他来说，每一只动物都是逻辑学和力学的胜利，整个大自然就是对科学的绝妙解释。在他听来，当一只动物有了交配的欲望时，它想起遗传学之父，于是说：“格累戈尔·孟德尔”，在显示本领时说的是自然选择之父“查尔斯·达尔文”，而我们以为的咩咩声、咕噜声、嘶嘶声、鼓鼻声、咆哮声、吼叫声、号叫声、唧唧声和尖叫声仅仅是外国人的浓重口音。 库马尔先生参观动物园是为了把握宇宙的脉搏，他那听诊器般的大脑总是向他证实，一切都井然有序，一切就是秩序。他离开动物园时感到科学精神振奋。 第一次看见他的三角形身体在动物园里摇摇晃晃、步履蹒跚地走来走去时，我很害羞，不敢靠近他。尽管我喜欢他这位老师，但他毕竟是拥有权力的人物，而我，是个臣民。我有点儿怕他。我在离他有一段距离的地方看着他。他刚刚来到犀牛栏前。因为那几只山羊，这两头印度犀牛在动物园非常引人注目。犀牛是群居动物，当年幼的野生雄性犀牛皮克来的时候，他表现出正在经受孤独的折磨的迹象，吃得越来越少。作为权宜之计，在寻找雌性犀牛的同时，父亲想看看皮克是否能够习惯和山羊一起生活。如果这能行，就能拯救一只珍稀动物。如果不行，那只是牺牲几只山羊而已。这个做法获得了极大成功。皮克和那群山羊变得难舍难分,甚至萨咪特来后也是如此。现在，犀牛洗澡时，山羊就围成一圈站在泥潭旁边，当山羊在角落进食时，皮克和萨咪特就像卫兵一样站在它们旁边。这样的生活安排很受游客欢迎。 库马尔先生抬起头来，看见了我。他微微一笑，一只手抓着栏杆，另一只手挥了挥，示意我过去。 "你好，派。"他说。 "你好，先生。你能到动物园来真好。"· "我常来。可以说这是我的庙宇。这很有意思……"他指着兽栏。"如果我们的政治家们也像这些山羊和犀牛一样，我们的国家就不会有那么多问题了。不幸的是，我们的首相有着犀牛的铠甲，却没有它的见识。" 我对政治了解得不多。父亲和母亲经常抱怨甘地夫人，但这对我几乎毫无意义。她住在遥远的北方，不在动物园里也不在本 地治里。但我感到自己应该说点儿什么。 "宗教会拯救我们的。"我说。从我记事时起，宗教就一直与我的心十分贴近。 "宗教？"库马尔先生咧大了嘴笑起来。"我不相信宗教。宗教是黑暗。" 黑暗？我糊涂了。我想,宗教绝不可能是黑暗。宗教是光明。他是在考验我吗？他说"宗教是黑暗"，是不是像他有时候在课堂上说诸如"哺乳动物都会下蛋"之类的话，看看有没有人会纠正他？（"只有鸭嘴兽，先生。"） "对现实做科学以外的其他解释是毫无根据的，相信我们感觉经验以外的任何事物是没有正当理由的。清晰的思维，对细节的密切关注，再加上一点点科学知识，就可以让我们清楚地看到，宗教是迷信的瞎扯。上帝并不存在。" 他是那么说的吗？还是我记得的是后来的无神论者的话？不管怎样，是诸如此类的话。我从来没有听到过这样的话。 "为什么要忍受黑暗呢？只要我们注意看，就会看到一切就在这儿，如此地清晰。" 他正指着皮克。虽然我非常欣赏皮克，但从来没有把一头犀牛想成是一只电灯泡。 他又说话了。"有人说上帝在1947年瓜分期间死了。他可能在1971年战争期间死了。或者也许他昨天在本地治里一家孤儿院里死了。有些人就是那么说的，派。我像你这么大的时候，整天躺在床上，遭受着小儿麻痹症的折磨。每天我都问自己：‘上帝在哪里？上帝在哪里？上帝在哪里？’上帝一直没有来。救我的不是上帝？而是医药。理性是我的先知，它告诉我就像手表会停一样，我们也会死。生命结束了。如果表走得不准，我们必须修理它，就在这儿，就在现在。总有一天我们会控制生产方式，地球上就会有公平了。" 这番话让我有点儿受不了。语调是对的——深情而勇敢——但是细节似乎冷酷严峻。我什么也没说。并不是害怕触怒库马尔先生。我更害怕他随口说的几句话可能会毁掉我热爱的某样东西。要是他的话对我产生的效果就像小儿麻痹症一样怎么办？那一定是一种非常可怕的疾病，如果它能杀死一个人心中的上帝。 他走开了，跌跌撞撞，摇摇晃晃，平稳的地面在他脚下仿佛成了汹涌的大海。"不要忘了星期二的考试。好好用功吧，三点一四!" "是，库马尔先生。" 他成了我在小修院最喜欢的老师和我在多伦多大学学习动物学的原因。我感到和他有一种亲缘关系。我第一次知道了无神论者也是我的兄弟姐妹,他们有着不同的信仰，他们所说的每一个宇都说明了自己的信仰。像我一样，理性引导他们走多远他们便走多远一然后便跳跃起来。 老实说，让我生气的不是无神论者，而是不可知论者。有一段时间怀疑是有用的。我们都必须经过客西马尼花园①。如果耶稣心存怀疑，那么我们一定也是如此。如果耶稣整整一夜都在痛苦地祈祷，如果他在十字架上大声叫喊："我的上帝，我的上帝，你为什么抛弃了我？"那么我们肯定也可以怀疑。但是我们必须继续向前。选择怀疑作为生活哲学就像选择静止作为交通方式。 【①《圣经》中耶稣蒙难的地方。】 |
CHAPTER 8 We commonly say in the trade that the most dangerous animal in a zoo is Man. In a general way we mean how our species' excessive predatoriness has made the entire planet our prey. More specifically, we have in mind the people who feed fishhooks to the otters, razors to the bears, apples with small nails in them to the elephants and hardware variations on the theme: ballpoint pens, paper clips, safety pins, rubber bands, combs, coffee spoons, horseshoes, pieces of broken glass, rings, brooches and other jewellery (and not just cheap plastic bangles: gold wedding bands, too), drinking straws, plastic cutlery, ping-pong balls, tennis balls and so on. The obituary of zoo animals that have died from being fed foreign bodies would include gorillas, bison, storks, rheas, ostriches, seals, sea lions, big cats, bears, camels, elephants, monkeys, and most every variety of deer, ruminant and songbird. Among zookeepers, Goliath's death is famous; he was a bull elephant seal, a great big venerable beast of two tons, star of his European zoo, loved by all visitors. He died of internal bleeding after someone fed him a broken beer bottle. The cruelty is often more active and direct. The literature contains reports on the many torments inflicted upon zoo animals: a shoebill dying of shock after having its beak smashed with a hammer; a moose stag losing its beard, along with a strip of flesh the size of an index finger, to a visitor's knife (this same moose was poisoned six months later); a monkey's arm broken after reaching out for proffered nuts; a deer's antlers attacked with a hacksaw; a zebra stabbed with a sword; and other assaults on other animals, with walking sticks, umbrellas, hairpins, knitting needles, scissors and whatnot, often with an aim to taking an eye out or to injuring sexual parts. Animals are also poisoned. And there are indecencies even more bizarre: onanists breaking a sweat on monkeys, ponies, birds; a religious freak who cut a snake's head off; a deranged man who took to urinating in an elk's mouth. At Pondicherry we were relatively fortunate. We were spared the sadists who plied European and American zoos. Nonetheless, our golden agouti vanished, stolen by someone who ate it, Father suspected. Various birds—pheasants, peacocks, macaws—lost feathers to people greedy for their beauty. We caught a man with a knife climbing into the pen for mouse deer; he said he was going to punish evil Ravana (who in the Ramayana took the form of a deer when he kidnapped Sita, Rama's consort). Another man was nabbed in the process of stealing a cobra. He was a snake charmer whose own snake had died. Both were saved: the cobra from a life of servitude and bad music, and the man from a possible death bite. We had to deal on occasion with stone throwers, who found the animals too placid and wanted a reaction. And we had the lady whose sari was caught by a lion. She spun like a yo-yo, choosing mortal embarrassment over mortal end. The thing was, it wasn't even an accident. She had leaned over, thrust her hand in the cage and waved the end of her sari in the lion's face, with what intent we never figured out. She was not injured; there were many fascinated men who came to her assistance. Her flustered explanation to Father was, "Whoever heard of a lion eating a cotton sari? I thought lions were carnivores." Our worst troublemakers were the visitors who gave food to the animals. Despite our vigilance, Dr. Atal, the zoo veterinarian, could tell by the number of animals with digestive disturbances which had been the busy days at the zoo. He called "tidbit-itis" the cases of enteritis or gastritis due to too many carbohydrates, especially sugar. Sometimes we wished people had stuck to sweets. People have a notion that animals can eat anything without the least consequence to their health. Not so. One of our sloth bears became seriously ill with severe hemorrhagic enteritis after being given fish that had gone putrid by a man who was convinced he was doing a good deed. Just beyond the ticket booth Father had painted on a wall in bright red letters the question: DO YOU KNOW WHICH IS THE MOST DANGEROUS ANIMAL IN THE ZOO? An arrow pointed to a small curtain. There were so many eager, curious hands that pulled at the curtain that we had to replace it regularly. Behind it was a mirror. But I learned at my expense that Father believed there was another animal even more dangerous than us, and one that was extremely common, too, found on every continent, in every habitat: the redoubtable species Animalus anthropomorphicus, the animal as seen through human eyes. We've all met one, perhaps even owned one. It is an animal that is "cute", "friendly", "loving", "devoted", "merry", "understanding". These animals lie in ambush in every toy store and children's zoo. Countless stories are told of them. They are the pendants of those "vicious", "bloodthirsty", "depraved" animals that inflame the ire of the maniacs I have just mentioned, who vent their spite on them with walking sticks and umbrellas. In both cases we look at an animal and see a mirror. The obsession with putting ourselves at the centre of everything is the bane not only of theologians but also of zoologists. I learned the lesson that an animal is an animal, essentially and practically removed from us, twice: once with Father and once with Richard Parker. It was on a Sunday morning. I was quietly playing on my own. Father called out. "Children, come here." Something was wrong. His tone of voice set off a small alarm bell in my head. I quickly reviewed my conscience. It was clear. Ravi must be in trouble again. I wondered what he had done this time. I walked into the living room. Mother was there. That was unusual. The disciplining of children, like the tending of animals, was generally left to Father. Ravi walked in last, guilt written all over his criminal face. "Ravi, Piscine, I have a very important lesson for you today." "Oh really, is this necessary?" interrupted Mother. Her face was flushed. I swallowed. If Mother, normally so unruffled, so calm, was worried, even upset, it meant we were in serious trouble. I exchanged glances with Ravi. "Yes, it is," said Father, annoyed. "It may very well save their lives." Save our lives! It was no longer a small alarm bell that was ringing in my head—they were big bells now, like the ones we heard from Sacred Heart of Jesus Church, not far from the zoo. "But Piscine? He's only eight," Mother insisted. "He's the one who worries me the most." "I'm innocent!" I burst out. "It's Ravi's fault, whatever it is. He did it!" "What?" said Ravi. "I haven't done anything wrong." He gave me the evil eye. "Shush!" said Father, raising his hand. He was looking at Mother. "Gita, you've seen Piscine. He's at that age when boys run around and poke their noses everywhere." Me? A run-arounder? An everywhere-nose-poker? Not so, not so! Defend me, Mother, defend me, I implored in my heart. But she only sighed and nodded, a signal that the terrible business could proceed. "Come with me," said Father. We set out like prisoners off to their execution. We left the house, went through the gate, entered the zoo. It was early and the zoo hadn't opened yet to the public. Animal keepers and groundskeepers were going about their work. I noticed Sitaram, who oversaw the orang-utans, my favourite keeper. He paused to watch us go by. We passed birds, bears, apes, monkeys, ungulates, the terrarium house, the rhinos, the elephants, the giraffes. We came to the big cats, our tigers, lions and leopards. Babu, their keeper, was waiting for us. We went round and down the path, and he unlocked the door to the cat house, which was at the centre of a moated island. We entered. It was a vast and dim cement cavern, circular in shape, warm and humid, and smelling of cat urine. All around were great big cages divided up by thick, green, iron bars. A yellowish light filtered down from the skylights. Through the cage exits we could see the vegetation of the surrounding island, flooded with sunlight. The cages were empty—save one: Mahisha, our Bengal tiger patriarch, a lanky, hulking beast of 550 pounds, had been detained. As soon as we stepped in, he loped up to the bars of his cage and set off a full-throated snarl, ears flat against his skull and round eyes fixed on Babu. The sound was so loud and fierce it seemed to shake the whole cat house. My knees started quaking. I got close to Mother. She was trembling, too. Even Father seemed to pause and steady himself. Only Babu was indifferent to the outburst and to the searing stare that bored into him like a drill. He had a tested trust in iron bars. Mahisha started pacing to and fro against the limits of his cage. Father turned to us. "What animal is this?" he bellowed above Mahisha's snarling. "It's a tiger," Ravi and I answered in unison, obediently pointing out the blindingly obvious. "Are tigers dangerous?" "Yes, Father, tigers are dangerous." "Tigers are very dangerous," Father shouted. "I want you to understand that you are never—under any circumstances—to touch a tiger, to pet a tiger, to put your hands through the bars of a cage, even to get close to a cage. Is that clear? Ravi?" Ravi nodded vigorously. "Piscine?" I nodded even more vigorously. He kept his eyes on me. I nodded so hard I'm surprised my neck didn't snap and my head fall to the floor. I would like to say in my own defence that though I may have anthropomorphized the animals till they spoke fluent English, the pheasants complaining in uppity British accents of their tea being cold and the baboons planning their bank robbery getaway in the flat, menacing tones of American gangsters, the fancy was always conscious. I quite deliberately dressed wild animals in tame costumes of my imagination. But I never deluded myself as to the real nature of my playmates. My poking nose had more sense than that. I don't know where Father got the idea that his youngest son was itching to step into a cage with a ferocious carnivore. But wherever the strange worry came from—and Father was a worrier—he was clearly determined to rid himself of it that very morning. "I'm going to show you how dangerous tigers are," he continued. "I want you to remember this lesson for the rest of your lives." He turned to Babu and nodded. Babu left. Malahisha's eyes followed him and did not move from the door he disappeared through. He returned a few seconds later carrying a goat with its legs tied. Mother gripped me from behind. Mahihisha's snarl turned into a growl deep in the throat. Babu unlocked, opened, entered, closed and locked a cage next to the tiger's cage. Bars and a trapdoor separated the two. Immediately Mahisha was up against the dividing bars, pawing them. To his growling he now added explosive, arrested woofs. Babu placed the goat on the floor; its flanks were heaving violently, its tongue hung from its mouth, and its eyes were spinning orbs. He untied its legs. The goat got to its feet. Babu exited the cage in the same careful way he had entered it. The cage had two floors, one level with us, the other at the back, higher by about three feet, that led outside to the island. The goat scrambled to this second level. Mahisha, now unconcerned with Babu, paralleled the move in his cage in a fluid, effortless motion. He crouched and lay still, his slowly moving tail the only sign of tension. Babu stepped up to the trapdoor between the cages and started pulling it open. In anticipation of satisfaction, Mahisha fell silent. I heard two things at that moment: Father saying "Never forget this lesson" as he looked on grimly; and the bleating of the goat. It must have been bleating all along, only we couldn't hear it before. I could feel Mother's hand pressed against my pounding heart. The trapdoor resisted with sharp cries. Mahisha was beside himself—he looked as if he were about to burst through the bars. He seemed to hesitate between staying where he was, at the place where his prey was closest but most certainly out of reach, and moving to the ground level, further away but where the trapdoor was located. He raised himself and started snarling again. The goat started to jump. It jumped to amazing heights. I had no idea a goat could jump so high. But the back of the cage was a high and smooth cement wall. With sudden ease the trapdoor slid open. Silence fell again, except for bleating and the click-click of the goat's hooves against the floor. A streak of black and orange flowed from one cage to the next. Normally the big cats were not given food one day a week, to simulate conditions in the wild. We found out later that Father had ordered that Mahisha not be fed for three days. I don't know if I saw blood before turning into Mother's arms or if I daubed it on later, in my memory, with a big brush. But I heard. It was enoiugh to scare the living vegetarian daylights out of me. Mother bundled us out. We were in hysterics. She was incensed. "How could you, Santosh? They're children! They'll be scarred for the rest of their lives." Her voice was hot and tremulous. I could see she had tears in her eyes. I felt better. "Gita, my bird, it's for their sake. What if Piscine had stuck his hand through the bars of the cage one day to touch the pretty orange fur? Better a goat than him, no?" His voice was soft, nearly a whisper. He looked contrite. He never called her "my bird" in front of us. We were huddled around her. He joined us. But the lesson was not over, though it was gentler after that. Father led us to the lions and leopards. "Once there was a madman in Australia who was a black belt in karate. He wanted to prove himself against the lions. He lost. Badly. The keepers found only half his body in the morning." "Yes, Father." The Himalayan bears and the sloth bears. "One strike of the claws from these cuddly creatures and your innards will be scooped out and splattered all over the ground." "Yes, Father." The hippos. "With those soft, flabby mouths of theirs they'll crush your body to a bloody pulp. On land they can outrun you." "Yes, Father." The hyenas. "The strongest jaws in nature. Don't think that they're cowardly or that they only eat carrion. They're not and they don't! They'll start eating you while you're still alive." "Yes, Father." The orang-utans. "As strong as ten men. They'll break your bones as if they were twigs. I know some of them were once pets and you played with them when they were small. But now they're grown-up and wild and unpredictable." "Yes, Father." The ostrich. "Looks flustered and silly, doesn't it? Listen up: it's one of the most dangerous animals in a zoo. Just one kick and your back is broken or your torso is crushed." "Yes, Father." The spotted deer. "So pretty, aren't they? If the male feels he has to, he'll charge you and those short little antlers will pierce you like daggers." "Yes, Father." The Arabian camel. "One slobbering bite and you've lost a chunk of flesh." "Yes, Father." The black swans. "With their beaks they'll crack your skull. With their wings they'll break your arms." "Yes, Father." The smaller birds. "They'll cut through your fingers with their beaks as if they were butter." "Yes, Father." The elephants. "The most dangerous animal of all. More keepers and visitors are killed by elephants than by any other animal in a zoo. A young elephant will most likely dismember you and trample your body parts flat. That's what happened to one poor lost soul in a European zoo who got into the elephant house through a window. An older, more patient animal will squeeze you against a wall or sit on you. Sounds funny—but think about it!" "Yes, Father." "There are animals we haven't stopped by. Don't think they're harmless. Life will defend itself no matter how small it is. Every animal is ferocious and dangerous. It may not kill you, but it will certainly injure you. It will scratch you and bite you, and you can look forward to a swollen, pus-filled infection, a high fever and a ten-day stay in the hospital." "Yes, Father." We came to the guinea pigs, the only other animals besides Mahisha to have been starved at Father's orders, having been denied their previous evening's meal. Father unlocked the cage. He brought out a bag of feed from his pocket and emptied it on the floor. "You see these guinea pigs?" "Yes, Father." The creatures were trembling with weakness as they frantically nibbled their kernels of corn. "Well..." He leaned down and scooped one up. "They're not dangerous." The other guinea pigs scattered instantly. Father laughed. He handed me the squealing guinea pig. He meant ito end on a light note. The guinea pig rested in my arms tensely. It was a young one. I went to the cage and carefully lowered it to the floor. It rushed to its mother's side. The only reason these guinea pigs weren't dangerous—didn't draw blood with their teeth and claws—was that they were practically domesticated. Otherwise, to grab a wild guinea pig with your bare hands would be like taking hold of a knife by the blade. The lesson was over. Ravi and I sulked and gave Father the cold shoulder for a week. Mother ignored him too. When I went by the rhinoceros pit I fancied the rhinos' heads were hung low with sadness over the loss of one of their dear companions. But what can you do when you love your father? Life goes on and you don't touch tigers. Except that now, for having accused Ravi of an unspecified crime he hadn't committed, I was as good as dead. In years subsequent, when he was in the mood to terrorize me, he would whisper to me, "Just wait till we're alone. You're the next goat!" CHAPTER 9 Getting animals used to the presence of humans is at the heart of the art and science of zookeeping. The key aim is to diminish an animal's flight distance, which is the minimum distance at which an animal wants to keep a perceived enemy. A flamingo in the wild won't mind you if you stay more than three hundred yards away. Cross that limit and it becomes tense. Get even closer and you trigger a flight reaction from which the bird will not cease until the three-hundred-yard limit is set again, or until heart and lungs fail. Different animals have different flight distances and they gauge them in different ways. Cats look, deer listen, bears smell. Giraffes will allow you to come to within thirty yards of them if you are in a motor car, but will run if you are 150 yards away on foot. Fiddler crabs scurry when you're ten yards away; howler monkeys stir in their branches when you're at twenty; African buffaloes react at seventy-five. Our tools for diminishing flight distance are the knowledge we have of an animal, the food and shelter we provide, the protection we afford. When it works, the result is an emotionally stable, stress-free wild animal that not only stays put, but is healthy, lives a very long time, eats without fuss, behaves and socializes in natural ways and—the best sign-reproduces. I won't say that our zoo compared to the zoos of San Diego or Toronto or Berlin or Singapore, but you can't keep a good zookeeper down. Father was a natural. He made up for a lack of formal training with an intuitive gift and a keen eye. He had a knack for looking at an animal and guessing what was on its mind. He was attentive to his charges, and they, in return, multiplied, some to excess. CHAPTER IO Yet there will always be animals that seek to escape from zoos. Animals that are kept in unsuitable enclosures are the most obvious example. Every animal has particular habitat needs that must be met. If its enclosure is too sunny or too wet or too empty, if its perch is too high or too exposed, if the ground is too sandy, if there are too few branches to make a nest, if the food trough is too low, if there is not enough mud to wallow in—and so many other ifs—then the animal will not be at peace. It is not so much a question of constructing an imitation of conditions in the wild as of getting to the essence of these conditions. Everything in an enclosure must be just right—in other words, within the limits of the animal's capacity to adapt. A plague upon bad zoos with bad enclosures! They bring all zoos into disrepute. Wild animals that are captured when they are fully mature are another example of escape-prone animals; often they are too set in their ways to reconstruct their subjective worlds and adapt to a new environment. But even animals that were bred in zoos and have never known the wild, that are perfectly adapted to their enclosures and feel no tension in the presence of humans, will have moments of excitement that push them to seek to escape. All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes inexplicable ways. This madness can be saving; it is part and parcel of the ability to adapt. Without it, no species would survive. Whatever the reason for wanting to escape, sane or insane, zoo detractors should realize that animals don't escape to somewhere but from something. Something within their territory has frightened them—the intrusion of an enemy, the assault of a dominant animal, a startling noise—and set off a flight reaction. The animal flees, or tries to. I was surprised to read at the Toronto Zoo—a very fine zoo, I might add—that leopards can jump eighteen feet straight up. Our leopard enclosure in Pondicherry had a wall sixteen feet high at the back; I surmise that Rosie and Copycat never jumped out not because of constitutional weakness but simply because they had no reason to. Animals that escape go from the known into the unknown—and if there is one thing an animal hates above all else, it is the unknown. Escaping animals usually hide in the very first place they find that gives them a sense of security, and they are dangerous only to those who happen to get between them and their reckoned safe spot. |
第8章 我们这一行通常说动物园里最危险的动物就是人。这句话的大概意思是，人类过度的掠夺性使整座星球都成了我们的猎物。更具体地说，我们想到的是这么一些人，他们给水獭喂鱼钩，给熊喂剃须刀，给大象喂里面有小钉子的苹果，给动物喂各种五金制品：圆珠笔、回形针、安全别针、橡皮筋、梳子、咖啡勺、马蹄铁、碎玻璃片、戒指、胸针和其他珠宝(而且不只是便宜的塑料手镯：也有结婚金戒指）、吸管、塑料刀具、乒乓球、网球，等等。讣告上由于被人喂了异物而死亡的动物园里的动物包括长颈鹿、野牛、鹳、美洲驼、鸵鸟、海豹、海狮、大型猫科动物、熊、骆驼、大象、猴子以及几乎所有种类的鹿、反刍动物和燕雀。动物饲养员都知道哥利亚之死；他是一头雄海象，一头体重两吨的庞大的珍贵野兽，是他所在的欧洲动物园的明星，受到所有游客的喜爱。他在吃了一个人喂他的破啤酒瓶之后死于内出血。 这样的残忍常常更加主动、直接。文献记载了动物园里的动物遭受各种折磨的报告：一只鲸头鸛在嘴被一把锤子砸烂以后死于休克；一头雄性糜鹿在一位游客的刀下失去了胡须和一块食指大小的肉（这头鹿六个月后被毒死）；一只猴子伸手去拿递给它的坚果时被弄断了胳膊；一头鹿的角遭到了钢锯的袭击；一匹斑马被剑刺中；还有用其他东西，包括手杖、雨伞、发夹、缝衣针、剪刀和诸如此类的东西，对其他动物进行的攻击，目的通常是要挖出一只眼睛，或者伤害性器官。动物也会被投毒。还有其他甚至更加古怪的下流行为：手淫者在猴子、驴子和小鸟面前干得大汗淋漓；一个宗教狂割下了一条蛇的头；一个疯子喜欢上了在驼鹿嘴里小便。 在本地治里，我们相对幸运一些。我们没有不断攻击欧洲和美洲动物园的虐待狂。尽管如此，我们的金色刺豚鼠还是不见了，父亲怀疑是被人偷去吃掉了。各种鸟——雉鸡、孔雀、金刚鹦鹉——在贪图它们美丽的人手里丢了羽毛。我们曾经抓住一个拿着一把刀爬进鼷鹿圈的人；他说他要惩罚邪恶的罗波那①（他在《罗摩衍那》里变成鹿，绑架了罗摩的配偶悉多）。还有一个人在偷一条眼镜蛇时被当场捉住。他是个耍蛇人，自己的蛇死了。他和蛇都得救了：眼镜蛇不用去过受奴役的生活，忍受糟糕的音乐，而人则避免了可能被蛇咬到的那致命的一口。有时我们得对付扔石头的人，他们认为动物太平静了，想要得到反应。有一位女士的莎丽②被一头狮子抓住了。在极度尴尬和死亡之间她选择了前者，像一只玩具转线盘一样打着转。事实是，这甚至不是个意外。她向前凑过身子,把手伸进笼子里,在狮子面前晃动着莎丽的一端，这是出于什么目的，我们一直没弄明白。她没有受伤；很多被这一情景吸引的人来帮她。她红着脸对父亲做出的解释是谁听说过狮子吃棉莎丽？我以为狮子是食肉动物呢。"最捣乱的是那些给动物喂食的人。尽管我们很警惕，动物园的兽医阿塔尔医生还是能根据有消化问题的动物数量来判断哪一天是动物园游客最多的一天。他把由于吃了太多的碳水化合物，尤其是太多的糖，而得的肠炎和胃炎叫做"美味炎"。有时候我们希望人们只喂甜食。人们有一种看法，认为动物可以吃任何东西，却不会有健康问题。并非如此。我们的一只懒熊吃了一个人给它的腐烂的鱼以后因为肠子大出血而病得很严重，而那个人却相信自己是在做好事。 【①罗波那，印度神话中的十首魔王。②印度妇女用以裹身包头或裹身披肩的整段布或绸。】 就在售票处旁边，父亲用鲜红的字在墙上写道：你们知道动物园里最危险的动物是什么吗？一支箭头指向一道小小的帘子。有那么多只急切好奇的手去拉开帘子，我们不得不定期更换帘子。帘子后面是一面镜子。 但是我付出了代价，了解到父亲相信还有一种动物甚至比我们更加危险，而且这种动物非常常见，在每一座大陆上，每一处栖息地都有：可怕的物种Animalusanthropomorphicus①，即人眼里的动物。我们都遇见过这种动物，也许甚至还养过一只。这是一种"漂亮"、"友好"、"可爱"、"忠诚"、"快乐"、"善解人意"的动物。这些动物埋伏在每一家玩具店和儿童动物园里。关于它们的故事数也数不清。它们是那些"邪恶"、"嗜血"、"堕落"的动物的补充,后者燃起了我刚才提到的那些疯子的怒火，他们用手杖和雨伞对它们发泄怨恨。在两种情况下，我们都在看一只动物时看到了一面镜子。痴迷于把我们自己置于一切的中心，这不仅是神学家的灾祸，也是动物学家的灾祸。 【①作者仿照拉丁文构词法自造的词，意即"具有人形状的动物"。 】 动物就是动物，无论是在本质上还是在实际上都与我们迥然不同，我两次得到这一教训：一次从父亲那里，一次从理查德·帕克那里。 那是一个星期天的早晨。我正安静地独自玩耍。父亲叫我们了。 "孩子们，到这儿来。" 出了什么事了。他的语调在我脑子里拉响了一只小警钟。我迅速回顾了一遍自己的良心。它是清白的。拉维肯定又惹祸了。我不知道这次他做了什么。我走进起居室。母亲在那儿。这很不寻常。教训孩子和照料动物通常都是由父亲去做的。拉维最后一个进来，他那张罪犯的脸上写满了过失。 "拉维，派西尼，今天我要给你们上非常重要的一课。" "噢，真的吗，这有必要吗？"母亲打断他说。她的脸红了。我倒吸了一口气。如果平常如此沉着、如此镇静的母亲现在却如此担心，甚至不安，那就意味着我们有大麻烦了。我和拉维交换了一下眼神。 "是的，有必要，"父亲生气地说，"这很可能救他们的命。"救我们的命！现在我脑子里拉响的不是小警钟——而是大警钟，就像我们听见的从离动物园不远的耶稣圣心堂传来的钟声一样响。 "但是派西尼呢？他只有8岁。"母亲坚持说。 "最让我担心的就是他。" "我没犯错！"我脱口叫道。"是拉维的错，不管是什么事。是他干的！" "什么？"拉维说。"我什么错也没犯。"他恶狠狠地瞪了我一眼。 "嘘！"父亲举起手说。他看着母亲。"吉塔，你看见派西尼了。他这个年龄的男孩子喜欢到处乱跑，探头探脑。" 我？到处乱跑？探头探脑？不是这样的，不是这样的！为我辩护啊，母亲，为我辩护啊，我在心里祈求道。但她只是叹口气，点了点头，表示这件可怕的事情可以继续下去了。 "跟我来。"父亲说。 我们出发了，就像罪犯走向刑场。 我们离开家，穿过大门，走进动物园。时间还早，动物园还没有对游客开放。我看见西塔拉姆，他是照管猩猩的，是我最喜欢 的饲养员。他停下手中的活，看着我们走过去。我们走过小鸟、熊、猿猴、猴子、有蹄类动物、陆栖小动物、犀牛、大象和长颈鹿的笼子。 我们来到大型猫科动物——我们的老虎、狮子和豹子——的笼前。他们的饲养员巴布正等着我们。我们走过去，沿着小路朝笼子走，他打开了通向猫科动物笼舍的门，笼舍在一座周围有深沟的小岛上。我们走了进去。那是一座很大的光线昏暗的水泥洞穴，洞是圆形的，温暖潮湿，闻上去有猫尿的气味。周围全是用很粗的绿色铁栏杆分隔开来的高大的笼子。一束发黄的光线透过天窗照射下来。透过笼子出口，我们可以看见周围小岛上的植物，上面洒满了阳光。笼子都是空的，只有一只除外：玛赫沙，我们的孟加拉虎元老，一只体重550磅的瘦长、笨拙的动物被关在了里面。我们一跨进去，他就跳跃着朝笼子栏杆跑过来，发出洪亮的嗥叫声，耳朵紧贴着脑袋，圆圆的眼睛目不转睛地看着巴布。叫声那么响亮，那么凶猛，仿佛把整座笼舍都震动了。我的膝盖开始哆嗦起来。我靠紧了母亲。她也在发抖。甚至父亲似乎也停顿了一下，稳住自己。只有巴布对突然爆发的叫声和像钻头一样直刺向他的灼热的目光无动于衷。根据经验，他对铁栏杆很信任。玛赫沙开始在笼子有限的空间里走来走去。 父亲转身面对我们。"这是什么动物？"他吼道，声音盖过了玛赫沙的嗥叫。 "是老虎。"拉维和我异口同声地回答，顺从地指出这个显而易见的事实。 "老虎危险吗？" "是的，父亲，老虎危险。" "老虎非常危险，"父亲叫道，"我想要你们明白，你们永远——无论在什么情况下——都不要碰老虎，不要摸老虎，不要把手伸进笼子栏杆里，甚至不要靠近笼子。明白吗？拉维？" 拉维用力点点头。 "派西尼？" 我更加用力地点点头。 他一直看着我。 我点头那么用力，脖子竟然没有断，头没有掉到地上，真是奇怪。 我要为自己辩护，尽管我也许把动物人格化，直到它们能说流利的英语，雉鸡用傲慢的英国口音抱怨茶是凉的，狒狒用美国歹徒带有威胁的平板语调计划抢劫银行后如何逃走，但我一直都知道这是幻想。我在想像中故意给野生动物披上驯服的家养动物的外衣。但我从没有在我的玩伴的真正本性方面欺骗自己。我到处乱探的头脑还不至于那么不明智。我不知道父亲的这种想法是从哪里来的，竟会认为他的小儿子渴望和一只凶猛的食肉动物一起跨进笼子。但是无论他的奇怪担忧从何而来——父亲的确是个好担忧的人一显然他巳下定决心就在那天早晨消除担忧。 "我要让你们看看老虎有多危险，"他接着说，"我想要你们一辈子记住这堂课。" 他转向巴布，点点头。巴布离开了。玛赫沙的目光一直追随着他，没有离开他消失在外面的那扇门。几秒钟后他回来了，手里拎着一只被捆住了脚的山羊。母亲从身后紧紧抓住了我。玛赫沙的嗥叫声变成了从深深的喉咙里发出的吼叫声。 巴布打开锁，打开门，走进去，关上门，锁上老虎笼旁边的一个笼子。栏杆和活板门把两个笼子分开。玛赫沙立刻冲向隔离栏杆,开始用爪子抓栏杆。除了吼叫，他现在又发出爆炸般的间歇的呜呜声。巴布把山羊放在了地上；山羊的体侧剧烈起伏着，舌头从嘴里伸出来，眼珠像球一样转动着。他给它的腿松了绑。山羊站了起来。巴布和进去时一样小心翼翼地离开了笼子。笼子有两层地面，一层和我们站的地面平齐，另一层在后面，高出大约三英尺，通向外面的小岛。山羊慌慌张张地爬上了第二层。玛赫沙现在已经不关心巴布了，他在笼子里也跳上了第二层，动作优美流畅、毫不费力。他蹲下来，一动不动地待着，只有慢慢动着的尾巴显示他很紧张。 巴布走到两个笼子之间的活板门前，开始把门拉开。因为想到自己就要得到满足，玛赫沙不叫了。那一刻我听见了两个声音：父亲一边严厉地看着一边说"永远不要忘记这一课"的声音；山羊的咩咩叫声。它一定一直在叫，只是我们刚才听不见。 我能感到母亲的手按在我怦怦直跳的心上。 活板门发出刺耳的声音,拉不开来。玛赫沙极度兴奋——他看上去似乎就要穿过栏杆冲出去了。他似乎在犹豫，不知道是待在原地，那里离猎物最近，但根本抓不到；还是到下面一层去，那里离猎物远一些，但活板门就在那儿。他直立起来，又开始嗥叫。 山羊开始跳起来。它跳得高得惊人。我不知道山羊能跳这么高。但是笼子后面是又高又滑的水泥墙。 活板门突然很容易地拉开了。笼子里又安静下来。只听见咩咩的叫声和山羊的蹄子踏在地上发出的咔哒咔哒声。 一道混合着黑色和橘黄色的闪光从一只笼子闪进另一只笼子。 为了模拟野生环境，通常一个星期里有一天动物园不给大型猫科动物喂食。后来我们知道，父亲下令饿了玛赫沙三天。 我不知道自己是在转身扑进母亲怀里之前看见了血，还是后来用一把大刷子在记忆中抹上去的。但是我听见了。那声音足以把吃素食的我吓得六神无主。母亲匆匆把我们推了出去。我们的歇斯底里发作了。她被激怒了。 "你怎么能这么做，桑托什？他们是孩子！他们这一辈子都会受惊吓的！" "吉塔，我的小鸟，这是为他们好。要是有一天派西尼把手从笼子栏杆伸进去摸漂亮的橘黄色毛怎么办？是山羊总比是他好，不是吗？" 他的声音很轻，几乎是在耳语。他看上去后悔了。他以前从不在我们面前叫她"我的小鸟"。 我们紧紧挤在她身边。他也和我们挤在一起。但是课还没有结束,虽然在那之后要温和一些。 父亲把我们领到狮子和豹子笼前。 "从前澳大利亚有个疯子，空手道黑带。他想证明自己比狮子厉害。他输了。输得很惨。早晨饲养员只发现了他的半具尸体。" "是的，父亲。" 喜玛拉雅熊和懒熊。 "这些喜欢搂搂抱抱的动物只要用爪子打你一下，你的内脏就被挖了出来，溅得满地都是。" "是的，父亲。" 河马。 "它们能用柔软松垂的嘴把你的身体挤成一堆血淋淋的肉酱。在陆地上它们比你们跑得快。" "是的，父亲。" "大自然最有力的嘴巴。不要以为它们是胆小鬼，只吃腐肉。它们不是胆小鬼，它们也不只吃腐肉！它们会在你还活着的时候就开始吃你。" "是的，父亲。" 猩猩。 "力气有十个男人那么大。它们会像折断小树枝一样折断你的骨头。我知道有几只曾经是宠物，在它们还小的时候你们和它们一起玩过。但是现在它们长大了，有了野性，难以捉摸。" "是的，父亲。" 鸵鸟。 "看上去紧张不安，傻里傻气，是不是？听着：这是动物园里最危险的动物之一。它只要踢你一下，你的背就断了，或者你的身体就碎了。" "是的，父亲。" 梅花鹿。 "多么漂亮啊，是不是？如果雄鹿感到有必要，它就会朝你冲过来，那些短小的鹿角会像匕首一样把你刺穿。" "是的，父亲。" 阿拉伯骆驼。 "淌着口水的嘴咬你一口，你的一大块肉就没了。" "是的，父亲。" 黑天鹅。 "它们的嘴会啄你的头。它们的翅膀会扇断你的胳膊。" "是的，父亲。" 小一些的鸟。 "它们的嘴会啄穿你的手指，就像啄黄油一样。" "是的，父亲。" 大象。 "最危险的动物。被大象杀死的饲养员和游客比被动物园任何其他动物杀死的都要多。幼象很可能把你撕碎，把你的尸体踩扁。这就是发生在欧洲一个从窗户爬进象舍的可怜的迷失的灵魂身上的事。岁数大一些的，耐心好一些的象会把你挤在墙上，或者坐在你身上。听上去很好笑？但是想想吧！" "是的，父亲。" "还有我们没有停下来看的动物。不要以为它们就是无害的。生命会保卫自己，无论是多么小的生命。每一种动物都很凶猛，很危险。也许它不会杀死你，但是它一定会伤害你。它会抓你咬你，你的伤口会肿起来，流脓，感染，你会发高烧，在医院里住十天。" "是的，父亲。" 我们来到豚鼠笼前，它们是除了玛赫沙之外惟一按照父亲的命令没有被喂食的动物。前一天晚上它们没有吃食。父亲打开笼门。他从口袋里拿出一袋饲料，全部倒在地上。 "你们看见这些豚鼠了吗？" "是的，父亲。" 这些动物一边发狂般的啃着玉米粒，一边因为虚弱而颤抖着。 "啊……"他身体前倾，捧起一只。"它们没有危险。"其他豚鼠立即四散逃开。 父亲大笑起来。他把吱吱叫的豚鼠交给我。他想轻松地结束这堂课。 豚鼠紧张地待在我怀里。那是只幼鼠。我走到笼边，小心地把它放在地上。它迅速跑到了妈妈身边。这些豚鼠不危险——不会用牙齿和爪子让人流血的惟一原因是它们实际上巳经被驯服了。否则，空手抓野豚鼠就像抓刀刃。 课结束了。拉维和我闷闷不乐，冷淡了父亲一个星期。母亲也不理他。经过犀牛栏的时候，我想像它们正因为失去了一个最亲爱的朋友而伤心地低垂着头呢。 但是如果你爱自己的父亲，你能怎么办呢？生活在继续，你不去碰老虎。只是现在，因为谴责拉维犯了某件他没有犯的、我未能具体指明的错，我的麻烦大了。在那之后的几年里，当他想要吓唬我的时候，就会低声对我说你就等着我们单独在一起的时候吧。你就是下一只山羊！" 第9章 让动物适应人的存在是动物园管理艺术和管理科学的核心。关键目的在于缩短动物的安全距离，也就是动物希望它所察觉到的敌人与之保持的最短距离。在野生环境中，如果你在距离红鹳300码以外的地方，它便不会在意你。如果你跨过了那道界限，它便变得紧张起来。如果再靠近些，你便会引起鸟儿的逃跑反应，除非重新确定了300码的界限，或者它的心肺功能不允许它再跑下去了，否则它是不会停下来的。不同的动物有不同的安全距离，并且通过不同的方式来判断这一距离。猫科动物用眼睛看，鹿用耳朵听，熊用鼻子嗅。如果你在汽车里，长颈鹿可以允许你到离它30码远的地方，但是如果你是徒步，那么在你离它还有150码的时候它便会跑开了。招潮在你距它10码的时候会急忙走开；吼猴在你距它20码的时候会在树枝上警觉起来；非洲水牛在你距它75码时便有反应。 缩小安全距离的工具是我们对动物的了解，我们提供的食物和栖息处，和我们给予的保护。当这一切起作用的时候，野生动物便会情绪稳定，不感到紧张，不仅待在动物园里，而且健康，长寿,安心进食，行为自然，合群，还有——最好的标志是——能够繁殖后代。我不会说我们的动物园能与圣地亚哥或多伦多或柏林或新加坡的动物园相比，但是你无法阻止一位优秀的动物园管理员发挥自己的天分。父亲是个天才。他的直觉天賦和敏锐目光弥补了正规训练的不足。他有一种本领，可以看着一只动物，猜出它有什么心事。他对自己照管的动物非常关心，作为回报，它们繁殖起来，有些繁殖得太多了。 第10章 然而总是有动物设法逃出动物园。最明显的例子是被养在不合适的围栏内的动物。每一只动物都有它独特的栖息地，这一点必须得到满足。如果它的围栏阳光太强烈或者太潮湿或者太空旷；如果它的栖木太高或者太暴露；如果地上沙子太多；如果树枝太少，不够做窝；如果食槽太低；如果没有足够的泥巴可以打滚——还有很多其他的如果——那么动物就不会平静。问题并不在于建造一处模仿野生环境的地方，而在于体现这些环境的本质。围栏里的每一样东西都必须刚好合适——换句话说，在动物适应能力的范围之内。愿上天降祸于有糟糕围栏的糟糕动物园吧！它们损害了动物园的名声。 另一种有逃跑倾向的动物是在完全成年后被捉住的动物；它们通常太习惯于自己的生活方式了，无法改造自己的主观世界以适应新的环境。 但是，甚至那些在动物园出生长大，对野生环境一无所知，对围栏完全适应，在人类面前丝毫不紧张的动物也会有兴奋的时刻，这样的时刻促使它们设法逃跑。所有生物都有几分疯狂，会让它们做出奇怪的，有时难以解释的行为。这种疯狂可能会救它们的命；这是适应能力的必要组成部分。没有了这种疯狂，任何物种都无法生存。 无论想要逃跑的原因是什么，是清醒还是疯狂，诋毁动物园的人都应该意识到，动物不是要逃到某个地方去，而是要逃离某样东西。它们地盘上的某样东西让它们受到惊吓——敌人的人侵，占支配地位的动物的攻击，让它们受惊吓的声音——引起了逃跑反应。于是动物逃跑了，或者试图逃跑。在多伦多动物园，一座非常好的动物园，我应该补充一句——我惊讶地读到豹子可以垂直向上跳18英尺。我们在本地治里的豹子围栏后面有一堵16英尺高的墙；罗茜和模仿猫从没有跳出去过，我推测这并不是因为它们体质虚弱，而完全是因为它们没有理由要那么做。逃跑的动物从它们所熟悉的环境进人它们所不熟悉的环境——如果有什么是动物最痛恨的，那就是不熟悉的环境。逃跑的动物通常躲在第一个它们认为能够给它们安全感的地方，只对那些碰巧挡在了它们和它们所认为的安全地点之间的人有危险。 |
CHAPTER 11 Consider the case of the female black leopard that escaped from the Zurich Zoo in the winter of 1933. She was new to the zoo and seemed to get along with the male leopard. But various paw injuries hinted at matrimonial strife. Before any decision could be taken about what to do, she squeezed through a break in the roof bars of her cage and vanished in the night. The discovery that a wild carnivore was tree in their midst created an uproar among the citizens of Zurich. Traps were set and hunting dogs were let loose. They only rid the canton of its few half-wild dogs. Not a trace of the leopard was found for ten weeks. Finally, a casual labourer came upon it under a barn twenty-five miles away and shot it. Remains of roe-deer were found nearby. That a big, black, tropical cat managed to survive for more than two months in a Swiss winter without being seen by anyone, let alone attacking anyone, speaks plainly to the fact that escaped zoo animals are not dangerous absconding criminals but simply wild creatures seeking to fit in. And this case is just one among many. If you took the city of Tokyo and turned it upside down and shook it, you would be amazed at the animals that would fall out. It would pour more than cats and dogs, I tell you. Boa constrictors, Komodo dragons, crocodiles, piranhas, ostriches, wolves, lynx, wallabies, manatees, porcupines, orang-utans, wild boar—that's the sort of rainfall you could expect on your umbrella. And they expected to find—ha! In the middle of a Mexican tropical jungle, imagine! Ha! Ha! It's laughable, simply laughable. What were they thinking? CHAPTER 12 At times he gets agitated. It's nothing I say (I say very little). It's his own story that does it. Memory is an ocean and he bobs on its surface. I worry that he'll want to stop. But he wants to tell me his story. He goes on. After all these years, Richard Parker still preys on his mind. He's a sweet man. Every time I visit he prepares a South Indian vegetarian feast. I told him I like spicy food. I don't know why I said such a stupid thing. It's a complete lie. I add dollop of yogurt after dollop of yogurt. Nothing doing. Each time it's the same: my taste buds shrivel up and die, my skin goes beet red, my eyes well up with tears, my head feels like a house on fire, and my digestive tract starts to twist and groan in agony like a boa constrictor that has swallowed a lawn mower. CHAPTER 13 So you see, if you fall into a lion's pit, the reason the lion will tear you to pieces is not because it's hungry—be assured, zoo animals are amply fed—or because it's bloodthirsty, but because you've invaded its territory. As an aside, that is why a circus trainer must always enter the lion ring first, and in full sight of the lions. In doing so, he establishes that the ring is his territory, not theirs, a notion that he reinforces by shouting, by stomping about, by snapping his whip. The lions are impressed. Their disadvantage weighs heavily on them. Notice how they come in: mighty predators though they are, "kings of beasts", they crawl in with their tails low and they keep to the edges of the ring, which is always round so that they have nowhere to hide. They are in the presence of a strongly dominant male, a super-alpha male, and they must submit to his dominance rituals. So they open their jaws wide, they sit up, they jump through paper-covered hoops, they crawl through tubes, they walk backwards, they roll over. "He's a queer one," they think dimly. "Never seen a top lion like him. But he runs a good pride. The larder's always full and—let's be honest, mates—his antics keep us busy. Napping all the time does get a bit boring. At least we're not riding bicycles like the brown bears or catching flying plates like the chimps." Only the trainer better make sure he always remains super alpha. He will pay dearly if he unwittingly slips to beta. Much hostile and aggressive behaviour among animals is the expression of social insecurity. The animal in front of you must know where it stands, whether above you or below you. Social rank is central to how it leads its life. Rank determines whom it can associate with and how; where and when it can eat; where it can rest; where it can drink; and so on. Until it knows its rank for certain, the animal lives a life of unbearable anarchy. It remains nervous, jumpy, dangerous. Luckily for the circus trainer, decisions about social rank among higher animals are not always based on brute force. Hediger (1950) says, "When two creatures meet, the one that is able to intimidate its opponent is recognized as socially superior, so that a social decision does not always depend on a fight; an encounter in some circumstances may be enough." Words of a wise animal man. Mr. Hediger was for many years a zoo director, first of the Basel Zoo and then of the Zurich Zoo. He was a man well versed in the ways of animals. It's a question of brain over brawn. The nature of the circus trainer's ascendancy is psychological. Foreign surroundings, the trainer's erect posture, calm demeanour, steady gaze, fearless step forward, strange roar (for example, the snapping of a whip or the blowing of a whistle)—these are so many factors that will fill the animal's mind with doubt and fear, and make clear to it where it stands, the very thing it wants to know. Satisfied, Number Two will back down and Number One can turn to the audience and shout, "Let the show go on! And now, ladies and gentlemen, through hoops of rael fire..." CHAPTER 14 It is interesting to note that the lion that is the most amenable to the circus trainer's tricks is the one with the lowest social standing in the pride, the omega animal. It has the most to gain from a close relationship with the super-alpha trainer. It is not only a matter of extra treats. A close relationship will also mean protection from the other members of the pride. It is this compliant animal, to the public no different from the others in size and apparent ferocity, that will be the star of the show, while the trainer leaves the beta and gamma lions, more cantankerous subordinates, sitting on their colourful barrels on the edge of the ring. The same is true of other circus animals and is also seen in zoos. Socially inferior animals are the ones that make the most strenuous, resourceful efforts to get to know their keepers. They prove to be the ones most faithful to them, most in need of their company, least likely to challenge them or be difficult. The phenomenon has been observed with big cats, bison, deer, wild sheep, monkeys and many other animals. It is a fact commonly known in the trade. Chapter 15 His house is a temple. In the entrance hall hangs a framed picture of Ganesha, he of the elephant head. He sits facing out—rosy-coloured, pot-bellied, crowned and smiling—three hands holding various objects, the fourth held palm out in blessing and in greeting. He is the lord overcomer of obstacles, the god of good luck, the god of wisdom, the patron of learning. Simpatico in the highest. He brings a smile to my lips. At his feet is an attentive rat. His vehicle. Because when Lord Ganesha travels, he travels atop a rat. On the wall opposite the picture is a plain wooden Cross. In the living room, on a table next to the sofa, there is a small framed picture of the Virgin Mary of Guadalupe, flowers tumbling from her open mantle. Next to it is a framed photo of the black-robed Kaaba, holiest sanctum of Islam, surrounded by a ten-thousandfold swirl of the faithful. On the television set is a brass statue of Shiva as Nataraja, the cosmic lord of the dance, who controls the motions of the universe and the flow of time. He dances on the demon of ignorance, his four arms held out in choreographic gesture, one foot on the demon's back, the other lifted in the air. When Nataraja brings this foot down, they say time will stop. There is a shrine in the kitchen. It is set in a cupboard whose door he has replaced with a fretwork arch. The arch partly hides the yellow light bulb that in the evenings lights up the shrine. Two pictures rest behind a small altar: to the side, Ganesha again, and in the centre, in a larger frame, smiling and blue-skinned, Krishna playing the flute. Both have smears of red and yellow powder on the glass over their foreheads. In a copper dish on the altar are three silver murtis, representations. He identifies them for me with a pointed finger: Lakshmi; Shakti, the mother goddess, in the form of Parvati; and Krishna, this time as a playful baby crawling on all fours. In between the goddesses is a stone Shiva yoni linga, which looks like half an avocado with a phallic stump rising from its centre, a Hindu symbol representing the male and female energies of the universe. To one side of the dish is a small conch shell set on a pedestal; to the other, a small silver handbell. Grains of rice lie about, as well as a flower just beginning to wilt. Many of these items are anointed with dabs of yellow and red. On the shelf below are various articles of devotion: a beaker full of water; a copper spoon; a lamp with a wick coiled in oil; sticks of incense; and small bowls full of red powder, yellow powder, grains of rice and lumps of sugar. There is another Virgin Mary in the dining room. Upstairs in his office there is a brass Ganesha sitting cross-legged next to the computer, a wooden Christ on the Cross from Brazil on a wall, and a green prayer rug in a corner. The Christ is expressive—He suffers. The prayer rug lies in its own clear space. Next to it, on a low bookstand, is a book covered by a cloth. At the centre of the cloth is a single Arabic word, intricately woven, four letters: an alif, two lams and a ha. The word God in Arabic. The book on the bedside table is a Bible. CHAPTER 16 We are all born like Catholics, aren't we—in limbo, without religion, until some figure introduces us to God? After that meeting the matter ends for most of us. If there is a change, it is usually for the lesser rather than the greater; many people seem to lose God along life's way. That was not my case. The figure in question for me was an older sister of Mother's, of a more traditional mind, who brought me to a temple when I was a small baby. Auntie Rohini was delighted to meet her newborn nephew and thought she would include Mother Goddess in the delight. "It will be his symbolic first outing," she said. It's a samskara!" Symbolic indeed. We were in Madurai; I was the fresh veteran of a seven-hour train journey. No matter. Off we went on this Hindu rite of passage, Mother carrying me, Auntie propelling her. I have no conscious memory of this first go-around in a temple, but some smell of incense, some play of light and shadow, some flame, some burst of colour, something of the sultriness and mystery of the place must have stayed with me. A germ of religious exaltation, no bigger than a mustard seed, was sown in me and left to germinate. It has never stopped growing since that day. I am a Hindu because of sculptured cones of red kumkum powder and baskets of yellow turmeric nuggets, because of garlands of flowers and pieces of broken coconut, because of the clanging of bells to announce one's arrival to God, because of the whine of the reedy nadaswaram and the beating of drums, because of the patter of bare feet against stone floors down dark corridors pierced by shafts of sunlight, because of the fragrance of incense, because of flames of arati lamps circling in the darkness, because of bhajans being sweetly sung, because of elephants standing around to bless, because of colourful murals telling colourful stories, because of foreheads carrying, variously signified, the same word—faith. I became loyal to these sense impressions even before I knew what they meant or what they were for. It is my heart that commands me so. I feel at home in a Hindu temple. I am aware of Presence, not personal the way we usually feel presence, but something larger. My heart still skips a beat when I catch sight of the murti, of God Residing, in the inner sanctum of a temple. Truly I am in a sacred cosmic womb, a place where everything is born, and it is my sweet luck to behold its living core. My hands naturally come together in reverent worship. I hunger for prasad, that sugary offering to God that comes back to us as a sanctified treat. My palms need to feel the heat of a hallowed flame whose blessing I bring to my eyes and forehead. But religion is more than rite and ritual. There is what the rite and ritual stand for. Here too I am a Hindu. The universe makes sense to me through Hindu eyes. There is Brahman, the world soul, the sustaining frame upon which is woven, warp and weft, the cloth of being, with all its decorative elements of space and time. There is Brahman nirguna, without qualities, which lies beyond understanding, beyond description, beyond approach; with our poor words we sew a suit for it—One, Truth, Unity, Absolute, Ultimate Reality, Ground of Being—and try to make it fit, but Brahman nirguna always bursts the seams. We are left speechless. But there is also Brahman saguna, with qualities, where the suit fits. Now we call it Shiva, Krishna, Shakti, Ganesha; we can approach it with some understanding; we can discern certain attributes—loving, merciful, frightening;—and we feel the gentle pull of relationship. Brahman saguna is Brahman made manifest to our limited senses, Brahman expressed not only in gods but in humans, animals, trees, in a handful of earth, for everything has a trace of the divine in it. The truth of life is that Brahman is no different from atman, the spiritual force within us, what you might call the soul. The individual soul touches upon the world soul like a well reaches for the water table. That which sustains the universe beyond thought and language, and that which is at the core of us and struggles for expression, is the same thing. The finite within the infinite, the infinite within the finite. If you ask me how Brahman and atman relate precisely, I would say in the same way the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit relate: mysteriously. But one thing is clear: atman seeks to realize Brahman, to be united with the Absolute, and it travels in this life on a pilgrimage where it is born and dies, and is born again and dies again, and again, and again, until it manages to shed the sheaths that imprison it here below. The paths to liberation are numerous, but the bank along the way is always the same, the Bank of Karma, where the liberation account of each of us is credited or debited depending on our actions. This, in a holy nutshell, is Hinduism, and I have been a Hindu all my life. With its notions in mind I see my place in the universe. But we should not cling! A plague upon fundamentalists and literalists! I am reminded of a story of Lord Krishna when he was a cowherd. Every night he invites the milkmaids to dance with him in the forest. They come and they dance. The night is dark, the fire in their midst roars and crackles, the beat of the music gets ever faster—the girls dance and dance and dance with their sweet lord, who has made himself so abundant as to be in the arms of each and every girl. But the moment the girls become possessive, the moment each one imagines that Krishna is her partner alone, he vanishes. So it is that we should not be jealous with God. I know a woman here in Toronto who is very dear to my heart. She was my foster mother. I call her Auntieji and she likes that. She is Quebecoise. Though she has lived in Toronto for over thirty years, her French-speaking mind still slips on occasion on the understanding of English sounds. And so, when she first heard of Hare Krishnas, she didn't hear right. She heard "Hairless Christians", and that is what they were to her for many years. When I corrected her, I told her that in fact she was not so wrong; that Hindus, in their capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are hat-wearing Muslims. CHAPTER 17 First wonder goes deepest; wonder after that fits in the impression made by the first. I owe to Hinduism the original landscape of my religious imagination, those towns and rivers, battlefields and forests, holy mountains and deep seas where gods, saints, villains and ordinary people rub shoulders, and, in doing so, define who and why we are. I first heard of the tremendous, cosmic might of loving kindness in this Hindu land. It was Lord Krishna speaking. I heard him, and I followed him. And in his wisdom and perfect love, Lord Krishna led me to meet one man. I was fourteen years old—and a well-content Hindu on a holiday—when I met Jesus Christ. It was not often that Father took time off from the zoo, but one of the times he did we went to Munnar, just over in Kerala. Munnar is a small hill station surrounded by some of the highest tea estates in the world. It was early May and the monsoon hadn't come yet. The plains of Tamil Nadu were beastly hot. We made it to Munnar after a winding, five-hour car ride from Madurai. The coolness was as pleasing as having mint in your mouth. We did the tourist thing. We visited a Tata tea factory. We enjoyed a boat ride on a lake. We toured a cattle-breeding centre. We fed salt to some Nilgiri tahrs—a species of wild goat—in a national park. ("We have some in our zoo. You should come to Pondicherry," said Father to some Swiss tourists.) Ravi and I went for walks in the tea estates near town. It was all an excuse to keep our lethargy a little busy. By late afternoon Father and Mother were as settled in the tea room of our comfortable hotel as two cats sunning themselves at a window. Mother read while Father chatted with fellow guests. There are three hills within Munnar. They don't bear comparison with the tall hills—mountains, you might call them—that surround the town, but I noticed the first morning, as we were having breakfast, that they did stand out in one way: on each stood a Godhouse. The hill on the right, across the river from the hotel, had a Hindu temple high on its side; the hill in the middle, further away, held up a mosque; while the hill on the left was crowned with a Christian church. On our fourth day in Munnar, as the afternoon was coming to an end, I stood on the hill on the left. Despite attending a nominally Christian school, I had not yet been inside a church—and I wasn't about to dare the deed now. I knew very little about the religion. It had a reputation for few gods and great violence. But good schools. I walked around the church. It was a building unremittingly unrevealing of what it held inside, with thick, featureless walls pale blue in colour and high, narrow windows impossible to look in through. A fortress. I came upon the rectory. The door was open. I hid around a corner to look upon the scene. To the left of the door was a small board with the words Parish Priest and Assistant Priest on it. Next to each was a small sliding block. Both the priest and his assistant were IN, the board informed me in gold letters, which I could plainly see. One priest was working in his office, his back turned to the bay windows, while the other was seated on a bench at a round table in the large vestibule that evidently functioned as a room for receiving visitors. He sat facing the door and the windows, a book in his hands, a Bible I presumed. He read a little, looked up, read a little more, looked up again. It was done in a way that was leisurely, yet alert and composed. After some minutes, he closed the book and put it aside. He folded his hands together on the table and sat there, his expression serene, showing neither expectation nor resignation. The vestibule had clean, white walls; the table and benches were of dark wood; and the priest was dressed in a white cassock—it was all neat, plain, simple. I was filled with a sense of peace. But more than the setting, what arrested me was my intuitive understanding that he was there—open, patient—in case someone, anyone, should want to talk to him; a problem of the soul, a heaviness of the heart, a darkness of the conscience, he would listen with love. He was a man whose profession it was to love, and he would offer comfort and guidance to the best of his ability. I was moved. What I had before my eyes stole into my heart and thrilled me. He got up. I thought he might slide his block over, but he didn't. He retreated further into the rectory, that's all, leaving the door between the vestibule and the next room as open as the outside door. I noted this, how both doors were wide open. Clearly, he and his colleague were still available. I walked away and I dared. I entered the church. My stomach was in knots. I was terrified I would meet a Christian who would shout at me, "What are you doing here? How dare you enter this sacred place, you defiler? Get out, right now!" There was no one. And little to be understood. I advanced and observed the inner sanctum. There was a painting. Was this the murti? Something about a human sacrifice. An angry god who had to be appeased with blood. Dazed women staring up in the air and fat babies with tiny wings flying about. A charismatic bird. Which one was the god? To the side of the sanctum was a painted wooden sculpture. The victim again, bruised and bleeding in bold colours. I stared at his knees. They were badly scraped. The pink skin was peeled back and looked like the petals of a flower, revealing kneecaps that were fire-engine red. It was hard to connect this torture scene with the priest in the rectory. The next day, at around the same time, I let myself IN. Catholics have a reputation for severity, for judgment that comes down heavily. My experience with Father Martin was not at all like that. He was very kind. He served me tea and biscuits in a tea set that tinkled and rattled at every touch; he treated me like a grown-up; and he told me a story. Or rather, since Christians are so fond of capital letters, a Story. And what a story. The first thing that drew me in was disbelief. What? Humanity sins but it's God's Son who pays the price? I tried to imagine Father saying to me, "Piscine, a lion slipped into the llama pen today and killed two llamas. Yesterday another one killed a black buck. Last week two of them ate the camel. The week before it was painted storks and grey herons. And who's to say for sure who snacked on our golden agouti? The situation has become intolerable. Something must be done. I have decided that the only way the lions can atone for their sins is if I feed you to them." "Yes, Father, that would be the right and logical thing to do. Give me a moment to wash up." "Hallelujah, my son." "Hallelujah, Father." What a downright weird story. What peculiar psychology. I asked for another story, one that I might find more satisfying. Surely this religion had more than one story in its bag—religions abound with stories. But Father Martin made me understand that the stories that came before it—and there were many—were simply prologue to the Christians. Their religion had one Story, and to it they came back again and again, over and over. It was story enough for them. I was quiet that evening at the hotel. That a god should put up with adversity, I could understand. The gods of Hinduism face their fair share of thieves, bullies, kidnappers and usurpers. What is the Ramayana but the account of one long, bad day for Rama? Adversity, yes. Reversals of fortune, yes. Treachery, yes. But humiliation? Death? I couldn't imagine Lord Krishna consenting to be stripped naked, whipped, mocked, dragged through the streets and, to top it off, crucified—and at the hands of mere humans, to boot. I'd never heard of a Hindu god dying. Brahman Revealed did not go for death. Devils and monsters did, as did mortals, by the thousands and millions—that's what they were there for. Matter, too, fell away. But divinity should not be blighted by death. It's wrong. The world soul cannot die, even in one contained part of it. It was wrong of this Christian God to let His avatar die. That is tantamount to letting a part of Himself die. For if the Son is to die, it cannot be fake. If God on the Cross is God shamming a human tragedy, it turns the Passion of Christ into the Farce of Christ. The death of the Son must be real. Father Martin assured me that it was. But once a dead God, always a dead God, even resurrected. The Son must have the taste of death forever in His mouth. The Trinity must be tainted by it; there must be a certain stench at the right hand of God the Father. The horror must be real. Why would God wish that upon Himself? Why not leave death to the mortals? Why make dirty what is beautiful, spoil what is perfect? Love. That was Father Martin's answer. And what about this Son's deportment? There is the story of baby Krishna, wrongly accused by his friends of eating a bit of dirt. His foster mother, Yashoda, comes up to him with a wagging finger. "You shouldn't eat dirt, you naughty boy," she scolds him. "But I haven't," says the unchallenged lord of all and everything, in sport disguised as a frightened human child. "Tut! Tut! Open your mouth," orders Yashoda. Krishna does as he is told. He opens his mouth. Yashoda gasps. She sees in Krishna's mouth the whole complete entire timeless universe, all the stars and planets of space and the distance between them, all the lands and seas of the earth and the life in them; she sees all the days of yesterday and all the days of tomorrow; she sees all ideas and all emotions, all pity and all hope, and the three strands of matter; not a pebble, candle, creature, village or galaxy is missing, including herself and every bit of dirt in its truthful place. "My Lord, you can close your mouth," she says reverently. There is the story of Vishnu incarnated as Vamana the dwarf. He asks of demon king Bali only as much land as he can cover in three strides. Bali laughs at this runt of a suitor and his puny request. He consents. Immediately Vishnu takes on his full cosmic size. With one stride he covers the earth, with the second the heavens, and with the third he boots Bali into the netherworld. Even Rama, that most human of avatars, who had to be reminded of his divinity when he grew long-faced over the struggle to get Sita, his wife, back from Ravana, evil king of Lanka, was no slouch. No spindly cross would have kept him down. When push came to shove, he transcended his limited human frame with strength no man could have and weapons no man could handle. That is God as God should be. With shine and power and might. Such as can rescue and save and put down evil. This Son, on the other hand, who goes hungry, who suffers from thirst, who gets tired, who is sad, who is anxious, who is heckled and harassed, who has to put up with followers who don't get it and opponents who don't respect Him—what kind of a god is that? It's a god on too human a scale, that's what. There are miracles, yes, mostly of a medical nature, a few to satisfy hungry stomachs; at best a storm is tempered, water is briefly walked upon. If that is magic, it is minor magic, on the order of card tricks. Any Hindu god can do a hundred times better. This Son is a god who spent most of His time telling stories, talking. This Son is a god who walked, a pedestrian god—and in a hot place, at that—with a stride like any human stride, the sandal reaching just above the rocks along the way; and when He splurged on transportation, it was a regular donkey. This Son is a god who died in three hours, with moans, gasps and laments. What kind of a god is that? What is there to inspire in this Son? Love, said Father Martin. And this Son appears only once, long ago, far away? Among an obscure tribe in a backwater of West Asia on the confines of a long-vanished empire? Is done away with before He has a single grey hair on His head? Leaves not a single descendant, only scattered, partial testimony, His complete works doodles in the dirt? Wait a minute. This is more than Brahman with a serious case of stage fright. This is Brahman selfish. This is Brahman ungenerous and unfair. This is Brahman practically unmanifest. If Brahman is to have only one son, He must be as abundant as Krishna with the milkmaids, no? What could justify such divine stinginess? Love, repeated Father Martin. I'll stick to my Krishna, thank you very much. I find his divinity utterly compelling. You can keep your sweaty, chatty Son to yourself. That was how I met that troublesome rabbi of long ago: with disbelief and annoyance. I had tea with Father Martin three days in a row. Each time, as teacup rattled against saucer, as spoon tinkled against edge of cup, I asked questions. The answer was always the same. He bothered me, this Son. Every day I burned with greater indignation against Him, found more flaws to Him. He's petulant! It's morning in Bethany and God is hungry, God wants His breakfast. He comes to a fig tree. It's not the season for figs, so the tree has no figs. God is peeved. The Son mutters, "May you never bear fruit again," and instantly the fig tree withers. So says Matthew, backed up by Mark. I ask you, is it the fig tree's fault that it's not the season for figs? What kind of a thing is that to do to an innocent fig tree, wither it instantly? I couldn't get Him out of my head. Still can't. I spent three solid days thinking about Him. The more He bothered me, the less I could forget Him. And the more I learned about Him, the less I wanted to leave Him. On our last day, a few hours before we were to leave Munnar, I hurried up the hill on the left. It strikes me now as a typically Christian scene. Christianity is a religion in a rush. Look at the world created in seven days. Even on a symbolic level, that's creation in a frenzy. To one born in a religion where the battle for a single soul can be a relay race run over many centuries, with innumerable generations passing along the baton, the quick resolution of Christianity has a dizzying effect. If Hinduism flows placidly like the Ganges, then Christianity bustles like Toronto at rush hour. It is a religion as swift as a swallow, as urgent as an ambulance. It turns on a dime, expresses itself in the instant. In a moment you are lost or saved. Christianity stretches back through the ages, but in essence it exists only at one time: right now. I booted up that hill. Though Father Martin was not IN—alas, his block was slid over—thank God he was in. Short of breath I said, "Father, I would like to be a Christian, please." He smiled. "You already are, Piscine—in your heart. Whoever meets Christ in good faith is a Christian. Here in Munnar you met Christ." He patted me on the head. It was more of a thump, actually. His hand went BOOM BOOM BOOM on my head. I thought I would explode with joy. "When you come back, we'll have tea again, my son." "Yes, Father." It was a good smile he gave me. The smile of Christ. I entered the church, without fear this time, for it was now my house too. I offered prayers to Christ, who is alive. Then I raced down the hill on the left and raced up the hill on the right—to offer thanks to Lord Krishna for having put Jesus of Nazareth, whose humanity I found so compelling, in my way. |
第11章 考虑一下1933年冬天一只雌性黑豹从苏黎世动物园逃跑的实例。她是新来的，似乎与雄豹相处不错。但是她身上很多被抓伤的痕迹暗示了他们夫妻间的冲突。人们还没有决定该怎么办，她已经从笼子顶部栏杆的一处缺口挤了出去，消失在夜色里。有一只从笼子里逃出来的野生食肉动物就在他们中间，这一发现引起了苏黎世市民的骚动。人们设置了陷阱，放出了猎狗。这些措施只消灭了州里极少的几只半野生的狗。十个星期过去了，却没有发现豹子的任何踪迹。最后，一名临时工在25英里外的一座牲口棚里发现了她，开熗把她打死了。附近发现了吃剩的狍。一只生活在热带的大型黑色猫科动物在瑞士的冬天生活了两个多星期而没有被任何人发现，更不用说袭击任何人了，这一事实明显说明从动物园里逃跑的动物并不是危险的逃犯，而只是努力适应环境的野生动物。 而这只是许多事例当中的一个。如果你把东京倒过来抖一抖，掉出来的动物会让你大吃一惊的。我告诉你倾泻而下的可不只是猫和狗。王蛇、巨蜥、鳄鱼、水虎鱼、鸵鸟、狼、猞猁、沙袋鼠、野牛、豪猪、猩猩、野猪——这些就是你指望会落到你伞上的雨。而他们期望发现——哈！在墨西哥一座热带丛林的中心，想像一下吧！哈！哈！这太好笑了，简直太好笑了。他们那时在想什么呢？ 第12章 有时候他变得焦虑不安。不是因为我说了什么（我很少说话）。是他自己的故事使他这样。记忆是座海洋，他在海面上起伏。我担心他会想停下来。但是他想把自己的故事告诉我。他又接着说下去。在这么多年以后，理查德·帕克仍然让他痛苦。 他是个可爱的人。每次我去拜访，他都准备一桌丰盛的印度南部的素食盛宴。我告诉他我喜欢辛辣的食物。我不知道为什么我会说这么蠢的话。这是个彻头彻尾的谎言。我加了一点儿酸奶又加了一点儿酸奶。没有用。每次都一样：我的味蕾枯萎死去，我的皮肤变得火红，我的眼睛里满是泪水，我的头感觉就像一座失火的房子，我的消化道开始扭曲和痛苦呻吟，像一条吞下了一台割草机的王蛇。 第13章 因此你瞧，如果你掉进了狮栏里，狮子会把你撕成碎片的原因不是因为它饿了一动物园里的动物被喂得很饱，这是肯定的——也不是因为它嗜血，而是因为你侵人了它的地盘。 顺便插一句，这就是马戏团的驯兽师每次都必须先进狮子表演场，而且要在狮子看得很清楚的地方进去的原因。他以此表明表演场是他的地盘，而不是它们的地盘，他通过叫喊、跺脚和甩鞭子来强调这一概念。狮子们肃然起敬。它们的劣势沉重地压在心头。注意它们是怎么进来的：尽管它们是强壮有力的食肉动物，"百兽之王"却低垂着尾巴爬了进来，紧贴着场边走，而表演场总是圆的，因此它们无处躲藏。它们面对的是一头强壮的居统治地位的雄狮，一个雄性超级老大，而它们必须顺从他的统治仪式。于是它们把嘴张得大大的，它们坐起来，它们从蒙着纸的圈子里跳过去，它们从管子里钻过去，它们倒着走，它们打滚。"他是个奇怪的家伙。"它们隐约觉得。"从没见过他那样的领头狮。但是他领的是一群引人注目的狮子。食品柜总是满满的，而且——老实说，伙伴们——他的滑稽姿势让我们忙个不停。老是打瞌睡的确有点儿烦。至少我们没像棕熊那样骑自行车，也没像黑猩猩那样接飞碟。" 只是驯兽师最好确保自己永远都是老大。如果无意之中滑到了老二的位置，他就会付出惨重的代价。动物之间的很多不友好和好斗的行为都是在群体中缺乏安全感的表现。你面前的动物一定要知道它的位置在哪里，是在你之上还是在你之下。动物在群体中的地位对它如何生活至关重要。地位决定了它可以与谁交往，如何交往；它可以在什么地点和什么时候进食；它可以在什么地方休息；它可以在什么地方饮水，等等。在明确知道自己的地位之前，动物的生活一直处于无法忍受的无政府状态。它一直紧张不安，易受惊吓，充满危险。高级动物在群体中的地位并不总是由蛮力决定的，这是马戏团驯兽师的幸运。黑迪格尔说："当两只动物相遇时，能将对方吓唬住的那只被认为在群体中拥有更高的地位，因此群体决定并不总是取决于一场搏斗；在某些情况下，一次冲突也许就够了。"一位明智的动物研究者的话。黑迪格尔先生曾做过很多年的动物园园长，先是在巴塞尔动物园，后来在慕尼黑动物园。他对动物的行为十分精通。 这是脑力战胜体力的问题。从本质上说，马戏团驯兽师拥有的是心理上的优势。陌生的环境、驯兽师的直立姿势、平静的外表、镇定的目光、毫不畏惧地向前的步伐、奇怪的咆哮声（例如用鞭子的声音或是哨声）——这么多的因素让动物心里充满了怀疑和恐惧，并且让它明白自己的位置在哪里，而这正是它最想知道的。得到满足后，老二就会向后退缩，老大就可以转身面向观众大声说：“让我们继续表演！现在,女士们，先生们，火圈上点燃的是真正的火……" 第14章 有趣的是，我们注意到最顺从马戏团驯兽师各种把戏的是狮群中地位最低的那头狮子，那个老小。它从与超级老大驯兽师的亲密关系中获利最多。这不仅仅是额外奖赏的问题。亲密的关系也意味着狮群中其他成员的保护。正是这只顺从的动物，在观众眼里与其他狮子的个头和凶猛程度没有什么不同的狮子，将会成为表演明星，而驯兽师却让狮群中的老二和老三，那些更难驾驭的下属，坐在表演场边上的彩色筒上。 马戏团里其他动物的情况也是如此，而且这一情况在动物园里也能见到。在群体中地位低下的动物正是特别努力地、机敏地去了解饲养员的动物。事实证明，它们最忠实于饲养员，最需要他们的陪伴，最不可能反抗他们或者让他们为难。我们在大型猫科动物、野牛、鹿、野羊、猴子和很多其他动物身上都曾观察到这一现象。这是我们这一行众所周知的事实。 第15章 他的家是一座庙宇。门厅里挂着一幅镶了框的象头神①的画像，他长着一个大象头。他面朝外坐着——玫瑰红的肤色，肥大的肚子，头戴王冠，面露微笑——三只手拿着不同的物体，第四只手掌心向外，在给人祝福，向人问好。他是征服障碍之王，幸运之神，智慧之神，知识的庇护神。最高的和谐。他让微笑浮上了我的嘴唇。在他脚下是一只聚精会神的大鼠。他的坐骑。因为象头神是骑着大鼠旅行的。对面墙上的画上是一个朴素的十字架。 【①象头神，湿婆与雪山神女之子，司掌文学与艺术，能排除障碍。象头神常见的像色红、大腹、象牙一全一残，四臂四手，分执套索、刺棒、巨罐（内装米或甜食）和断牙。这四手也可颁思或庇护受难者。】 在起居室里，沙发旁边的桌上，有一幅镶了框的瓜达卢佩圣母马利亚的小画像，鲜花从她敞开的斗蓬里撒落下来。画像旁边是一张镶了框的覆盖着黑布的天房的照片，那是伊斯兰教最神圣的圣所，周围环绕着一千层忠诚的教徒。电视机上有一尊舞王形象的湿婆②铜雕像，他是宇宙的舞蹈之王，控制着宇宙的运动和时间的流动。他在无知这个恶魔的身上跳舞，四只胳膊以舞蹈姿势伸展着，一只脚踩在恶魔背上，另一只脚提在空中。当舞王把脚放下来时，他们说，时间就停止了。 【②湿婆，印度教主神之一，集水火不相容的特性于一身，既是毁灭者又是起死回生者，既是大苦行者又是色欲的象征，既有牧养众生的慈心又有复仇的凶险。】 厨房里有一个神龛。神龛放在一只碗橱里，橱门被他换成了装饰着浮雕细工的拱门。拱门部分地挡住了晚上照亮神龛的黄色灯泡。一座小圣坛后面有两幅画像：旁边是另一幅象头神的画像，中间大一些的画框里是面带微笑，蓝色皮肤的克利须那①在吹笛子。两尊神的额头上方的玻璃上都有红色和黄色粉末的痕迹。在圣坛上的一只铜盘子里有三座银像——神的代表②。他用手指指着——向我说明：吉祥天女，化身为雪山神女③的女神之主萨克蒂④还有克利须那，这次是手脚并用在爬着的顽皮婴孩的样子。在两尊女神之间有一尊石雕的约尼—林伽⑤湿婆，看上去像中间竖着一个男根的半个鳄梨，这是一个印度教的象征，代表着宇宙的男性和女性力量。盘子一边是放在垫座上的一只小海螺；另一边是一只小小的银子做的手摇铃。四周放着米粒，还有刚刚开始枯萎的鲜花。很多东西上面都轻轻涂了黄色和红色。 【①克利须那,黑天，印度教主神之一峨湿奴的主要化身。②印度教认为,众神都存在于他们的像里。③雪山神女，湿婆之妻,代表萨克蒂女神的仁慈一面。④萨克蒂，印度教三大派之一性力教所崇拜的最高女神,是众女神之主或某一男神（如湿婆）的配偶。⑤约尼，代表女性生殖器，象征湿婆的配偶女神。林伽,代表男性生殖器，象征湿婆。】 下面一层架子上放着各种各样奉献的东西：一只装满了水的烧杯；一把铜勺子；一盏灯芯缩在油里的油灯；几枝香；还有几只盛满了红色粉末、黄色粉末、米粒和糖块的碗。 餐厅里还有一幅圣母马利亚画像。 在楼上他的办公室里，电脑旁边有一尊盘腿坐着的象头神的铜雕像，墙上挂着一尊从巴西买来的木雕十字架上的耶稣像，角落里放着一块绿色跪墊。耶稣的表情丰富——他在忍受痛苦。跪垫躺在自已清清爽爽的地方。跪垫旁边一个矮阅览架上放着一本书，书上盖着一块布。布中间有一个阿拉伯字，织得非常精细，有四个字毋：一个alif，两个lam和一个ha。这个字在阿拉伯文里是上帝的意思。 阅览架上的那本书是《圣经》。 第16章 我们出生时都像天主教徒一样，不是吗——身处地狱边缘，没有宗教信仰，直到某个人把我们引到了上帝面前。在那次见面之后，对我们大多数人来说，事情就结束了。如果有什么变化，通常也是变得对上帝更加怀疑，而不是更加坚信；很多人似乎在生活中失去了上帝。我的情况不是这样。对我来说，我刚才说到的那个人物就是母亲的一个姐姐，她思想更加传统，在我还是个婴儿的时候，她就把我带进了一座庙宇里。罗西妮姨妈很高兴见到她刚刚出生的外甥，而且想要女神之主也分享这一喜悦。"这会是他具有象征意义的第一次郊游，"她说，"这是家祭①"的确很有象征意义。我们当时在马杜赖；坐了七个小时的火车之后,我刚刚成了一个经验丰富的老乘客。这无关紧要。我们出发了，去举行这印度教的通过礼仪，母亲抱着我，姨妈推着她。对第一次参观庙宇，我并没有记忆，但是香烟的某种气味，光与影的某种变幻，某种火焰，某种鲜亮的色彩，这个地方某种令人动情的神秘的东西一定在我心中留下了印象。一粒只有芥子那么大的宗教升华的种子在我心里种下了，并且开始发芽。自从那天开始，它从未停止过生长。 【①家祭，指印度教教徒从受胎到死亡各阶段所举行的个人净化仪式。】 我成了一个印度教徒，是因为那装在一个个有雕刻装饰的圆锥形卷筒里的红色郁金粉和一篮篮黄色姜黄块，因为一只只花环和一块块碎椰子，因为宣布某人来到神的面前的丁丁当当的钟声，因为芦苇做的纳达斯瓦拉姆①的呜咽声和鼓的咚咚声，因为光脚走过射进一束束阳光的昏暗的走廊时在石板上发出的啪哒啪哒声，因为香烟的芬芳气味，因为进行阿拉提②时在黑暗中转着圈的油灯的火苗，因为甜蜜吟唱的祈祷歌，因为四周站着的祈神赐福的大象，因为述说着有声有色故事的色彩鲜艳的壁画，因为人们额头上用不同的方式写着同一个词——信仰。甚至在了解这些的意义和目的之前，我就已经忠实于这些感觉印象了。是我的心要求我这么做的。我在印度教庙宇里感到无拘无束。我能意识到神就在那儿,不是以我们通常感觉存在的个人方式，而是更加宏大。当我现在看见庙宇圣所里的像，那神之所在的时候，我的心还是会停跳一下。我的确是在一个神圣的宇宙子宫里，一切都是从那里出生的，我能看见它的核心，这是我极大的幸运。我的双手自然地合在一起,虔诚地膜拜。我渴望得到惠赐，那献给神之后又作为神圣的款待返回给我们的甜蜜的供物。我的手掌需要感受神圣的火焰的热量，我把这热量的赐福放在眼睛上和额头上。 【①纳达斯瓦拉姆，印度南部一种乐器,类似于单簧管。②阿拉提，印度教的一种仪式，由祭司手持油灯在神像面前进行，信徒用手轻轻覆盖灯火，然后在自己的眼睛上碰触一下,代表接受神抵醍予的力量。】 但是宗教不仅仅是礼仪和仪式。还有礼仪和仪式所象征的意义。在这一点上我也是一个印度教徒。宇宙通过印度教徒的眼睛对我产生了意义。还有梵天③，世界的灵魂，用经线和纬线在上面织成存在之布的支撑框架，布上有各种空间和时间的装饰。还有至尊非人格梵天，没有质量，不可理解，不可描述，不可企及； 我们用可怜的语言为它缝制了一套外衣——一体，真理，统一， 绝对，最高实在，存在基础——努力想让衣服合身，但是至尊人格梵天总是撑破了线缝。我们说不出话来。但是还有至尊人格梵天，它有质量，这套外衣也合它的身。现在我们称它为湿婆，克利须那，萨克蒂，象头神；我们可以通过部分地理解它去接近它； 我们可以识别某些特征——仁爱，慈悲，令人惊恐——我们还能感到我们和它之间的联系在轻轻地吸引着我们。至尊人格梵天是在我们有限的感觉面前体现的梵天，是不仅通过神，而且通过人、动物、树木、一捧泥土表现出来的梵天，因为一切都有神的踪迹。生命的真理在于，梵天与自我，也就是我们心中的精神力量， 你可以称之为灵魂的东西，并没有什么不同，个人的灵魂向世界灵魂接近，就像一口井向地下水位靠近。支撑着思想和语言之外的宇宙的，和我们内心挣扎着表达的,是同样的东西。无限之中的有限，有限之中的无限。如果你问我梵天和自我之间究竟是如何联系的，我会说就像圣父、圣子、圣灵之间的联系一样，是神秘的。但是有一件事很清楚：自我努力了解梵天，努力与绝对相结合，并且在今生踏上了朝圣的旅程，在这个旅程中出生和死亡， 再次出生又再次死亡，一次又一次，直到它终于摆脱了将它囚禁在下面的外壳。通往自由的道路有无数条，但是沿途的堤岸都是一样的，那是羯磨之岸，在那里，行为的不同决定了我们每个人的自由账目是记人贷方还是记入借方。 【③梵天，印度教主神之一，为创造之神，亦指终生之本。】 这就是印度教，它存在于神圣外壳里，我一辈子都是印度教徒。心里有了印度教的观念，我看见了自己在宇宙中的位置。 但是我们不应该拘泥于字面理解！愿上天降祸于原教旨主义者和拘泥于字面解释的人吧！这使我想起了克利须那是牧牛人时的一个故事。每天夜晚他都邀请挤奶女工和他一起在森林里跳舞。她们来了，她们跳起舞来。夜色深沉，她们中间的火堆呼呼地燃烧着，火焰噼啪作响，音乐的节奏变得越来越快——姑娘们和自己快活的主一起跳啊跳啊跳啊，他变化出那么多自己，每一位姑娘的怀里都有一个。但是就在姑娘们有了占有欲的时候，就在每一位姑娘都想像他是自己一个人的舞伴的时候，他消失了。因此我们不应该有独占神的念头。 我在多伦多认识一位我衷心热爱的女人。她是我的养母。我叫她姨妈吉，她喜欢我这么叫她。她是魁北克人。虽然已经在多伦多生活了30多年，她那说法语的大脑有时候在理解英语发音的时候仍然会出错。因此，当她第一次听到"克利须那派教徒"的时候,她没听准。她听到的是"不留须发的基督教徒"。很多年来她一直以为克利须那派教徒就是不留须发的基督教徒。我纠正她的时候，告诉她其实她错得不那么严重；就他们爱的能力而言，印度教徒的确是不留须发的基督教徒，正如就他们认为神存在于一切事物之中的观点而言，穆斯林就是留胡须的印度教徒，而就他们对上帝的忠诚而言，基督教徒就是戴帽子的穆斯林。 第17章 第一次惊奇给人留下的印象最深；那之后的惊奇都被纳入第一次惊奇所留下的印象的模式之中。我要感激印度教，给我提供了最初的宗教想像的全景，那些城镇和河流，战场和森林，神圣的高山和深深的海祥，神、圣人、恶棍和普通人在这些地方相互交往，并且通过这样做来解释我们是谁，为什么存在。我是在这片信奉印度教的土地上第一次听说充满了爱的善所拥有的广博而无穷的能力的。那是克利须那在说话。我听见他了，我跟随他了。在他的智慧和完美的爱里，克利须那带我去见了一个人。 那时我14岁——是一个心满意足的正在度假的印度教徒——这时我遇见了耶稣。 父亲很少从动物园的工作中抽出时间来，但是有一次他抽出时间，我们去了穆纳尔,就在喀拉拉邦。穆纳尔是一处很小的山间驻地，四周是世界上海拔最高的几座茶园。刚到五月，季风还没有来临。泰米尔纳德的平原异常炎热。我们从马杜赖沿着蜿蜒的道路开了五个小时的车到了穆纳尔。那里凉爽的天气十分怡人，就像在口里含了薄荷一样舒服。我们做了游客会做的事情。我们参观了一座塔塔茶厂。我们在湖上泛舟。我们游览了一个牛群养殖中心。我们在一座国家公园里给几只尼尔吉里塔尔羊——一种野羊——喂盐。（"我们动物园里也有。你们应该到本地治里来。"父亲对几位瑞士游客说。）拉维和我到城镇附近的茶园里去散步。这些都是让我们不要那么懒散的借口。到了傍晚前，父亲和母亲已经在我们舒适的旅馆的茶室里稳稳地坐了下来，像两只在窗前晒太阳的猫。母亲在读书，父亲在和其他客人聊天。 穆纳尔有三座小山。它们无法与那些环绕着城镇的高山——你可以称之为大山——相比，但是第一天早晨，我们吃早饭的时候，我注意到它们的确有一点与众不同之处：每座山上都有一座神的居所。旅馆外面，小河对面的右面那座山的山腰上有一座印度教庙宇；更远一些的中间那座山上有一座清真寺；而左面那座山的山顶上有一座基督教教堂。 我们在穆纳尔的第四天。就在下午即将过去的时候，我站在左边那座小山上。虽然我上的是名义上的基督教学校，但是从来没有到教堂里去过——而且当时也不敢这么做。我对这种宗教所知甚少。它有一个神祇很少而暴力却很多的名声。但是学校不错。我绕教堂走着。这座建筑有着厚厚的毫无特点的淡蓝色的墙和根本无法往里看的高高的细长的窗户，外观丝毫也显示不出它里面有些什么。一座堡垒。 我碰到了教区长。门是开着的。我躲在一个角落里看那个地方。门左边是一块木板，上面写着"牧区神父"和"助理神父"。两个词旁边各有一根活动木闩。木板上的金字告诉我神父和他的助理都当值，这我可以很清楚地看到。一位神父正在办公室里工作，背对着凸窗，另一位正坐在宽敞的前厅里一张圆桌前的长凳上，前厅显然是接待客人的房间。他面对着门窗坐着，手里捧着一本书，我猜是一本《圣经》吧。他读了几行，抬起头来，又读几行，又抬起头来。这一系列动作轻松自在，却又机警而镇静。几分钟后，他把书合上，放到一边。他双手交叉放在桌上，坐在那儿，表情平静，既不充满期待，也不听之任之。 前厅的白色墙壁十分干净；桌子和长凳是深色的木头做的；神父穿着一件白色法衣——一切都那么整洁、朴素、简单。我心里充满了平静。但是除了这里的环境，更加吸引我的是我能凭直觉感到他就在那儿——敞开心扉，充满耐心——时刻准备着会有人,任何人，想要和他谈一谈；一个心灵的问题，一件沉重地压在心里的事情，良心中的一个黑暗面，他会带着爱去倾听。他的职业就是去爱，他会尽自己最大的能力提供安慰和指引。 我受到了感动。眼前的一切悄悄地溜进了我心里，令我感到震颤。 他站起来了。我以为他会把他那块木闩推过去，但是他没有。他退到了前厅更里面的地方，仅此而已，前厅和旁边房间之间的门还开着，像外面的门一样。我注意到了，两扇门都是大开着的。显然，他和同事仍然可以见来访的人。 我从角落走开，大起了胆子。我走进了教堂。我紧张极了。我害怕会遇见一个基督教徒，他会对我大吼你在这儿干什么？你怎么敢走进这个神圣的地方，你这个渎神的家伙?出去，马上出去!" 里面一个人也没有。也没有一件我能看明白的东西。我继续向里走，仔细打量着里面的圣所。有一幅画。这就是神像吗？是关于人类牺牲的事。一位愤怒的神，需要用血去平息他的怒气。惶惑的妇女抬头注视着空中，长着小翅膀的胖乎乎的婴儿飞来飞去。一只有超凡能力的鸟。哪一个是神？圣所一边有一座上了漆的木头雕像。又是那个受难者，满身伤痕，鲜血直流，血的颜色十分醒目。我目不转睛地看着他的双膝。膝盖被擦破得厉害。粉红色的皮肤向后翻，看上去就像花瓣，露出像消防车的颜色一样红的膝盖骨。我很难将这幅受折磨的情景和前厅里的神父联系起来。 第二天，大约在同一个时间，我又走了进去。 天主教徒有着严肃的名声，人们都知道他们的惩罚十分严厉。和马丁神父的交往让我觉得事情根本不是那样的。他很友善。他用一套茶具招待我喝茶、吃饼干，那套茶具每次被碰一下都丁丁当当地响；他对我就像对待一个大人；他还给我说了一个故事。 那是一个什么样的故事啊。首先吸引我的是，这个故事令我难以置信。什么？人类犯了原罪，付出代价的却是上帝的儿子？我试图想像神父在对我说：“派西尼，今天一头狮子溜进了美洲驼圈里，咬死了两只美洲驼。昨天另一头狮子咬死了一头黑羚羊。上星期两头狮子把骆驼吃了。上上个星期它们吃了彩色鹳鸟和灰鹭。谁能肯定是谁把我们的金色刺豚鼠当点心吃了呢？情况已经变得让人无法忍受。一定得采取措施了。我已经决定了，为狮子赎罪的惟一方法就是把你喂给它们。" "是的，神父，这样做很正确，也符合逻辑。给我一点儿时间梳洗一下吧。" "哈利路亚，我的孩子。" "哈利路亚，神父。" 真是个十足的怪异故事。真是奇怪的心理。 我要求再听一个故事，一个也许能让我更加满意的故事。这个宗教肯定有不止一个故事——所有宗教都有很多故事。但是马丁神父让我明白，在这个故事之前发生的故事——这样的故事有很多——对基督教徒来说都只是引子而已。他们的宗教只有一个故事，他们不断地，一次又一次地回到这个故事。对他们来说，有这个故事就够了。 那天晚上在旅馆里，我很安静。 神可以忍受厄运，这我能明白。印度教里的神也面对很多窃贼、恶霸、绑匪和篡位者。《罗摩衍那》不就是对罗摩所度过的漫长的糟糕的一天的叙述吗？厄运，有的。好运的逆转，有的。背叛，有的。但是屈辱？死亡？我无法想像克利须那乐意自己被剥光了衣服，被鞭打，被嘲笑，被拖着从大街上走过，最后被钉死在十字架上——而且纯粹是拜人类所赐。我从没有听说过一个印度神死去。启示梵天没有死。恶魔会死，凡人也会死，成千上万地死去——他们活着就是为了死去。物质也会消亡。但是神不应该受死亡的折磨。这是不对的。世界灵魂不能死，甚至它的一个组成部分也不能。这个基督教上帝让他的化身死去,这是不对的。那就相当于让自己的一部分死去。因为如果圣子要死去，那不可能 是假的。如果十字架上的上帝是假装人类悲剧的上帝，那么耶稣受难就会变成耶稣的闹剧。圣子的死一定是真的。马丁神父向我保证说那是真的。但是上帝一旦死去，那就永远死了，即使是在复活以后。圣子必须永远品尝死亡的滋味。三位一体一定因此而受到玷污；圣父上帝的右手一定散发着某种恶臭。这恐怖一定是真的。上帝为什么希望这件事发生在自己身上？为什么不把死亡留给凡人？为什么要让美丽变得丑陋，要将完美损毁？ 爱。这就是马丁神父的回答。 这位圣子的行为怎么样呢？有一个关于婴孩克利须那被朋友冤枉说他吃了一点儿泥土的故事。他的养母雅首达摇着手指向他走来。"你不应该吃泥土，你这个淘气的孩子。"她责骂他说。"但是我没有吃啊。"无可置疑的主宰一切的主说，开玩笑地假装成害怕的人类孩子的样子。"啧！啧！张开嘴。"雅首达命令说。克利须那照她说的做了。他张开了嘴。雅首达倒吸了一口气。她在克利须那嘴里看见了整个完整的永恒的宇宙，天空中所有的恒星和行星和它们之间的距离，地球上所有的陆地、海洋和那里的生命；她看见了过去所有的日子和未来所有的日子；她看见了所有的思想和所有的情感,所有的遗憾和所有的希望，以及三部分物质；一颗卵石、一根蜡烛、一个生物、一座村庄或星系都不缺少，包括她自己和在自己的真实位置上的每一粒尘埃。"我的主啊,你可以闭上嘴了。"她虔诚地说。 有一个毗湿奴化身为矮人筏摩那①的故事。他只向恶魔之王末梨要求他三步之内所能走过的土地。末梨大声嘲笑这个小矮子请求者和他微不足道的要求。他同意了。毗湿奴立刻变回无比巨大的身材。他一步便跨过了整座地球，第二步跨过了整个宇宙，第三步一脚把末梨踢进了地狱。 【①筏摩那，意为侏儒,毗湿奴10种化身中的第五种。】 罗摩是最具有人性的化身，他为了从愣伽①的邪恶国王罗波那那里夺回自己的妻子悉多而变得面容阴郁，必须有人提醒他他所具有的神性，但即使是他也不是个无能之辈。没有一个单薄的十字架能压倒他。当攻势太猛的时候，他会用任何人都不可能有的力气和任何人都不会使用的武器超越自己有限的人类的身躯。 【①楞伽，即今天的斯里兰卡。】 上帝就应该是那样。拥有光辉、才智和力量。能用这些来挽救和拯救善良，击败邪恶。 另一方面，这位忍受饥饿、忍受干渴、疲惫、悲伤、焦虑、被诘问和骚扰、不得不忍受无知的信徒和不尊重他的对手的圣子——他是个什么样的神啊？是个太像人类的神，就是那样。基督教有奇迹，是的，大多数都与医药有关，有几个满足了饥饿的肚皮；最多使暴风雨不那么猛烈，在水上走了一会儿。如果那是魔法，那也是小魔法，和扑克牌把戏差不多。任何一位印度教里的神都能做得比这个好一百倍。这位圣子是一个把大部分时间都用来说故事，说话的神。这位圣子是一位走路的神，一位行人神——而且在一个炎热的地方——他的步伐和任何一个人类的步伐一样，凉鞋只抬到路上的大石头上；当他舍得在交通上花钱的时候，那交通工具只是一头普通的毛驴。这位圣子是一个呻吟、喘息、悲叹了三小时后死去的神。那是个什么样的神啊？这位圣子能賦予我们什么灵感呢？ 爱，马丁神父说。 而且这位圣子只在很久以前在很远的地方出现过一次，在一个早已消失的帝国疆域内、西亚一个落后地区的一个默默无名的部落里。在头上还没有一根白发的时候就被杀死了。没有留下一个后代，只留下分散在各处的不完整的箴言，他的完整作品就是用手指在尘土上写的字？等一下。这不仅是严重怯场的梵天。这是自私的梵天。这是不慷慨不公平的梵天。这实际上是没有显露神性的梵天。如果梵天只有一个儿子,他一定像挤奶女工怀里的克利须那一样有无数的化身，不是吗？什么能为神的吝啬辩护？ 爱，马丁神父重复说。 我还是忠于我的克利须那，非常感谢。我觉得他的神性非常令人信服。你可以把爱出汗、爱唠叨的圣子留给自己。 这就是我很久以前遇到那位令人讨厌的拉比的情形：心存怀疑和恼怒。 一连三天，我都和马丁神父一起喝茶。每一次，当茶杯碰在碟子上格格作响，勺子碰在茶杯边上丁当作响的时候，我就开始提问。 答案永远是一样的。 他使我不安，这位圣子。每天我心中对他的愤怒都更加强烈，每天我都能找到他的更多缺点。 他任性！那是在贝瑟尼的早晨，上帝饿了；上帝想吃早饭。他来到一棵无花果树前。当时不是结无花果的季节，因此树上没有无花果。上帝恼怒了。圣子小声抱怨说：“愿你永远都不要再结果子了。“于是无花果树立即枯萎了。马太是这么说的，马可也证明了。 我问你，当时不是结无花果的季节，难道这是无花果树的错吗？像这样对待一棵无辜的无花果树，让它立即枯萎，这是什么事啊？ 我无法把他从我心里赶走。现在仍然不能。我花了整整三天时间想他。他越令我不安，我越无法忘记他。我对他了解得越多，就越不想离开他。 最后一天，在我们离开穆纳尔之前几个小时，我匆匆爬上了左边那座山。现在我感到这是典型的基督教的情景。基督教是一个匆忙的宗教。看看这个7天之内创造的世界。即使是在象征的层面上，这也是疯狂的创造。在我出生的宗教里，为了一个灵魂的战争可以像接力赛一样持续很多个世纪，接力棒在无数代人的手中传过，对我来说，基督教迅速解决问题的方式令人困惑。如果说印度教就像恒河一样平静地流淌，那么基督教就像高峰时间的多伦多一样匆匆地奔忙。这是一个像燕子一样迅速，像救护车一样急迫的宗教。一切都发生得那么迅速,转瞬之间便做出了决定。转瞬之间你就迷失了，或得救了。基督教可以追溯到许多个世纪以前，但是在本质上它只存在于一个时间里：现在。 我飞快地爬上山去。尽管马丁神父不当值，唉，他的那根木闩已经推过去了，感谢上帝他在里面。 我上气不接下气地说神父，我想成为一名基督教徒。" 他笑了。"你已经是了，派西尼——在你心里。任何一个真诚地来见耶稣的人都是基督教徒。在穆纳尔你遇见了基督。" 他拍了拍我的头。实际上更像是重重地打了几下。他的手拍在我头上发出砰砰砰的声音。 我想我要高兴得发狂了。 "等你回来的时候，我们再一起喝茶，我的孩子。" "好的，神父。" 他给了我一个善意的微笑。基督的微笑。 我走进教堂，这次没有恐惧，因为现在这里也是我的家了。 我向基督祷告，他是活着的。然后我冲下左边的山，又冲上右边的山——去谢谢克利须那王把我引到撒勒的耶稣——我发现他的人性非常令人信服一一面前。 |
CHAPTER 18 Islam followed right behind, hardly a year later. I was fifteen years old and I was exploring my hometown. The Muslim quarter wasn't far from the zoo. A small, quiet neighbourhood with Arabic writing and crescent moons inscribed on the facades of the houses. I came to Mullah Street. I had a peek at the Jamia Masjid, the Great Mosque, being careful to stay on the outside, of course. Islam had a reputation worse than Christianity's—fewer gods, greater violence, and I had never heard anyone say good things about Muslim schools—so I wasn't about to step in, empty though the place was. The building, clean and white except for various edges painted green, was an open construction unfolding around an empty central room. Long straw mats covered the floor everywhere. Above, two slim, fluted minarets rose in the air before a background of soaring coconut trees. There was nothing evidently religious or, for that matter, interesting about the place, but it was pleasant and quiet. I moved on. Just beyond the mosque was a series of attached single-storey dwellings with small shaded porches. They were rundown and poor, their stucco walls a faded green. One of the dwellings was a small shop. I noticed a rack of dusty bottles of Thums Up and four transparent plastic jars half-full of candies. But the main ware was something else, something flat, roundish and white. I got close. It seemed to be some sort of unleavened bread. I poked at one. It flipped up stiffly. They looked like three-day-old nans. Who would eat these, I wondered. I picked one up and wagged it to see if it would break. A voice said, "Would you like to taste one?" I nearly jumped out of my skin. It's happened to all of us: there's sunlight and shade, spots and patterns of colour, your mind is elsewhere—so you don't make out what is right in front of you. Not four feet away, sitting cross-legged before his breads, was a man. I was so startled my hands flew up and the bread went sailing halfway across the street. It landed on a pat of fresh cow dung. "I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't see you!" I burst out. I was just about ready to run away. "Don't worry," he said calmly. "It will feed a cow. Have another one." He tore one in two. We ate it together. It was tough and rubbery, real work for the teeth, but filling. I calmed down. "So you make these," I said, to make conversation. "Yes. Here, let me show you how." He got off his platform and waved me into his house. It was a two-room hovel. The larger room, dominated by an oven, was the bakery, and the other, separated by a flimsy curtain, was his bedroom. The bottom of the oven was covered with smooth pebbles. He was explaining to me how the bread baked on these heated pebbles when the nasal call of the muezzin wafted through the air from the mosque. I knew it was the call to prayer, but I didn't know what it entailed. I imagined it beckoned the Muslim faithful to the Mosque, much like bells summoned us Christians to church. Not so. The baker interrupted himself mid-sentence and said, "Excuse me." He ducked into the next room for a minute and returned with a rolled-up carpet, which he unfurled on the floor of his bakery, throwing up a small storm of flour. And right there before me, in the midst of his workplace, he prayed. It was incongruous, but it was I who felt out of place. Luckily, he prayed with his eyes closed. He stood straight. He muttered in Arabic. He brought his hands next to his ears, thumbs touching the lobes, looking as if he were straining to hear Allah replying. He bent forward. He stood straight again. He fell to his knees and brought his hands and forehead to the floor. He sat up. He fell forward again. He stood. He started the whole thing again. Why, Islam is nothing but an easy sort of exercise, I thought. Hot-weather yoga for the Bedouins. Asanas without sweat, heaven without strain. He went through the cycle four times, muttering throughout. When he had finished—with a right-left turning of the head and a short bout of meditation—he opened his eyes, smiled, stepped off his carpet and rolled it up with a flick of the hand that spoke of old habit. He returned it to its spot in the next room. He came back to me. "What was I saying?" he asked. So it went the first time I saw a Muslim pray—quick, necessary, physical, muttered, striking. Next time I was praying in church—on my knees, immobile, silent before Christ on the Cross—the image of this callisthenic communion with God in the middle of bags of flour kept coming to my mind. CHAPTER 19 I went to see him again. "What's your religion about?" I asked. His eyes lit up. "It is about the Beloved," he replied. I challenge anyone to understand Islam, its spirit, and not to love it. It is a beautiful religion of brotherhood and devotion. The mosque was truly an open construction, to God and to breeze. We sat cross-legged listening to the imam until the time came to pray. Then the random pattern of sitters disappeared as we stood and arranged ourselves shoulder to shoulder in rows, every space ahead being filled by someone from behind until every line was solid and we were row after row of worshippers. It felt good to bring my forehead to the ground. Immediately it felt like a deeply religious contact. CHAPTER 20 He was a Sufi, a Muslim mystic. He sought fana, union with God, and his relationship with God was personal and loving. "If you take two steps towards God," he used to tell me, "God runs to you!" He was a very plain-featured man, with nothing in his looks or in his dress that made memory cry hark. I'm not surprised I didn't see him the first time we met. Even when I knew him very well, encounter after encounter, I had difficulty recognizing him. His name was Satish Kumar. These are common names in Tamil Nadu, so the coincidence ls not so remarkable. Still, it pleased me that this pious baker, as plain as a shadow and of solid health, and the Communist biology teacher and science devotee, the walking mountain on stilts, sadly afflicted with polio in his childhood, carried the same name. Mr. and Mr. Kumar taught me biology and Islam. Mr. and Mr. Kumar led me to study zoology and religious studies at the University of Toronto. Mr. and Mr. Kumar were the prophets of my Indian youth. We prayed together and we practised dhikr, the recitation of the ninety-nine revealed names of God. He was a hafiz, one who knows the Qur'an by heart, and he sang it in a slow, simple chant. My Arabic was never very good, but I loved its sound. The guttural eruptions and long flowing vowels rolled just beneath my comprehension like a beautiful brook. I gazed into this brook for long spells of time. It was not wide, just one man's voice, but it was as deep as the universe. I described Mr. Kumar's place as a hovel. Yet no mosque, church or temple ever felt so sacred to me. I sometimes came out of that bakery feeling heavy with glory. I would climb onto my bicycle and pedal that glory through the air. One such time I left town and on my way back, at a point where the land was high and I could see the sea to my left and down the road a long ways, I suddenly felt I was in heaven. The spot was in fact no different from when I had passed it not long before, but my way of seeing it had changed. The feeling, a paradoxical mix of pulsing energy and profound peace, was intense and blissful. Whereas before the road, the sea, the trees, the air, the sun all spoke differently to me, now they spoke one language of unity. Tree took account of road, which was aware of air, which was mindful of sea, which shared things with sun. Every element lived in harmonious relation with its neighbour, and all was kith and kin. I knelt a mortal; I rose an immortal. I felt like the centre of a all circle coinciding with the centre of a much larger one. Atman met Allah. One other time I felt God come so close to me. It was in Canada, much later. I was visiting friends in the country. It was winter. I was out alone on a walk on their large property and returning to the house. It was a clear, sunny day after a night of snowfall. All nature was blanketed in white. As I was coming up to the house, I turned mv head. There was a wood and in that wood, a small clearing. A breeze, or perhaps it was an animal, had shaken a branch. Fine snow was falling through the air, glittering in the sunlight. In that falling golden dust in that sun-splashed clearing, I saw the Virgin Mary. Why her, I don't know. My devotion to Mary was secondary. But it was her. Her skin was pale. She was wearing a white dress and a blue cloak; I remember being struck by their pleats and folds. When I say I saw her, I don't quite mean it literally, though she did have body and colour. I felt I saw her, a vision beyond vision. I stopped and squinted. She looked beautiful and supremely regal. She was smiling at me with loving kindness. After some seconds she left me. My heart beat with fear and joy. The presence of God is the finest of rewards. CHAPTER 21 I am sitting in a downtown cafe, after, thinking. I have just spent most of an afternoon with him. Our encounters always leave me weary of the glum contentment that characterizes my life. What were those words he used that struck me? Ah, yes: "dry, yeastless factuality" "the better story". I take pen and paper out and write: Words of divine consciousness: moral exaltation; lasting feelings of elevation, elation, joy; a quickening of the moral sense, which strikes one as more important than an intellectual understanding of things; an alignment of the universe along moral lines, not intellectual ones; a realization that the founding principle of existence is what we call love, which works itself out sometimes not clearly, not cleanly, not immediately, nonetheless ineluctably. I pause. What of God's silence? I think it over. I add: An intellect confounded yet a trusting sense of presence and of ultimate purpose. CHAPTER 22 I can well imagine an atheist's last words: "White, white! L-L-Love! My God!"—and the deathbed leap of faith. Whereas the agnostic, if he stays true to his reasonable self, if he stays beholden to dry, yeastless factuality, might try to explain the warm light bathing him by saying, "Possibly a f-f-failing oxygenation of the b-b-brain," and, to the very end, lack imagination and miss the better story. CHAPTER 23 Alas the sense of community that a common faith brings to a people spelled trouble for me. In time, my religious doings went from the notice of those to whom it didn't matter and only amused, to that of those to whom it did matter—and they were not amused. "What is your son doing going to temple?" asked the priest. "Your son was seen in church crossing himself," said the imam. "Your son has gone Muslim," said the pandit. Yes, it was all forcefully brought to the attention of my bemused parents. You see, they didn't know. They didn't know that I was a practising Hindu, Christian and Muslim. Teenagers always hide a few things from their parents, isn't that so? All sixteen-year-olds have secrets, don't they? But fate decided that my parents and I and the three wise men, as I shall call them, should meet one day on the Goubert Salai seaside esplanade and that my secret should be outed. It was a lovely, breezy, hot Sunday afternoon and the Bay of Bengal glittered under a blue sky. Townspeople were out for a stroll. Children screamed and laughed. Coloured balloons floated in the air. Ice cream sales were brisk. Why think of business on such a day, I ask? Why couldn't they have just walked by with a nod and a smile? It was not to be. We were to meet not just one wise man but all three, and not one after another but at the same time, and each would decide upon seeing us that right then was the golden occasion to meet that Pondicherry notable, the zoo director, he of the model devout son. When I saw the first, I smiled; by the time I had laid eyes on the third, my smile had frozen into a mask of horror. When it was clear that all three were converging on us, my heart jumped before sinking very low. The wise men seemed annoyed when they realized that all three of them were approaching the same people. Each must have assumed that the others were there for some business other than pastoral and had rudely chosen that moment to deal with it Glances of displeasure were exchanged. My parents looked puzzled to have their way gently blocked by three broadly smiling religious strangers. I should explain that my family was anything but orthodox. Father saw himself as part of the New India—rich, modern and as secular as ice cream. He didn't have a religious bone in his body. He was a businessman, pronounced busynessman in his case, a hardworking, earthbound professional, more concerned with inbreeding among the lions than any overarching moral or existential scheme. It's true that he had all new animals blessed by a priest and there were two small shrines at the zoo, one to Lord Ganesha and one to Hanuman, gods likely to please a zoo director, what with the first having the head of an elephant and the second being a monkey, but Father's calculation was that this was good for business, not good for his soul, a matter of public relations rather than personal salvation. Spiritual worry was alien to him; it was financial worry that rocked his being. "One epidemic in the collection," he used to say, "and we'll end up in a road crew breaking up stones." Mother was mum, bored and neutral on the subject. A Hindu upbringing and a Baptist education had precisely cancelled each other out as far as religion was concerned and had left her serenely impious. I suspect she suspected that I had a different take on the matter, but she never said anything when as a child I devoured the comic books of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata and an illustrated children's Bible and other stories of the gods. She herself was a big reader. She was pleased to see me with my nose buried in a book, any book, so long as it wasn't naughty. As for Ravi, if Lord Krishna had held a cricket bat rather than a flute, if Christ had appeared more plainly to him as an umpire, if the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, had shown some notions of bowling, he might have lifted a religious eyelid, but they didn't, and so he slumbered. After the "Hellos" and the "Good days", there was an awkward silence. The priest broke it when he said, with pride in his voice, "Piscine is a good Christian boy. I hope to see him join our choir soon." My parents, the pandit and the imam looked surprised. "You must be mistaken. He's a good Muslim boy. He comes without fail to Friday prayer, and his knowledge of the Holy Qur'an is coming along nicely." So said the imam. My parents, the priest and the pandit looked incredulous. The pandit spoke. "You're both wrong. He's a good Hindu boy. l see him all the time at the temple coming for darshan and performing puja." My parents, the imam and the priest looked astounded. "There is no mistake," said the priest. "I know this boy. He is Piscine Molitor Patel and he's a Christian." "I know him too, and I tell you he's a Muslim," asserted the imam. "Nonsense!" cried the pandit. "Piscine was born a Hindu, lives a Hindu and will die a Hindu!" The three wise men stared at each other, breathless and disbelieving. Lord, avert their eyes from me, I whispered in my soul. All eyes fell upon me. "Piscine, can this be true?" asked the imam earnestly. "Hindus and Christians are idolaters. They have many gods." "And Muslims have many wives," responded the pandit. The priest looked askance at both of them. "Piscine," he nearly whispered, "there is salvation only in Jesus." "Balderdash! Christians know nothing about religion," said the pandit. "They strayed long ago from God's path," said the imam. "Where's God in your religion?" snapped the priest. "You don't have a single miracle to show for it. What kind of religion is that, without miracles?" "It isn't a circus with dead people jumping out of tombs all the time, that's what! We Muslims stick to the essential miracle of existence. Birds flying, rain falling, crops growing—these are miracles enough for us." "Feathers and rain are all very nice, but we like to know that God is truly with us." "Is that so? Well, a whole lot of good it did God to be with you—you tried to kill him! You banged him to a cross with great big nails. Is that a civilized way to treat a prophet? The prophet Muhammad—peace be upon him—brought us the word of God without any undignified nonsense and died at a ripe old age." "The word of God? To that illiterate merchant of yours in the middle of the desert? Those were drooling epileptic fits brought on by the swaying of his camel, not divine revelation. That, or the sun frying his brains!" "If the Prophet—p.b.u.h.—were alive, he would have choice words for you," replied the imam, with narrowed eyes. "Well, he's not! Christ is alive, while your old 'p.b.u.h.' is dead, dead, dead!" The pandit interrupted them quietly. In Tamil he said, "The real question is, why is Piscine dallying with these foreign religions?" The eyes of the priest and the imam properly popped out of their heads. They were both native Tamils. "God is universal," spluttered the priest. The imam nodded strong approval. "There is only one God." "And with their one god Muslims are always causing troubles and provoking riots. The proof of how bad Islam is, is how uncivilized Muslims are," pronounced the pandit. "Says the slave-driver of the caste system," huffed the imam. "Hindus enslave people and worship dressed-up dolls." "They are golden calf lovers. They kneel before cows," the priest chimed in. "While Christians kneel before a white man! They are the flunkies of a foreign god. They are the nightmare of all non-white people." "And they eat pigs and are cannibals," added the imam for good measure. "What it comes down to," the priest put out with cool rage, "is whether Piscine wants real religion—or myths from a cartoon strip." "God—or idols," intoned the imam gravely. "Our gods—or colonial gods," hissed the pandit. It was hard to tell whose face was more inflamed. It looked as if might come to blows. Father raised his hands. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!" he interjected. "I would like to remind you there is freedom of practice in this country." Three apoplectic faces turned to him. "Yes! Practice—singular!" the wise men screamed in unison. Three index fingers, like punctuation marks, jumped to attention in the air to emphasize their point. They were not pleased at the unintended choral effect or the spontaneous unity of their gestures. Their fingers came down quickly, and they sighed and groaned each on his own. Father and Mother stared on, at a loss for words. The pandit spoke first. "Mr. Patel, Piscine's piety is admirable. In these troubled times it's good to see a boy so keen on God. We all agree on that." The imam and the priest nodded. "But he can't be a Hindu, a Christian and a Muslim. It's impossible. He must choose." "I don't think it's a crime, but I suppose you're right," Father replied. The three murmured agreement and looked heavenward, as did Father, whence they felt the decision must come. Mother looked at me. A silence fell heavily on my shoulders. "Hmmm, Piscine?" Mother nudged me. "How do you feel about the question?" "Bapu Gandhi said, 'All religions are true.' I just want to love God," I blurted out, and looked down, red in the face. My embarrassment was contagious. No one said anything. It happened that we were not far from the statue of Gandhi on the esplanade. Stick in hand, an impish smile on his lips, a twinkle in his eyes, the Mahatma walked. I fancy that he heard our conversation, but that he paid even greater attention to my heart. Father cleared his throat and said in a half-voice, "I suppose that's what we're all trying to do—love God." I thought it very funny that he should say that, he who hadn't stepped into a temple with a serious intent since I had had the faculty of memory. But it seemed to do the trick. You can't reprimand a boy for wanting to love God. The three wise men pulled away with stiff, grudging smiles on their faces. Father looked at me for a second, as if to speak, then thought better, said, "Ice cream, anyone?" and headed for the closest ice cream wallah before we could answer. Mother gazed at me a little longer, with an expression that was both tender and perplexed. That was my introduction to interfaith dialogue. Father bought three ice cream sandwiches. We ate them in unusual silence as we continued on our Sunday walk. CHAPTER 24 Ravi had a field day of it when he found out. "So, Swami Jesus, will you go on the hajj this year?" he said, bringing the palms of his hands together in front of his face in a reverent namaskar. "Does Mecca beckon?" He crossed himself. "Or will it be to Rome for your coronation as the next Pope Pius?" He drew in the air a Greek letter, making clear the spelling of his Mockery. "Have you found time yet to get the end of your pecker cut off and become a Jew? At the rate you're going, if you go to temple on Thursday, mosque on Friday, synagogue on Saturday and church on Sunday, you only need to convert to three more religions to be on holiday for the rest of your life." And other lampoonery of such kind. |
第18章 紧接着我又信了伊斯兰教，在不到一年的时候。那时我15岁，正在探索自己的家乡。穆斯林居住区离动物园不远。那是一个小小的安静的地段，房子临街一面写着阿拉伯文，画着新月。 我来到毛拉街。我偷偷张望了一下那座大清真寺，当然，我小心地待在外面。伊斯兰教的名声比基督教的名声更糟，神更少，暴力更多，而且我从没有听任何人说过穆斯林学校的好话，因此我不会进去，尽管那里没有人。这是一座干净的白色建筑，只有各个边缘处漆成了绿色，开放型的结构围绕着中间一间空荡荡的房间伸展开来。堆上到处都铺着长长的草席。上面，两座细长的有凹槽的光塔直伸向空中，背后是参天的椰子树。这个地方没有什么具有明显宗教性的东西，或者就此而言，有趣的东西,但是这里很舒适、很安静。 我继续向前走。就在清真寺前面有一排连在一起的一层楼的住宅，前面有阴凉的门廊。这些房子年久失修，破败不堪，绿色的灰泥墙已经退了色。其中一间房子是一家小商店。我看到满满一架落满了灰尘的瓶子，里面装着可乐，还有四个透明塑料罐子，装了半罐子糖果。但是主要的货物是别的东西，是一种扁平的圆圆的白色的东西。我走近了。看上去像一种无酵饼。我戳了戳其中一只。它硬邦邦地弹了起来。这些东西看上去像放了三天的印度式面包。谁会吃这些啊，我想。我拿起一只，摇了摇，看看它会不会碎。 一个声音说：“想尝尝吗？” 我吓得差点儿灵魂出窍。我们有过这样的经历：四周有阳光和树阴，有斑斑点点的色彩，而你的心思在别的地方，因此辨认不出就在面前的东西。 在离我不到四英尺的地方，盘腿坐在饼上面的，是一个人。我大吃一惊，手猛地向上一扬，饼飞到了路中间，落在了一堆新鲜牛粪上。 "对不起，先生。我没看见你！"我脱口而出。我正准备要逃走。 "别担心，"他平静地说，"那块饼可以喂牛。再拿一块吧。" 他把一块饼掰成两半。我们一起吃了。饼又硬又有弹性，咬起来很费劲，但容易填饱肚子。我平静了下来。 "这些饼都是你做的啰。"我没话找话地说。 "是的。到这儿来，我来告诉你是怎么做的。"他从台子上下来，招手让我进了他家。 那是一座有两间房间的茅舍。被一只烤炉占据了的大一些的房间是面包房，另一间用一块薄帘子隔开的房间是他的卧室。烤炉底部覆盖着光滑的卵石。他正在向我解释饼是怎样在这些加热了的卵石上烘烤的，这时穆安津带鼻音的呼唤从清真寺随风传来。我知道那是呼唤信徒去祷告，但是我不知道它意味着什么。我猜想这声音是召唤忠实的穆斯林去清真寺，很像钟声召集我们基督教徒去教堂。事实并非如此。面包师说了一半停住了，说对不起。"他弯腰走进隔壁房间，一分钟后拿着一块卷起来的毯子回来了。他把毯子打开，放在面包房的地上，扬起的面粉 像刮起一场小小的风暴。就在我面前，在他工作的地方，他开始祷告起来。他的举止并不妥当，但是感到格格不入的却是我。幸运的是，他是闭着眼睛祷告的。 他站直了身体。他用阿拉伯文低声咕哝着。他把双手放在耳朵旁边，两个大拇指碰到耳垂，看上去好像在扯着耳朵听安拉的回答。他向前鞠了一躬。然后又站直身体。他双膝跪下，双手和额头触地。他坐了起来。又向前趴下。又站了起来。他把整个动作又重来了一遍。 嗨,伊斯兰教只是一种简单的锻炼，我想。贝都因人在炎热的气候中做的瑜伽。不出汗的正坐，不需费力即可进人的极乐之乡。 他把这一套动作重复了四遍，同时一直不停地咕哝着。做完以后——最后头向左右转动一次，冥想了一会儿——他睁开眼睛，微微一笑,从毯子上下来，三下两下就把毯子卷了起来，看得出这是他的老习惯了。把他毯子放回隔壁房间原来的地方。然后回到我这里。"刚才我说到哪儿了？"他问。 这就是我第一次看见一个穆斯林做祷告——身体运动，动作迅速，出于必要，低声咕哝，引人注目。下一次我在教堂里做祷告的时候——跪在十字架上的耶稣曲前，一动不动，沉默不语——在一袋袋面粉中间像做健美操一样与上帝交流的画面不断出现在我脑海里。 第19章 我又去见了他。 "你的宗教是关于什么的？"我问。 他的眼睛里有了神采。"是关于安拉。"他回答。 我要向所有人挑战，要求他们去了解伊斯兰教，了解它的精神，而并不是去爱它。它是关于兄弟之情和奉献的美好的宗教。 清真寺是真正的开放的建筑，对上帝开放，也对微风开放。我们盘腿而坐，听伊玛目讲经，一直听到祈祷时间。那时，随意坐的情况不见了，我们站起来，肩并肩一排排坐好，前面的每一个空都被后面的一个人补上，直到每一排的人都满了，我们是一排排的拜神者。以额触地的感觉很好。这立刻让人感到深人的宗教接触。 第20章 他是苏非派教徒，一个穆斯林神秘主义者。他寻求个人意志在真主意志面前的毁灭，即与上帝的结合，他与上帝的关系是私人关系，是充满了爱的关系。"如果你向上帝走两步，"他曾经对我说，“上帝就会向你跑来！” 他的长相十分平常，容貌和衣着没有任何能让人在回忆时猛然想起的特别之处。我们第一次见面时我没有看见他，这一点儿也不让我感到奇怪。甚至当我非常了解他之后，在我们一次又一次见面之后，我仍然很难认出他来。他名叫萨蒂什·库马尔。在泰米尔纳德这个名字很平常，因此这个巧合并不十分引人注目。即便如此,我仍然很高兴看到他们俩有同样的名字。这位虔诚的面包师像影子一样平平常常，身体结实健康，而生物老师是位共产主义者，虔诚的科学信徒，童年时不幸患上小儿麻痹症，现在踩在高跷上走路，那样子就像一座移动的大山。库马尔先生和库马尔先生教我生物学和伊斯兰教。库马尔先生和库马尔先生引导我在进多伦多大学以后学了动物学和宗教学。库马尔先生和库马尔先生是我在印度的青年时期的先知。 我们一起祷告，一起进行虔诚赞颂真主安拉的仪式，即背诵上帝的九十九个启示名。他是个哈菲兹，会背诵整部《可兰经》，还会用缓慢、简单的音调吟唱经文。我的阿拉伯文一向不太好，但我却喜欢它的发音。从喉咙里突然发出的声音和拉长的流畅的元音就在我的理解力的层面之下滚滚而过，像一条美丽的小溪。我长久地注视着这条小溪。它并不宽，里面只有一个人的声音，但却像宇宙一般深邃。 我把库马尔先生的住处描绘成一间简陋的小屋。然而从没有任何清真寺、教堂或庙宇像这间小屋一样让我感觉如此神圣。有时候我从那间面包房出来，心里沉甸甸地装满了天国的荣耀。我会跨上自行车，将那份荣耀踏进空气里。 有一次我出城去，在回来的路上，在一处地面很高，左边能看见大海的地方，沿着长长的下坡走着的时候，我突然感到自己是在天堂里了。实际上这个地方和我刚才经过的时候没有什么不同，但是我看待它的方式却发生了变化。这种由跃动的活力和极度的平静自相矛盾地混合而成的感觉十分强烈，充满了幸福极乐。在此之前，道路、大海、树木、空气、太阳都对我说着不同的话，而现在它们却说着同一种语言。树木注意到了道路，道路意识到了空气，空气留意着大海，大海与太阳分享一切。自然环境中的每一个元素都与周围的其他元素和谐共处，大家都是亲友。我跪下时是个凡人；站起来时却已不朽。我感到自己就像一个小圆的中心，和一个大得多的大圆的中心相重合。自我和安拉相 遇了。 还有一次，我感到上帝离我很近。那是在加拿大，在很久以后。我正在乡间看望朋友。那是个冬天。我独自一人在他们家的大园子里散步，当时正往回圭。前一天夜里下了一夜的雪，那天天气晴朗，阳光灿烂。大自然中的一切都盖上了一床白色的毯子。就在我朝房子走去时，我转过头。那里有一片树林，树林里有一块空地。一阵微风，或者也许是一只动物，让一根树枝摇动起来。细细的雪从空中落下，在阳光下闪着光。在那片洒满了阳光的空地上，那片纷纷落下的金色的尘雾中，我看见了圣母马利亚。为什么是她，我不知道。我对马利亚的虔诚是第二位的。但那就是她。她的皮肤是白色的。她穿着一件白色长裙，披着一件蓝色斗篷；我记得那一道道的褶裥和皱痕给我留下了很深的印象。我说我看见了她，并不是真的如此，尽管她的确有躯体有肤色。我感到自己看见了她，那是幻象之外的幻象。我停住脚步，眯起眼睛。她看上去非常美丽，非常威严。她带着充满了爱的善意看着我。几秒钟后她离开了我。我的心因为敬畏和快乐而狂跳起来。 神的降临是最优美的报酬。 第21章 之后，我坐在闹市区的一家咖啡馆里，思考着。我刚刚花了大半个下午的时间和他在一起。我们的相遇总是让我对毫无生气的满足感感到厌烦，这种感觉是我生活的特点。是他用的什么词给我留下了深刻印象？啊，对了：“干巴巴的、丝毫不能引人激动的真实性”，“更好的经历”。我拿出纸和笔，写到： 对神圣觉悟的词语：道德升华；持续的高尚和兴高采烈的感觉；加快拥有道德感，这让人强烈地感到比通过智力了解事物更加重要；把宇宙放在道德的范围内，而不是智力的范围内；对存在的基本原则是我们所谓的爱的认识，这样的认识有时并不能让人立即完全清楚明白，但最终必然会让人明白的。 我停顿了片刻。上帝的沉默怎么解释？我仔细考虑了一会儿。我补充道： 困惑的智力然而却是对存在和最终目的的信任感。 第22章 我完全能够想像一位无神论者临终所说的话："白色，白色！爱—爱—爱啊！我的上帝！"——还有临终前突然有的对上帝的信仰。而不可知论者，如果他忠实于自己的理性自我的话，如果他依赖干巴巴的、丝毫不能引人激动的真实性的话，也许会试图这样解释沐浴着他的温暖的光："也许是大—大—大脑没—没—没能充氧。"直到最后一刻，由于缺乏想像力而错过了更好的经历。 第23章 哎，给一个民族带来集体感的共同信仰却给我招来了麻烦。 我的宗教行为开始只有一些与之无关、只是感到好笑的人注意到，后来终于被对他们来说关系重大的人注意到了——这些人并不感到好笑。 "你儿子到庙宇去干什么？"神父问。 "有人看见你儿子在教堂里画十字。"伊玛目说。 "你的儿子成了一个穆斯林。"梵学家说。 是的，我困惑不解的父母不得不注意到了这一切。你瞧，他们并不知道。他们不知道我是虔诚的印度教徒、基督教徒和穆斯林。青少年总有几件事瞒着父母，不是吗？所有的16岁少年都有自己的秘密，不是吗？但是命运决定了我的父母和我和那三位智者，我就这样称呼他们吧，有一天会在古贝尔·萨莱海滨散步广场相遇，我的秘密会暴露。那是一个可爱的微凤轻拂、天气炎热的星期天下午，盂加拉湾在蓝天下波光闪烁。城里的人都出去散步了。孩子们大声叫着笑着。五颜六色的气球在空中飘来飘去。冰淇淋卖得飞快。在这样的一天为什么要考虑工作上的事呢，我问？为什么他们不能点点头，笑一笑，就从我们身边走过去呢？事情没有这样发生。我们遇到了不止一位智者，而是三位智者，不是一位接一位地遇到，而是三位同时遇到,每一位都在看到我们的时候认定，那是见那位本地治里的名人、动物园的园长、那位模范的虔诚的儿子的父亲的绝妙时机。看见第一位的时候，我微笑了一下；看见第三位的时候，我的微笑变得僵硬，成了一只恐怖面具。当我看清三位都在朝我们走来的时候，我的心一下子跳了起来，然后慢慢沉了下去。 当三位智者意识到他们三人都在朝同样的人走去时，似乎很不高兴。每一位一定都以为其他两位是为其他事，而不是为与传教有关的事到那儿去的，又都粗暴地选择了在那一刻来讨论这个问题。他们相互交换了不快的目光。 父母被三位满脸微笑的陌生的宗教人士彬彬有礼地挡住了去路，感到很不解。我要解释一下，我的家庭绝不是一个正统的家庭。父亲认为自己是新印度——富有、现代、像冰淇淋一样世俗的新印度的一部分。他根本没有宗教细胞。他是个商人，就他而言，显然是个忙碌的商人，一个工作勤奋、讲求实际的专业人员，对狮子的同系交配比对任何包罗万象的道德或存在图式更加关心。的确，他请牧师来给所有新来的动物祝福，动物园里还有两座小神龛，一座供奉象头神，一座供奉神猴，两位都是可能让动物园园长高兴的神，第一位长了一个大象脑袋，第二位是只猴子。但是父亲的打算是，这对生意有好处，而不是对他的灵魂有好处，这是公共关系问题，而不是个人得救问题。精神上的担忧对他而言是件陌生的事情；让他身心苦恼的是经济上的担忧。"只要有一种疾病在这群动物当中流行，"他说，"我们就只能做修路工去砸石头了。"在这个问题上，母亲感到厌烦，保持沉默和中立的态度。印度教的家庭教育和浸礼会的学校教育在宗教方面恰好相互抵消，让她成了一个不信奉宗教的人,并且对此心安理得。我怀疑她已经怀疑到我对这件事有不同的反应，但是，当我小时候贪婪地阅读《罗摩衍那》和《摩呵婆罗多》的连环漫画和插图本少儿《圣经》以及其他神的故事的时候，她从没有说过什么。她自己非常喜欢读书。她很高兴看见我埋头读书，任何书，只要不是下流的书就行。至于拉维，如果克利须那手里拿的不是笛子而是板球球拍，如果耶稣在他看来更像一个裁判员，如果先知穆罕默德——愿他安息——表达过对保龄球的看法，那么也许他会抬起虔诚的眼皮，但是他们没有，于是他睡了。 在问了"你好"，说了"天气不错"之后，是一阵尴尬的沉默。神父打破了沉默，他用充满自豪的声音说：“派西尼是个很好的基督教小伙子。我希望看见他很快就能参加我们的合唱。” 我的父母、梵学家和伊玛目看上去吃了一惊。 "你一定弄错了。他是个很好的穆斯林小伙子。他每个星期五都来祷告，他对神圣的《可兰经》的学习也进步得很快。"伊玛目这样说道。 我的父母、神父和梵学家看上去难以置信。 梵学家说话了你们俩都错了。他是个很好的印度教小伙子。我总是在庙宇里看见他来得福和做礼拜。" 我的父母、伊玛目和神父看上去惊讶得目瞪口呆。 "肯定没错，"神父说，"我认识这个小伙子。他是派西尼·莫利托·帕特尔，是个基督教徒。" "我也认识他，而且我要告诉你们他是个穆斯林。"伊玛目肯定地说。 "荒唐！"梵学家叫道，"派西尼生下来是个印度教徒，活着是个印度教徒，死了也是印度教徒！" 三位智者相互瞪着眼，气喘吁吁，满腹怀疑。 主啊，让他们把目光从我身上移开吧，我在心里低语。 所有的目光都落到了我身上。 "这是真的吗？"伊玛目急切地问道。"印度教徒和基督教徒都是偶像崇拜者。他们有很多神。" "而穆斯林则有很多老婆。"梵学家回敬道。 神父轻蔑地看着他们俩。"派西尼，"他几乎是在耳语，"只有耶稣才能让我们得救。" "胡言乱语！基督教徒根本就不懂什么是宗教。"梵学家说。"他们很久以前就偏离了上帝的道路。"伊玛目说。 "你们宗教里的上帝在哪里？"神父厉声问道。"你们连一个可以显示上帝存在的奇迹都没有。没有奇迹，那还算是什么宗教?" "宗教不是马戏，总是有死人从坟墓里跳出来，不是的！我们穆斯林坚信最基本的生命奇迹。飞翔的小鸟，飘落的雨水，生长的庄稼——这些对我们来说就是奇迹。" "羽毛和雨水都非常好，但我们想知道上帝真正和我们在一起。" "是吗？啊，和你们在一起对上帝的好处可真不少啊——你们试图杀了他！你们用大钉子把他钉在十字架上。这是对待先知的文明方式吗？先知穆罕默德——愿他安息——给我们捎来了上帝的话，却没有受到任何有损尊严的荒唐对待，而是活到了高龄。" "上帝的话？捎给沙漠中间你们那群不识字的商人？那都是由于他的骆驼的摇摆而造成的癲痫发作之后的胡说八道，而不是神的启示。就是那样，要不就是太阳烤坏了他的脑子！" "如果先知——愿他安息——还活着，他会说出气愤的话的。"伊玛目眯缝着眼睛说。 "哎，他没活着！耶稣还活着，而你们的老‘愿他安息’已经死了，死了，死了！" 梵学家静静地打断了他们。他用泰米尔语说："真正的问题是，为佧么派西尼轻率地对待这些外来的宗教？" 神父和伊玛目的眼珠子这一下简直要从脑袋里蹦出来了。他们都是土生土长的泰米尔人。 "上帝是无处不在的。"神父气急败坏地说。 伊玛目点头表示完全赞同。"只有一个上帝。" "只有一个上帝的穆斯林总是招惹麻烦，引起暴乱。伊斯兰教有多坏的证明，就是穆斯林有多么不文明。"梵学家宣布道。 "种姓制度的奴隶监工在说话，"伊玛目愤怒地说，"印度教徒奴役人民，膜拜穿上衣服的玩偶。" "他们热爱金色小牛犊。他们在牛面前下跪。"神父插话表示赞成。 "而基督教徒却在一个白人面前下跪！他们是拍外来神马屁的势利小人。他们是所有非白色人种的噩梦。" "他们吃猪肉，是食肉生番。"伊玛目另外补充道。 "归根结底神父抑制住愤怒，冷静地宣布说，"问题是派西尼是想要真正的宗教，还是要卡通连环画里的神话。" "是要上帝，还是偶像。"伊玛目拖长了声音严肃地说。 "是要我们的神，还是要殖民地的神。"梵学家尖利地说。 很难分清谁的脸更红。看样子他们可能要打起来了。 父亲举起双手。"先生们，先生们，请不要这样！"他插话道。"我要提醒你们，这个国家有宗教信仰自由。" 三张有中风迹象的脸转向了他。 "是的！信仰，只能有一种！"三位智者不约而同地叫道。三根食指就像三个标点符号，一下子蹦到了空中，以吸引别人的注意力，强调自己的观点。 他们对这无意的异口同声的效果和不由自主的相同手势很不高兴。他们迅速把手指放下，叹了口气，各自发出不满的声音。 父亲和母亲继续瞪着他们，不知道该说什么。 梵学家第一个说话了。"帕特尔先生，派西尼的虔诚令人钦佩。在这动荡的年代，看到一个小伙子对上帝如此热心，这真是太好了。我们都同意这一点。"伊玛目和神父点点头。"但是他不可能同时做一个印度教徒，一个基督教徒和一个穆斯林。这是不可能的。他必须作出选择。" "我不认为这是件罪行，但我想你是对的。"父亲答道。 那三位咕哝了几声表示同意，然后抬头看着天，父亲也一样，他们感到上天一定能作出决定。母亲看着我。 一阵沉默重重地压在了我的肩上。 "嗯，派西尼？"母亲用胳膊肘轻轻推了推我。"你对这个问题有什么感觉？" "甘地老爹说，‘所有宗教都是真实的。’我只是想热爱上帝。"我脱口而出，然后低下头，脸红了。 我的尴尬具有传染性。没有人说一句话。我们碰巧离海滨散步广场上的甘地塑像不远。这位圣雄正在行走，他手里拿着拐杖，嘴上挂着顽童似的微笑，眼里闪着光。我想他听见了我们的谈话，但他更注意我的内心。父亲清了清嗓子，用压低了的声音说：“我想这是我们大家都在努力做的事——热爱上帝。” 他这么说让我感到很滑稽，自从我有记忆力以来，他就从没有带着严肃的目的跨进寺庙过。但是这话似乎起了作用。你不能责备一个想要热爱上帝的小伙子。三位智者脸上带着僵硬的勉强的微笑离开了。 父亲看了我一秒钟，似乎要说什么，却又改变了主意，说："冰淇淋,谁想要？"我们还没有回答,他便朝最近的卖冰淇淋的小贩走去。母亲又盯着我看了一会儿,表情既温柔又困惑。 那就是我对不同宗教间对话的人门。父亲买了三只冰淇淋三明治。我们一边非常安静地吃着冰淇淋，一边继续星期天的散步。 第24章 拉维发现这件事后对我尽情嘲笑了一番。 "那么，耶稣先知，今年你要去朝觐吗？"他说，一边把双手放在脸面前，行了一个虔诚的合十礼。"麦加在召唤吗？"他画了个十字。"还是到罗马去参加你自己登上下一任庇护教皇宝座的加冕礼？"他在空中画了一个希腊字母，拼出自己的嘲弄。“你腾出时间做了包皮环割术，成了犹太人了吗？照你这个速度，如果你星期四去庙宇，星期五去清真寺，星期六去犹太教堂，星期天去教堂，那么你只需要再皈依三个宗教，下半辈子就可以天天放假了。” 以及诸如此类的其他的冷嘲热讽。 |
CHAPTER 25 And that wasn't the end of it. There are always those who take it upon themselves to defend God, as if Ultimate Reality, as if the sustaining frame of existence, were something weak and helpless. These people walk by a widow deformed by leprosy begging for a few paise, walk by children dressed in rags living in the street, and they think, "Business as usual." But if they perceive a slight against God, it is a different story. Their faces go red, their chests heave mightily, they sputter angry words. The degree of their indignation is astonishing. Their resolve is frightening. These people fail to realize that it is on the inside that God must be defended, not on the outside. They should direct their anger at themselves. For evil in the open is but evil from within that has been let out. The main battlefield for good is not the open ground of the public arena but the small clearing of each heart. Meanwhile, the lot of widows and homeless children is very hard, and it is to their defence, not God's, that the self-righteous should rush. Once an oaf chased me away from the Great Mosque. When I went to church the priest glared at me so that I could not feel the peace of Christ. A Brahmin sometimes shooed me away from darshan. My religious doings were reported to my parents in the hushed, urgent tones of treason revealed. As if this small-mindedness did God any good. To me, religion is about our dignity, not our depravity. I stopped attending Mass at Our Lady of Immaculate Conception and went instead to Our Lady of Angels. I no longer lingered after Friday prayer among my brethren. I went to temple at crowded times when the Brahmins were too distracted to come between God and me. CHAPTER 26 A few days after the meeting on the esplanade, I took my courage into my hands and went to see Father at his office. "Father?" "Yes, Piscine." "I would like to be baptized and I would like a prayer rug." My words intruded slowly. He looked up from his papers after some seconds. "A what? What?" "I would like to pray outside without getting my pants dirty. And I'm attending a Christian school without having received the proper baptism of Christ." "Why do you want to pray outside? In fact, why do you want to pray at all?" "Because I love God." "Aha." He seemed taken aback by my answer, nearly embarrassed by it. There was a pause. I thought he was going to offer me ice cream again. "Well, Petit Seminaire is Christian only in name. There are many Hindu boys there who aren't Christians. You'll get just as good an education without being baptized. Praying to Allah won't make any difference, either." "But I want to pray to Allah. I want to be a Christian." "You can't be both. You must be either one or the other." "Why can't I be both?" "They're separate religions! They have nothing in common." "That's not what they say! They both claim Abraham as theirs. Muslims say the God of the Hebrews and Christians is the same as the God of the Muslims. They recognize David, Moses and Jesus as prophets." "What does this have to do with us, Piscine? We're Indians!" "There have been Christians and Muslims in India for centuries! Some people say Jesus is buried in Kashmir." He said nothing, only looked at me, his brow furrowed. Suddenly business called. "Talk to Mother about it." She was reading. "Mother?" "Yes, darling." "I would like to be baptized and I would like a prayer rug." "Talk to Father about it." "I did. He told me to talk to you about it." "Did he?" She laid her book down. She looked out in the direction of the zoo. At that moment I'm sure Father felt a blow of chill air against the back of his neck. She turned to the bookshelf. "I have a book here that you'll like." She already had her arm out, reaching for a volume. It was Robert Louis Stevenson. This was her usual tactic. "I've already read that, Mother. Three times." "Oh." Her arm hovered to the left. "The same with Conan Doyle," I said. Her arm swung to the right. "R. K. Narayan? You can't possibly have read all of Narayan?" "These matters are important to me, Mother." "Robinson Crusoe!" "Mother!" "But Piscine!" she said. She settled back into her chair, a path-of-least-resistance look on her face, which meant I had to put up a stiff fight in precisely the right spots. She adjusted a cushion. "Father and I find your religious zeal a bit of a mystery." "It is a Mystery." "Hmmm. I don't mean it that way. Listen, my darling, if you're going to be religious, you must be either a Hindu, a Christian or a Muslim. You heard what they said on the esplanade." "I don't see why I can't be all three. Mamaji has two passports. He's Indian and French. Why can't I be a Hindu, a Christian and a Muslim?" "That's different. France and India are nations on earth." "How many nations are there in the sky?" She thought for a second. "One. That's the point. One nation, one passport." "One nation in the sky?" "Yes. Or none. There's that option too, you know. These are terribly old-fashioned things you've taken to." "If there's only one nation in the sky, shouldn't all passports be valid for it?" A cloud of uncertainty came over her face. "Bapu Gandhi said? "Yes, I know what Bapu Gandhi said." She brought a hand to her forehead. She had a weary look, Mother did. "Good grief," she said. CHAPTER 27 Later that evening I overheard my parents speaking. "You said yes?" said Father. "I believe he asked you too. You referred him to me," replied Mother. "Did I?" "You did." "I had a very busy day..." "You're not busy now. You're quite comfortably unemployed by the looks of it. If you want to march into his room and pull the prayer rug from under his feet and discuss the question of Christian baptism with him, please go ahead. I won't object." "No, no." I could tell from his voice that Father was settling deeper into his chair. There was a pause. "He seems to be attracting religions the way a dog attracts fleas, he pursued. "I don't understand it. We're a modern Indian family; we live in a modern way, India is on the cusp of becoming a truly modern and advanced nation—and here we've produced a son who thinks he's the reincarnation of Sri Ramakrishna." "If Mrs. Gandhi is what being modern and advanced is about, I'm not sure I like it," Mother said. "Mrs. Gandhi will pass! Progress is unstoppable. It is a drumbeat to which we must all march. Technology helps and good ideas spread—these are two laws of nature. If you don't let technology help you, if you resist good ideas, you condemn yourself to dinosaurhood! I am utterly convinced of this. Mrs. Gandhi and her foolishness will pass. The New India will come." (Indeed she would pass. And the New India, or one family of it, would decide to move to Canada.) Father went on: "Did you hear when he said, 'Bapu Gandhi said, "All religions are true'"?" "Yes." "Bapu Gandhi? The boy is getting to be on affectionate terms with Gandhi? After Daddy Gandhi, what next? Uncle Jesus? And what's this nonsense—has he really become a Muslim?" "It seems so." "A Muslim! A devout Hindu, all right, I can understand. A Christian in addition, it's getting to be a bit strange, but I can stretch my mind. The Christians have been here for a long time—Saint Thomas, Saint Francis Xavier, the missionaries and so on. We owe them good schools." "Yes." "So all that I can sort of accept. But Muslim? It's totally foreign to our tradition. They're outsiders." "They've been here a very long time too. They're a hundred times more numerous than the Christians." "That makes no difference. They're outsiders." "Perhaps Piscine is marching to a different drumbeat of progress." "You're defending the boy? You don't mind it that he's fancying himself a Muslim?" "What can we do, Santosh? He's taken it to heart, and it's not doing anyone any harm. Maybe it's just a phase. It too may pass—like Mrs. Gandhi." "Why can't he have the normal interests of a boy his age? Look at Ravi. All he can think about is cricket, movies and music." "You think that's better?" "No, no. Oh, I don't know what to think. It's been a long day." He sighed. "I wonder how far he'll go with these interests." Mother chuckled. "Last week he finished a book called The Imitation of Christ." "The Imitation of Christ! I say again, I wonder how far he'll go with these interests!" cried Father. They laughed. CHAPTER 28 I loved my prayer rug. Ordinary in quality though it was, it glowed with beauty in my eyes. I'm sorry I lost it. Wherever I laid it I felt special affection for the patch of ground beneath it and the immediate surroundings, which to me is a clear indication that it was a good prayer rug because it helped me remember that the earth is the creation of God and sacred the same all over. The pattern, in gold lines upon a background of red, was plain: a narrow rectangle with a triangular peak at one extremity to indicate the qibla, the direction of prayer, and little curlicues floating around it, like wisps of smoke or accents from a strange language. The pile was soft. When I prayed, the short, unknotted tassels were inches from the tip of my forehead at one end of the carpet and inches from the tip of my toes at the other, a cozy size to make you feel at home anywhere upon this vast earth. I prayed outside because I liked it. Most often I unrolled my prayer rug in a corner of the yard behind the house. It was a secluded spot in the shade of a coral tree, next to a wall that was covered with bougainvillea. Along the length of the wall was a row of potted poinsettias. The bougainvillea had also crept through the tree. The contrast between its purple bracts and the red flowers of the tree was very pretty. And when that tree was in bloom, it was a regular aviary of crows, mynahs, babblers, rosy pastors, sunbirds and parakeets. The wall was to my right, at a wide angle. Ahead of me and to my left, beyond the milky, mottled shade of the tree, lay the sundrenched open space of the yard. The appearance of things changed, of course, depending on the weather, the time of day, the time of year. But it's all very clear in my memory, as if it never changed. I faced Mecca with the help of a line I scratched into the pale yellow ground and carefully kept up. Sometimes, upon finishing my prayers, I would turn and catch sight of Father or Mother or Ravi observing me, until they got used to the sight. My baptism was a slightly awkward affair. Mother played along nicely, Father looked on stonily, and Ravi was mercifully absent because of a cricket match, which did not prevent him from commenting at great length on the event. The water trickled down my face and down my neck; though just a beaker's worth, it had the refreshing effect of a monsoon rain. CHAPTER 29 Why do people move? What makes them uproot and leave everything they've known for a great unknown beyond the horizon? Why climb this Mount Everest of formalities that makes you feel like a beggar? Why enter this jungle of foreignness where everything is new, strange and difficult? The answer is the same the world over: people move in the hope of a better life. The mid-1970s were troubled times in India. I gathered that from the deep furrows that appeared on Father's forehead when he read the papers. Or from snippets of conversation that I caught between him and Mother and Mamaji and others. It's not that I didn't understand the drift of what they said—it's that I wasn't interested. The orang-utans were as eager for chapattis as ever; the monkeys never asked after the news from Delhi; the rhinos and goats continued to live in peace; the birds twittered; the clouds carried rain; the sun was hot; the earth breathed; God was—there was no Emergency in my world. Mrs. Gandhi finally got the best of Father. In February 1976, the Tamil Nadu government was brought down by Delhi. It had been one of Mrs. Gandhi's most vocal critics. The takeover was smoothly enforced—Chief Minister Karunanidhi's ministry vanished quietly into "resignation" or house arrest—and what does the fall of one local government matter when the whole country's Constitution has been suspended these last eight months? But it was to Father the crowning touch in Mrs. Gandhi's dictatorial takeover of the nation. The came1 at the zoo was unfazed, but that straw broke Father's back. He shouted, "Soon she'll come down to our zoo and tell us that her jails are full, she needs more space. Could we put Desai with the lions?" Morarji Desai was an opposition politician. No friend of Mrs. Gandhi's. It makes me sad, my father's ceaseless worrying. Mrs. Gandhi could have personally bombed the zoo, it would have been fine with me if Father had been gay about it. I wish he hadn't fretted so much. It's hard on a son to see his father sick with worry. But worry he did. Any business is risky business, and none more so than small b business, the one that risks the shirt on its back. A zoo is a cultural institution. Like a public library, like a museum, it is at the service of popular education and science. And by this token, not much of a money-making venture, for the Greater Good and the Greater Profit are not compatible aims, much to Father's chagrin. The truth was, we were not a rich family, certainly not by Canadian standards. We were a poor family that happened to own a lot of animals, though not the roof above their heads (or above ours, for that matter). The life of a zoo, like the life of its inhabitants in the wild, is precarious. It is neither big enough a business to be above the law nor small enough to survive on its margins. To prosper, a zoo needs parliamentary government, democratic elections, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of association, rule of law and everything else enshrined in India's Constitution. Impossible to enjoy the animals otherwise. Long-term, bad politics is bad for business. People move because of the wear and tear of anxiety. Because of the gnawing feeling that no matter how hard they work their efforts will yield nothing, that what they build up in one year will be torn down in one day by others. Because of the impression that the future is blocked up, that they might do all right but not their children Because of the feeling that nothing will change, that happiness and prosperity are possible only somewhere else. The New India split to pieces and collapsed in Father's mind. Mother assented. We would bolt. It was announced to us one evening during dinner. Ravi and I were thunderstruck. Canada! If Andhra Pradesh, just north of us, was alien, if Sri Lanka, a monkey's hop across a strait, was the dark side of the moon, imagine what Canada was. Canada meant absolutely nothing to us. It was like Timbuktu, by definition a place permanently far away. CHAPTER 30 He's married. I am bent down, taking my shoes off, when I hear him say, "I would like you to meet my wife." I look up and there beside him is... Mrs. Patel. "Hello," she says, extending her hand and smiling. "Piscine has been telling me lots about you." I cant say the same of her. I had no idea. She's on her way out, so we talk only a few minutes. She's also Indian but has a more typically Canadian accent. She must be second generation. She's a little younger than him, skin slightly darker, long black hair woven in a tress. Bright dark eyes and lovely white teeth. She has in her arms a dry-cleaned white lab coat in a protective plastic film. She's a pharmacist. When I say "Nice meeting you, Mrs. Patel," she replies, "Please, make it Meena."'After a quick kiss between husband and wife, she's off on a working Saturday. This house is more than a box full of icons. I start noticing small signs of conjugal existence. They were there all along, but I hadn't seen them because I wasn't looking for them. He's a shy man. Life has taught him not to show off what is most precious to him. Is she the nemesis of my digestive tract? "I've made a special chutney for you," he says. He's smiling. No, he is. CHAPTER 31 They met once, Mr. and Mr. Kumar, the baker and the teacher. The first Mr. Kumar had expressed the wish to see the zoo. "All these years and I've never seen it. It's so close by, too. Will you show it to me?" he asked. "Yes, of course," I replied. "It would be an honour." We agreed to meet at the main gate the next day after school. I worried all that day. I scolded myself, "You fool! Why did you say the main gate? At any time there will be a crowd of people there. Have you forgotten how plain he looks? You'll never recognize him!" If I walked by him without seeing him he would be hurt. He would think I had changed my mind and didn't want to be seen with a poor Muslim baker. He would leave without saying a word. He wouldn't be angry-he would accept my claims that it was the sun in my eyes—but he wouldn't want to come to the zoo any more. I could see it happening that way. I had to recognize him. I would hide and wait until I was certain it was him, that's what I would do. But I had noticed before that it was when I tried my hardest to recognize him that I was least able to pick him out. The very effort seemed to blind me. At the appointed hour I stood squarely before the main gate of the zoo and started rubbing my eyes with both hands. "What are you doing?" It was Raj, a friend. "I'm busy." "You're busy rubbing your eyes?" "Go away." "Let's go to Beach Road." "I'm waiting for someone." "Well, you'll miss him if you keep rubbing your eyes like that." "Thank you for the information. Have fun on Beach Road." "How about Government Park?" "I can't, I tell you." "Come on." "Please, Raj, move on!" He left. I went back to rubbing my eyes. "Will you help me with my math homework, Pi?" It was Ajith, another friend. "Later. Go away." "Hello, Piscine." It was Mrs. Radhakrishna, a friend of Mother's. In a few more words I eased her on her way. "Excuse me. Where's Laporte Street?" A stranger. "That way." "How much is admission to the zoo?" Another stranger. "Five rupees. The ticket booth is right there." "Has the chlorine got to your eyes?" It was Mamaji. "Hello, Mamaji. No, it hasn't." "Is your father around?" "I think so." "See you tomorrow morning." "Yes, Mamaji." "I am here, Piscine." My hands froze over my eyes. That voice. Strange in a familiar way, familiar in a strange way. I felt a smile welling up in me. "Salaam alaykum, Mr. Kumar! How good to see you." "Wa alaykum as-salaam. Is something wrong with your eyes?" "No, nothing. Just a bit of dust." "They look quite red." "It's nothing." He headed for the ticket booth but I called him back. "No, no. Not for you, master." It was with pride that I waved the ticket collector's hand away and showed Mr. Kumar into the zoo. He marvelled at everything, at how to tall trees came tall giraffes, how carnivores were supplied with herbivores and herbivores with grass, how some creatures crowded the day and others the night, how some that needed sharp beaks had sharp beaks and others that needed limber limbs had limber limbs. It made me happy that he was so impressed. He quoted from the Holy Qur'an: "In all this there are messages indeed for a people who use their reason." We came to the zebras. Mr. Kumar had never heard of such creatures, let alone seen one. He was dumbfounded. "They're called zebras," I said. "Have they been painted with a brush?" "No, no. They look like that naturally." "What happens when it rains?" "Nothing." "The stripes don't melt?" "No." I had brought some carrots. There was one left, a large and sturdy specimen. I took it out of the bag. At that moment I heard a slight scraping of gravel to my right. It was Mr. Kumar, coming up to the railing in his usual limping and rolling gait. "Hello, sir." "Hello, Pi." The baker, a shy but dignified man, nodded at the teacher, who nodded back. An alert zebra had noticed my carrot and had come up to the low fence. It twitched its ears and stamped the ground softly. I broke the carrot in two and gave one half to Mr. Kumar and one half to Mr. Kumar. "Thank you, Piscine," said one; "Thank you, Pi," said the other. Mr. Kumar went first, dipping his hand over the fence. The zebra's thick, strong, black lips grasped the carrot eagerly. Mr. Kumar wouldn't let go. The zebra sank its teeth into the carrot and snapped it in two. It crunched loudly on the treat for a few seconds, then reached for the remaining piece, lips flowing over Mr. Kumar's fingertips. He released the carrot and touched the zebra's soft nose. It was Mr. Kumar's turn. He wasn't so demanding of the zebra. Once it had his half of the carrot between its lips, he let go. The lips hurriedly moved the carrot into the mouth. Mr. and Mr. Kumar looked delighted. "A zebra, you say?" said Mr. Kumar. "That's right," I replied. "It belongs to the same family as the ass and the horse." "The Rolls-Royce of equids," said Mr. Kumar. "What a wondrous creature," said Mr. Kumar. "This one's a Grant's zebra," I said. Mr. Kumar said, "Equus burchelli boehmi." Mr. Kumar said, "Allahu akbar." I said, "It's very pretty." We looked on. |
第25章 还没有结束。总有人以保卫上帝为己任，仿佛最高实在，还有支撑万物的结构是软弱无助的。这些人从因为患了麻风病而变得畸形、正在乞讨几个派沙的寡妇身边走过，从住在大街上、衣衫褴褛的孩子身边走过，他们想一切如常。"但是如果他们觉察到对上帝的轻视，那情况就完全不同了。他们的脸变得通红，他们的胸脯起伏得厉害，他们气急败坏地说出了生气的话。他们愤慨的程度令人惊讶。他们的决心令人惊恐。 这些人没有意识到，保卫上帝应该从内心做起，而不是从外部做起。他们应该对自己生气。因为外在的邪恶是从内心释放出来的。为善而战的战场并不在外面广阔的公共场所，而在每个人心中的那一小块空地。同时,寡妇和无家可归的孩子的命运十分艰难，那些自以为是的人急急忙忙去保护的应该是他们，而不是上帝。 有一次，一个痴呆儿把我从大清真寺里赶了出去。当我到教堂去的时候，神父怒视着我，让我无法感受到耶稣带来的宁静。有时候某位高雅之士会用"嘘"声赶我走，不让我得福。有人用揭露叛逆罪般的压低了的声音急迫地把我的宗教行为告诉我的父母。 好像这样狭小的心胸对上帝有什么好处。 对我来说,宗教关乎我们的尊严，而非堕落。 我不再去无沾成胎圣母马利亚堂做弥撒，而是去天使圣母马利亚堂。星期五做完祷告之后我不再继续留下和教友们在一起。我在人多的时候去庙宇，那时高雅之士们需要分心的事太多，不会挡在上帝和我之间。 第26章 在散步广场和那几位相遇之后几天，我鼓起勇气，到父亲的办公室去见他。 "父亲？" "什么事，派西尼。" "我想要受洗，我还想要一块跪垫。" 我的话影响父亲的速度很慢。他几秒钟以后才从文件上抬起头来。 "一个什么？什么？" "我想在外面祷告的时候不要把裤子弄脏。我在上一所基督教教会学校，却没有受过基督的真正的洗礼。" "你为什么想在外面祷告？实际上，你为什么想要祷告呢？" "因为我爱上帝。" "啊哈。"他似乎被我的回答吓了一跳，几乎被弄得有些窘。片刻的停顿。我以为他又要给我冰淇淋了。"嗯，小修院只是有一个基督教的名字，有很多不是基督教徒的孩子也在那里上学。你不受洗也同样能好好的毕业。向安拉祷告也不会有什么两样。" "但是我想向安拉祷告。我想成为一个基督教徒。" "你不能两者都是。你只能要不做这个要不做那个。" "为什么我不能两者都是？" "它们是不同的宗教！它们没有任何相同之处。" "他们不是这么说的！他们都声称自己信奉亚伯拉罕。穆斯林说希伯来人和基督教徒的上帝和穆斯林的上帝是一样的。他们都承认大卫、摩西和耶稣是先知。" "这和我们有什么关系，派西尼？我们是印度人！" "基督教徒和穆斯林已经在印度生活了好几个世纪！有人说耶稣就葬在喀什米尔。" 他什么也没说，只是看着我，眉头紧锁。突然有工作需要他去处理。 "去和母亲说吧。" 她正在读书。 "母亲？" "什么事，亲爱的。" "我想要受洗，我还想要一块跪垫。" "去和父亲说吧。" "说过了。他让我来和你说。" "是吗？"她放下书，朝窗外动物园的方向看去。我敢肯定，就在那一刻，父亲一定感到颈背上有一阵凉风吹来。她转身走到书架跟前。"这儿有本书，你会喜欢的。"她已经伸出胳膊去够书了。是罗伯特·路易斯·史蒂文森的书。这是她惯用的技巧。 "我已经读过那本书了,母亲。读过三次了。" "噢。"她的胳膊停在了左边一本书上。 "柯南·道尔的书我也读过了。" 她的胳膊又转向了右边。"R.K.纳拉扬的书呢？纳拉扬的书你不可能都读过吧？" "母亲，这些事情对我很重要。" "《鲁宾孙漂流记》！" "母亲！" "但是派西尼！"她说。她坐回椅子上，脸上一副避难就易的表情，这意味着我得抓住关键，进行顽强的斗争。她重新放了一下靠垫。"我和你父亲认为你的宗教热忱有点儿神秘。" "这的确是依靠神的启示才能理解的奥秘。" "哏。我不是那个意思。听着，亲爱的，如果你要信仰宗教，那么你必须要么做印度教徒，要么做基督教徒，要么做穆斯林。你听到他们在散步广场是怎么说的。" "我不明白为什么不能三者都是。玛玛吉有两本护照。他是印度人，同时也是法国人。为什么我不能同时是印度教徒、基督教徒和穆斯林？" "这不一样。法国和印度是地球上的国家。" "天上有多少个国家？" 她想了一秒钟。"一个。关键就在这儿。一个国家，一本护照。" "天上只有一个国家？" "是的。或者没有。也有这种可能性，你知道。你喜欢的是非常过时的东西。" "如果天上只有一个国家，那不是所有护照都有效了吗？"她显出不能确定的神色。 "甘地老爹说——" "是的，我知道甘地老爹说过什么。"她用一只手扶住额头。她表情疲惫，真的。"天啊。"她说。 第27章 那天晚上晚些时候，我偶尔听到父母在说话。 "你说了可以？"父亲说。 "我相信他也问过你。你让他来找我。"母亲回答。 "是吗？" "是的。" "我今天很忙……" "你现在不忙。看上去你挺舒服清闲。如果你想走进他的房间，把跪垫从他膝下抽出来，和他讨论基督教洗礼问题，那就去吧。我不会反对的。" "不，不。"我能从父亲的声音听出来，他朝椅子里陷得更深了。片刻的停顿。 "他就像狗招引跳蚤一样招引宗教，"他接着说道，"我不明白。我们是一个现代的印度家庭；我们以现代的方式生活；印度正处在朝着真正现代和进步的国家过渡的高峰期，而我们却生了这么一个儿子,他以为自己是罗摩克里希纳①的化身。" 【①罗摩克里希纳（1836-1886），印度教改革家，宗教哲学家，提出"人类宗教"的思想，认为各种宗教目的都是要达到与神的结合。】 "如果现代和进步就是甘地夫人，那我可不能确定自己是否喜欢。"母亲说。 "甘地夫人会成为过去的！进步不可阻挡。这是我们大家都必须随之而前进的鼓点。技术可以帮助我们，好的思想传播开来一这是两条自然规律。如果你不让技术帮忙，如果你拒绝好的思想，那你就只好回到恐龙时代了！我对这一点确信无疑。甘地夫人和她的愚蠢会成为过去的。新印度一定会到来。" (她当然会过去的。而新印度，或者它的一个家庭，会决定搬到加拿大去。) 父亲继续说道："你有没有听见他说：‘甘地老爹说过，"所有宗教都是有道理的"？’" "听见了。" "甘地老爹？这个孩子已经和甘地有如此亲密的关系了吗？现在是甘地爸爸,下面是什么？耶稣叔叔？这是什么样的荒唐事啊——他真的成了穆斯林了吗？" "似乎是这样。" "穆斯林！做个虔诚的印度教徒，好吧，我能理解。还是一个基督教徒，这变得有点儿怪，但我可以绞尽脑汁来接受。基督徒在这里生活了很长时间——圣多马，圣方济各·沙勿略，传教士，等等。我们有好学校得归功于他们。" "是的。" "因此所有这一切我都可以接受。但是穆斯林？这在我们的传统中完全是陌生的东西。他们是外来者。" "他们也在这里生活了很长时间。他们的数量比基督教徒多好几百倍。" "这不起作用。他们是外来者。" "也许派西尼在随着不同的鼓点前进。" "你是在为这个孩子辩护吗？你不在乎他认为自己是穆斯林？" "我们能怎么办呢，桑托什？他非常喜欢，而这又不对任何人造成伤害。也许这只是一个阶段。这也会过去的，就像甘地夫人一样。" "为什么他不能和同龄孩子一样有正常的兴趣呢？看看拉维。他整天想的就是板球、电影和音乐。" "你认为这样更好吗？" "不，不。噢，我都不知道该怎么想了。今天可真是漫长的一天啊。"他叹了口气。"我不知道他对这些会感兴趣到什么程度。"母亲格格笑了起来。"上星期他看完了一本书，书名是《模仿基督》。" "模仿基督！我又要说了，我不知道他对这些会感兴趣到什么程度！"父亲叫道。 他们大笑起来。 第28章 我喜欢我的跪垫。尽管它的质量很平常，但在我眼里却美丽耀眼。我很难过，把它弄丢了。无论把它放在哪里，我都对它下面的那块地和它四周的东西有一种特别的喜爱之情，对我来说，这显然表明它是一块好跪垫，因为它帮助我记得大地是上帝的创造，并且把周围的一切都变得神圣起来。跪垫是红色的，上面用金线织出简单的图案：细长的长方形，一端有三角形尖顶，指示着教徒的礼拜方向，四周有细小的花饰，仿佛一缕缕轻烟在飘荡，又仿佛陌生语言中一个个的音质符号。绒毛很柔软。我祷告的时候，垫子一端没有打结的短穗子离我的额头只有几英寸，另一端的穗子离我的脚趾只有几英寸，这个尺寸让你感到温馨，让你无论在这广阔大地上的任何地方都感到无拘无束。 我在室外祷告，因为我喜欢这样。大多数时候，我在屋后院子里的一个角落铺开垫子。那是刺桐树阴下一个僻静的角落，旁边是一堵墙，墙上爬满了九重葛。沿墙摆放着一排花盆，里面种着一品红。九重葛也爬到了刺桐树上。它那紫色的苞片和树上红色的花朵相互映衬，漂亮极了。树开花的时候，就成了一个十足的大型鸟舍，乌鸦、鹩哥、鹛鸟、粉红椋鸟、太阳鸟和长尾小鹦鹉都飞来了。墙在我右边，和我成钝角。在我前面和左边，在乳白色的斑驳的树阴外面，是沐浴在阳光下的院子的空地。当然，随着天气、时间和季节的变化，院子里的景象也会变化。但是，在我的记忆里，这一切都非常清晰，似乎从不曾改变过。我按照自己在淡黄色的地上画的一条线所指示的方向面对着麦加，小心翼翼地保持着这个方向。 有时候，祷告结束后，我转过身去，会看见父亲或母亲或拉维在观察我，在他们习惯了这个情景之前一直如此。 我的洗礼有些尴尬。母亲一直都假装得很好，父亲面无表情地看着，拉维很仁慈，他没有来，因为他去参加板球赛了，但这并没有阻止他对这件事发表长篇大论。水从我的脸上淌下来，流到了脖子上；尽管只有一烧杯的水，却像季风季节的雨一样，令我神清气爽。 第29章 人们为什么迁移？是什么使他们离开家园，离开他们所熟知的一切，到地平线外完全陌生的地方去？为什么要经过一道道堆得像珠穆朗玛峰一样高的手续，让你感觉自己像个乞丐？为什么走进这座一切都那么新鲜、陌生又困难的异域丛林？ 全世界的答案都是一样的：人们迁移，是希望过上更加美好的生活。 在印度，20世纪70年代中期是一个动荡不安的年代。我从父亲看报纸时额头上出现的深深的皱纹里，从他与母亲或玛玛吉或其他人交谈时的只言片语中得出了这样的结论。并不是我不理解他们谈话的含义，只是我对此不感兴趣。猩猩仍像往常一样迫不及待地要吃薄煎饼；猴子从不询问来自德里的消息；犀牛和山羊继续和平相处；小鸟唧唧喳喳地叫；云朵带来了降雨；太阳火辣辣地照着；大地在呼吸；上帝，在我的世界里，没有紧急情况。 甘地夫人最终战胜了父亲。1976年2月，泰米尔纳德政府被德里推翻了。这个政府是甘地夫人最直言不讳的批评者之一。接管顺利进行，卡鲁纳尼迪首席部长的内阁悄悄消失了，阁员们或是辞职，或是被软禁，当整个国家的宪法在过去八个月中已被暂时取消的时候，地方政府的垮台又有什么关系呢？但是，甘地夫人接管了国家，对她进行独裁统治，这对父亲是最大的打击。这就像压垮骆驼的最后一根稻草一样，虽然没有让我们动物园里的骆驼受到打扰，却使父亲再也无法忍受。 他叫道："很快她就会到我们的动物园里来，告诉我们说她的监狱里人满为患，她需要更多的地方。我们能把德赛和狮子关在一起吗？" 穆拉吉·德赛是一位反对派政治家。不是甘地夫人的朋友。父亲不停地担忧，这使我很伤心。甘地夫人可以把动物园炸掉，只要父亲乐意，我不在乎。我希望他不那么苦恼。看见父亲因为担心而心烦意乱，做儿子的心里很不好受。 但是他的确在担心。任何生意都需要冒险，小生意冒的风险最大，能让人赔得精光。动物园是一个文化机构。像公共图书馆一样，像博物馆一样，它是为普及教育和科学服务的。同样，它也不是一个挣钱的企业，因为挣大钱和办好事这两个目的并不相容。事实上，我们不是一个富裕的家庭，按照加拿大标准当然不是。我们是一个贫穷的家庭，碰巧拥有许多动物，尽管并不拥有它们头顶(还有我们头顶)上的屋顶。动物园的生命，就像它的居民在野外的生命一样，十分脆弱。它既不是大到可以凌驾于法律之上的大生意，也不是小到可以在法律的空白里生存的小生意。动物园要兴旺发达，就需要议会政府、民主选举、言论自由、新闻自由、集会自由、法治以及印度宪法所奉为神圣的其他一切。长期糟糕的政治局面对生意非常不利。 人们迁移是因为焦虑使人备受折磨。因为那种折磨人的感觉，就是无论多么努力工作，所有的努力都将没有任何结果，无论他们用一年的时间建造了什么，都会在一天之内被别人拆毁。因为有那么一种印象，就是通往将来的道路被堵死了，也许他们没什么，但是他们的孩子却不会有好日子。因为感到一切都不会改变，幸福富裕只有在别处才能得到。 在父亲心里，新印度破碎了，倒塌了。母亲同意了。我们要逃离这里了。 这个消息是一天晚上吃晚饭的时候宣布的，拉维和我大吃一惊。加拿大！如果说我们北边的安得拉邦是异域，如果说和我们隔着一条连猴子都能一跃而过的海峡的斯里兰卡是在月亮的背面，那么想想看加拿大是什么吧。加拿大对我们完全没有任何意义。它就像廷巴克图，永远是一个遥远的地方。 第30章 他结过婚了。我弯着腰，正在脱鞋子，这时我听见他说："来见见我太太。"我抬起头来，他身边站着的是……帕特尔太太。"你好，"她说，一边微笑着伸出手来，"派西尼对我说过很多关于你的事。"我没法对她说同样的话。我对她一无所知。她正准备出去，因此我们只交谈了几分钟。她也是印度人，但是说话带有更典型的加拿大口音。她一定是第二代移民。她比他年轻些，皮肤的颜色更深一些，黑头发桄成一绺。明亮的黑眼睛，可爱的白牙齿。她抱着一件干洗过的在实验室里穿的白大褂，外面盖着一层起保护作用的塑料薄膜。她是个药剂师。当我对她说："很高兴见到你，帕特尔太太"的时候，她回答道："请叫我米娜。"他们匆匆互吻了一下，她便在星期六上班去了。 这座房子不仅是一个充满了图标的盒子。我开始注意到夫妻生活的小标记。这些标记一直都在那儿，但我却没有看见，因为我没有去寻找。 他是个害羞的人。生活教会了他不要炫耀对他来说最珍贵的东西。 她会是我的消化道的处罚者？ "我给你做了一道特别的印度酸辣酱。"他说。他在微笑。 不，他才是。 第31章 库马尔先生和库马尔先生,面包师和教师，见过一次面。第一位库马尔先生表示想去动物园看看。"这么多年了，我从没去动物园看过。而且它就在附近。你能带我去吗？"他问。 "可以，当然可以我答道，"我很高兴能带你去。" 我们约好第二天放学后在大门口见面。 那一整天我都在担心。我骂自己说你这个笨蛋！你为什么要说在大门口见面？不管什么时候那个地方总是有一大堆人。你忘了他长得多平常吗？你决不会认出他来的！"如果我从他身边走过却没有看见他，他会伤心的。他会以为我改变了主意，不想让人看见我和一个贫穷的穆斯林面包师在一起。他会一句话也不说就离开。他不会生气的，他会接受我的说法，说那是因为阳光太刺眼,但是他再也不想到动物园来了。我能看见事情像这样发生。我一定得认出他来。我要躲起来，等到我能肯定是他时再出来，我就那么做。但是我以前就注意到，每当我特别努力地想要认出他时，反而无法将他认出来。努力本身似乎让我看不见了。 在约定的时间，我站在正对着动物园大门的地方，开始用两只手揉眼睛。 "你在干什么？" 是拉吉，一个朋友。 "我在忙。" "你在忙着揉眼睛？" "走开。" "我们到海滩路去吧。" "我在等人。" "哼，如果你像这样不停地揉眼睛，你会看不到他的。" "谢谢你告诉我。祝你在海滩路玩得好。" "到政府公园去怎么样？" "我不能去，我告诉你。" "去吧！" "求求你，拉吉，你走吧！" 他走了。我又开始揉眼睛。 "你能帮我做数学作业吗,派？" 是阿吉特，另一个朋友。 "过会儿吧。走开。" "你好，派西尼。" 是拉达克里希南太太，母亲的一个朋友。我用几句话把她打发走了。 是个陌生人。 "在那边。" "动物园门票要多少钱？" 另一个陌生人。 "五卢比。售票处在那边。" "氯进了你眼睛吗？" 是玛玛吉。 "你好，玛玛吉。不,不是的。" "你父亲在吗？" "我想他在。" "明天早晨见。" "再见，玛玛吉。" "我在这儿，派西尼。" 我的手在眼睛上僵住了。那个声音。我感到熟悉的陌生声音，我感到陌生的熟悉声音。我感到微笑从心底洋溢上来。" “Salaam alaykum①.库马尔先生！看见你真好。” 【①阿拉伯语,意为"上帝与你同在。"】 “Wa alaykum as-salaam②.你的眼睛不舒服吗？” 【②阿拉伯语,意为"愿上帝与你同在。"】 "不，没什么。只是进了灰尘。" "看上去很红。" "没关系。" 他朝售票处走去，但是我把他叫了回来。 "不，不。你不用买票，师傅。" 我自豪地挥挥手，让检票员把手缩了回去，然后带库马尔先生进了动物园。 一切都令他惊奇。他看见高大的长颈鹿来到高大的树下；食肉动物吃食草动物，而食草动物吃草；一些动物白天聚集在一起，而另一些动物则夜晚聚集在一起；一些需要尖嘴的动物长了尖嘴，而另一些需要灵活的四肢的动物长了灵活的四肢。他对这-切感到惊讶不已。 他引用了《古兰经》里的一句话：“对于敏悟的人其中确有迹象。①” 【①《古兰经》第三十章《罗马人》，第二十四节】 我们来到斑马笼前。库马尔先生从来没有听说过这种动物，更不用说看见过了。他惊讶得目瞪口呆。 "它们叫斑马。"我说。 "它们身上的条纹是用刷子漆的吗？" "不,不。它们天生就那样。" "下雨的时候会怎么样？" "不会怎么样。" "条纹不会被雨冲掉吗？" "不会。" 我带了几根胡萝卜。现在还剩下一根，是又大又结实的那种。我把它从包里拿了出来。就在那时，我听见右边有轻微的砂砾的刮擦声。是库马尔先生，像往常一样一瘸一拐摇摇摆摆地朝栏杆走来。 "你好，先生。" "你好，派。" 害羞但庄重的面包师对教师点了点头，教师也对他点了点头。 一匹警觉的斑马注意到了我手里的胡萝卜，走到了低矮的围栏前。它抽动几下耳朵，轻轻地在地上跺了跺脚。我把胡萝卜掰成两半，一半给了库马尔先生，另一半给了库马尔先生。"谢谢，派西尼。"一位说；"谢谢，派。"另一位说。库马尔先生先走过去，把手伸进围栏里。斑马迫不及待地用厚厚的有力的黑色嘴唇夹住了胡萝卜。库马尔先生不肯松手。斑马用牙咬住胡萝卜，猛地咬成了两半。它大声地嚼了几秒钟这顿美餐，接着又去吃剩下的那半根，嘴唇从库马尔先生的手指上滑过。他松开胡萝卜，碰了碰斑马柔软的鼻子。 轮到库马尔先生了。他对斑马没有这么高的要求。它刚用嘴唇夹住半根胡萝卜，他就松手了。嘴唇急急忙忙把胡萝卜送进嘴里。 库马尔先生和库马尔先生看上去很高兴。 "一匹斑马，你是说？"库马尔先生说。 "对，"我答道，"它和驴和马是同一科的。" "马科动物中的劳斯莱斯。"库马尔先生说。 "多么奇妙的动物啊。"库马尔先生说。 "这匹是格兰特斑马。"我说。 库马尔先生说：“Equus burchelli boehmi. ①” 【①拉丁语，意为"格兰特斑马"。】 库马尔先生说：“Allahu akbar. ②” 【②阿拉伯语,意为“上帝是伟大的”。】 我说：“它非常漂亮。” 我们继续看。 |
CHAPTER 32 There are many examples of animals coming to surprising living arrangements. All are instances of that animal equivalent of anthropomorphism: zoomorphism, where an animal takes a human being, or another animal, to be one of its kind. The most famous case is also the most common: the pet dog, which has so assimilated humans into the realm of doghood as to want to mate with them, a fact that any dog owner who has had to pull an amorous dog from the leg of a mortified visitor will confirm. Our golden agouti and spotted paca got along very well, conentedly huddling together and sleeping against each other until the first was stolen. I have already mentioned our rhinoceros-and-goat herd, and the case of circus lions. There are confirmed stories of drowning sailors being pushed up to the surface of the water and held there by dolphins, a characteristic way in which these marine mammals help each other. A case is mentioned in the literature of a stoat and a rat living in a companion relationship, while other rats presented to the stoat were devoured by it in the typical way of stoats. We had our own case of the freak suspension of the predator-prey relationship. We had a mouse that lived for several weeks with the vipers. While other mice dropped in the terrarium disappeared within two days, this little brown Methuselah built itself a nest, stored the grains we gave it in various hideaways and scampered about in plain sight of the snakes. We were amazed. We put up a sign to bring the mouse to the public's attention. It finally met its end in a curious way: a young viper bit it. Was the viper unaware of the mouse's special status? Unsocialized to it, perhaps? Whatever the case, the mouse was bitten by a young viper but devoured—and immediately—by an adult. If there was a spell, it was broken by the young one. Things returned to normal after that. All mice disappeared down the vipers' gullets at the usual rate. In the trade, dogs are sometimes used as foster mothers for lion cubs. Though the cubs grow to become larger than their caregiver, and far more dangerous, they never give their mother trouble and she never loses her placid behaviour or her sense of authority over her litter. Signs have to be put up to explain to the public that the dog is not live food left for the lions (just as we had to put up a sign pointing out that rhinoceros are herbivores and do not eat goats). What could be the explanation for zoomorphism? Can't a rhinoceros distinguish big from small, tough hide from soft fur? Isn't it plain to a dolphin what a dolphin is like? I believe the answer lies in something I mentioned earlier, that measure of madness that moves life in strange but saving ways. The golden agouti, like the rhinoceros, was in need of companionship. The circus lions don't care to know that their leader is a weakling human; the fiction guarantees their social well-being and staves off violent anarchy. As for the lion cubs, they would positively keel over with fright if they knew their mother was a dog, for that would mean they were motherless, the absolute worst condition imaginable for any young, warm-blooded life. I'm sure even the adult viper, as it swallowed the mouse, must have felt somewhere in its undeveloped mind a twinge of regret, a feeling that something greater was just missed, an imaginative leap away from the lonely, crude reality of a reptile. CHAPTER 33 He shows me family memorabilia. Wedding photos first. A Hindu wedding with Canada prominently on the edges. A younger him, a younger her. They went to Niagara Falls for their honeymoon. Had a lovely time. Smiles to prove it. We move back in time. Photos from his student days at U of T: with friends; in front of St. Mike's; in his room; during Diwali on Gerrard Street; reading at St. Basil's Church dressed in a white gown; wearing another kind of white gown in a lab of the zoology department; on graduation day. A smile every time, but his eyes tell another story. Photos from Brazil, with plenty of three-toed sloths in situ. With a turn of a page we jump over the Pacific—and there is next to nothing. He tells me that the camera did click regularly—on all the usual important occasions—but everything was lost. What little there is consists of what was assembled by Mamaji and mailed over after the events. There is a photo taken at the zoo during the visit of a V.I.P. In black and white another world is revealed to me. The photo is crowded with people. A Union cabinet minister is the focus of attention. There's a giraffe in the background. Near the edge of the group, I recognize a younger Mr. Adirubasamy. "Mamaji?" I ask, pointing. "Yes," he says. There's a man next to the minister, with horn-rimmed glasses and hair very cleanly combed. He looks like a plausible Mr. Patel, face rounder than his son's. "Is this your father?" I ask. He shakes his head. "I don't know who that is." There's a pause of a few seconds. He says, "It's my father who took the picture." On the same page there's another group shot, mostly of schoolchildren. He taps the photo. "That's Richard Parker," he says. I'm amazed. I look closely, trying to extract personality from appearance. Unfortunately, it's black and white again and a little out of focus. A photo taken in better days, casually. Richard Parker is looking away. He doesn't even realize that his picture is being taken. The opposing page is entirely taken up by a colour photo of the swimming pool of the Aurobindo Ashram. It's a nice big outdoor pool with clear, sparkling water, a clean blue bottom and an attached diving pool. The next page features a photo of the front gate of Petit Seminaire school An arch has the school's motto painted on it: Nil magnum nisi bonum. No greatness without goodness. And that's it. An entire childhood memorialized in four nearly irrelevant photographs. He grows sombre. "The worst of it," he says, "is that I can hardly remember what my mother looks like any more. I can see her in my mind, but it's fleeting. As soon as I try to have a good look at her, she fades. It's the same with her voice. If I saw her again in the street, it would all come back. But that's not likely to happen. It's very sad not to remember what your mother looks like." He closes the book. CHAPTER 34 Father said, "We'll sail like Columbus!" "He was hoping to find India," I pointed out sullenly. We sold the zoo, lock, stock and barrel. To a new country, a new life. Besides assuring our collection of a happy future, the transaction would pay for our immigration and leave us with a good sum to make a fresh start in Canada (though now, when I think of it, the sum is laughable—how blinded we are by money). We could have sold our animals to zoos in India, but American zoos were willing to pay higher prices. CITES, the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species, had just come into effect, and the Window on the trading of captured wild animals had slammed shut. The future of zoos would now lie with other zoos. The Pondicherry Zoo closed shop at just the right time. There was a scramble to buy our animals. The final buyers were a number of zoos, mainly the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago and the soon-to-open Minnesota Zoo, but odd animals were going to Los Angeles, Louisville, Oklahoma City and Cincinnati. And two animals were being shipped to the Canada Zoo. That's how Ravi and I felt. We did not want to go. We did not want to live in a country of gale-force winds and minus-two-hundred-degree winters. Canada was not on the cricket map. Departure was made easier—as far as getting us used to the idea—by the time it took for all the pre-departure preparations. It took well over a year. I don't mean for us. I mean for the animals. Considering that animals dispense with clothes, footwear, linen, furniture, kitchenware, toiletries; that nationality means nothing to them; that they care not a jot for passports, money, employment prospects, schools, cost of housing, healthcare facilities—considering, in short, their lightness of being, it's amazing how hard it is to move them. Moving a zoo is like moving a city. The paperwork was colossal. Litres of water used up in the wetting of stamps. Dear Mr. So-and-so written hundreds of times. Offers made. Sighs heard. Doubts expressed. Haggling gone through. Decisions sent higher up for approval. Prices agreed upon. Deals clinched. Dotted lines signed. Congratulations given. Certificates of origin sought. Certificates of health sought. Export permits sought. Import permits sought. Quarantine regulations clarified. Transportation organized. A fortune spent on telephone calls. It's a joke in the zoo business, a weary joke, that the paperwork involved in trading a shrew weighs more than an elephant, that the paperwork involved in trading an elephant weighs more than a whale, and that you must never try to trade a whale, never. There seemed to be a single file of nit-picking bureaucrats from Pondicherry to Minneapolis via Delhi and Washington, each with his form, his problem, his hesitation. Shipping the animals to the moon couldn't possibly have been more complicated. Father pulled nearly every hair off his head and came close to giving up on a number of occasions. There were surprises. Most of our birds and reptiles, and our lemurs, rhinos, orang-utans, mandrills, lion-tailed macaques, giraffes, anteaters, tigers, leopards, cheetahs, hyenas, zebras, Himalayan and sloth bears, Indian elephants and Nilgiri tahrs, among others, were in demand, but others, Elfie for example, were met with silence. "A cataract operation!" Father shouted, waving the letter. "They'll take her if we do a cataract operation on her right eye. On a hippopotamus! What next? Nose jobs on the rhinos?" Some of our other animals were considered "too common", the lions and baboons, for example. Father judiciously traded these for an extra orang-utan from the Mysore Zoo and a chimpanzee from the Manila Zoo. (As for Elfie, she lived out the rest of her days at the Trivandrum Zoo.) One zoo asked for "an authentic Brahmin cow" for their children's zoo. Father walked out into the urban jungle of Pondicherry and bought a cow with dark wet eyes, a nice fat hump and horns so straight and at such right angles to its head that it looked as if it had licked an electrical outlet. Father had its horns painted bright orange and little plastic bells fitted to the tips, for added authenticity. A deputation of three Americans came. I was very curious. I had never seen real live Americans. They were pink, fat, friendly, very competent and sweated profusely. They examined our animals. They put most of them to sleep and then applied stethoscopes to hearts, examined urine and feces as if horoscopes, drew blood in syringes and analyzed it, fondled humps and bumps, tapped teeth, blinded eyes with flashlights, pinched skins, stroked and pulled hairs. Poor animals. They must have thought they were being drafted into the U.S. Army. We got big smiles from the Americans and bone-crushing, handshakes. The result was that the animals, like us, got their working papers. They were future Yankees, and we, future Canucks. CHAPTER 35 We left Madras on June 21st, 1977, on the Panamanian-registered Japanese cargo ship Tsimtsum. Her officers were Japanese, her crew was Taiwanese, and she was large and impressive. On our last day in Pondicherry I said goodbye to Mamaji, to Mr. and Mr. Kumar, to all my friends and even to many strangers. Mother was apparelled in her finest sari. Her long tress, artfully folded back and attached to the back of her head, was adorned with a garland of fresh jasmine flowers. She looked beautiful. And sad. For she was leaving India, India of the heat and monsoons, of rice fields and the Cauvery River, of coastlines and stone temples, of bullock carts and colourful trucks, of friends and known shopkeepers, of Nehru Street and Goubert Salai, of this and that, India so familiar to her and loved by her. While her men—I fancied myself one already, though I was only sixteen—were in a hurry to get going, were Winnipeggers at heart already, she lingered. The day before our departure she pointed at a cigarette wallah and earnestly asked, "Should we get a pack or two?" Father replied, "They have tobacco in Canada. And why do you want to buy cigarettes? We don't smoke." Yes, they have tobacco in Canada—but do they have Gold Flake cigarettes? Do they have Arun ice cream? Are the bicycles Heroes? Are the televisions Onidas? Are the cars Ambassadors? Are the bookshops Higginbothams'? Such, I suspect, were the questions that swirled in Mother's mind as she contemplated buying cigarettes. Animals were sedated, cages were loaded and secured, feed was stored, bunks were assigned, lines were tossed, and whistles were blown. As the ship was worked out of the dock and piloted out to sea, I wildly waved goodbye to India. The sun was shining, the breeze was steady, and seagulls shrieked in the air above us. I was terribly excited. Things didn't turn out the way they were supposed to, but what can you do? You must take life the way it comes at you and make the best of it. CHAPTER 36 The cities are large and memorably crowded in India, but when you leave them you travel through vast stretches of country where hardly a soul is to be seen. I remember wondering where 950 million Indians could be hiding. I could say the same of his house. I'm a little early. I've just set foot on the cement steps of the front porch when a teenager bursts out the front door. He's wearing a baseball uniform and carrying baseball equipment, and he's in a hurry. When he sees me he stops dead in his tracks, startled. He turns around and hollers into the house, "Dad! The writer's here." To me he says, "Hi," and rushes off. His father comes to the front door. "Hello," he says. "That was your son?" I ask, incredulous. "Yes." To acknowledge the fact brings a smile to his lips. "I'm sorry you didn't meet properly. He's late for practice. His name is Nikhil. He goes by Nick." I'm in the entrance hall. "I didn't know you had a son," I say. There's a barking. A small mongrel mutt, black and brown, races up to me, panting and sniffing. He jumps up against my legs. "Or a dog," I add. "He's friendly. Tata, down!" Tata ignores him. I hear "Hello." Only this greeting is not short and forceful like Nick's. It's a long, nasal and softly whining Hellooooooooo, with the ooooooooo reaching for me like a tap on the shoulder or a gentle tug at my pants. I turn. Leaning against the sofa in the living room, looking up at me bashfully, is a little brown girl, pretty in pink, very much at home. She's holding an orange cat in her arms. Two front legs sticking straight up and a deeply sunk head are all that is visible of it above her crossed arms. The rest of the cat is hanging all the way down to the floor. The animal seems quite relaxed about being stretched on the rack in this manner. "And this is your daughter," I say. "Yes. Usha. Usha darling, are you sure Moccasin is comfortable like that?" Usha drops Moccasin. He flops to the floor unperturbed. "Hello, Usha," I say. She comes up to her father and peeks at me from behind his leg. "What are you doing, little one?" he says. "Why are you hiding?" She doesn't reply, only looks at me with a smile and hides her face. "How old are you, Usha?" I ask. She doesn't reply. Then Piscine Molitor Patel, known to all as Pi Patel, bends down and picks up his daughter. "You know the answer to that question. Hmmm? You're four years old. One, two, three, four." At each number he softly presses the tip of her nose with his index finger. She finds this terribly funny. She giggles and buries her face in the crook of his neck. This story has a happy ending. |
第32章 动物往往会进人令人惊讶的生活状态，这方面的例子有很多,都是与人化论相对应的动物界中的兽化论的例子，即动物将人类或另一只动物，当做自己的同类。 最著名的也是最常见的例子是：宠物狗在其狗的世界中很大程度地接受了人类，甚至想和他们结成伴侣。任何一位不得不将含情脉脉的狗从窘迫的客人的腿上拉下来的主人都将证明这一点。 我们的金色刺豚鼠和斑点无尾刺豚鼠相处得非常好，在金色刺豚鼠被偷走之前它们一直满意地挤在一起，紧挨着睡觉。 我已经提到过我们的犀牛和山羊成群结伴的例子，还有马戏团的狮子的例子。 关于海豚将溺水的船员推到水面上并帮助他们浮在水面上的故事已经得到证实，这是海洋哺乳动物相互帮助的典型方式。 文献中提到过一只白鼬和一只大鼠相互为伴生活在一起的例子，当人们把其他大鼠丢给白鼬时，它以白鼬特有的方式把那些大鼠都吞吃了。 我们自己的动物园里也有给人怪异悬念的捕食者——被捕食者关系。有一只老鼠和一群蝰蛇一起生活了好几个星期。其他被丢进饲养箱的老鼠都在一两天之内不见了，而这只棕色的小玛土撒拉①却为自己筑了一个窝，把我们给它的谷子储藏在好几个它躲藏的地方，而且就在蛇的眼皮底下跑来跑去。我们感到非常惊奇。我们竖了一块牌子，让游客注意这只老鼠。最终它以一种 奇怪的方式结束了生命：一条小蝰蛇咬了它一口。这条蝰蛇没有意识到这只老鼠的特殊地位吗？也许是不适应它？不管是什么情况，这只老鼠被一条小蝰蛇咬了一口，却被一条大蝰蛇吞了下去，而且是立刻吞了下去。如果有什么魔咒的话，那么魔咒被小蝰蛇打破了。在那之后，一切恢复了正常。所有老鼠都以正常的速度消失在蝰蛇的食管里。 【①玛土撒拉：基督教《圣经·创世纪》中以诺之子,据传享年969岁。】 在我们这一行，狗常常被用来充当幼狮的乳母。尽管幼狮长大了，长得比养育它们的狗更大，也更危险，但是它们从不找母亲的麻烦，而狗的行为还是一直是那么平和，它也从未失去对小狮崽的权威感。我们不得不竖起牌子，向游客解释，狗并不是给狮子的活食（就像我们不得不竖起牌子，指出犀牛是食草动物，它们不吃山羊）。 兽化论该如何解释？难道犀牛不能分辨大小，也不能分辨粗糙的皮和柔软的毛吗？难道海豚不清楚海豚长什么样吗？我相信以前我已经提到过答案，那就是那几分疯狂使动物走上了奇怪的却能挽救生命的道路。金色刺豚鼠和犀牛一样，需要伙伴。马戏团的狮子不愿意知道领头的是一个弱小的人；想像保证了它们安康的社会地位，避免充满暴力的无政府状态。至于幼狮，如果它们知道自己的母亲是一只狗，一定会吓得晕倒在地，因为那就意味着它们没有母亲，这对任何一只幼小的热血动物来说都是最最糟糕的事情。我敢保证即使是那条成年蝰蛇，当它吞下老鼠的时候，它那不发达的大脑的某个部分一定因为后悔而感到一阵难过，那是刚刚错过了某件更加重大的事情的感觉，是爬行动物的孤独而粗陋的现实中的一个想像的飞跃。 第33章 他也给我看了家庭纪念册。先是结婚照。一个印度式的婚礼，带有明显的加拿大痕迹。一个更年轻的他，一个更年轻的她。他们去尼亚加拉瀑布度蜜月。玩得好极了。微笑能证明。我们回到从前。他在多伦多大学求学时代的照片：和朋友在一起；在圣迈克学院前；在他的房间里；排灯节时在芝兰街上；身穿白色长袍在圣巴兹尔教堂里读经；身穿另一种白色长袍在动物学系实验室里；在毕业典礼上。每次都在微笑，但他的眼睛却述说了另一个故事。 在巴西拍的照片，上面有许多原产地的树懒。 翻过一页，我们跃过了太平洋——关于那段生活几乎没有任何记录。他告诉我说照相机的确经常喀嚓喀嚓地拍——在所有通常被认为重要的场合上——但是所有的照片都弄丢了。很少的几张是玛玛吉事后搜集了邮寄过来的。 有一张照片是一位大人物参观动物园时拍的。黑白两色向我展示了另一个世界。照片上挤满了人。一位联合王国内阁阁员是大家关注的焦点。背景有一只长颈鹿。在这群人边上，我认出了比现在年轻的阿迪鲁巴萨米先生。 "玛玛吉？"我指着那个人问。 "是的。"他说。 阁员身边有一个人，戴着角质边眼镜，头发梳得一丝不乱。他看上去有可能是帕特尔先生，他的脸比他儿子的脸圆一些。 "这是你父亲吗？"我问。 他摇摇头。"我不知道他是谁。" 这一页还有一张集体照，上面大多数是学生。他轻轻拍了拍照片。 "那是理查德·帕克。"他说。 我十分惊讶。我仔细地看，努力想从他的外表看出他的性格。不幸的是，这张照片还是黑白的，而且聚焦有些不准。一张在幸福的日子里拍的照片，很随意。理查德·帕克在看着别处。他甚至没有意识到有人正在给他拍照。 旁边一页被一张奥罗宾多静修处游泳池的彩色照片占满了。这是一座很大的可爱的室外游泳池，池水清澈，闪耀着光亮，池底是蓝色的，很干净，旁边还连着一座跳水池。 下面一页是一张小修院学校前门的特写。一道拱门上写着学校的校训：Nil magnum sisi bonum.没有美德何来伟大。 就这么多了。四张几乎不相关的照片是对整个童年的纪念。他变得严肃起来。 "最糟糕的是他说，"我已经几乎记不起来母亲的模样了。我能在心里看见她，但她的形象一闪即逝。我刚要好好看看她，她便消失了。她的声音也是一样。如果我再一次在大街上看见她，一切都会回来的。但那不可能发生。记不住自己母亲的模样是一件非常令人伤心的事。" 他合上了纪念册。 第34章 父亲说：“我们要像哥伦布一样航行！” "他希望能发现印度。"我生气地指出。 我们卖了动物园，卖了所有家当。到一个新的国家去，开始新的生活。除了能保证我们有一个幸福的未来，这笔买卖还能支付我们的移民费用，并且还能节余一大笔钱，让我们可以在加拿大有一个崭新的开始（尽管现在回想起来，这笔钱少得可笑——钱让我们变得多么盲目啊）我们可以把动物卖给印度的动物园，但是美洲的动物园愿意出更高的价钱。CITES，也就是"国际濒危动物交易公约"，刚刚生效，交易捕获的野生动物的窗口被砰地关上了。现在，动物园的未来就取决于其他动物园了。本地治里动物园恰好在合适的时候关了门。很多动物园都抢着要买我们的动物。最后的买家有几家动物园，主要是芝加哥的林肯公园动物园和即将开门的明尼苏达动物园，但是剩下来的动物会被卖到洛杉矶、路易维尔、俄克拉何马城和辛辛那提。 还有两只动物正被运往加拿大动物园。这就是拉维和我的感觉。我们不想去。我们不想住在一个刮大风、冬天的温度在零下200度的国家。板球世界的地图上没有加拿大。出发前的准备工作要花很多时间，这使离别变得容易——就让我们习惯离别这个概念而言。我们花了一年多的时间做准备。我不是说为我们自己。我是说为动物。考虑到动物没有衣服、鞋袜、亚麻床单、家具、厨房用品、化妆品也能过；考虑到国籍对它们毫无意义；考虑到它们一点儿也不在乎护照、钱、就业前景、学校、住房的费用、健康设施——简短地说，考虑到它们的生活如此轻松，而要搬动它们却如此困难，真是令人惊讶。搬动一座动物园就像搬动一座城市。 书面工作十分繁重。贴邮票用去了好几升水。"亲爱的某某先生"写了好几百遍。有人给出了报价。听见叹息。表示疑惑。经过时价还价的过程。决定被呈报上去，让上面做决定。双方同意了一个价格。交易敲定了。在虚线处签了名。接受祝贺。开了血统证明。开了健康证明。开了出口许可证。开了进口许可证。弄清了检疫隔离规定。安排好了运输。打电话花了一大笔钱。买卖一只鼩鼱需要的文件比一头大象还重，买卖一头大象所需要的文件比一条鲸鱼还重，你永远都不要试图去买卖一条鲸鱼，永远不要。这在动物园经营行业真是一个笑话，一个令人疲倦的笑话。似乎有一队吹毛求疵的官僚从本地治里排到德里，再到华盛顿，最后到明尼苏达，每个官僚都有表格，有问题,有犹豫。把动物运到月球上也不会比这更复杂了。父亲几乎把头上的每一根头发都扯了下来，而且很多次都差点儿要放弃。 还有令人意想不到的事。我们大多数的鸟类和爬行动物，还有我们的狐猴、犀牛、猩猩、山魈、狮尾弥猴、长颈鹿、食蚁动物、老虎、豹子、猎豹、鬣狗、斑马、喜玛拉雅猫和懒熊、印度大象和尼尔吉里塔尔羊，以及其他一些动物，都有人要，但是另一些动物，例如艾尔菲，却遇到了沉默。"白内障手术！"父亲挥舞着信叫道。"如果我们给它的右眼做白内障手术他们就要它。给河马做白内障手术！下面会是什么？给犀牛做鼻子手术？"我们的另一些动物被认为"太普通"，例如狮子和狒狒。父亲很有见地，用它们从迈索尔动物园多换了一只猩猩，从马尼拉动物园换了一只黑猩猩。（至于艾尔菲，它在特里凡得琅动物园度过了余生。）有一座动物园想为他们的儿童动物园要一只"纯正的贵族出身的奶牛"。父亲走进本地治里的城市丛林,买了一头奶牛，它长着一双水灵灵的黑眼睛，可爱的肥厚的脊背，笔直的角和头之间的角度恰恰好，看上去就像它刚刚舔了电源插座。父亲把它的角漆成鲜艳的橘黄色，在角尖挂上塑料小铃铛，以增加它的纯正性。 ―个由三个美国人组成的代表团来了。我很好奇。我从没有见过真正的活生生的美国人。他们的皮肤是粉红色的，身体肥胖，待人友好，非常能干，很容易出汗。他们检査了我们的动物。他们让大多数动物睡觉，然后用听诊器听心脏，像査星象一样査小便和大便，用注射器抽血化验，摸摸脊背和头盖骨，敲敲牙齿，用电筒照照眼睛，照得它们眼花缭乱，捏捏皮，摸摸又拽拽毛。可怜的动物。它们一定以为自己正被征召进美国海军呢。美国人对我们咧着嘴微笑，用力和我们握手,把我们的骨头都要握碎了。 结果是动物们，和我们一样，有了雇用证明。他们是未来的美国佬，而我们，是未来的枫叶国度的居民。 第35章 我们于1977年6月21日乘坐在巴拿马登记的日本货船"齐姆楚姆"号离开马德拉斯。船上的高级船员是日本人，普通船员是台湾人。船很大，令人难忘。我们在本地治里的最后一天，我对玛玛吉、库马尔先生和库马尔先生、所有的朋友，甚至许多陌生人都说了再见。母亲穿着她最漂亮的莎丽。她长长的发绺很有艺术性地盘在脑后，扎着一个新鲜的茉莉花环。她看上去很美，很悲伤。因为她就要离开印度，那个地方气候炎热，会刮季风，那个地方有稻田和高韦里河，有海岸线和石头寺庙，有牛车和五彩卡车，有朋友和我们认识的店主，有尼赫鲁大街和古贝尔·萨莱，有这个那个，那是她所熟悉和热爱的印度。当她的男人们——我想自己也已经是一个男人了，尽管我只有16岁——正匆匆忙忙准备出发，心里已经在想着温尼伯的时候，她却在留恋徘徊。 我们出发前一天，她指着一个卖香烟的，认真地问我们要不要买几包？" 父亲回答说加拿大有烟草。你为什么想要买香烟呢？我们又不抽烟。" 是的，加拿大有烟草，但是那里有金火花牌香烟吗？那里有阿伦冰淇淋吗？那里的自行车是英雄牌的吗？那里的电视机是奥尼达斯牌的吗？那里的汽车是大使牌的吗？那里的书店是希金博瑟姆家开的吗？我猜母亲在考虑买香烟的时候，她心中萦绕的就是这些问题。 动物被注射了镇静剂，笼子被装上船，捆牢放好，食物被存放妥当，床铺被分配好，绳子被抛了出去，哨子吹响了起来。船驶离港口，开到了海上，我拼命向印度挥手告别。太阳照耀着，微风一直吹着，海鸥在我们头顶的天空尖声鸣叫。我太激动了。 事情并没有像我们预想的那样发生，你能怎么办呢？无论生活以怎样的方式向你走来，你都必须接受它,尽可能地享受它。 第36章 印度的城市很大，很拥挤，令人难忘，但是当你离开城市之后，就会穿过广阔的乡村，那里几乎看不到一个人。我记得自己曾经很不明白九亿五千万印度人都藏到哪里去了。 他的家也是一样。 我到得有点儿早了。我刚踏上前廊的水泥台阶，一个少年便从前门冲了出来。他穿着棒球服，拿着棒球器械，一副急匆匆的样子。看见我，他一下子停了下来，很吃惊。他转过身，对着家里大声叫喊爸！那个作家来了。"他对我说了句"你好"，便急忙跑掉了。 他父亲来到前门。"你好。"他说。 "那是你儿子？"我问，感到难以置信。 “是的，”承认这个事实使他唇上浮起了微笑，"很抱歉你们没能好好地见面。他训练迟到了。他叫尼基。我们叫他尼克。" 我进了门。"我不知道你有个儿子。"我说。传来一声狗叫。一只黑色和棕色相间的小杂种狗朝我跑过来，边跑边喘着嗅着。它扑到了我腿上。"也不知道你有一条狗。"我补充说。 "它很友好。塔塔，下来！" 塔塔没理他。我听见有人说"你好"。只是这句问候不像尼克的问候一样简短有力。长长的带鼻音的声音轻轻地哼着"你好"，那个"好"字在我听来就像有人在轻轻地拍我的肩膀，或是轻轻地拽我的裤子。 我转过身。靠在起居室的沙发上，羞怯地抬头看着我的，是一个棕色皮肤的小姑娘，健康漂亮，无拘无束。她怀里抱着一只橘黄色的猫。从她交叉的双臂上面，只能看见猫的两只笔直地向上伸着的腿和埋在下面的头。猫的身体的其余部分一直拖到地板上。这只动物被如此痛苦地拉长了身体，却似乎感到很放松。 "这是你女儿。"我说。 "是的。乌莎。乌莎亲爱的，你肯定莫卡辛这样舒服吗？" 乌莎把莫卡辛放了下来。它镇定地扑通落在地上。 "你好，乌莎。"我说。 她走到父亲跟前，从他的腿后面偷偷看我。 "你在做什么，小东西？"他说。"你为什么要躲起来？" 她不回答，只是微笑着看着我，藏起自己的脸。 "你几岁了，乌莎？"我问。 她不回答。 然后，派西尼·莫利托·帕特尔，大家都称他派·帕特尔的那个人，弯腰抱起了他的女儿。 "你知道那个问题的答案的。嗯？你4岁了。一，二，三，四。" 每数一个数字，他就用食指轻轻地按一下她的鼻尖。她觉得这很好玩。她格格格地笑起来，把头埋在他的颈弯里。 这个故事有个幸福的结局。 |
PART TWO The Pacific Ocean CHAPTER 37 The ship sank. It made a sound like a monstrous metallic burp. Things bubbled at the surface and then vanished. Everything was screaming: the sea, the wind, my heart. From the lifeboat I saw something in the water. I cried, "Richard Parker, is that you? It's so hard to see. Oh, that this rain would stop! Richard Parker? Richard Parker? Yes, it is you!" I could see his head. He was struggling to stay at the surface of the water. "Jesus, Mary, Muhammad and Vishnu, how good to see you, Richard Parker! Don't give up, please. Come to the lifeboat. Do you hear this whistle? TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! You heard right. Swim, swim! You're a strong swimmer. It's not a hundred feet." He had seen me. He looked panic-stricken. He started swimming my way. The water about him was shifting wildly. He looked small and helpless. "Richard Parker, can you believe what has happened to us? Tell me it's a bad dream. Tell me it's not real. Tell me I'm still in my bunk on the Tsimtsum and I'm tossing and turning and soon I'll wake up from this nightmare. Tell me I'm still happy. Mother, my tender guardian angel of wisdom, where are you? And you, Father, my loving worrywart? And you, Ravi, dazzling hero of my childhood? Vishnu preserve me, Allah protect me, Christ save me, I can't bear it! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!" I was not wounded in any part of my body, but I had never experienced such intense pain, such a ripping of the nerves, such an ache of the heart. He would not make it. He would drown. He was hardly moving forward and his movements were weak. His nose and mouth kept dipping underwater. Only his eyes were steadily on me. "What are you doing, Richard Parker? Don't you love life? Keep swimming then! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! Kick with your legs. Kick! Kick! Kick!" He stirred in the water and made to swim. "And what of my extended family—birds, beasts and reptiles? They too have drowned. Every single thing I value in life has been destroyed. And I am allowed no explanation? I am to suffer hell without any account from heaven? In that case, what is the purpose of reason, Richard Parker? Is it no more than to shine at practicalities—the getting of food, clothing and shelter? Why can't reason give greater answers? Why can we throw a question further than we can pull in an answer? Why such a vast net if there's so little fish to catch?" His head was barely above water. He was looking up, taking in the sky one last time. There was a lifebuoy in the boat with a rope tied to it. I took hold of it and waved it in the air. "Do you see this lifebuoy, Richard Parker? Do you see it? Catch hold of it! HUMPF! I'll try again. HUMPF!" He was too far. But the sight of the lifebuoy flying his way gave him hope. He revived and started beating the water with vigorous, desperate strokes. "That's right! One, two. One, two. One, two. Breathe when you can. Watch for the waves. TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!" My heart was chilled to ice. I felt ill with grief. But there was no time for frozen shock. It was shock in activity. Something in me did not want to give up on life, was unwilling to let go, wanted to fight to the very end. Where that part of me got the heart, I don't know. "Isn't it ironic, Richard Parker? We're in hell yet still we're afraid of immortality. Look how close you are! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! Hurrah, hurrah! You've made it, Richard Parker, you've made it. Catch! HUMPF!" I threw the lifebuoy mightily. It fell in the water right in front of him. With his last energies he stretched forward and took hold of it. "Hold on tight, I'll pull you in. Don't let go. Pull with your eyes while I pull with my hands. In a few seconds you'll be aboard and we'll be together. Wait a second. Together? We'll be together. Have I gone mad?" I woke up to what I was doing. I yanked on the rope. "Let go of that lifebuoy, Richard Parker! Let go, I said. I don't want you here, do you understand? Go somewhere else. Leave me alone. Get lost. Drown! Drown!" He was kicking vigorously with his legs. I grabbed an oar. I thrust it at him, meaning to push him away. I missed and lost hold of the oar. I grabbed another oar. I dropped it in an oarlock and pulled as hard as I could, meaning to move the lifeboat away. All I accomplished was to turn the lifeboat a little, bringing one end closer to Richard Parker. I would hit him on the head! I lifted the oar in the air. He was too fast. He reached up and pulled himself aboard. "Oh my God!" Ravi was right. Truly I was to be the next goat. I had a wet, trembling, half-drowned, heaving and coughing three-year-old adult Bengal tiger in my lifeboat. Richard Parker rose unsteadily to his feet on the tarpaulin, eyes blazing as they met mine, ears laid tight to his head, all weapons drawn. His head was the size and colour of the lifebuoy, with teeth. I turned around, stepped over the zebra and threw myself overboard. CHAPTER 38 I don't understand. For days the ship had pushed on, bullishly indifferent to its surroundings. The sun shone, rain fell, winds blew, currents flowed, the sea built up hills, the sea dug up valleys—the Tsimtsum did not care. It moved with the slow, massive confidence of a continent. I had bought a map of the world for the trip; I had set it up in our cabin against a cork billboard. Every morning I got our position from the control bridge and marked it on the map with an orange tipped pin. We sailed from Madras across the Bay of Bengal, down through the Strait of Malacca, around Singapore and up to Manila. I loved every minute of it. It was a thrill to be on a ship. Taking care of the animals kept us very busy. Every night we fell into bed weary to our bones. We were in Manila for two days, a question of fresh feed, new cargo and, we were told, the performing of routine maintenance work on the engines. I paid attention only to the first two. The fresh feed included a ton of bananas, and the new cargo, a female Congo chimpanzee, part of Father's wheeling and dealing. A ton of bananas bristles with a good three, four pounds of big black spiders. A chimpanzee is like a smaller, leaner gorilla, but meaner-looking, with less of the melancholy gentleness of its larger cousin. A chimpanzee shudders and grimaces when it touches a big black spider, like you and I would do, before squashing it angrily with its knuckles, not something you and I would do. I thought bananas and a chimpanzee were more interesting than a loud, filthy mechanical contraption in the dark bowels of a ship. Ravi spent his days there, watching the men work. Something was wrong with the engines, he said. Did something go wrong with the fixing of them? I don't know. I don't think anyone will ever know. The answer is a mystery lying at the bottom of thousands of feet of water. We left Manila and entered the Pacific. On our fourth day out, midway to Midway, we sank. The ship vanished into a pinprick hole on my map. A mountain collapsed before my eyes and disappeared beneath my feet. All around me was the vomit of a dyspeptic ship. I felt sick to my stomach. I felt shock. I felt a great emptiness within me, which then filled with silence. My chest hurt with pain and fear for days afterwards. I think there was an explosion. But I can't be sure. It happened while I was sleeping. It woke me up. The ship was no luxury liner. It was a grimy, hardworking cargo ship not designed for paying passengers or for their comfort. There were all kinds of noises all the time. It was precisely because the level of noise was so uniform that we slept like babies. It was a form of silence that nothing disturbed, not Ravi's snoring nor my talking in my sleep. So the explosion, if there was one, was not a new noise. It was an irregular noise. I woke up with a start, as if Ravi had burst a balloon in my ears. I looked at my watch. It was just after four-thirty in the morning. I leaned over and looked down at the bunk below. Ravi was still sleeping. I dressed and climbed down. Normally I'm a sound sleeper. Normally I would have gone back to sleep. I don't know why I got up that night. It was more the sort of thing Ravi would do. He liked the word beckon; he would have said, "Adventure beckons," and would have gone off to prowl around the ship. The level of noise was back to normal again, but with a different quality perhaps, muffled maybe. I shook Ravi. I said, "Ravi! There was a funny noise. Let's go exploring." He looked at me sleepily. He shook his head and turned over, pulling the sheet up to his cheek. Oh, Ravi! I opened the cabin door. I remember walking down the corridor. Day or night it looked the same. But I felt the night in me. I stopped at Father and Mother's door and considered knocking on it. I remember looking at my watch and deciding against it. Father liked his sleep. I decided I would climb to the main deck and catch the dawn. Maybe I would see a shooting star. I was thinking about that, about shooting stars, as I climbed the stairs. We were two levels below the main deck. I had already forgotten about the funny noise. It was only when I had pushed open the heavy door leading onto the main deck that I realized what the weather was like. Did it qualify as a storm? It's true there was rain, but it wasn't so very hard. It certainly wasn't a driving rain, like you see during the monsoons. And there was wind. I suppose some of the gusts would have upset umbrellas. But I walked through it without much difficulty. As for the sea, it looked rough, but to a landlubber the sea is always impresive and forbidding, beautiful and dangerous. Waves were reaching up, and their white foam, caught by the wind, was being whipped against the side of the ship. But I'd seen that on other days and the ship hadn't sunk. A cargo ship is a huge and stable structure, a feat of engineering. It's designed to stay afloat under the most adverse conditions. Weather like this surely wouldn't sink a ship? Why, I only had to close a door and the storm was gone. I advanced onto the deck. I gripped the railing and faced the elements. This was adventure. "Canada, here I come!" I shouted as I was soaked and chilled. I felt very brave. It was dark still, but there was enough light to see by. Light on pandemonium it was. Nature can put on a thrilling show. The stage is vast, the lighting is dramatic, the extras are innumerable, and the budget for special effects is absolutely unlimited. What I had before me was a spectacle of wind and water, an earthquake of the senses, that even Hollywood couldn't orchestrate. But the earthquake stopped at the ground beneath my feet. The ground beneath my feet was solid. I was a spectator safely ensconced in his seat. It was when I looked up at a lifeboat on the bridge castle that I started to worry. The lifeboat wasn't hanging straight down. It was leaning in from its davits. I turned and looked at my hands. My knuckles were white. The thing was, I wasn't holding on so tightly because of the weather, but because otherwise I would fall in towards the ship. The ship was listing to port, to the other side. It wasn't a severe list, but enough to surprise me. When I looked overboard the drop wasn't sheer any more. I could see the ship's great black side. A shiver of cold went through me. I decided it was a storm after all. Time to return to safety. I let go, hotfooted it to the wall, moved over and pulled open the door. Inside the ship, there were noises. Deep structural groans. I stumbled and fell. No harm done. I got up. With the help of the handrails I went down the stairwell four steps at a time. I had gone down just one level when I saw water. Lots of water. It was blocking my way. It was surging from below like a riotous crowd, raging, frothing and boiling. Stairs vanished into watery darkness. I couldn't believe my eyes. What was this water doing here? Where had it come from? I stood nailed to the spot, frightened and incredulous and ignorant of what I should do next. Down there was where my family was. I ran up the stairs. I got to the main deck. The weather wasn't entertaining any more. I was very afraid. Now it was plain and obvious: the ship was listing badly. And it wasn't level the other way either. There was a noticeable incline going from bow to stern. I looked overboard. The water didn't look to be eighty feet away. The ship was sinking. My mind could hardly conceive it. It was as unbelievable as the moon catching fire. Where were the officers and the crew? What were they doing? Towards the bow I saw some men running in the gloom. I thought I saw some animals too, but I dismissed the sight as illusion crafted by rain and shadow. We had the hatch covers over their bay pulled open when the weather was good, but at all times the animals were kept confined to their cages. These were dangerous wild animals we were transporting, not farm livestock. Above me, on the bridge, I thought I heard some men shouting. The ship shook and there was that sound, the monstrous metallic burp. What was it? Was it the collective scream of humans and animals protesting their oncoming death? Was it the ship itself giving up the ghost? I fell over. I got to my feet. I looked overboard again. The sea was rising. The waves were getting closer. We were sinking fast. I clearly heard monkeys shrieking. Something was shaking the deck, A gaur—an Indian wild ox—exploded out of the rain and thundered by me, terrified, out of control, berserk. I looked at it, dumbstruck and amazed. Who in God's name had let it out? I ran for the stairs to the bridge. Up there was where the officers were, the only people on the ship who spoke English, the masters of our destiny here, the ones who would right this wrong. They would explain everything. They would take care of my family and me. I climbed to the middle bridge. There was no one on the starboard side. I ran to the port side. I saw three men, crew members. I fell. I got up. They were looking overboard. I shouted. They turned. They looked at me and at each other. They spoke a few words. They came towards me quickly. I felt gratitude and relief welling up in me. I said, "Thank God I've found you. What is happening? I am very scared. There is water at the bottom of the ship. I am worried about my family. I can't get to the level where our cabins are. Is this normal? Do you think? One of the men interrupted me by thrusting a life jacket into my arms and shouting something in Chinese. I noticed an orange whistle dangling from the life jacket. The men were nodding vigorously at me. When they took hold of me and lifted me in their strong arms, I thought nothing of it. I thought they were helping me. I was so full of trust in them that I felt grateful as they carried me in th air. Only when they threw me overboard did I begin to have doubts. CHAPTER 39 I landed with a trampoline-like bounce on the half-unrolled tarpaulin covering a lifeboat forty feet below. It was a miracle I didn't hurt myself. I lost the life jacket, except for the whistle, which stayed in my hand. The lifeboat had been lowered partway and left to hang. It was leaning out from its davits, swinging in the storm, some twenty feet above the water. I looked up. Two of the men were looking down at me, pointing wildly at the lifeboat and shouting. I didn't understand what they wanted me to do. I thought they were going to jump in after me. Instead they turned their heads, looked horrified, and this creature appeared in the air, leaping with the grace of a racehorse. The zebra missed the tarpaulin. It was a male Grant, weighing over five hundred pounds. It landed with a loud crash on the last bench, smashing it and shaking the whole lifeboat. The animal called out. I might have expected the braying of an ass or the neighing of a horse. It was nothing of the sort. It could only be called a burst of barking, a kwa-ha-ha, kwa-ha-ha, kwa-ha-ha put out at the highest pitch of distress. The creature's lips were widely parted, standing upright and quivering, revealing yellow teeth and dark pink gums. The lifeboat fell through the air and we hit the seething water. CHAPTER 40 Richard Parker did not jump into the water after me. The oar I intended to use as a club floated. I held on to it as I reached for the lifebuoy, now vacant of its previous occupant. It was terrifying to be in the water. It was black and cold and in a rage. I felt as if I were at the bottom of a crumbling well. Water kept crashing down on me. It stung my eyes. It pulled me down. I could hardly breathe. If there hadn't been the lifebuoy I wouldn't have lasted a minute. I saw a triangle slicing the water fifteen feet away. It was a shark's fin. An awful tingle, cold and liquid, went up and down my spine. I swam as fast as I could to one end of the lifeboat, the end still covered by the tarpaulin. I pushed myself up on the lifebuoy with my arms. I couldn't see Richard Parker. He wasn't on the tarpaulin or on a bench. He was at the bottom of the lifeboat. I pushed myself up again. All I could see, briefly, at the other end, was the zebra's head thrashing about. As I fell back into the water another shark's fin glided right before me. The bright orange tarpaulin was held down by a strong nylon rope that wove its way between metal grommets in the tarpaulin and blunt hooks on the side of the boat. I happened to be treading water at the bow. The tarpaulin was not as securely fixed going over the stem-which had a very short prow, what in a face would be called a snub nose—as it was elsewhere around the boat. There was a little looseness in the tarpaulin as the rope went from one hook on one side of the stem to the next hook on the other side. I lifted the oar in the air and I shoved its handle into this looseness, into this life-saving detail. I pushed the oar in as far as it would go. The lifeboat now had a prow projecting over the waves, if crookedly. I pulled myself up and wrapped my legs around the oar. The oar handle pushed up against the tarpaulin, but tarpaulin, rope and oar held. I was out of the water, if only by a fluctuating two, three feet. The crest of the larger waves kept striking me. I was alone and orphaned, in the middle of the Pacific, hanging on to an oar, an adult tiger in front of me, sharks beneath me, a storm raging about me. Had I considered my prospects in the light of reason, I surely would have given up and let go of the oar, hoping that I might drown before being eaten. But I don't recall that I had a single thought during those first minutes of relative safety. I didn't even notice daybreak. I held on to the oar, I just held on, God only knows why. After a while I made good use of the lifebuoy. I lifted it out of the water and put the oar through its hole. I worked it down until the ring was hugging me. Now it was only with my legs that I had to hold on. If Richard Parker appeared, it would be more awkward to drop from the oar, but one terror at a time, Pacific before tiger. |
第二部 太平洋 第37章 船沉了。它发出一声仿佛金属打嗝般的巨大声响。船上的东西在水面上冒了几个泡泡便消失了。一切都在尖叫：海，风，我的心。在救生艇上，我看见水里有个东西。 我大叫道："理查德·帕克，是你吗？我看不清楚。噢，雨快停吧！理查德·帕克？理查德·帕克？是的，是你！" 我能看见他的脑袋。他正挣扎着不让自己沉下去。 "耶稣啊，圣母马利亚，穆罕默德和毗湿奴，看见你真好，理查德·帕克！别放弃啊，求求你。到救生艇上来。你听见哨声了吗？瞿！瞿！瞿！你听见了。游啊，游啊！你是个游泳好手。还不到一百英尺呢。" 他看见我了。他看上去惊慌失措。他开始朝我游过来。海水在他四周汹涌地翻卷着。他看上去弱小又无助。 "理查德·帕克，你能相信我们遇到了什么事吗？告诉我这是个糟糕的梦。告诉我这不是真的。告诉我，我还在"齐姆楚姆"号的床铺上，正翻来覆去，很快就会从这场歷梦中醒来。告诉我，我还是幸福的。母亲，我温柔的智慧守护天使,你在哪里呀？还有你，父亲，我亲爱的经常发愁的人？还有你，拉维，我童年时代倾慕的英雄？毗湿奴保全我吧，安拉保护我吧，耶稣救救我吧，我受不了了！瞿！翟！翟！" 我身上没有一处受伤，但我从没有经受过如此剧烈的痛苦，我的神经从没有被如此撕扯过，我的心从来没有如此疼痛过。 他游不过来的。他会淹死的。他几乎没在前进，而且他的动作软弱无力。他的鼻子和嘴不断地浸到水下。只有他的眼睛仍然注视着我。 "你在做什么，理查德·帕克？难道你不热爱生命吗？那就一直游啊！瞿！翟！瞿！踢腿！踢啊！踢啊！踢啊！" 他在水里振奋起来，开始向前游。 "我的大家庭怎么了？我的鸟、兽和爬行动物？它们也都淹死了。我生命中每一件珍贵的东西都被毁了。而我却得不到任何解释吗？我要忍受地狱的煎熬却得不到天堂的任何解释吗？那么，理性的目的是什么呢，理查德·帕克？难道它只在实用的东西上——在获取食物、衣服和住所的时候闪光吗？为什么理性不能给我们更伟大的答案？为什么我们可以将问题像网一样撒出去却收不来回答？为什么撒下巨大的网，如果没有几条小鱼可抓？"他的脑袋几乎要沉到水下去了。他正抬着头，最后看一眼天空。船上有一只救生圈，上面拴着一根绳子。我抓起救生圈，在空中挥舞着。 "看见这只救生圈吗，理查德·帕克？看见了吗？抓住它！嗨唷！我再试一次。嗨唷！" 他离得太远了。但是看见救生圈朝他飞去,他有了希望。他恢复了生机，开始有力地拼命地划水。 "这就对了！一，二。一，二。一，二。能呼吸就赶快呼吸。小心海浪。瞿！瞿！瞿！" 我的心冰凉。我伤心难过极了，但是没有时间吓得发呆。我在受到惊吓的同时还在行动。我内心的某种东西不愿放弃生命，不愿放手，想要斗争到底。这样的决心是从哪里来的，我不知道。 "难道这不是很有讽刺意义吗，理查德·帕克？我们在地狱里，却仍然害怕不朽。看看你已经离得多近了！瞿！瞿！瞿！快啊！快啊！你游到了，理查德·帕克，你游到了。抓住！嗨唷！" 我用力把救生圈扔了出去。救生圈恰好掉在他面前。他用尽最后一点力气向前抓住了它。 "抓紧了，我把你拉上来。别放手。你用眼睛拉，我用手拉。几秒钟后你就会到船上来了，我们就会在一起了。等一下。在一起？我们要在一起？难道我疯了吗？" 我突然清醒过来，明白了自己在做什么。我猛地一拉绳子。 "放开救生圈，理查德·帕克！放手,我说。我不要你到这儿来,你明白吗？到别的地方去吧。让我一个人待着。走开。淹死吧！淹死吧！" 他的腿用力踢着。我抓起一只船桨。我用桨去戳他，想把他推开。我没戳到他，却把桨弄丢了。 我又抓起一只桨。我把它套进桨架，开始用力划，想把救生艇划开。但我却只让救生艇转开了一点儿，一端靠理查德·帕克更近了。 我要打他的脑袋！我举起了桨。 他的动作太快了。他游上前来，爬到了船上。 "噢，我的上帝啊！" 拉维是对的。我真的是下一只山羊。我的救生艇上有了一只浑身湿透、不停颤抖、淹得半死、又咳又喘的3岁成年孟加拉虎。理查德·帕克在油布上摇摇晃晃地站了起来，看到我时，他的眼睛闪闪发光，耳朵紧贴着脑袋两侧，所有的武器都收了起来。他的脑袋和救生圈一样大，一样的颜色，只是有牙齿。 我转过身,从斑马身上跨过去，跳进了海里。 第38章 我不明白。许多天来，船一直在前进，它满怀信心，对周围环境漠不关心。日晒，雨淋，风吹，浪涌，大海堆起了小山，大海挖出了深谷一齐姆楚姆都不在乎。它以一座大陆的强大信心，缓缓前进着。 为了这次旅行，我买了一张地图；我把地图钉在我们船舱里的软木告示板上。每天早晨，我从驾驶台得知我们的位置，然后用橘黄色针头的大头针把位置标在地图上。我们从马德拉斯出发，越过孟加拉湾，向南穿过马六甲海峡，绕过新加坡，向北朝马尼拉开去。我喜欢在船上的每一分钟。船上的日子令人兴奋。照料动物使我们整日忙碌。每天晚上我们倒在床上时已经累得筋疲力尽了。我们在马尼拉停留了两天，为了补充新鲜食品，装新的货物，另外，我们听说，还要对机器做常规维修。我只注意前两件事。新鲜食品是一吨香蕉，而新的货物，一只雌性刚果黑猩猩，是父亲独断专行的结果之一。那吨香蒸上布满了黑色大蜘蛛，足有三四磅之多。黑猩猩就像个头小一些、瘦一些的大猩猩，但长相要丑一些，也不像它的表亲那样忧郁温柔。黑猩猩碰大黑蜘蛛的时候会耸耸肩，做个鬼脸，像你我一样，然后它会用指关节将蜘蛛压碎，这却不是你我会做的事。我觉得香蕉和黑猩猩比船腹里那些吵嚷肮脏的奇怪的机械装置有趣多了。拉维整天待在机器旁边，看船员们干活。机器有些问题，他说。修理有问题吗？我不知道。我想永远也不会有人知道了。答案成了一个谜，正躺在几千英尺深的水底。 我们离开马尼拉，驶进了太平洋。进人太平洋以后第四天，在去中途岛的途中，我们沉没了。在我的地图上被大头针戳了一个洞的位置，船沉没了。一座大山在我眼前坍塌了，消失在我脚下。我周围全是消化不良的船只吐出来的东西。我的胃感到恶心。我感到震惊。我感到心里一片空落落的，接着又被沉寂填满。很多天以后，我的胸口仍然因痛苦和恐惧而感到疼痛。 我想发生了一次爆炸。但我不能肯定。嫌炸是在我睡觉的时候发生的。爆炸声将我惊醒。这艘船并不是一艘豪华邮轮。它是一艘肮脏的辛苦的货船，它不是为付钱乘船的乘客或为了让他们舒适而设计的。任何时候船上都有各种噪音。正是因为这些噪音的音量一直保持不变，我们才像婴儿一样睡得很香。那种寂静什么都不能打破，无论是拉维的鼾声还是我的梦话。因此，如果的确发生了爆炸的话，那爆炸声就不是一种新的噪音。那是一种不规则的噪音。我突然惊醒，就好像拉维在我耳边吹炸了一只气球。我看了看表。凌晨四点半刚过。我探出身子，朝下铺看去。拉维还在熟睡。 我穿上衣服，爬下床去。通常我睡得并不沉。通常我会接着睡。我不知道为什么那天晚上我起来了。这似乎更像拉维做的事情。他喜欢召唤这个词；他会说冒险活动在召唤。"然后在船上四处巡视。声音又恢复了正常，但是也许有了一种不同的音质，也许变得低沉了。 我摇摇拉维。我说拉维！刚才有个奇怪的声音。我们去探险吧。" 他睡意朦胧地看着我。他摇摇头，翻过身，把被单拉到下巴。噢，拉维! 我打开船舱门。 我记得自己沿着走廊走。无论白天黑夜，走廊看上去都一个? 样。但我能在心里感到四周的夜色。我在父亲和母亲的门口停下脚步，考虑要不要去敲门。我记得自己看了看表，决定不去敲门。父亲喜欢睡觉。我决定爬到主甲板上，迎接黎明。也许我会看见流星。我边爬楼梯边想着这个，想着流星。我们的船舱在主甲板下面两层。我已经把奇怪的声音忘了。 推开通向主甲板的那道厚重的门的时候，我才注意到外面的天气。那能算是暴风雨吗？当时确实在下雨,但雨并不大。当然不是你在季风季节看见的那种大雨。风也在刮。我想有几阵狂风能把伞掀翻了。但是我在风雨中走过，并没有什么困难。大海看上去波涛汹涌，但是对旱鸭子来说，大海总是使人激动，令人生畏，美丽又危险。海浪涌来，白色的泡沫被风卷起来，吹打着船侧。但是我在其他时候也见过这样的景象，船并没有沉。货船是一种巨大的稳定的装置，是工程学了不起的设计。货船的设计可以让它在最不利的情况下漂浮在海上。像这样的天气当然不会让船沉没的吧？嗨，我只需关上门，暴风雨就会消失不见了。我走到甲板上。我抓住栏杆，面对着自然环境。这就是冒险。 "加拿大，我来了！"我大喊，雨水将我淋得透湿，让我感到冷飕飕的。我感到自己很勇敢。天还黑着，但是已经有足够的光亮?可以让我看清楚了。那是地狱之光。大自然可以上演令人激动的剧目。舞台那么广阔，灯光那么夸张，临时演员多得不可胜数，制造特技效果的预算完全没有限制。我前面是风与水的奇观，是感官的地震，甚至好莱坞也编排不出。但是地震在我脚下停止了。我脚下的地是坚实的。我是安全地坐在自己的座位上的观众。 我是在抬头看见桥楼上的救生艇时才开始担心的。救生艇并不是垂直地悬挂着。它面朝船倾斜，与吊艇柱形成了一个角度。我转过身，看看自己的手。指关节发白。我并不是因为天气恶劣才紧紧抓住栏杆的，而是因为如果不抓紧我就会跌倒。船在朝另一面，即朝左舷倾斜。倾斜度虽然不大，却足以让我感到吃惊。当我朝船外看去时，发现斜坡不再陡直。我能看见巨大的黑色的舷侧。 一阵寒颤传遍我全身。我肯定那确实是一场暴风雨。该回到安全的地方去了。我松开手,匆匆走到船壁，走过去把门拉开。 船里有噪音。机器构造的低沉呻吟声。我绊了一下，摔倒了。没有受伤。我爬了起来。我扶住栏杆，一步四级，朝楼梯井下跑去。刚跑下一层，我就看见了水。很多水。水挡住了我的路。水像喧闹的人群一样从下面涌上来，汹涌着，翻滚着，冒着泡泡。楼梯消失在了黑暗的水中。我无法相信自己的眼睛。这些水是怎么回事？水是从哪里来的？我仿佛被钉在了原地，心里充满了恐惧和疑惑，不知道下面应该做什么。我的家人就在下面。 我跑上楼梯，跑到了主甲板上。天气不再令我感到乐趣。我非常害怕。现在情况已经非常清楚了：船倾斜得很厉害。纵的方向也不平。从船头到船尾出现了明显的倾斜。我朝船外看去。水看上去离我们没有八十英尺。船在沉。我简直无法理解。这就像月亮着火一样令人无法相信。 高级船员和普通船员都在哪里？他们在做什么？在靠近船头的地方，我看见几个人在黑暗中奔跑。我想我还看见了动物，但是我把这当做是雨和影子造成的幻觉，并没有在意。天气好的时候，我们会把分隔栏顶上的活板抽开，但是在任何时候动物都是不能离开笼子的。我们运的是危险的野生动物，而不是农场上的家畜。我想我听见有人在叫喊，就在我头顶上，在桥楼上。 船晃了一下，发出了那种声音，那种巨大的金属打嗝般的声音。那是什么声音？那是人类和动物抗议即将到来的死亡而一每 尖叫吗？是船自己正在完蛋吗？我摔倒了。又爬了起来。我再一次朝船外看去。海面在上升。海浪正向我们靠近。我们正迅速沉没。 我清楚地听见猴子的尖叫声。什么东西正在摇晃甲板。一只白肢野牛——印度野牛——突然从雨中冲出来，从我身边冲过去，发出轰隆隆的声响。它受了惊吓，变得狂怒，无法控制。我看着它,惊愕不已。天啊，究竟是谁把它放出来了？ 我跑上楼梯，朝桥楼跑去。高级船员就在那儿，他们是船上惟一会说英语的人，是我们命运的主宰，是能纠正这个错误的人。他们会解释一切的。他们会照顾我和我的家人。我爬上中间的桥楼。右舷没有一个人。我跑到左舷。我看见三个人，是普通船员。我跌倒了。又爬起来。他们正在朝船外看。我叫起来。他们转过身来。他们看看我，又互相看看。他们说了几句话。他们迅速朝我走来。一阵感激和宽慰涌上我心头。我说感谢上帝我找到你们了。发生了什么事？我很害怕。船底有水。我很担心我的家人。我去不了我们船舱的那层了。这是正常的吗？你们认为……" 这些船员中的一个把一件救生衣塞进我怀里，大声用中文说了些什么，我的话被打断了。我看见救生衣上挂了一只橘黄色的哨子。他们正用力朝我点头。当他们用强有力的臂膀抓住我，把我举起来时，我没觉得什么。我以为他们是在帮我。我太信任他们了，当他们把我举到空中时，我心里充满了感激。当他们把我从船上扔出去时，我才感到怀疑。 第39章 我像跳蹦床一样，弹落在半卷起来盖住船下面40英尺的救生艇的油布上。我没有受伤，这真是个奇迹。我把救生衣弄丢了，但哨子还在我手里。救生艇被放下去一半，挂在那儿。它朝远离吊艇柱的方向倾斜着，在距离海面20英尺的地方，在暴风雨中荡来荡去。我抬起头。两个船员正低头看着我，发疯一般指着救生艇大叫。我不明白他们想要我做什么。我以为他们会跟在我后面跳进来。但他们却掉过头去，一脸的恐惧。这时这只动物在空中出现了，用赛马一般优雅的动作跳了下来。斑马没有跳到油布上。这是一只雄性格兰特斑马，体重五百多磅。它哗啦一声重重摔在最后面一张坐板上，砸碎了坐板，把救生艇砸得左右摇晃。它叫出了声来。我以为会听见类似于驴叫或马嘶的声音。完全不是。只能说那是一阵吠叫，夸—哈—哈，夸—哈—哈，夸—哈—哈，声音因为痛苦而极其尖利。这只动物的嘴张得大大的，站得笔直，浑身发抖，露出了黄色的牙齿和暗粉色的牙床。救生艇掉了下去，我们撞进了沸腾的海水。 第40章 理查德·帕克没有跟在我后面跳进海里。我准备用来做棍棒的船桨漂在水上。我抓住桨，同对伸手去抓救生圈，现在救生圈里已经空了。在水里太可怕了。水又黑又冷，汹涌澎湃。我感到仿佛自己就在一座正在碎裂的井底。海水不断打在我身上。刺痛了我的眼睛。把我往下拉。我几乎不能呼吸了。如果没有救生圈，我连一分钟也坚持不下来。 我看见在离我15英尺的地方有一只三角形的东西正划破水面。那是一只鲨鱼的鳍。一阵又冷又湿的可怕赓颤在我的脊椎蹿上蹿下。我以最快的速度朝救生艇一端，就是仍然盖着油布的那一端，游过去。我用胳膊撑住救生圈，直起身子。我看不见理查德·帕克。他不在油布上，也不在坐板上。他在船底。我又抬起身子。那飞快的一瞥只让我看见斑马的头在船的另一端猛烈地来回转动着。当我跌回水里时，另一只鲨鱼的鳍就在我面前划过。 鲜艳的橘黄色油布被一根结实的尼龙绳拉住，绳子穿过油布上的金属索环和船另一侧的钝钩子。我碰巧在船头旁边踩着水。油布经过艏柱——艏柱有一个很短的突出的前端，如果长在脸上，就是翘鼻子——的地方没有在船的其他地方系得牢。就在绳子从艏柱一侧的钩子穿进另一侧的钩子的地方，油布有些松。我举起船桨，朝这处有些松的地方，这处救命的细节，捅过去。我尽量把桨往里捅。现在，救生艇的船头突出在波浪之上了，虽然有些歪。我让自己立起来，双腿环绕住船桨。桨柄顶起了油布，但是油布、绳子和桨都支持住了。我已经离开了水面，尽管随着海面的起伏，我与海水之间的距离只有2英尺或3英尺。大浪的浪尖还在不断地拍打着我。 我独自一人，孤立无助，在太平洋的中央，吊在一只船桨上，前面是一只成年老虎，下面是成群的鲨鱼，四周是狂风暴雨。如果我用理性思考自己的前途，就一定会放弃努力，松开船桨，希望自己在被吃掉之前能被淹死。但是我不记得在相对安全的最初几分钟里我有过一点点想法。我甚至没有注意到天已经亮了。我紧紧抓住船桨,就那么抓着，只有天知道为什么。 过了一会儿，我充分利用了救生圈。我把救生圈从水里提上来，把船桨从中间穿过去。我让救生圈沿着船桨向下滑，直到套在我身上。现在我只需要用腿勾住船桨就行了。如果理查德·帕克出现了，从船桨上掉下去会更加尴尬，但是一次只能经历一种恐惧，我选择太平洋而不是老虎。 |
CHAPTER 41 The elements allowed me to go on living. The lifeboat did not sink. Richard Parker kept out of sight. The sharks prowled but did not lunge. The waves splashed me but did not pull me off. I watched the ship as it disappeared with much burbling and belching. Lights flickered and went out. I looked about for my family, for survivors, for another lifeboat, for anything that might bring me hope. There was nothing. Only rain, marauding waves of black ocean and the flotsam of tragedy. The darkness melted away from the sky. The rain stopped. I could not stay in the position I was in forever. I was cold. My neck was sore from holding up my head and from all the craning I had been doing. My back hurt from leaning against the lifebuoy. And I needed to be higher up if I were to see other lifeboats. I inched my way along the oar till my feet were against the bow of the boat. I had to proceed with extreme caution. My guess was that Richard Parker was on the floor of the lifeboat beneath the tarpaulin, his back to me, facing the zebra, which he had no doubt killed by now. Of the five senses, tigers rely the most on their sight. Their eyesight is very keen, especially in detecting motion. Their hearing is good. Their smell is average. I mean compared to other animals, of course. Next to Richard Parker, I was deaf, blind and nose-dead. But at the moment he could not see me, and in my wet condition could probably not smell me, and what with the whistling of the wind and the hissing of the sea as waves broke, if I were careful, he would not hear me. I had a chance so long as he did not sense me. If he did, he would kill me right away. Could he burst through the tarpaulin, I wondered. Fear and reason fought over the answer. Fear said Yes. He was a fierce, 450-pound carnivore. Each of his claws was as sharp as a knife. Reason said No. The tarpaulin was sturdy canvas, not a Japanese paper wall. I had landed upon it from a height. Richard Parker could shred it with his claws with a little time and effort, but he couldn't pop through it like a jack-in-the-box. And he had not seen me. Since he had not seen me, he had no reason to claw his way through it. I slid along the oar. I brought both my legs to one side of the oar and placed my feet on the gunnel. The gunnel is the top edge of a boat, the rim if you want. I moved a little more till my legs were on the boat. I kept my eyes fixed on the horizon of the tarpaulin. Any second I expected to see Richard Parker rising up and coming for me. Several times I had fits of fearful trembling. Precisely where I wanted to be most still—my legs—was where I trembled most. My legs drummed upon the tarpaulin. A more obvious rapping on Richard Parker's door couldn't be imagined. The trembling spread to my arms and it was all I could do to hold on. Each fit passed. When enough of my body was on the boat I pulled myself up. I looked beyond the end of the tarpaulin. I was surprised to see that the zebra was still alive. It lay near the stern, where it had fallen, listless, but its stomach was still panting and its eyes were still moving, expressing terror. It was on its side, facing me, its head and neck awkwardly propped against the boat's side bench. It had badly broken a rear leg. The angle of it was completely unnatural. Bone protruded through skin and there was bleeding. Only its slim front legs had a semblance of normal position. They were bent and neatly tucked against its twisted torso. From time to time the zebra shook its head and barked and snorted. Otherwise it lay quietly. It was a lovely animal. Its wet markings glowed brightly white and intensely black. I was so eaten up by anxiety that I couldn't dwell on it; still, in passing, as a faint afterthought, the queer, clean, artistic boldness of its design and the fineness of its head struck me. Of greater significance to me was the strange fact that Richard Parker had not killed it. In the normal course of things he should have killed the zebra. That's what predators do: they kill prey. In the present circumstances, where Richard Parker would be under tremendous mental strain, fear should have brought out an exceptional level of aggression. The zebra should have been properly butchered. The reason behind its spared life was revealed shortly. It froze my blood—and then brought a slight measure of relief. A head appeared beyond the end of the tarpaulin. It looked at me in a direct, frightened way, ducked under, appeared again, ducked under again, appeared once more, disappeared a last time. It was the bear-like, balding-looking head of a spotted hyena. Our zoo had a clan of six, two dominant females and four subordinate males. They were supposed to be going to Minnesota. The one here was a male. I recognized it by its right ear, which was badly torn, its healed jagged edge testimony to old violence. Now I understood why Richard Parker had not killed the zebra: he was no longer aboard. There couldn't be both a hyena and a tiger in such a small space. He must have fallen off the tarpaulin and drowned. I had to explain to myself how a hyena had come to be on the lifeboat. I doubted hyenas were capable of swimming in open seas. I concluded that it must have been on board all along, hiding under the tarpaulin, and that I hadn't noticed it when I landed with a bounce. I realized something else: the hyena was the reason those sailors had thrown me into the lifeboat. They weren't trying to save my life. That was the last of their concerns. They were using me as fodder. They were hoping that the hyena would attack me and that somehow I would get rid of it and make the boat safe for them, no matter if it cost me my life. Now I knew what they were pointing at so furiously just before the zebra appeared. I never thought that finding myself confined in a small space with a spotted hyena would be good news, but there you go. In fact, the good news was double: if it weren't for this hyena, the sailor wouldn't have thrown me into the lifeboat and I would have stayed on the ship and I surely would have drowned; and if I had to share quarters with a wild animal, better the upfront ferocity of a dog than the power and stealth of a cat. I breathed the smallest sigh of relief. As a precautionary measure I moved onto the oar. I sat astride it, on the rounded edge of the speared lifebuoy, my left foot against the tip of the prow, my right foot on the gunnel. It was comfortable enough and I was facing the boat. I looked about. Nothing but sea and sky. The same when we were at the top of a swell. The sea briefly imitated every land feature—every hill, every valley, every plain. Accelerated geotectonics. Around the world in eighty swells. But nowhere on it could I find my family. Things floated in the water but none that brought me hope. I could see no other lifeboats. The weather was changing rapidly. The sea, so immense, so breathtakingly immense, was settling into a smooth and steady motion, with the waves at heel; the wind was softening to a tuneful breeze; fluffy, radiantly white clouds were beginning to light up in a vast fathomless dome of delicate pale blue. It was the dawn of a beautiful day in the Pacific Ocean. My shirt was already beginning to dry. The night had vanished as quickly as the ship. I began to wait. My thoughts swung wildly. I was either fixed on practical details of immediate survival or transfixed by pain, weeping silently, my mouth open and my hands at my head. CHAPTER 42 She came floating on an island of bananas in a halo of light, as lovely the Virgin Mary. The rising sun was behind her. Her flaming hair looked stunning. I cried, "Oh blessed Great Mother, Pondicherry fertility goddess, provider of milk and love, wondrous arm spread of comfort, terror of ticks, picker-up of crying ones, are you to witness this tragedy too? It's not right that gentleness meet horror. Better that you had died right away. How bitterly glad I am to see you. You bring joy and pain in equal measure. Joy because you are with me, but pain because it won't be for long. What do you know about the sea? Nothing. What do I know about the sea? Nothing. Without a driver this bus is lost. Our lives are over. Come aboard if your destination is oblivion—it should be our next stop. We can sit together. You can have the window seat, if you want. But it's a sad view. Oh, enough of this dissembling. Let me say it plainly: I love you, I love you, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Not the spiders, please." It was Orange Juice—so called because she tended to drool—our prize Borneo orang-utan matriarch, zoo star and mother of two fine boys, surrounded by a mass of black spiders that crawled around her like malevolent worshippers. The bananas on which she floated were held together by the nylon net with which they had been lowered into the ship. When she stepped off the bananas into the boat, they bobbed up and rolled over. The net became loose. Without thinking about it, only because it was at hand's reach and about to sink, I took hold of the net and pulled it aboard, a casual gesture that would turn out to be a lifesaver in many ways; this net would become one of my most precious possessions. The bananas came apart. The black spiders crawled as fast as they could, but their situation was hopeless. The island crumbled beneath them. They all drowned. The lifeboat briefly floated in a sea of fruit. I had picked up what I thought was a useless net, but did I think of reaping from this banana manna? No. Not a single one. It was banana split in the wrong sense of the term: the sea dispersed them. This colossal waste would later weigh on me heavily. I would nearly go into convulsions of dismay at my stupidity. Orange Juice was in a fog. Her gestures were slow and tentative and her eyes reflected deep mental confusion. She was in a state of profound shock. She lay flat on the tarpaulin for several minutes, quiet and still, before reaching over and falling into the lifeboat proper. I heard a hyena's scream. CHAPTER 43 The last trace I saw of the ship was a patch of oil glimmering on the surface of the water. I was certain I wasn't alone. It was inconceivable that the Tsimtsum should sink without eliciting a peep of concern. Right now in Tokyo, in Panama City, in Madras, in Honolulu, why, even in Winnipeg, red lights were blinking on consoles, alarm bells were ringing, eyes were opening wide in horror, mouths were gasping, "My God! The Tsimtsum has sunk!" and hands were reaching for phones. More red lights were starting to blink and more alarm bells were starting to ring. Pilots were running to their planes with their shoelaces still untied, such was their hurry. Ship officers were spinning their wheels till they were feeling dizzy. Even submarines were swerving underwater to join in the rescue effort. We would be rescued soon. A ship would appear on the horizon. A gun would be found to kill the hyena and put the zebra out of its misery. Perhaps Orange Juice could be saved. I would climb aboard and be greeted by my family. They would have been picked up in another lifeboat. I only had to ensure my survival for the next few hours until this rescue ship came. I reached from my perch for the net. I rolled it up and tossed it midway on the tarpaulin to act as a barrier, however small. Orange Juice had seemed practically cataleptic. My guess was she was dying of shock. It was the hyena that worried me. I could hear it whining. I clung to the hope that a zebra, a familiar prey, and an orang-utan, an unfamiliar one, would distract it from thoughts of me. I kept one eye on the horizon, one eye on the other end of the lifeboat. Other than the hyena's whining, I heard very little from the animals, no more than claws scuffing against a hard surface and occasional groans and arrested cries. No major fight seemed to be taking place. Mid-morning the hyena appeared again. In the preceding minutes its whining had been rising in volume to a scream. It jumped over the zebra onto the stern, where the lifeboat's side benches came together to form a triangular bench. It was a fairly exposed position, the distance between bench and gunnel being about twelve inches. The animal nervously peered beyond the boat. Beholding a vast expanse of shifting water seemed to be the last thing it wanted to see, for it instantly brought its head down and dropped to the bottom of the boat behind the zebra. That was a cramped space; between the broad back of the zebra and the sides of the buoyancy tanks that went all round the boat beneath the benches, there wasn't much room left for a hyena. It thrashed about for a moment before climbing to the stern again and jumping back over the zebra to the middle of the boat, disappearing beneath the tarpaulin. This burst of activity lasted less than ten seconds. The hyena came to within fifteen feet of me. My only reaction was to freeze with fear. The zebra, by comparison, swiftly reared its head and barked. I was hoping the hyena would stay under the tarpaulin. I was disappointed. Nearly immediately it leapt over the zebra and onto the stern bench again. There it turned on itself a few times, whimpering and hesitating. I wondered what it was going to do next. The answer came quickly: it brought its head low and ran around the zebra in a circle, transforming the stern bench, the side benches and the cross bench just beyond the tarpaulin into a twenty-five-foot indoor track. It did one lap—two—three—four—five—and onwards, non-stop, till I lost count. And the whole time, lap after lap, it went yip yip yip yip yip in a high-pitched way. My reaction, once again, was very slow. I was seized by fear and could only watch. The beast was going at a good clip, and it was no small animal; it was an adult male that looked to be about 140 pounds. The beating of its legs against the benches made the whole boat shake, and its claws were loudly clicking on their surface. Each time it came from the stern I tensed. It was hair-raising enough to see the thing racing my way; worse still was the fear that it would keep going straight. Clearly, Orange Juice, wherever she was, would not be an obstacle. And the rolled-up tarpaulin and the bulge of the net were even more pitiful defences. With the slightest of efforts the hyena could be at the bow right at my feet. It didn't seem intent on that course of action; every time it came to the cross bench, it took it, and I saw the upper half of its body moving rapidly along the edge of the tarpaulin. But in this state, the hyena's behaviour was highly unpredictable and it could decide to attack me without warning. After a number of laps it stopped short at the stern bench and crouched, directing its gaze downwards, to the space below the tarpaulin. It lifted its eyes and rested them upon me. The look was nearly the typical look of a hyena—blank and frank, the curiosity apparent with nothing of the mental set revealed, jaw hanging open, big ears sticking up rigidly, eyes bright and black—were it not for the strain that exuded from every cell of its body, an anxiety that made the animal glow, as if with a fever. I prepared for my end. For nothing. It started running in circles again. When an animal decides to do something, it can do it for a very long time. All morning the hyena ran in circles going yip yip yip yip yip. Once in a while it briefly stopped at the stern bench, but otherwise every lap was identical to the previous one, with no variations in movement, in speed, in the pitch or the volume of the yipping, in the counter-clockwise direction of travel. Its yipping was shrill and annoying in the extreme. It became so tedious and draining to watch that I eventually turned my head to the side, trying to keep guard with the corner of my eyes. Even the zebra, which at first snorted each time the hyena raced by its head, fell into a stupor. Yet every time the hyena paused at the stern bench, my heart jumped. And as much as I wanted to direct my attention to the horizon, to where my salvation lay, it kept straying back to this maniacal beast. I am not one to hold a prejudice against any animal, but it is a plain fact that the spotted hyena is not well served by its appearance. It is ugly beyond redemption. Its thick neck and high shoulders that slope to the hindquarters look as if they've come from a discarded prototype for the giraffe, and its shaggy, coarse coat seems to have been patched together from the leftovers of creation. The colour is a bungled mix of tan, black, yellow, grey, with the spots having none of the classy ostentation of a leopard's rosettes; they look rather like the symptoms of a skin disease, a virulent form of mange. The head is broad and too massive, with a high forehead, like that of a bear, but suffering from a receding hairline, and with ears that look ridiculously mouse-like, large and round, when they haven't been torn off in battle. The mouth is forever open and panting. The nostrils are too big. The tail is scraggly and unwagging. The gait is shambling. All the parts put together look doglike, but like no dog anyone would want as a pet. But I had not forgotten Father's words. These were not cowardly carrion-eaters. If National Geographic portrayed them as such, it was because National Geographic filmed during the day. It is when the moon rises that the hyena's day starts, and it proves to be a devastating hunter. Hyenas attack in packs whatever animal can be run down, its flanks opened while still in full motion. They go for zebras, gnus and water buffaloes, and not only the old or the infirm in a herd—full-grown members too. They are hardy attackers, rising up from buttings and kickings immediately, never giving up for simple lack of will. And they are clever; anything that can be distracted from its mother is good. The ten-minute-old gnu is a favourite dish, but hyenas also eat young lions and young rhinoceros. They are diligent when their efforts are rewarded. In fifteen minutes flat, all that will be left of a zebra is the skull, which may yet be dragged away and gnawed down at leisure by young ones in the lair. Nothing goes to waste; even grass upon which blood has been spilt will be eaten. Hyenas' stomachs swell visibly as they swallow huge chunks of kill. If they are lucky, they become so full they have difficulty moving. Once they've digested their kill, they cough up dense hairballs, which they pick clean of edibles before rolling in them. Accidental cannibalism is a common occurrence during the excitement of a feeding; in reaching for a bite of zebra, a hyena will take in the ear or nostril of a clan member, no hard feelings intended. The hyena feels no disgust at this mistake. Its delights are too many to admit to disgust at anything. In fact, a hyena's catholicity of taste is so indiscriminate it nearly forces admiration. A hyena will drink from water even as it is urinating in it. The animal has another original use for its urine: in hot, dry weather it will cool itself by relieving its bladder on the ground and stirring up a refreshing mud bath with its paws. Hyenas snack on the excrement of herbivores with clucks of pleasure. It's an open question as to what hyenas won't eat. They eat their own kind (the rest of those whose ears and noses they gobbled down as appetizers) once they're dead, after a period of aversion that lasts about one day. They will even attack motor vehicles—the headlights, the exhaust pipe, the side mirrors. It is not their gastric juices that limit hyenas, but the power of their jaws, which is formidable. That was the animal I had racing around in circles before me. An animal to pain the eye and chill the heart. Things ended in typical hyena fashion. It stopped at the stern and started producing deep groans interrupted by fits of heavy panting. I pushed myself away on the oar till only the tips of my feet were holding on to the boat. The animal hacked and coughed. Abruptly it vomited. A gush landed behind the zebra. The hyena dropped into what it had just produced. It stayed there, shaking and whining and turning around on itself, exploring the furthest confines of animal anguish. It did not move from the restricted space for the rest of the day. At times the zebra made noises about the predator just behind it, but mostly it lay in hopeless and sullen silence. CHAPTER 44 The sun climbed through the sky, reached its zenith, began to come down. I spent the entire day perched on the oar, moving only as much as was necessary to stay balanced. My whole being tended towards the spot on the horizon that would appear and save me. It was a state of tense, breathless boredom. Those first hours are associated in my memory with one sound, not one you'd guess, not the yipping of the hyena or the hissing of the sea: it was the buzzing of flies. There were flies aboard the lifeboat. They emerged and flew about in the way of flies, in great, lazy orbits except when they came close to each other, when they spiralled together with dizzying speed and a burst of buzzing. Some were brave enough to venture out to where I was. They looped around me, sounding like sputtering, single-prop airplanes, before hurrying home. Whether they were native to the boat or had come with one of the animals, the hyena most likely, I can't say. But whatever their origin, they didn't last long; they all disappeared within two days. The hyena, from behind the zebra, snapped at them and ate a number. Others were probably swept out to sea by the wind. Perhaps a few lucky ones came to their life's term and died of old age. As evening approached, my anxiety grew. Everything about the end of the day scared me. At night a ship would have difficulty seeing me. At night the hyena might become active again and maybe Orange Juice too. Darkness came. There was no moon. Clouds hid the stars. The contours of things became hard to distinguish. Everything disappeared, the sea, the lifeboat, my own body. The sea was quiet and there was hardly any wind, so I couldn't even ground myself in sound. I seemed to be floating in pure, abstract blackness. I kept my eyes fixed on where I thought the horizon was, while my ears were on guard for any sign of the animals. I couldn't imagine lasting the night. Sometime during the night the hyena began snarling and the zebra barking and squealing, and I heard a repeated knocking sound. I shook with fright and—I will hide nothing here—relieved myself in my pants. But these sounds came from the other end of the lifeboat. I couldn't feel any shaking that indicated movement. The hellish beast was apparently staying away from me. From nearer in the blackness I began hearing loud expirations and groans and grunts and various wet mouth sounds. The idea of Orange Juice stirring was too much for my nerves to bear, so I did not consider it. I simply ignored the thought. There were also noises coming from beneath me, from the water, sudden flapping sounds and swishing sounds that were over and done with in an instant. The battle for life was taking place there too. The night passed, minute by slow minute. CHAPTER 45 I was cold. It was a distracted observation, as if it didn't concern me. Daybreak came. It happened quickly, yet by imperceptible degrees. A corner of the sky changed colours. The air began filling with light. The calm sea opened up around me like a great book. Still it felt like night. Suddenly it was day. Warmth came only when the sun, looking like an electrically lit orange, broke across the horizon, but I didn't need to wait that long to feel it. With the very first rays of light it came alive in me: hope. As things emerged in outline and filled with colour, hope increased until it was like a song in my heart. Oh, what it was to bask in it! Things would work out yet. The worst was over. I had survived the night. Today I would be rescued. To think that, to string those words together in my mind, was itself a source of hope. Hope fed on hope. As the horizon became a neat, sharp line, I scanned it eagerly. The day was clear again and visibility was perfect. I imagined Ravi would greet me first and with a tease. "What's this?" he would say. "You find yourself a great big lifeboat and you fill it with animals? You think you're Noah or something?" Father would be unshaven and dishevelled. Mother would look to the sky and take me in her arms. I went through a dozen versions of what it was going to be like on the rescue ship, variations on the theme of sweet reunion. That morning the horizon might curve one way, my lips resolutely curved the other, in a smile. Strange as it might sound, it was only after a long time that I looked to see what was happening in the lifeboat. The hyena had attacked the zebra. Its mouth was bright red and it was chewing on a piece of hide. My eyes automatically searched for the wound, for the area under attack. I gasped with horror. The zebra's broken leg was missing. The hyena had bitten it off and dragged it to the stern, behind the zebra. A flap of skin hung limply over the raw stump. Blood was still dripping. The victim bore its suffering patiently, without showy remonstrations. A slow and constant grinding of its teeth was the only visible sign of distress. Shock, revulsion and anger surged through me. I felt intense hatred for the hyena. I thought of doing something to kill it. But I did nothing. And my outrage was short-lived. I must be honest about that. I didn't have pity to spare for long for the zebra. When your own life is threatened, your sense of empathy is blunted by a terrible, selfish hunger for survival. It was sad that it was suffering so much—and being such a big, strapping creature it wasn't at the end of its ordeal?but there was nothing I could do about it. I felt pity and then I moved on. This is not something I am proud of. I am sorry I was so callous about the matter. I have not forgotten that poor zebra and what it went through. Not a prayer goes by that I don't think of it. There was still no sign of Orange Juice. I turned my eyes to the horizon again. That afternoon the wind picked up a little and I noticed something about the lifeboat: despite its weight, it floated lightly on the water, no doubt because it was carrying less than its capacity. We had plenty of freeboard, the distance between the water and the gunnel; it would take a mean sea to swamp us. But it also meant that whatever end of the boat was facing the wind tended to fall away, bringing us broadside to the waves. With small waves the result was a ceaseless, fist-like beating against the hull, while larger waves made for a tiresome rolling of the boat as it leaned from side to side. This jerky and incessant motion was making me feel queasy. Perhaps I would feel better in a new position. I slid down the oar and shifted back onto the bow. I sat facing the waves, with the rest of the boat to my left. I was closer to the hyena, but it wasn't stirring. It was as I was breathing deeply and concentrating on making my nausea go away that I saw Orange Juice. I had imagined her completely out of sight, near the bow beneath the tarpaulin, as far from the hyena as she could get. Not so. She was on the side bench, just beyond the edge of the hyena's indoor track and barely hidden from me by the bulge of rolled-up tarpaulin. She lifted her head only an inch or so and right away I saw her. Curiosity got the best of me. I had to see her better. Despite the rolling of the boat I brought myself to a kneeling position. The hyena looked at me, but did not move. Orange Juice came into sight. She was deeply slouched and holding on to the gunnel with both her hands, her head sunk very low between her arms. Her mouth was open and her tongue was lolling about. She was visibly panting. Despite the tragedy afflicting me, despite not feeling well, I let out a laugh. Everything about Orange Juice at that moment spelled one word: seasickness. The image of a new species popped into my head: the rare seafaring green orang-utan. I returned to my sitting position. The poor dear looked so humanly sick! It is a particularly funny thing to read human traits in animals, especially in apes and monkeys, where it is so easy. Simians are the clearest mirrors we have in the animal world. That is why they are so popular in zoos. I laughed again. I brought my hands to my chest, surprised at how I felt. Oh my. This laughter was like a volcano of happiness erupting in me. And Orange Juice had not only cheered me up; she had also taken on both our feelings of seasickness. I was feeling fine now. I returned to scrutinizing the horizon, my hopes high. Besides being deathly seasick, there was something else about Orange Juice that was remarkable: she was uninjured. And she had her back turned to the hyena, as if she felt she could safely ignore it. The ecosystem on this lifeboat was decidedly baffling. Since there are no natural conditions in which a spotted hyena and an orangutan can meet, there being none of the first in Borneo and none of the second in Africa, there is no way of knowing how they would relate. But it seemed to me highly improbable, if not totally incredible, that when brought together these frugivorous tree-dwellers and carnivorous savannah-dwellers would so radically carve out their niches as to pay no attention to each other. Surely an orang-utan would smell of prey to a hyena, albeit a strange one, one to be remembered afterwards for producing stupendous hairballs, nonetheless better-tasting than an exhaust pipe and well worth looking out for when near trees. And surely a hyena would smell of a predator to an orangutan, a reason for being vigilant when a piece of durian has been dropped to the ground accidentally. But nature forever holds surprises. Perhaps it was not so. If goats could be brought to live amicably with rhinoceros, why not orang-utans with hyenas? That would be a big winner at a zoo. A sign would have to be put up. I could see it already: "Dear Public, Do not be afraid for the orang-utans! They are in the trees because that is where they live, not because they are afraid of the spotted hyenas. Come back at mealtime, or at sunset when they get thirsty, and you will see them climbing down from their trees and moving about the grounds, absolutely unmolested by the hyenas." Father would be fascinated. Sometime that afternoon I saw the first specimen of what would become a dear, reliable friend of mine. There was a bumping and scraping sound against the hull of the lifeboat. A few seconds later, so close to the boat I could have leaned down and grabbed it, a large sea turtle appeared, a hawksbill, flippers lazily turning, head sticking out of the water. It was striking-looking in an ugly sort of way, with a rugged, yellowish brown shell about three feet long and spotted with patches of algae, and a dark green face with a sharp beak, no lips, two solid holes for nostrils, and black eyes that stared at me intently. The expression was haughty and severe, like that of an ill-tempered old man who has complaining on his mind. The queerest thing about the reptile was simply that it was. It looked incongruous, floating there in the water, so odd in its shape compared to the sleek, slippery design of fish. Yet it was plainly in its element and it was I who was the odd one out. It hovered by the boat for several minutes. I said to it, "Go tell a ship I'm here. Go, go." It turned and sank out of sight, back flippers pushing water in alternate strokes. |
第41章 自然环境允许我继续活下去。救生艇没有沉。理查德·帕克―直没有出现。鲨鱼游来游去，但是没有冲上来。海浪溅在我身上，但是没有把我拉下去。 我看着大船伴着打嗝声和汩汩声消失了。灯光闪了几下便熄灭了。我环顾四周，寻找我的家人，寻找幸存者，寻找另一只救生艇，寻找任何能够给我带来希望的东西。什么也没有。只有雨，黑色海洋上劫掠一切的浪，和悲剧过后漂浮的残骸。 黑暗从天空渐渐消退。雨停了。 我不能永远保持这样的姿势。我冷。我的脖子因为一直抬着头引颈张望而感到很酸。我的背因为靠在救生圈上而感到很痛。而且，如果要看见别的救生艇，我必须站得更高一些。 我沿着船桨一寸一寸地移动，直到双脚能够踩到船头。我必须非常小心翼翼地向前移动。我猜理查德·帕克正在油布下面的船板上，背对着我，面对着斑马，斑马现在一定已经被他杀死了。在五种感觉中，老虎依赖最多的是视觉。它们的目光非常锐利，尤其是在看移动的物体的时候。他们的听觉很好。嗔觉一般。当然，我是说和其他动物相比。和理查德·帕克相比，我又聋又瞎，而且没有嗔觉。但是那一刻他没有看见我，因为我身上是湿的，也许他也没有闻到我，而且因为风在呼号，海浪破碎时嘶嘶尖啸，所以如果很小心的话，他也不会听见我。只要他不感觉到我，我就有机会。如果他感觉到了，就会立刻杀死我。他会从油布下面突然冲出来吗，我不知道。 恐惧和理性给出截然不同的答案。恐惧说会的。他是一只凶猛的450镑重的食肉动物。他的每一根爪子都像刀一样尖利。理性说不会的。油布是用结实的帆布做的，不是日本纸墙。油布已经受住了我从高空落下的重量。理查德·帕克不用花多长时间，也不用花多大力气，就能用爪子把油布撕成碎片，但是他不能像揭开匣盖就能跳起来的玩偶一样突然跳出来。而且他没有看见我。既然他没有看见我,就没有理由要用爪子抓破油布冲出来。 我沿着船桨滑下去。我把两条腿都放在船桨一侧，让双脚踩在舷侧。舷侧是一只船的上面的边缘，也可以说是船边。我又移动了一点儿，这样两条腿都在船上了。我的眼睛一刻也没有离开过油布边缘。我随时准备看见理查德·帕克站起来，朝我冲过来。有好几次我害怕得一阵阵发抖。我最希望静止不动的部位——我的两条腿——偏偏抖得最厉害。腿像击鼓一样敲打着油布。我想不出还有什么在理查德·帕克的门上的拍打声能比这个更明显了。颤抖扩散到我的两只胳膊,我所能做的只有紧紧抓住。每一次颤抖都过去了。 当大部分身体都到了船上的时候，我站了起来。我朝油布那端看去。我惊讶地看见斑马还活着。它在靠近船尾它摔下去的地方躺着，没精打采的，但是肚子仍然在急速地起伏，眼睛仍然在动，眼神里满是恐惧。它侧身躺着，面对着我，头和脖子很别扭地搁在船侧的坐板上。它的一条后腿断了。角度非常不自然。骨头从皮肤下面伸了出来，伤处在流血。只有细细的前腿的姿势看上去还正常。前腿弯曲，蜷缩在扭曲的身体前面。斑马时不时摇摇头，叫一声，喷一下鼻息。除此之外，它就静静地躺着。 这是一只非常可爱的动物。它身上潮湿的条纹黑白分明，十分耀眼。焦虑深深地困把着我，我不能老是看它；然而，顺便提一下，虽然事后的记忆很模糊，当时它那奇怪、简洁、具有大胆的艺术性的条纹和它那优美的头部却给了我很深的印象。对我来说更重要的是，理查德·帕克没有杀死它，这真是奇怪。按照正常情况，他应该已经把斑马杀死了。这就是捕食动物做的事：他们杀死猎物。在当前的情况下，理查德·帕克应该非常紧张，恐惧应该使他变得非常好斗。斑马应该已经被残杀了。 很快我便知道了斑马没有被伤害的原因。这让我的血液都冻结起来一接着又让我稍稍感到了宽慰。一只脑袋在油布那头出现了。它害怕地直视着我,然后低下头去，接着又出现了，然后又低下头去，又再一次出现，最后消失了。那是一只有些像熊、看上去是秃毛的斑点鬣狗的脑袋。我们动物园有一群共六只，两只居统治地位的雌性，四只居从属地位的雄性。它们应该到明尼苏达去。这儿的这只是雄的。我是看它的右耳认出来的。它的右耳被严重撕破，已经伤愈的有缺口的耳廓是过去暴力的证明。现在我明白为什么理查德·帕克没有杀死斑马了：他已经不在船上了。一只鬣狗和一只老虎不可能在这么小的地方同时存在。他一定从油布上摔下去淹死了。 我得向自己解释鬣狗是怎么到救生艇上来的。鬣狗能在海里游泳，这一点我毫不怀疑。我的结论是，它一定一直就在船上，躲在油布下面，而我弹落下来时没有看见它。我还注意到另一件事：鬣狗是那些水手把我扔上救生艇的原因。他们不是在试图救我。这是他们最不关心的事。他们是把我当做饲料。他们希望鬣狗会袭击我，而我却能摆脱它，让船成为一个他们可以去的安全地方，无论这是否会让我付出生命的代价。现在我知道在斑马出现之前他们发疯般的指的是什么了。 我从不认为发现自己和一只斑点鬣狗一起被困在一个狭小的空间里是一个好消息，但就是这样。实际上，这可是双重好消息：如果没有这只鬣狗，那些水手就不会把我扔进救生艇里，我就会待在大船上，一定会淹死；如果我不得不和一只野生动物分享住舱，那么一只公开表现残忍的犬科动物比一只悄悄使用力量的猫科动物要好。我非常轻地松了一口气。为了预防万一，我又回到了船桨上。我跨坐在船桨上，在船桨从中间穿过的救生艇的圆边上，左脚抵住船头前端，右脚踩住舷侧。这样很舒服，也能让我面对着船。 我环顾四周。只有大海和天空。在浪尖上时也一样。大海很快地模仿着陆地上的地形——每一座山丘，每一座山谷，每一座平原。加速的地壳构造运动。环游地球八十排浪。但是到处都找不到我的家人。很多东西浮在水上,但是没有一样带给我希望。我看不见别的救生艇。 天气的变化非常迅速。如此广阔，广阔得令人惊讶的大海，渐渐平静了下来，海浪紧跟在后；风变得柔和，成了悦耳的微风；在无边无际的淡蓝色穹顶上，蓬松的白得耀眼的云朵开始被阳光照亮。这是平洋上美丽的一天的黎明。我的衬衫已经开始干了。夜晚就像船一样迅速消失了。 我开始等待。各种想法在疯狂地打转。我不是专心地想解决迫在眉睫的生存问题所必须考虑的实际细节，就是因痛苦而束手无策，默默地哭泣，张着嘴，双手抱着头。 第42章 她在一圈光晕中伏在一座香蕉堆成的小岛上漂了过来，像圣母马利亚一样可爱。她身后是初升的太阳。她红火色的毛发让人看得目瞪口呆。 我叫道：“噢神圣的伟大母亲,本地治里多产的女神，奶与爱的提供者，充满慰藉的奇妙怀抱，你令虱蝇恐惧，你抱起了哭泣的幼儿，你也要目睹这场悲剧吗？让温柔遭遇恐惧是不对的。你还不如立刻死掉。我看见你是多么高兴啊。你带来了快乐也带来了痛苦。我快乐是因为你和我在一起，我痛苦是因为这样的相聚不会长久。你对大海了解多少？一无所知。我对大海了解多少？―无所知。这辆汽车没有司机，迷失了方向。我们的生命结束了。上船来吧，如果你的目的地是湮没——煙没就是我们的下一站。我们可以坐在一起。如果你愿意，你可以坐靠窗的位子。但窗外是令人伤心的景象。噢，到此为止吧，别再假装了。让我明白地说出来：我爱你，我爱你,我爱你，我爱你,我爱你，我爱你。请别让蜘蛛上来。” 那是"橘子汁"——这么叫她是因为她常常流口水——我们了不起的婆罗洲雌性猩猩家长，动物园的明星，两个漂亮儿子的母亲，她被一大群黑色蜘蛛包围着，这些蜘蛛像心怀恶意的崇拜者一样在她身边爬来爬去。漂浮的香蕉被尼龙网聚在一起，香蕉就是装在尼龙网里装上船的。当她从那堆香蕉上跨上船的时候，一只只香蕉向上跃起，翻滚起来。网变松了。只因为网就在手边，而且就要沉下去了，我想都没想就抓住网，拖到了船上。后来从各方面来看，这个随意的动作都成了救命的动作；这张网成了我最宝贵的物品之一。 香蕉堆散开了。黑色蜘蛛拼命地爬,但是它们的处境已经毫无希望了。小岛在它们身体下面碎裂了。它们都淹死了。有那么一会儿，救生艇就漂浮在一片水果的海洋上。 我捡起了当时以为毫无用处的一张网，但是我有没有想过从香蕉圣餐中拿几根？没有。一根都没有。那是用切开的香蕉做的香蕉圣餐，但做的方法不对：将香蕉切开的是海水。这巨大的浪费会沉重地压在我心头。我会因为自己的愚蠢而绝望得抽搐。 "橘子汁"如坠雾中。她的动作十分缓慢，带有试探性，她的眼神反映了心中深深的困惑。她受到了极度的惊吓。她在油布上躺了好几分钟，一声不响，一动不动,然后才将身体前倾,完全跌进救生艇里。我听见了鬣狗的尖叫。 第43章 大船留下的最后痕迹是水面上漂浮的一片闪光的油。 我肯定自己不是孤独的。无法想像"齐姆楚姆"号没有引起一点点关心。现在，在东京，在巴拿马城，在马德拉斯，在火奴鲁鲁，嗨，甚至在温尼伯，控制台上的红灯在闪烁，警铃在拉响，一双双眼睛因恐惧而睁得大大的，一张张嘴在倒吸凉气："我的天啊！‘齐姆楚姆’号沉没了！"一双双手去拿电话话筒。更多的红灯开始闪烁，更多的警铃开始拉响。飞行员们迅速向飞机跑去，连鞋带都没来得及系，他们就这样匆忙。船长们飞快地转动着舵轮，直转到自己头都晕了。甚至潜水艇也在水底突然转向，参加了救援行动。我们很快就会得救的。一艘大船会在地平线上出现。会找到一枝熗杀死鬣狗，结束斑马的痛苦。也许"橘子汁"会得救。我会爬上大船，受到家人的欢迎。他们已经被另一只救生艇救起来了。我只需在接下来的几个小时内，在救援的船只到来之前,保证自己活着就行了。 我从自己休息的地方伸手去够那张网。我把网卷起来，扔到油布中间，这样网就可以形成一道屏障，无论这屏障多么小。"橘子汁"看上去差不多陷人了强直昏厥状态。我猜她因为受惊已经奄奄一息。让我担心的是鬣狗。我能听见它发出阵阵哀鸣。我始终希望它所熟悉的猎物斑马和它所不熟悉的猎物猩猩能分散它的注意力，让他想不到我。 我一边注意着地平线，一边注意着救生艇的另一头。除了鬣狗的哀鸣，我几乎听不见动物发出的其他声音，只有爪子在坚硬的表面来回摩擦的声音，偶尔几声呻吟声和被抑制的叫声。似乎没有大规模的打斗。 上午，鬣狗又出现了。在这之前的几分钟里，它的哀鸣声越来越高，变成了尖叫声。它从斑马身上跳过去，跳到船尾，在那里，舷边的坐板连在一起，形成了一张三角形的坐板。那是一个相当暴露的地方，坐板和舷侧之间只有大约十二英寸。那只动物紧张地凝视着船外面。浩瀚起伏的海水似乎是它最不愿意看见的东西，因为它立刻便低下头，跳进了斑马身后的船底。那是一处狭窄的空间；坐板下面、船的四周到处都是浮箱，在斑马宽阔的后背和这些浮箱的边缘之间没有多少空间，很难容下一只鬣狗。它扭动了一会儿，然后又从斑马身上跳过去，回到了船中间，消失在了油布下面。这一阵突发的动作持续了不到十秒钟。鬣狗到了距我不到15英尺的地方。我惟一的反应就是吓得不能动弹。相反，斑马迅速昂起头，叫了起来。 我希望鬣狗会一直待在油布下面。我失望了。它几乎立刻又从斑马身上跳过去，跳到了船尾坐板上。它在上面转了几次身，呜呜咽咽地叫着，犹豫不决。我不知道它下面会做什么。答案很快便揭晓了：它低下头，绕着斑马跑起来，把船尾坐板、舷边坐板和油布那边的横坐板变成了周长25英尺的室内田径场。它跑了一圈—两圈—三圈—四圈—五圈—还在继续跑，一直不停地跑，最后我都数不清它跑了多少圈了。一圈又一圈跑的同时，它一直在尖声叫喊。我的反应还是很慢。我完全被恐惧控制了，只能看着它。这野兽奔跑的速度很快，而且它不是一只小动物；它是一只看上去有140镑重的成年雄性动物。它的腿敲打在坐板上，让整只船都摇晃起来，它的爪子在坐板上发出很大的喀嚓喀嚓的声响。每次它跑到船尾时我都很紧张。看到那个东西朝我飞速跑来已经让人汗毛直竖了；更糟的是，我害怕它会一直朝我跑来。很显然，无论"橘子汁"在哪里，她都不会成为障碍。卷起的油布和堆成一团的网更是可怜的防御物。只需要一点点力气,鬣狗就能来到船头我的脚下。它似乎并不想那么做；每次来到横坐板边,它都会跃过去，我能看见它的上半身在沿着油布边缘迅速奔跑。但是在这样的状态下，鬣狗的行为完全不可预料，它很可能会决定不加瞢告便对我发动袭击。 跑了很多圈后，它突然在船尾停住，蹲伏下来，眼睛向下，朝油布下面看去。它抬起眼睛，目光落到了我身上。那是一种茫然而不加掩饰的眼神，带着明显的好奇，却没有暴露一点儿心里的想法。它的嘴张得大大的,耳朵僵硬地竖着，眼睛又亮又黑。要不是因为它身体的每一个细胞都散发出紧张的气息——那是一种焦虑，让它浑身发抖,好像在发烧一样——那几乎就是典型的鬣狗的眼神。我为自己的末日做好了准备。什么也没有发生。它又开始绕着圈跑起来。 当动物决心做一件事的时候，它可以做很长时间。整个早晨，鬣狗都在尖声吠叫着绕着圈跑。有时候它会在船尾停一会儿，但是除此以外，每一圈都和前一圈一样，动作、速度、叫声的音高和音量、逆时针的方向都没有变化。看它这么跑太单调太累人了，最后我把头扭向一边,试图用眼角的余光保持警惕。刚开始的时候，每次鬣狗从斑马的头旁边跑过，斑马都会喷鼻息，现在甚至它也麻木了。 然而，每一次鬣狗在船尾坐板旁边停留时，我的心都会猛地跳一下。尽管我很想注意看地平线，那个救援出现的地方,但是我的眼神却总是不由自主地回到这只狂躁的野兽身上。 我不是一个对动物抱有偏见的人，但是斑点鬣狗的长相实在让人不敢恭维，这是显而易见的事实。它丑得不可救药。粗粗的脖子和向后腿倾斜的高高的肩膀使它们看上去像一种被淘汰的长颈鹿，而粗糙蓬乱的毛看上去就像是用上帝造物剩下来的东西拼凑而成。毛上的棕褐色、黑色、黄色和灰色乱糟糟地混杂在一起，斑点根本无法和豹子身上值得炫耀的漂亮的圆形斑点相提并论；这些斑点看上去更像是得了一种皮肤病,一种致命的兽疥癣。头很宽，显得太大，有一个像熊一样的高高的额头，但是前额的毛已经脱落了，耳朵很滑稽，长得像老鼠耳朵，没有在战斗中被撕掉之前又大又圆。嘴永远张着，喘着气。鼻孔太大。尾巴蓬乱，不会摇摆。步态笨拙。所有这些部分加在一起让它们看上去像狗，但不像任何人愿意当做宠物的狗。 但是我没有忘记父亲的话。它们可不是胆小的腐食动物。如果《国家地理》是这样描绘它们的，那是因为这个节目是在白天拍摄的。鬣狗的一天从月亮升起的时候开始，而它们是非常强有力的捕猎能手。鬣狗成群攻击任何可以捕杀的动物，这些动物还在全速奔跑时便被鬣狗撕开了腹侧。它们捕杀斑马、牛羚和水牛，而且不仅捕杀兽群中的年老体弱者——也捕杀身强体壮者。它们的攻击十分有力，被顶倒或踢倒后会立即爬起来，从不仅仅因为意志力不强而放弃。它们也很聪明；任何能从妈妈身边被引开的小动物都是好的。它们最喜欢吃刚出生十分钟的小牛羚，但是也吃小狮子和小犀牛。当努力得到回报的时候，它们坚持不懈。在仅仅十五分钟的时间里，一匹斑马便会只剩下一只头骨，而这只头骨也会被拖走，让窝里的小鬣狗慢慢啃。什么都不会浪费；甚至溅上了血的草也会被吃掉。当鬣狗吞下大块大块的猎物时，它们的肚子会明显地变大。如果幸运的话，它们会撑到连走路都困难。把猎物消化掉以后，它们会咳出厚密的毛团。它们会把毛团上能吃的东西都剔干净，然后在里面打滚。在进食的兴奋之中，意外的同类相食是常见的事；在争着去吃斑马的时候，鬣狗会吃掉同群中其他鬣狗的耳朵或鼻孔，但并没有什么敌意。鬣狗并不讨厌这种错误。使它们高兴的事太多了，它们不会对任何事情感到厌恶。 实际上，鬣狗能吃的东西太多了，太不挑食，几乎令人不得不敬佩。鬣狗可以一边在水里小便一边喝水。它们还有一种利用小便的独创方法：在又热又干的天气里，它们会在地上撒尿，然后用爪子给自己洗一个提神的烂泥浴，以此来给自己降温。鬣狗会高兴地咯咯叫着把食草动物的粪便当做零食吃下去。有什么是鬣狗不吃的吗，这是个可以讨论的问題。一旦同类死去，它们对尸体的厌恶会持续大约一天时间，然后便将尸体（耳朵和鼻子被它们当做开胃小菜大口吞下去的同类的剩余身体）吃掉。它们甚至会袭击汽车——前灯、排气管、侧视镜。限制鬣狗的并不是它们的胃液，而是它们爪子的能力，而它们爪子的能力令人惊叹。 就是这样一只动物在我面前绕着圈跑。这只动物让我的眼睛疼痛，让我的心直往下沉。 事情以典型的鬣狗的方式结束了。它在船尾停了下来，开始发出低沉的呻吟声，中间夹杂着一阵阵沉重的喘息声。我在桨上一点一点地向外移，直到只有脚尖还在船上。这只动物频繁地发出短促的干咳声。突然它吐了起来。呕吐物猛地喷到了斑马的身体那边。鬣狗跳进了自己刚才吐出来的东西里面。它待在那儿，颤抖着，哀鸣着，转着身，探寻着动物痛苦的极限。那天它没再从那块地方出来过。有时候斑马会因为身后的捕食者而发出几声声响，但大多数时候它只是无助地郁郁寡欢地躺着。 第44章 太阳爬过天空，爬到天顶，开始落下。那一整天我都坐在船桨上，只为了保持平衡才稍微动一动。我整个人都朝地平线上那个会出现来救我的小点倾斜着。这是一种紧张得让人喘不过气来的单调状态。在我的记忆中，最初的几个小时是与一种声音联系在一起的，不是你猜的声音，不是鬣狗的吠叫声，也不是大海的嘶嘶声：而是苍蝇的嗡嗡声。救生艇上有苍蝇。它们出现了，以苍蝇的方式到处乱飞，懒洋洋地绕着大大的圈，相互靠近时便突然嗡嗡嗡地以令人头晕目眩的速度一起盘旋。有几只苍蝇很勇敢，冒险飞到我待的地方。它们绕着我飞，发出像单螺旋桨飞机的劈啪声，然后又急急忙忙地飞回去。它们不是原来就在船上，就是某一只动物带上来的，很可能是鬣狗带上来的。但无论它们是从哪里来的，都没有待长久；两天之内它们全都消失了。鬣狗从斑马身后猛地朝它们咬去，吃了好多。其他的也许被风吹到海上去了。也许有几只幸运的尽其天年，得享高寿。 傍晚近了，我也更加焦虑起来。一天结束时，一切都让我害怕。夜里，船只会很难发现我。夜里，鬣狗也许会活跃起来，也许"橘子汁"也会活跃起来。 夜幕降临了。没有月亮。云层遮住了星星。物体的轮廓变得难以辨认。一切都消失了，大海，救生艇，我自己的身体。海面平静,几乎没有风，因此我甚至不能让自己置身于声音之中。我似乎漂浮在纯粹的抽象的黑暗之中。我一直盯着我以为是地平线的地方，同时耳朵一直瞀觉地听着动物的任何动静。我无法想像怎么能熬过这一夜。 夜里的某个时候，鬣狗开始嗥叫，斑马开始发出吠叫声和长长的尖叫声，我还听见不断的敲打声。我害怕得发抖，而且——我不想在这儿隐瞒——尿裤子了。但是这些声音是从船的另一头传来的。我感觉不到能够表明动静的摇晃。那只恶魔般的动物显然离我很远。在黑暗中更近一些的地方，我开始听见很响的呼气声、呻吟声和呼噜声，还有各种边吃东西边发出的咂嘴声。我的神经实在承受不了"橘子汁"在活动这个想法，因此我没这么想。我只是不去注意这个想法。在我下面，在海里，也有声音，突然的拍打声和哗哗的挥动声，瞬间便消失了。那里也在进行着保卫生命的战斗。 黑夜一分钟一分钟地过去了，多么缓慢啊。 第45章 我冷。这是我不经意之间注意到的事情，似乎与我无关。天破晓了。白昼来临得如此迅速，却又是令人难以觉察地渐渐到来的。天空的一角改变了颜色。空气中开始充满了光亮。平静的大海像一本巨大的书一样在我身边打开了。四周仍然感觉像是黑夜。突然就变成了白天。 当太阳像一个被电点亮的橘子，冲出地平线时，空气才开始变得温暖起来，但我要感觉到温暖，却不需要等那么久。第一缕阳光刚刚照射下来，温暖的感觉便在我心中活跃起来：那是希望带来的温暖。随着物体的轮廓渐渐出现，充满了色彩，希望也不断地增长，直到在我心中变成了一首歌。噢，沐浴在希望中多好啊！事情终归会解决的。最糟糕的事已经过去了。我活过了黑夜。今天我就会得救的。想到这儿，在心里将这些词串在一起，这本身就是希望的源泉。希望之中又滋生出新的希望。当地平线变成―条简洁清晰的线条时，我急切地仔细地看着地平线的方向。天又晴朗起来,能见度很高。我想像拉维会第一个欢迎我，取笑我。"这是什么？"他会说。"你给自己找了一只了不起的大救生艇，在里面装满了动物？你以为自己是诺亚还是什么？"父亲肯定没有刮胡子，头发凌乱。母亲会看着天，把我拥进怀里。我想像了十几条救援船上的情景，各种甜蜜团圆的画面。那天早晨，地平线可能朝一个方向弯曲，而我的嘴唇却坚定地朝另一个方向弯曲，弯成了一个微笑。 可能这听起来很奇怪，但我确实是在很长时间以后才去看救生艇上正在发生什么事。鬣狗袭击了斑马。它的嘴是鲜红的，正在啃一块皮。我的眼睛自然地开始寻找伤口，寻找被袭击的部位。我害怕得倒吸了一口凉气。 斑马断了的腿不见了。鬣狗把断腿咬了下来，拖到了船尾，斑马的身后。一块皮松松垮垮地挂在外露的残肢上。血还在滴。受害者耐心地忍受着痛苦,没有做出引人注意的抗议。它在慢慢地不断地磨着牙，这是惟一能看得见的痛苦表示。震惊、厌恶和气愤猛然传遍我全身。我恨透了鬣狗。我想要做点儿什么，去杀死它。但我什么也没做。我的愤慨没有持续多久。这一点我必须老实承认。我不能对斑马长久地表示怜悯之情。当你自己的生命受到威胁时,你的同情便被恐惧和求生的自私渴望磨钝了。它非常痛苦，这太让人伤心了——它这么高大，这么强壮，它受的折磨还没有到头呢——但我无能为力。我感到它很可怜，然后便不再想这件事。我并不以此自豪。我很抱歉，我对这件事如此麻木不仁。我仍然没有忘记那匹斑马和它所忍受的痛苦。没有哪一次做祷告时我不想到它。 仍然不见"橘子汁"。我又将目光转向了地平线。 那天下午，风大了些，我开始注意到救生艇：尽管它很重，却轻轻地浮在海面上，毫无疑问，这是因为船上没有满员。干舷很高，也就是水面和舷侧的之间的距离很大；只有狂暴不羁的大海才能将我们淹没。但这也意味着无论船的哪一头迎着风，都会转变方向，让舷侧对着海浪。碎浪像拳头一样不断在船壳上敲打，而大浪则会让船先向一边倾斜，再向另一边倾斜，令人厌倦地晃来晃去。不断的颠簸让我感到恶心。 也许换个姿势我会感觉好一些。我从船桨上滑下来，回到船头，面对海浪坐着，左手是船体的其余部分。我离鬣狗更近了，但它没有动。 就在我深深地呼吸，集中精力消除恶心的感觉时，我看见了"橘子汁"。鬣狗看着我，但没有动。"橘子汁"进人了我的视线。她没精打采地坐着，两只手抓着舷边，头低低地埋在两只手臂之间。她张着嘴，伸出舌头。她显然在喘气。尽管我忍受着这场悲剧的折磨，尽管我感觉不舒服，我还是笑出了声来。那一刻"橘子汁"所有的表现都说明了一件事：晕船。一种新物种的形象跃人了我的脑海：一种罕见的能够航海的猩猩，还是个新手。我又恢复了坐的姿势。可怜的东西看上去像人一样不舒服！在动物身上看到人的特征是一件非常有趣的事情，这在猿猴和猴子身上很容易看到。猿猴是我们在动物界最清晰的镜子。我又笑起来。我用双手捂住胸口，对自己的感觉感到非常惊讶。噢，天啊。这笑声就像一座快乐的火山，正在我心中爆发。"橘子汁"不仅让我高兴了起来；她还承担了我们俩的晕船感觉。我感觉好多了。 我又开始仔细搜索地平线，心中充满了希望。 除了晕船晕得要死以外，还有一件关于"橘子汁"的事让人惊奇：她没有受伤。而且她背对着鬣狗，似乎感到自己很安全，不必理睬它。这只救生艇上的生态系统确实让人困惑不解。在自然环境中斑点鬣狗和猩猩不可能相遇，因为婆罗洲没有鬣狗，而非洲没有猩猩，因此我们不可能知道它们会如何相处。但是，当这些住在树上以水果为食的动物和热带稀树草原的食肉动物来到一起时，它们会如此清楚地划清各自的生态龛，不去注意对方，这种情况即使不是完全没有可能，似乎可能性也很低。猩猩在鬣狗闻来肯定是一只猎物，尽管是一只奇怪的猎物，一只因为会形成巨大的毛团而被记住的猎物，但是味道比排气管要好,值得在树丛附近寻找。鬣狗在猩猩闻来肯定是一只食肉动物，是一只榴莲偶然掉在地上时警惕的原因。但是大自然永远会引起我们淳 讶。也许事情并非如此。如果山羊能够和犀牛友好相处，为什么猩猩就不能和鬣狗友好相处呢？这在动物园里一定会大受欢迎。得竖起一块牌子。我巳经能看见牌子上的字了："亲爱的游客，请不要为猩猩担心！它们待在树上是因为它们住在那里，而不是因为它们害怕斑点鬣狗。请在它们进食时或太阳落山，它们口渴时回来，你们就会看见它们从树上爬下来，在地面上四处走动，完全不受鬣狗的骚扰。"父亲会着迷的。 那天下午的某个时候我见到了第一种可能成为我亲爱的可靠的朋友的动物。船壳上有碰撞声和刮擦声。几秒钟后，一只大海龟出现了，它靠船那么近，我弯下腰去就能抓住它。那是一只玳瑁，它懒洋洋地划着鳍，从水里伸出了头。它丑陋的模样十分引人注目，坚固的发黄的棕色龟壳有大约三英尺长，上面长着一块块的海藻，深绿色的脸上长着一张尖尖的嘴，没有嘴唇，两只鼻孔就是两个实实在在的洞，黑色的眼睛目不转睛地看着我。那副表情既傲慢又严肃，像一个坏脾气的老头，心里总在抱怨。这只爬行动物的存在本身就是它的最奇怪之处。和线条优美的滑溜溜的鱼相比，它模样古怪，浮在水里显得很不协调。但是显然它是在自己的环境中，格格不人的是我。它围着船绕了几分钟。 我对它说：“去跟船说我在这儿。去吧，去吧。”它转过身,后鳍轮流划着水，一会儿便沉入水中，不见了踪影。 |
CHAPTER 46 Clouds that gathered where ships were supposed to appear, and the passing of the day, slowly did the job of unbending my smile. It is pointless to say that this or that night was the worst of my life. I have so many bad nights to choose from that I've made none the champion. Still, that second night at sea stands in my memory as one of exceptional suffering, different from the frozen anxiety of the first night in being a more conventional sort of suffering, the broken-down kind consisting of weeping and sadness and spiritual pain, and different from later ones in that I still had the strength to appreciate fully what I felt. And that dreadful night was preceded by a dreadful evening. I noticed the presence of sharks around the lifeboat. The sun was beginning to pull the curtains on the day. It was a placid explosion of orange and red, a great chromatic symphony, a colour canvas of supernatural proportions, truly a splendid Pacific sunset, quite wasted on me. The sharks were makos—swift, pointy-snouted predators with long, murderous teeth that protruded noticeably from their mouths. They were about six or seven feet long, one was larger still. I watched them anxiously. The largest one came at the boat quickly, as if to attack, its dorsal fin rising out of the water by several inches, but it dipped below just before reaching us and glided underfoot with fearsome grace. It returned, not coming so close this time, then disappeared. The other sharks paid a longer visit, coming and going at different depths, some in plain sight at hand's reach below the surface of the water, others deeper down. There were other fish too, big and small, colourful, differently shaped. I might have considered them more closely had my attention not been drawn elsewhere: Orange Juice's head came into sight. She turned and brought her arm onto the tarpaulin in a motion that imitated exactly the way you or I would bring out an arm and place it on the back of the chair next to our own in a gesture of expansive relaxation. But such was clearly not her disposition. Bearing an expression profoundly sad and mournful, she began to look about, slowly turning her head from side to side. Instantly the likeness of apes lost its amusing character. She had given birth at the zoo to two young ones, strapping males five and eight years old that were her—and our—pride. It was unmistakably these she had on her mind as she searched over the water, unintentionally mimicking what I had been doing these last thirty-six hours. She noticed me and expressed nothing about it. I was just another animal that had lost everything and was vowed to death. My mood plummeted. Then, with only a snarl for notice, the hyena went amok. It hadn't moved from its cramped quarters all day. It put its front legs on the zebra's side, reached over and gathered a fold of skin in its jaws. It pulled roughly. A strip of hide came off the zebra's belly like gift-wrap paper comes off a gift, in a smooth-edged swath, only silently, in the way of tearing skin, and with greater resistance. Immediately blood poured forth like a river. Barking, snorting and squealing, the zebra came to life to defend itself. It pushed on its front legs and reared its head in an attempt to bite the hyena, but the beast was out of reach. It shook its good hind leg, which did no more than explain the origin of the previous night's knocking: it was the hoof beating against the side of the boat. The zebras attempts at self-preservation only whipped the hyena into a frenzy of snarling and biting. It made a gaping wound in the zebra's side. When it was no longer satisfied with the reach it had from behind the zebra, the hyena climbed onto its haunches. It started pulling out coils of intestines and other viscera. There was no order to what it was doing. It bit here, swallowed there, seemingly overwhelmed by the riches before it. After devouring half the liver, it started tugging on the whitish, balloon-like stomach bag. But it was heavy, and with the zebra's haunches being higher than its belly—and blood being slippery—the hyena started to slide into its victim. It plunged head and shoulders into the zebra's guts, up to the knees of its front legs. It pushed itself out, only to slide back down. It finally settled in this position, half in, half out. The zebra was being eaten alive from the inside. It protested with diminishing vigour. Blood started coming out its nostrils. Once or twice it reared its head straight up, as if appealing to heaven—the abomination of the moment was perfectly expressed. Orange Juice did not view these doings indifferently. She raised herself to her full height on her bench. With her incongruously small legs and massive torso, she looked like a refrigerator on crooked wheels. But with her giant arms lifted in the air, she looked impressive. Their span was greater than her height—one hand hung over the water, the other reached across the width of the lifeboat nearly to the opposite side. She pulled back her lips, showing off enormous canines, and began to roar. It was a deep, powerful, huffing roar, amazing for an animal normally as silent as a giraffe. The hyena was as startled as I was by the outburst. It cringed and retreated. But not for long. After an intense stare at Orange Juice, the hairs on its neck and shoulders stood up and its tail rose straight in the air. It climbed back onto the dying zebra. There, blood dripping from its mouth, it responded to Orange Juice in kind, with a higher-pitched roar. The two animals were three feet apart, wide-open jaws directly facing. They put all their energies into their cries, their bodies shaking with the effort. I could see deep down the hyena's throat. The Pacific air, which until a minute before had been carrying the whistling and whispering of the sea, a natural melody I would have called soothing had the circumstances been happier, was all at once filled with this appalling noise, like the fury of an all-out battle, with the ear-splitting firing of guns and cannons and the thunderous blasts of bombs. The hyena's roar filled the higher range of what my ears could hear, Orange Juice's bass roar filled the lower range, and somewhere in between I could hear the cries of the helpless zebra. My ears were full. Nothing more, not one more sound, could push into them and be registered. I began to tremble uncontrollably. I was convinced the hyena was going to lunge at Orange Juice. I could not imagine that matters could get worse, but they did. The zebra snorted some of its blood overboard. Seconds later there was a hard knock against the boat, followed by another. The water began to churn around us with sharks. They were searching for the source of the blood, for the food so close at hand. Their tail fins flashed out of the water, their heads swung out. The boat was hit repeatedly. I was not afraid we would capsize—I thought the sharks would actually punch through the metal hull and sink us. With every bang the animals jumped and looked alarmed, but they were not to be distracted from their main business of roaring in each others faces. I was certain the shouting match would turn physical. Instead it broke off abruptly after a few minutes. Orange Juice, with huffs and lip-smacking noises, turned away, and the hyena lowered its head and retreated behind the zebra's butchered body. The sharks, finding nothing, stopped knocking on the boat and eventually left. Silence fell at last. A foul and pungent smell, an earthy mix of rust and excrement, hung in the air. There was blood everywhere, coagulating to a deep red crust. A single fly buzzed about, sounding to me like an alarm bell of insanity. No ship, nothing at all, had appeared on the horizon that day, and now the day was ending. When the sun slipped below the horizon, it was not only the day that died and the poor zebra, but my family as well. With that second sunset, disbelief gave way to pain and grief. They were dead; I could no longer deny it. What a thing to acknowledge in your heart! To lose a brother is to lose someone with whom you can share the experience of growing old, who is supposed to bring you a sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, creatures to people the tree of your life and give it new branches. To lose your father is to lose the one whose guidance and help you seek, who supports you like a tree trunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun above you. It is like losing—I'm sorry, I would rather not go on. I lay down on the tarpaulin and spent the whole night weeping and grieving, my face buried in my arms. The hyena spent a good part of the night eating. CHAPTER 47 The day broke, humid and overcast, with the wind warm and the sky a dense blanket of grey clouds that looked like bunched-up, dirty cotton sheets. The sea had not changed. It heaved the lifeboat up and down in a regular motion. The zebra was still alive. I couldn't believe it. It had a two-foot-wide hole in its body, a fistula like a freshly erupted volcano, spewed half-eaten organs glistening in the light or giving off a dull, dry shine, yet, in its strictly essential parts, it continued to pump with life, if weakly. Movement was confined to a tremor in the rear leg and an occasional blinking of the eyes. I was horrified. I had no idea a living being could sustain so much injury and go on living. The hyena was tense. It was not settling down to its night of rest despite the daylight. Perhaps it was a result of taking in so much food; its stomach was grossly dilated. Orange Juice was in a dangerous mood too. She was fidgeting and showing her teeth. I stayed where I was, curled up near the prow. I was weak in body and in soul. I was afraid I would fall into the water if I tried to balance on the oar. The zebra was dead by noon. It was glassy-eyed and had become perfectly indifferent to the hyena's occasional assaults. Violence broke out in the afternoon. Tension had risen to an unbearable level. The hyena was yipping. Orange Juice was grunting and making loud lip-smacking noises. All of a sudden their complaining fused and shot up to top volume. The hyena jumped over the remains of the zebra and made for Orange Juice. I believe I have made clear the menace of a hyena. It was certainly so clear in my mind that I gave up on Orange Juice's life before she even had a chance to defend it. I underestimated her. I underestimated her grit. She thumped the beast on the head. It was something shocking. It made my heart melt with love and admiration and fear. Did I mention she was a former pet, callously discarded by her Indonesian owners? Her story was like that of every inappropriate pet. It goes something like this: The pet is bought when it is small and cute. It gives much amusement to its owners. Then it grows in size and in appetite. It reveals itself incapable of being house-trained. Its increasing strength makes it harder to handle. One day the maid pulls the sheet from its nest because she has decided to wash it, or the son jokingly pinches a morsel of food from its hands—over some such seemingly small matter, the pet flashes its teeth in anger and the family is frightened. The very next day the pet finds itself bouncing at the back of the family Jeep in the company of its human brothers and sisters. A jungle is entered. Everyone in the vehicle finds it a strange and formidable place. A clearing is come to. It is briefly explored. All of a sudden the Jeep roars to life and its wheels kick up dirt and the pet sees all the ones it has known and loved looking at it from the back window as the Jeep speeds away. It has been left behind. The pet does not understand. It is as unprepared for this jungle as its human siblings are. It waits around for their return, trying to quell the panic rising in it. They do not return. The sun sets. Quickly it becomes depressed and gives up on life. It dies of hunger and exposure in the next few days. Or is attacked by dogs. Orange Juice could have been one of these forlorn pets. Instead she ended up at the Pondicherry Zoo. She remained gentle and unaggressive her whole life. I have memories from when I was a child of her never-ending arms surrounding me, her fingers, each as long as my whole hand, picking at my hair. She was a young female practising her maternal skills. As she matured into her full wild self, I observed her at a distance. I thought I knew her so well that I could predict her every move. I thought I knew not only her habits but also her limits. This display of ferocity, of savage courage, made me realize that I was wrong. All my life I had known only a part of her. She thumped the beast on the head. And what a thump it was. The beast's head hit the bench it had just reached, making such a sharp noise, besides splaying its front legs flat out, that I thought surely either the bench or its jaw or both must break. The hyena was up again in an instant, every hair on its body as erect as the hairs on my head, but its hostility wasn't quite so kinetic now. It withdrew. I exulted. Orange Juice's stirring defence brought a glow to my heart. It didn't last long. An adult female orang-utan cannot defeat an adult male spotted hyena. That is the plain empirical truth. Let it become known among zoologists. Had Orange Juice been a male, had she loomed as large on the scales as she did in my heart, it might have been another matter. But portly and overfed though she was from living in the comfort of a zoo, even so she tipped the scales at barely 110 pounds. Female orang-utans are half the size of males. But it is not simply a question of weight and brute strength. Orange Juice was far from defenceless. What it comes down to is attitude and knowledge. What does a fruit eater know about killing? Where would it learn where to bite, how hard, for how long? An orang-utan may be taller, may have very strong and agile arms and long canines, but if it does not know how to use these as weapons, they are of little use. The hyena, with only its jaws, will overcome the ape because it knows what it wants and how to get it. The hyena came back. It jumped on the bench and caught Orange Juice at the wrist before she could strike. Orange Juice hit the hyena on the head with her other arm, but the blow only made the beast snarl viciously. She made to bite, but the hyena moved faster. Alas, Orange Juice's defence lacked precision and coherence. Her fear was something useless that only hampered her. The hyena let go of her wrist and expertly got to her throat. Dumb with pain and horror, I watched as Orange Juice thumped the hyena ineffectually and pulled at its hair while her throat was being squeezed by its jaws. To the end she reminded me of us: her eyes expressed fear in such a humanlike way, as did her strained whimpers. She made an attempt to climb onto the tarpaulin. The hyena violently shook her. She fell off the bench to the bottom of the lifeboat, the hyena with her. I heard noises but no longer saw anything. I was next. That much was clear to me. With some difficulty I stood up. I could hardly see through the tears in my eyes. I was no longer crying because of my family or because of my impending death. I was far too numb to consider either. I was crying because I was exceedingly tired and it was time to get rest. I advanced over the tarpaulin. Though tautly stretched at the end of the boat, it sagged a little in the middle; it made for three or four toilsome, bouncy steps. And I had to reach over the net and the rolled-up tarpaulin. And these efforts in a lifeboat that was constantly rolling. In the condition I was in, it felt like a great trek. When I laid my foot on the middle cross bench, its hardness had an invigorating effect on me, as if I had just stepped on solid ground. I planted both my feet on the bench and enjoyed my firm stand. I was feeling dizzy, but since the capital moment of my life was coming up this dizziness only added to my sense of frightened sublimity. I raised my hands to the level of my chest—the weapons I had against the hyena. It looked up at me. Its mouth was red. Orange Juice lay next to it, against the dead zebra. Her arms were spread wide open and her short legs were folded together and slightly turned to one side. She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross. Except for her head. She was beheaded. The neck wound was still bleeding. It was a sight horrible to the eyes and killing to the spirit. Just before throwing myself upon the hyena, to collect myself before the final struggle, I looked down. Between my feet, under the bench, I beheld Richard Parker's head. It was gigantic. It looked the size of the planet Jupiter to my dazed senses. His paws were like volumes of Encyclopaedia Britannica. I made my way back to the bow and collapsed. I spent the night in a state of delirium. I kept thinking I had slept and was awaking after dreaming of a tiger. CHAPTER 48 Richard Parker was so named because of a clerical error. A panther was terrorizing the Khulna district of Bangladesh, just outside the Sundarbans. It had recently carried off a little girl. All that was found of her was a tiny hand with a henna pattern on the palm and a few plastic bangles. She was the seventh person killed in two months by the marauder. And it was growing bolder. The previous victim was a man who had been attacked in broad daylight in his field. The beast dragged him off into the forest, where it ate a good part of his head, the flesh off his right leg and all his innards. His corpse was found hanging in the fork of a tree. The villagers kept a watch nearby that night, hoping to surprise the panther and kill it, but it never appeared. The Forest Department hired a professional hunter. He set up a small, hidden platform in a tree near a river where two of the attacks had taken place. A goat was tied to a stake on the river's bank. The hunter waited several nights. He assumed the panther would be an old, wasted male with worn teeth, incapable of catching anything more difficult than a human. But it was a sleek tiger that stepped into the open one night. A female with a single cub. The goat bleated. Oddly, the cub, who looked to be about three months old, paid little attention to the goat. It raced to the water's edge, where it drank eagerly. Its mother followed suit. Of hunger and thirst, thirst is the greater imperative. Only once the tiger had quenched her thirst did she turn to the goat to satisfy her hunger. The hunter had two rifles with him: one with real bullets, the other with immobilizing darts. This animal was not the man-eater, but so close to human habitation she might pose a threat to the villagers, especially as she was with cub. He picked up the gun with the darts. He fired as the tiger was about to fell the goat. The tiger reared up and snarled and raced away. But immobilizing darts don't bring on sleep gently, like a good cup of tea; they knock out like a bottle of hard liquor straight up. A burst of activity on the animal's part makes it act all the faster. The hunter called his assistants on the radio. They found the tiger about two hundred yards from the river. She was still conscious. Her back legs had given way and her balance on her front legs was woozy. When the men got close, she tried to get away but could not manage it. She turned on them, lifting a paw that was meant to kill. It only made her lose her balance. She collapsed and the Pondicherry Zoo had two new tigers. The cub was found in a bush close by, meowing with fear. The hunter, whose name was Richard Parker, picked it up with his bare hands and, remembering how it had rushed to drink in the river, baptized it Thirsty. But the shipping clerk at the Howrah train station was evidently a man both befuddled and diligent. All the papers we received with the cub clearly stated that its name was Richard Parker, that the hunter's first name was Thirsty and that his family name was None Given. Father had had a good chuckle over the mix-up and Richard Parker's name had stuck. I don't know if Thirsty None Given ever got the man-eating panther. CHAPTER 49 In the morning I could not move. I was pinned by weakness to the tarpaulin. Even thinking was exhausting. I applied myself to thinking straight. At length, as slowly as a caravan of camels crossing a desert, some thoughts came together. The day was like the previous one, warm and overcast, the clouds low, the breeze light. That was one thought. The boat was rocking gently, that was another. I thought of sustenance for the first time. I had not had a drop to drink or a bite to eat or a minute of sleep in three days. Finding this obvious explanation for my weakness brought me a little strength. Richard Parker was still on board. In fact, he was directly beneath me. Incredible that such a thing should need consent to be true, but it was only after much deliberation, upon assessing various mental items and points of view, that I concluded that it was not a dream or a delusion or a misplaced memory or a fancy or any other such falsity, but a solid, true thing witnessed while in a weakened, highly agitated state. The truth of it would be confirmed as soon as I felt well enough to investigate. How I had failed to notice for two and a half days a 450-pound Bengal tiger in a lifeboat twenty-six feet long was a conundrum I would have to try to crack later, when I had more energy. The feat surely made Richard Parker the largest stowaway, proportionally speaking, in the history of navigation. From tip of nose to tip of tail he took up over a third of the length of the ship he was on. You might think I lost all hope at that point. I did. And as a result I perked up and felt much better. We see that in sports all the time, don't we? The tennis challenger starts strong but soon loses confidence in his playing. The champion racks up the games. But in the final set, when the challenger has nothing left to lose, he becomes relaxed again, insouciant, daring. Suddenly he's playing like the devil and the champion must work hard to get those last points. So it was with me. To cope with a hyena seemed remotely possible, but I was so obviously outmatched by Richard Parker that it wasn't even worth worrying about. With a tiger aboard, my life was over. That being settled, why not do something about my parched throat? I believe it was this that saved my life that morning, that I was quite literally dying of thirst. Now that the word had popped into my head I couldn't think of anything else, as if the word itself were salty and the more I thought of it, the worse the effect. I have heard that the hunger for air exceeds as a compelling sensation the thirst for water. Only for a few minutes, I say. After a few minutes you die and the discomfort of asphyxiation goes away. Whereas thirst is a drawn-out affair. Look: Christ on the Cross died of suffocation, but His only complaint was of thirst. If thirst can be so taxing that even God Incarnate complains about it, imagine the effect on a regular human. It was enough to make me go raving mad. I have never known a worse physical hell than this putrid taste and pasty feeling in the mouth, this unbearable pressure at the back of the throat, this sensation that my blood was turning to a thick syrup that barely flowed. Truly, by comparison, a tiger was nothing. And so I pushed aside all thoughts of Richard Parker and fearlessly went exploring for fresh water. The divining rod in my mind dipped sharply and a spring gushed water when I remembered that I was on a genuine, regulation lifeboat and that such a lifeboat was surely outfitted with supplies. That seemed like a perfectly reasonable proposition. What captain would fail in so elementary a way to ensure the safety of his crew? What ship chandler would not think of making a little extra money under the noble guise of saving lives? It was settled. There was water aboard. All I had to do was find it. Which meant I had to move. I made it to the middle of the boat, to the edge of the tarpaulin. It was a hard crawl. I felt I was climbing the side of a volcano and I was about to look over the rim into a boiling cauldron of orange lava. I lay flat. I carefully brought my head over. I did not look over any more than I had to. I did not see Richard Parker. The hyena was plainly visible, though. It was back behind what was left of the zebra. It was looking at me. I was no longer afraid of it. It wasn't ten feet away, yet my heart didn't skip a beat. Richard Parker's presence had at least that useful aspect. To be afraid of this ridiculous dog when there was a tiger about was like being afraid of splinters when trees are falling down. I became very angry at the animal. "You ugly, foul creature," I muttered. The only reason I didn't stand up and beat it off the lifeboat with a stick was lack of strength and stick, not lack of heart. Did the hyena sense something of my mastery? Did it say to itself, "Super alpha is watching me—I better not move"? I don't know. At any rate, it didn't move. In fact, in the way it ducked its head it seemed to want to hide from me. But it was no use hiding. It would get its just deserts soon enough. Richard Parker also explained the animals' strange behaviour. Now it was clear why the hyena had confined itself to such an absurdly small space behind the zebra and why it had waited so long before killing it. It was fear of the greater beast and fear of touching the greater beast's food. The strained, temporary peace between Orange Juice and the hyena, and my reprieve, were no doubt due to the same reason: in the face of such a superior predator, all of us were prey, and normal ways of preying were affected. It seemed the presence of a tiger had saved me from a hyena—surely a textbook example of jumping from the frying pan into the fire. But the great beast was not behaving like a great beast, to such an extent that the hyena had taken liberties. Richard Parker's passivity, and for three long days, needed explaining. Only in two ways could I account for it: sedation and seasickness. Father regularly sedated a number of the animals to lessen their stress. Might he have sedated Richard Parker shortly before the ship sank? Had the shock of the shipwreck—the noises, the falling into the sea, the terrible struggle to swim to the lifeboat—increased the effect of the sedative? Had seasickness taken over after that? These were the only plausible explanations I could come up with. I lost interest in the question. Only water interested me. I took stock of the lifeboat. CHAPTER 50 It was three and a half feet deep, eight feet wide and twenty-six feet long, exactly. I know because it was printed on one of the side benches in black letters. It also said that the lifeboat was designed to accommodate a maximum of thirty-two people. Wouldn't that have been merry, sharing it with so many? Instead we were three and it was awfully crowded. The boat was symmetrically shaped, with rounded ends that were hard to tell apart. The stern was hinted at by a small fixed rudder, no more than a rearward extension of the keel, while the bow, except for my addition, featured a stem with the saddest, bluntest prow in boat-building history. The aluminum hull was studded with rivets and painted white. That was the outside of the lifeboat. Inside, it was not as spacious as might be expected because of the side benches and the buoyancy tanks. The side benches ran the whole length of the boat, merging at the bow and stern to form end benches that were roughly triangular in shape. The benches were the top surfaces of the sealed buoyancy tanks. The side benches were one and a half feet wide and the end benches were three feet deep; the open space of the lifeboat was thus twenty feet long and five feet wide. That made a territory of one hundred square feet for Richard Parker. Spanning this space width-wise were three cross benches, including the one smashed by the zebra. These benches were two feet wide and were evenly spaced. They were two feet above the floor of the boat—the play Richard Parker had before he would knock his head against the ceiling, so to speak, if he were beneath a bench. Under the tarpaulin, he had another twelve inches of space, the distance between the gunnel, which supported the tarpaulin, and the benches, so three feet in all, barely enough for him to stand. The floor, consisting of narrow planks of treated wood, was flat and the vertical sides of the buoyancy tanks were at right angles to it. So, curiously, the boat had rounded ends and rounded sides, but the interior volume was rectangular. It seems orange—such a nice Hindu colour—is the colour of survival because the whole inside of the boat and the tarpaulin and the life jackets and the lifebuoy and the oars and most every other significant object aboard was orange. Even the plastic, beadless whistles were orange. The words Tsimtsum and Panama were printed on each side of the bow in stark, black, roman capitals. The tarpaulin was made of tough, treated canvas, rough on the skin after a while. It had been unrolled to just past the middle cross bench. So one cross bench was hidden beneath the tarpaulin, in Richard Parker's den; the middle cross bench was just beyond the edge of the tarpaulin, in the open; and the third cross bench lay broken beneath the dead zebra. There were six oarlocks, U-shaped notches in the gunnel for holding an oar in place, and five oars, since I had lost one trying to push Richard Parker away. Three oars rested on one side bench, one rested on the other and one made up my life-saving prow. I doubted the usefulness of these oars as a means of propulsion. This lifeboat was no racing shell. It was a heavy, solid construction designed for stolid floating, not for navigating, though I suppose that if we had been thirty-two to row we could have made some headway. I did not grasp all these details—and many more—right away. They came to my notice with time and as a result of necessity. I would be in the direst of dire straits, facing a bleak future, when some small thing, some detail, would transform itself and appear in my mind in a new light. It would no longer be the small thing it was before, but the most important thing in the world, the thing that would save my life. This happened time and again. How true it is that necessity is the mother of invention, how very true. |
第46章 在船只应该出现的地方堆积起来的云层和渐渐消逝的白天慢慢将我微笑的弯弯的嘴角拉直了。要说这一夜或那一夜是我一生中最糟糕的夜晚，这是毫无意义的。我度过了那么多糟糕的夜晚，没有一夜可以被评为糟糕之最。但是，在我的记忆中，在海上度过的第二个夜晚异常痛苦，这种痛苦与第一夜焦虑得发呆的情况不同，那种焦虑是更常见的痛苦，是崩溃，包括哭泣、伤心和精神痛苦；这种痛苦与后来的痛苦也不同，后来我还能有力气去充分体会自己的感受。在那个可怕的夜晚之前，是一个可怕的傍晚。 我注意到救生艇周围有鲨鱼出现。太阳已经开始拉上帷幕，白天就要结束了。那是橘黄色和红色平静的爆发，是一首伟大的变音交响乐，是一块超自然尺寸的彩色画布，那是太平洋上一次真正壮丽的日落，而我却没能好好欣赏。那几条鲨鱼是灰鲭鲨——速度极快的尖鼻子食肉动物，长长的杀人的牙齿引人注目地从嘴里伸出来。它们大约有六七英尺长，其中一条还要更大一些。我不安地看着它们。最大的一条迅速朝船游过来，似乎要发起袭击，它的背鳍伸出了水面好几英寸，但就在快要到船面前时，它却没入水中，以令人畏惧的优雅动作在水下滑行。它转过身来，这一次游得不那么近，然后消失了。其他鲨鱼在船附近待的时间更长一些，在不同深度的水中来来回回地游，有几条就在伸手可及的水面下，看得清清楚楚，还有几条在更深的水里。还有其他的鱼，大大小小,五颜六色，形状各异。要不是我的注意力被吸引到别处去，也许我会更仔细地打量它们的："橘子汁"进入了我的视线。 她转过身来，把手臂放在油布上，那动作就像你我抬起胳膊，非常放松地搭在旁边的椅子背上一模一样。但是她显然并不放松。她带着一副非常伤心悲痛的表情，开始四处张望，慢慢地把头从一边转向另一边。就在那一瞬间，我们与猿猴之间的相似之处变得并不可笑了。她在动物园里生了两只小猩猩，这两只雄性猩猩分别有5岁和8岁，它们身强体壮，是她的骄傲，也是我们的骄傲。毫无疑问，她在仔细搜寻水面，不经意之间模仿着我在过去36个小时内所做的事的时候，心里牵挂的就是他们。她注意到了我，却没有表达自己的心情。我只是另一只失去了一切、必死无疑的动物。我的情绪突然变糟了。 后来，鬣狗只嗥叫了一声，算是征兆，然后便露出了杀气。它已经一整天没有从狭窄的住舱里出来了。现在，它把前腿搭在斑马体侧，伸过头去，用嘴咬住了一块皮，用力地拽。斑马肚子上的一长条皮被拽了下来，像礼物外面的包装纸被撕开了边缘整齐、又长又宽的一条，只是现在被撕下来的是皮，因此没有声音，而且遇到了很大的阻力。血立刻像河水一样喷涌而出。斑马恢复了生气，吠叫着，喷着鼻息，发出长长的尖叫声，来保护自己。它匆匆迈着前腿，昂起头，想要咬鬣狗，但却够不到那头野兽。它摇晃着那条好的后腿，却只说明了前一天晚上敲打声的来源：那是蹄子敲打船侧发出的声音。斑马保全自己的努力只让鬣狗突然疯狂地嗥叫和撕咬起来。斑马的体侧有了一个裂开的伤口。鬣狗已经不再满足于从斑马背后伸头去咬，它爬到了斑马的腰上。它开始从斑马肚子里拽出一团团的肠子和其他内脏。它的行为没有任何规律。它在这儿咬一口，在那儿吞一口，似乎被眼前这么丰盛的食物弄得不知所措。吞下半个肝脏以后，它又开始用力扯发白的气球一样的胃囊。但是胃囊很重，而且斑马的腰部比它的腹部要高，血又很滑，于是鬣狗开始滑进受害者的身体里。它猛地把头和肩膀伸进斑马的内脏，连前腿膝盖都进去了。然后它又想把自己拖出来，却滑了下来。最后它固定了这样一个姿势，一半身体在里面，一半身体在外面。斑马在从身体内部开始被活活吃掉。 它反抗的力气越来越小。血开始从它的鼻孔里流出来。有一两次，它笔直地昂起头，似乎在向上苍乞求——淋漓尽致地表达了那一刻的憎恶。 "橘子汁"并没有漠不关心地目睹这一切。她从坐板上完全站了起来。巨大的身躯和短小得不相称的腿让她看上去像一台架在扭曲的轮子上的冰箱。但是她高高地举起巨大手臂的样子十分威严。她两只手臂伸展开的长度比她的身高还长。她一只手臂悬在水上，另一只手臂几乎能横着伸到救生艇另一边。她缩回嘴唇，露出巨大的犬齿，开始咆哮起来。叫声低沉、有力，带着愤怒，一个平常像长颈鹿一样安静的动物像这样叫，真令人惊奇。鬣狗和我一样被突然爆发的叫声吓了一跳。但时间不长。在紧张地盯着"橘子汁"看了一眼之后，它脖子上和背上的毛竖了起来，尾巴也直直地向上竖了起来。它爬回到奄奄一息的斑马身上，嘴上滴着血，同样用高声的吼叫回敬"橘子汁"。两只动物相距3英尺，嘴巴张得大大的，面对着面。它们把所有的力气都用来叫喊，身体因为用力而颤抖着。我能看到鬣狗的喉咙深处。一分钟之前，太平洋上的空气中还响着大海的啸叫声和低语声，这是一种自然的旋律，在更快乐的情况下，我可以称之为令人心旷神怡，现在却突然充斥了这种可怕的噪音，像一场大规模的猛烈战斗中震耳的熗炮声和雷鸣般的爆炸声。我耳朵所能听见的高音域部分充斥着鬣狗的吼叫声，低音域部分充斥着"橘子汁"的低沉吼叫声，在这两部分之间是斑马的无助的叫声。我的耳朵被各种声音塞满了。没有别的声音，没有任何一种别的声音能够挤过这些声音，被我听到。 我开始无法控制地颤抖起来。我坚信鬣狗要朝“橘子汁”冲过去了。 我无法想像事情还能比这更糟，但事情的确变得更糟了。斑马把一些血喷进了海里。几秒钟后，船被重重敲了一下，接着又是一下。我们周围的海水开始被鲨鱼搅得浪花翻滚。它们在寻找血的来源，寻找近在嘴边的食物。它们的尾鳍迅速在水上掠过，头突然伸出水面。船不停地遭到撞击。我并不担心船会翻——我想鲨鱼实际上会穿过金属船壳，把船弄沉。 船每次被撞一下，那两只动物都会跳起来，看上去像受了惊，但是它们主要的事就是互相吼叫，它们是不会从这件事上分心的。我肯定这场吼叫比赛会变成身体对抗。然而叫声却突然中断了几分钟。"橘子汁"气呼呼地咂着嘴转过身去，而鬣狗则低下头，退回到斑马被宰割的身体后面。鲨鱼什么也没找到，于是停止敲船，最后离开了。一切终于安静下来。 空气中飘浮着刺鼻的恶臭，一种锈蚀和排泄物相混合的土腥味。到处都是血，渐渐凝结成深红色的硬壳。只有一只苍蝇嗡嗡地飞，在我听来像报告疯狂的警铃。那天,地平线上没有出现船只，没有出现任何东西。现在一天就要结束了。当太阳滑到地平线下面的时候，逝去的不仅是白天和可怜的斑马，还有我的家人。第二次日落时，不相信被痛苦和悲伤所取代。他们死了；我不能再否认。这是你心里必须承认的一件什么样的事啊！失去一位哥哥就失去了一个可以分享成长经历的人，一个应该给你带来嫂子和侄子侄女的人，他们是为你的生命之树增添新的枝叶的人。失去父亲就失去了你可以寻求指导和帮助的人，一个像树干支撑树枝一样支持你的人。失去母亲，啊,那就像失去了你头顶的太阳。那就像失去了——对不起，我不想再说下去了。我在油布上躺下，脸埋在胳膊里，伤心哭泣了一整夜。鬣狗夜里的大部分时间都在吃。 第47章 天亮了，空气潮湿，阴云密布，风是暖的，天空像一块乌云织成的厚密的毯子，而乌云就像堆成团的肮脏的棉被单。 斑马还活着。我无法相信。它身上有一个两英尺宽的洞，洞口像一座刚刚爆发的火山，喷出被吃了一半的器官，在光线下闪着亮或发出晦暗的干巴巴的光，然而，在它最重要的部分，生命仍然在跳动着，尽管十分微弱。它的活动仅限于顫抖一下后腿，偶尔眨一下眼睛。我吓坏了。我不知道一个生命可以承受如此严重的伤害却还活着。 鬣狗很紧张。虽然天已经亮了，但是它并没有安下心来休息。这也许是因为吃得太多了吧；它的肚子胀得大大的。"橘子汁"的情绪也很危险。她坐立不安，露着牙齿。 我待在原地，在靠近船头的地方蜷缩着。我的身体和精神都很虚弱。我担心如果在船桨上平衡不了身体就会掉进水里去。 中午的时候，斑马死了。它的眼睛毫无生气，对鬣狗偶尔的攻击已经毫不在意了。 下午，暴力爆发了。情绪已经紧张到了无法忍受的程度。鬣狗在尖声吠叫。"橘子汁"在发出呼噜声和很响的咂嘴声。突然，它们的抱怨被引燃，大量喷射而出。鬣狗跳到斑马残缺的尸体上，朝"橘子汁"冲了过去。 我想我已经把鬣狗的威胁说得很清楚了。我心里非常清楚，在"橘子汁"还没有机会保卫自己之前，我已经对她的生命不抱任何希望了。我低估了她。我低估了她的勇气。 她重重地捶了一下那只野兽的头。这是个令人震惊的动作。这使我的心因为爱、崇拜和恐惧而融化了。我有没有说过她以前是只宠物，被她的印度尼西亚主人麻木不仁地抛弃了——她的故事和所有不合造做宠物的动物的故事一样。故事大概是这样的：宠物在年幼可爱的时候被买了回去。它给主人一家带来了许多欢乐。后来它长大了，胃口也大了。它的表现说明它不可能被训练得服从管教。越来越大的力气使它变得很难管。一天,女仆把它窝里的床单抽出来，因为她决定要洗床单，或者，主人家的儿子开玩笑地从它手里抢走了一块食物一为了这些看上去很小的事情，宠物生气地露出了牙齿。家里人害怕了。第二天，宠物发现自己和人类兄弟姐妹一起在吉普车的后排座上颠簸。车子开进了一座丛林。车上的每个人都认为那是一个奇怪的可怕的地方。他们来到一块林中空地。他们迅速查看了一下空地。突然，吉普车吼叫着开动起来，轮子卷起了灰尘，宠物看到它认识的那些人，它爱的那些人，正透过吉普车的后窗看着它，吉普车飞快地开走了。它被留了下来。宠物不明白。它和它的人类兄弟姐妹―样没有在这座丛林里生活的准备。它在附近等他们回来，努力消除心里涌起的恐慌。他们没有回来。太阳落山了。它很快便变得沮丧，放弃了对生命的希望。几天后它会死于饥饿和曝晒，或者是被犬类攻击。 "橘子汁"可能成为这些被遗弃的宠物中的一只。但她却进了本地治里动物园。她一生温柔平和。我记得，从我还是个孩子的时候起，她总是把我抱在怀里，用她有我手掌长的手指抓弄我的头发。她是一只年轻的雌性猩猩，在练习做妈妈的技巧。她长大成年，成了一只野性十足的猩猩时，我便在远处观察她。我以为自己非常了解她，可以预测她的每一个动作。这种凶残的野蛮的勇气让我意识到自己错了。我一生只了解她的一部分。 她重重地捶了一下那只野兽的头。那一下多重啊。那只野兽刚跑到坐板边上，便撞了上去，发出一声很尖锐的声音，同时它的前腿叉开，趴在了地上，我以为坐板或它的嘴或两者肯定碎了。鬣狗一瞬间便站了起来，身上的每一根毛都竖了起来，我的每一根头发也竖了起来，但是现在它的敌意已经不那么活跃。它退了回去。我欣喜若狂。"橘子汁"鼓舞人心的自我防卫让我的心里感到一阵喜悦。 喜悦的心情没有持续多久。 成年雌性猩猩打不过成年雄性斑点鬣狗。这是根据经验总结出的明显事实。让动物学家们了解这一点吧。如果"橘子汁"是只雄猩猩，如果她在磅秤上和她在我心中的分量一样重，事情也许会不一样。但是尽管她因为生活在动物园里，所以吃得太多，身体肥胖,她也只有110镑重。雌猩猩的个头只有雄猩猩一半大。但这不仅仅是一个重量和蛮力的问題。"橘子汁"并非毫无防御能力。最终起决定作用的是态度和知识。以水果为食的动物对捕杀知道多少？它能从哪里学到嫁往哪儿咬，咬多狠，咬多久？猩猩也许高一些，也许有强壮灵巧的手臂和长长的犬齿，但是如果它不知道如何将这些当做武器使用，那么这些就没有用处。鬣狗只用嘴便能打败猿猴，因为它知道自己想要什么，也知道如何去得到。 鬣狗回来了。它跳到坐板上，在"橘子汁"还没来得及出手之前便抓住了她的手腕。"橘子汁"用另一只胳膊去打鬣狗的头，但是这一下只让那野兽恶毒地嗥叫起来。她想用嘴咬，但是鬣狗的速度更快。哎，"橘子汁"的防御缺乏精确性和连贯性。她的恐惧 毫无用处，只妨碍了她。鬣狗放开她的手腕，很在行地咬住了她的脖子。 痛苦和恐惧让我说不出话来，我看着"橘子汁"徒劳地捶鬣狗，拽它的毛，同时她的喉咙被它的嘴紧紧地咬着。到了最后，她让我想到了我们自己：她写满恐惧的眼神，还有压抑的呜咽，都太像人类了。她努力想爬到油布上。鬣狗剧烈地摇晃着她。她从坐板上摔下来，摔到了船底，鬣狗也和她一起摔了下去。我听见声音，但是什么也没再看见。 下一个就是我：这一点非常清楚。我艰难地站了起来。泪水模糊了我的双眼，让我看不清。我已经不是在为我的家庭或是即将到来的死亡而哭泣了。我已经太麻木，想不到这些了。我哭是因为我实在太累了，该休息了。 我在油布上向前走去。船两端的油布尽管绷得很紧，但是中间却有些松；这一段能让我费力地颠着走三四步。我还得走到网和卷起来的油布旁边。在我当时的状况下，这就像一次艰苦的跋涉。当我把脚踏在中间横坐板上时，坚硬的坐板使我充满了生气，仿佛我踏上的是坚实的陆地。我让两只脚都站在坐板上，享受着稳稳站立的姿势。我感到头晕，但是既然死亡的时刻即将到来，这样的晕眩只让我更加感到一种恐惧的庄严。我把手抬到胸前一它们是我对付鬣狗的武器。它抬头看着我。它的嘴是红的。"橘子汁"躺在它身边，靠着死去的斑马。她的手臂张开着，短短的腿交叉着，稍稍转向一边。她看上去像被钉在十字架上的猿猴基督。只是她没有头。她的头被咬掉了。脖子上的伤口还在流血。这样的景象让眼睛感到恐惧，让心灵感到难以忍受。在朝鬣狗扑过去之前，为了在最后的搏斗之前鼓起勇气，我低下了头。 在我的两腿之间，在坐板下面，我看见了理查德·帕克的脑袋。巨大的脑袋。恍惚之中，那只脑袋看上去有木星那么大。爪子就像几卷《大不列颠百科全书》。 我回到船头，倒了下来。 那个夜晚我是在谵妄的状态中度过的。我一直在想我是睡着了，梦见了一只老虎，现在正在醒来。 第48章 理查德·帕克的名字是一个笔误。一只黑豹在给孟加拉库尔纳区松达班以外的地方带来恐慌。它最近刚叼走了一个小女孩。人们只找到她的一只小手，手心有用散沫花汁画的图案，手上戴着几只塑料手镯。她是这只擭食的动物两个月来杀死的第七个人。而且它越来越大胆了。前一个受害者是一个男人，他大白天里在自己的田里遭到了袭击。那只野兽把他拖进森林里，吃了他的大半个头，右腿的肉和所有内脏。他的尸体被发现时，正挂在树杈上。那天夜里，村民在附近安排了一个人值班，希望当场捉住它，杀死它，但是它一直没有出现。林业部雇用了一个专业猎手。他在曾有两个人遭到袭击的河边的一棵树上搭了一个隐蔽的小平台。一只山羊被拴在河岸的一根柱子上。猎手守候了好几夜。他以为那只黑豹会是年老体弱的雄豹，牙齿都咬不动了，只能抓像人这样容易抓的猎物。但是，一天夜里，走到空地上来的是一只漂亮的老虎。一只带着一只小虎崽的雌虎。山羊咩咩地叫了起来。奇怪的是,那只看上去大约三个月大的小虎崽却没有理睬山羊。它快步跑到水边，迫不及待地喝起水来。虎妈妈也和它一样。和饥饿相比,干渴更为急迫。老虎解渴之后才转向山羊，想要吃饱肚子。猎手有两枝熗：一枝装的是真正的子弹，另一枝装的是麻醉镖。这只动物不是吃人的豹子，但是她靠人类居住的地方太近了，可能会给村民造成威胁，尤其是她带着一只小虎崽。他拿起了那枝装了麻醉镖的熗。就在老虎准备扑倒山羊的时候，他开熗了。老虎用后腿直立起来，吼叫着跑走了。但是麻醉镖并不像一杯好茶一样让人慢慢人睡；而是像一瓶烈酒一样让人很快丧失知觉。老虎的突然动作使麻醉剂更快地起了作用。猎手用无线电通知了自己的助手。他们在离小河200码的地方发现了老虎。她还有知觉。她的后腿已经不能动弹，前腿摇摇晃晃地站不稳。猎手们靠近时，她想逃走，但是却无法动弹。她转身面对着他们,抬起一只爪子，想要杀死他们。这个动作只是让她失去了平衡。她倒了下去，本地治里动物园有了两只新来的老虎。小虎崽在附近的灌木丛里被发现了，它正害怕得喵喵直叫。那个叫理查德·帕克的猎手空手把他抱了起来。他记得他曾急急忙忙地跑到河边去喝水，于是给他起了一个教名叫"口渴"。但是豪拉火车站的运货员显然是个又糊涂又勤勉的人。我们收到的所有有关小虎崽的文件上都清楚地写着他的名字是理查德·帕克，猎手名叫口渴，而他的姓氏不详。父亲因为这弄混淆的名字格格格地笑了好一阵子，而理查德·帕克的名字便这么用了下来。 我不知道那位口渴·不详先生有没有捉到那只吃人的黑豹。 第49章 今晨，我无法动弹。虚弱的身体将我钉在了油布上。每一次思考都让我筋疲力尽。我让自己专心于正确的思考。最后，几个想法就像穿越沙漠的一队骆驼一样，慢慢地聚到了一起。 这一天就像前一天一样，空气温暖，阴云密布，云很低，风很轻。这是一个想法。船在轻轻地摇晃，这是另一个想法。 我第一次想到了食物。三天来我没有喝一滴水，没有吃一口东西，没有睡一分钟。显然这就是我为什么如此虚弱的原因。这一发现让我有了一点儿力气。 理查德·帕克还在船上。实际上，他就在我下面。这样一件事情还需要经过确认才能相信是真的，真让人难以置信，但是我在仔细考虑了很久以后，在对心里的不同想法和观点做了评估以后，才得出结论：这不是一个梦，不是一个错觉，不是一个错误的记忆，不是一个幻觉，也不是任何其他不真实的东西，而是我在虚弱和非常焦虑的状态下看见的一件实实在在的真实的事情。一旦我感到自己好一些了，可以去调查了，我就会去证实这件事情的真实性。 两天半以来，我一直都没有注意到在这条26英尺长的救生艇上有一只450磅重的孟加拉虎，这个谜题等我以后更有力气的时候一定要努力解开。按比例算，这样的事迹肯定使理查德·帕克成了航海史上最大的偷渡者。从鼻尖算到尾巴尖，他的身体占据了船长的三分之一。 你也许认为那一刻我丧失了所有的希望。的确如此。正因为如此，我振作了起来，感到好多了。我们常常在体育比赛中看到这样的情形，难道不是吗？网球赛的挑战者开始的时候很强壮，但是在比赛中很快便失去了信心。上届冠军连连得分。但是在最后一局，当挑战者已经没有什么好输的时候，他又开始变得放松，大胆，无忧无虑。突然，他开始猛烈拼杀，冠军必须打得非常艰苦才能得到那最后的几分。我也是一样。对付一只鬣狗似乎还有一点点儿可能性，但是理查德·帕克显然比我强壮多了，我甚至都不值得去担心。船上有一只老虎，我完了。既然这一点已经注定了，为什么不为我干渴的喉咙做点儿什么呢？ 我相信那天早晨救了我的命的就是这件事，就是我真的快要渴死了这件事。这个词已经跳进了我的头脑里，我再也不能想任何别的事，似乎这个词本身是咸的，我越想越糟。我听说对空气的渴望是一种非常强烈的感觉，胜过了对水的渴望。我说，这种对空气的渴望只有几分钟。几分钟以后你就死了，窒息的不舒服感觉消失了。而干渴却是一件长期的事。瞧：十字架上的耶稣因窒息而死，但是他惟一的抱怨是太渴了。如果干渴如此累人，甚至上帝的化身都因此而抱怨，那么想想看这对一个普通人的影响吧。这足以让我疯得胡言乱语。我从不知道还有比嘴里这种腐臭的味道和面糊似的感觉，喉咙后面无法忍受的压迫感，还有血液正变成黏稠的糖浆，几乎无法流动的感觉更糟糕的肉体折磨。的确，相比之下，老虎根本算不了什么。 于是，我把关于理查德·帕克的所有想法放到一边，毫不畏惧地去寻找淡水。 我心中能够探测水源的占卜杖灵敏地向下伸去，一口泉眼喷出水来，因为我想起来自己是在一条真正的标准的救生艇上，这样的救生艇一定备有各种补给品的。这似乎是个很有道理的主意。哪一个船长会做不到这样一件保证自己船员安全的最基本的事情呢？哪一个船用杂货零售商不会想到在拯救生命的借口下多赚一些钱呢？这是肯定的。船上有淡水。我所要做的只是找到淡水在哪里。 这就是说我得移动。 我朝船中间、油布边缘爬去。这是艰难的爬行。我感到自己正在爬一座火山山坡，就要越过火山口边缘，看到一大锅沸腾的橘黄色岩浆。我趴在地上，小心地把头移过去。我只把头伸到足以让我看清下面的情况的地方。我没有看见理查德·帕克。但是鬣狗却可以看得很清楚。它在斑马被吃剩的尸体后面。正看着我。 我已经不再害怕它了。它离我还不到10英尺远，但是我的心没有停止跳动一下。理查德·帕克的存在至少有这么一点用处。在老虎面前害怕这样一只滑稽的狗，就像树倒下来时还害怕碎木片。我对这只动物非常生气。"你这只丑陋的臭东西。"我咕哝着说。我没有站起来用一根棍子把它打下船去，这只是因为我没有力气也没有棍子，而不是因为没有勇气。 鬣狗感觉到了我的优势吗？它有没有对自己说超级老大正看着我呢？我最好别动？"我不知道。不管怎样，它没有动。实际上，它低着头的样子似乎说明它想躲开我。但是躲藏是没有用的。很快它就会得到应有的惩罚。 理查德·帕克也是这只动物行为古怪的原因。鬣狗为什么不离开斑马身后这样一个狭小的空间，它为什么等了那么长时间才把斑马杀死，其中的原因现在已经清楚了。它是害怕那只比自己更大的野兽，害怕碰那只更大的野兽的食物。毫无疑问，"橘子汁"和鬣狗之间能有勉强的暂时的和平，我能暂时不受侵害，都是由于这同样的原因：在这样一只强大的食肉动物面前，我们都是猎物，平常的捕猎方式受到了影响。似乎老虎的存在把我从鬣狗嘴里救了出来——显然这是教科书上一个跳出油锅又落火坑的例子。 但是这只巨兽的行为却不像一只巨兽，太不像了，以至于鬣狗敢于冒险。长长的三天当中，理查德·帕克表现消极，这需要解 释。我只能想出两个原因：镇静剂和晕船。父亲通常给一些动物注射镇静剂，以缓解它们的紧张情绪。在船沉没之前他刚给理查德·帕克注射了镇静剂吗？沉船给他带来的震惊一吵闹声，落进海里，挣扎着游到救生艇上一增强广镇静剂的作用吗？在此之后他又开始晕船？这些是我惟一能想到的可能的解释。我对这个问题失去了兴趣。我感兴趣的只有水。 我仔细检查了救生艇。 第50章 救生艇的精确尺寸是深3?5英尺，宽8英尺，长26英尺。我知道这个尺寸，因为这几个黑色的数字就印在舷边坐板上。坐板上还印着一些文字，说明这条救生艇的设计可以使它最多容纳32人。和这么多人一起在救生艇上，那不是很快乐吗？而现在船上只有我们三个，却已经很拥挤了。船的形状是对称的，两端都是圆的，很难区分船头和船尾。一端有一只小小的固定的舵，说明那就是船尾，其实那只舵只不过是龙骨向后延伸的部分，而船头除了我增加的东西之外，还有一根艏柱，它那突出的前端是造船史上最糟、最钝的船首。铝制的船壳漆成白色，上面密密地钉着铆钉。 这是船的外部。船内部有舷边坐板和浮箱，因此不像想像的那么宽敞。船两侧是两排舷边坐板，坐板向船两头延伸，在船头和船尾向上升，形成末端坐板，形状大体上是三角形的。这些坐板就是密封的浮箱的表面。舷边坐板宽1.5英尺，末端坐板高3英尺；因此，救生艇敞开的空间长20英尺，宽5英尺。这个100平方英尺的空间形成了理查德·帕克的地盘。横跨这个空间的是三块横坐板，其中包括被鬣狗撞碎的那块。这三块坐板宽2英尺，坐板与坐板之间距离相等，与船板相距2英尺——如果理查德·帕克在坐板下面，那么他只有这么大的活动空间，如果超出了这个范围,他的头就会撞在所谓的天花扳上。油布下面还有12英寸的空间，就是支撑油布的舷边和坐板之间的距离，因此一共是3英尺的空间，几乎不够他站起来。经过处理的窄木板铺成的船板是水平的，浮箱的立面与船板成直角。因此，奇怪的是，船的两端是圆的，两侧也是圆的，而内部却是长方形的。 似乎橘黄色——如此可爱的印度人喜爱的颜色——是求生的颜色，因为整条船的内部、油布、救生衣、救生圈、船桨和船上其他大多数重要物品都是橘黄色的。甚至无弹珠塑料哨子也是橘黄色的。 船朱两侧分别有罗马大写字母印着"齐姆楚姆"和"巴拿马"的字样，字是黑色的，十分显眼。 油布是经过处理的粗帆布做的，皮肤被磨一会儿就会觉得难以忍受。油布一直铺到中间的横坐板那边。因此一条坐板被盖在油布下面，在理查德·帕克的窝里；中间的横坐板就在油布边上，露在外面；第三条坐板在死斑马的身体下面，已经碎了。 船上有六只桨架，是把船桨固定在舷边的U形槽口；还有五只船桨，第六只在我想把理查德·帕克推开时弄丢了。三只船桨放在一条坐板上，一只放在另一条坐板上，还有一只成了救我性命的船首。我怀疑这些船桨能不能推动船只前进。这只救生艇可不是赛它沉重、结实的结构设计是为了能让它稳稳地浮在海面上，而不是为了让它在海上航行，尽管，我想，如果有32个人划桨，我们应该可以前进的。 我并没有立刻理解所有这些细节——还有很多其他细节。我是出于需要才慢慢地注意到它们的。如果一些小东西，一些细节，产生了变化，在我心里呈现出新的状态，我就会陷人最悲惨的绝境，面临凄凉的未来。那个小东西不再是以前的小东西了，而成了世界上最重要的东西，将会拯救我生命的东西。这样的事一次又一次地发生。需要是发明之母，这句话太对了，真的太对了。 第51章 但是我第一次看救生艇的时候，并没有看见我想看见的细节。船尾和舷边坐板表面没有一处接缝，浮箱的外壁也是一样。船板平平的，与船壳相连；下面不可能有密窖。这一点是肯定的了：船上任何地方都没有锁柜、盒子或任何其他容器。只有平滑的没有一丝接缝的橘黄色的表面。 我对船长和船用杂货零售商的判断产生了动摇。生存的希望之光开始摇曳不定。我的干渴仍然没有消除。 要是补给品在船头油布下面呢？我又转身往回爬。我感到自己就像一只干瘪的蜥蜴。我把油布往下按了按。油布绷得很紧。如果我把它卷起来，就可以看到下面可能储存的补给品了。但那就意味着在理查德·帕克的窝的上方开一个孔。 这没问题。干渴促使我开始行动。我把船桨从油布下面抽了出来，把救生圈套在腰间，把船桨横放在船头。我趴在舷边，用两个拇指把拉住油布的绳子从一只钩子下面推过去。这很费劲。但是从第一只钩子下面推过去之后，再推过第二只第三只就容易多了。艏柱另一边也是同样。我胳膊肘下面的油布变松了。我趴在油布上，两条腿对着船尾。 我把油布卷起来一点儿。我立刻得到了回报。船头和船尾一样，有一块末端坐板。在坐板上，离艏柱只有几英寸的地方，一只搭扣像一粒钻石一样闪闪发光。一只盖子的轮廓出现了。我的心开始枰怦直跳。我又把油布卷起来一些。我向下望去。盖子的形状像一个角被磨圆了的三角形，3英尺宽，2英尺深。就在那个时候，我看见了一堆黄色。我猛地把头缩了回来。但是那堆黄色并没有动，而且看上去不大对劲。我又看了看。那不是一只老虎。是一件救生衣。理查德·帕克的窝后面有好几件救生衣。 一阵颤抖传遍了我全身。就好像透过树叶之间的空隙一样，我透过救生衣之间的空隙，第一次真真切切地头脑清醒地瞥见了理查德·帕克的部分身体。我能看见的是他的腰腿部和一部分后背。黄褐色，有条纹，简直庞大极了。他正面对着船尾趴着。除了身体两侧因呼吸而起伏外，他一动不动。我眨了眨眼睛，不敢相信他离我那么近。他就在那儿,在我身体下面2英尺的地方。如果伸直了身子，我可以拧到他的屁股。我们之间什么都没有，只隔着一块油布，而油布是个很容易克服的障碍。 "上帝保全我吧！"没有任何祈求比这一句更加饱含激情、语气却又更加轻柔了。我纹丝不动地躺着。 我必须得有水。我把手伸下去，轻轻地拨开搭扣，揭开盖子。下面是一只锁柜。 我刚刚提到过关于细节成为救命的东西的看法。这儿就有一个细节：盖子用铰链连接在船头坐板边上大约一英寸的地方——这就是说盖子掀开后就隔断了油布和坐板之间12英寸的空间，理查德·帕克把救生衣推开后可以通过这块空间扑向我。我把盖子打开，让它靠在横放的船桨和油布边上。我爬到艏柱上，面对着船，一只脚踩在打开的锁柜边上，另一只脚抵住盖子。如果理查德·帕克决定从身后袭击我，他就必须把盖子推开。这一推不仅能警告我，而且会让我套着救生圈向后掉进水里。如果他从另一边来，从船尾爬到油布上，我极佳的位置让我早早地就能看见他，然后跳进水里。我环顾救生艇四周。没有看见鲨鱼。 我从两腿之间向下看去。我想我高兴得要晕过去了。打开的锁柜里崭新的东西在闪闪发光。噢，多么令人愉快的机器制造的货物，人造的装置，创造的东西啊！物资展现在面前的那一刻给我带来了极大的快乐一希望、惊喜、难以置信、激动、感激令人陶醉地混合在一起，糅合成了一种感情一这是任何圣诞节、生日、婚礼、排灯节或其他赠送礼物的场合都无法相比的。我真的是高兴得晕头转向了。 我的目光立刻落在了我在寻找的东西上。无论是用瓶子、罐子还是盒子,毫无疑问,水被装起来了。在这只救生艇上,生命之酒是盛在淡淡的金色罐子里的，罐子握在手里大小正合适。酿制标签上的黑字写着饮用水。酿造商是只?食品有限公司。容量是500毫升。这样的罐子有好几堆，简直太多了，一眼都数不过来。 我的手颤抖着伸下去拿起一罐。罐子摸上去凉凉的，感觉很重。我摇了摇。里面的气泡发出沉闷的格格格的声音。我很快就不会再受那可恶的干渴的折磨了。这个想法让我的脉搏加快了跳动。我只需要打开罐子就行了。 我犹豫了。怎么打开呢？ 我有一听罐子——我肯定有开罐器吧——我朝锁柜里看去。那里面有很多东西。我仔细地翻找起来。我开始没有耐心了。急切的期待让我再也无法忍受了。我现在就要喝，否则我就要死了。我找不到想要的工具。但是没时间徒劳无益地痛苦了。必须行动。能用指甲把它撬开吗？我试了。撬不开。牙齿呢？不值得一试。我朝舷边看去。油布上的钩子。又短，又钝，又结实。我跪在坐板上，身体前倾，两只手抓住罐子，猛地在钩子上撞了一下。一大块凹痕。又撞了一下。第一块凹痕旁边又有了一块凹痕。借着一下又一下的撞击，我的小窍门成功了。一滴珍珠般的水珠出现了。我把水珠舔了。我把罐子掉过来，把嫌底往钩子上撞，想再撞一个洞。我像上了瘾一样地撞着。撞了一个大洞。我坐回到舷边上。把罐子举到面前。张开嘴。倾斜罐子。 我的感觉也许可以想像，但却很难描绘。伴随着我贪婪的喉咙发出的有节奏的汩汩声，清纯、甘甜、鲜美、晶莹的水流进了我的身体。那就是液体的生命。我喝光了金色杯子里的最后一滴，在洞口吸着吮着，把剩下来的水分都吸进嘴里。我叫了一声"啊"，把罐子扔出船外，又拿了一罐。我用开第一罐水的办法打开第二罐，里面的东西同样迅速消失了。这只罐子也飞到了船外，我又打开了下一罐。很快这只罐子也到了海上。又一罐被匆匆喝光了。我喝了4罐，两升最精美的甘露，然后才停下来。你也许认为在渴了这么长时间以后一下子喝下这么多水可能会让我的身体不舒服。荒唐！我这辈子从来没有感觉这么舒服过。嗨，摸摸我的脑门！我的前额湿湿的，是刚冒出来的干净的令人神清气爽的汗珠。我身体里的每一个部位，直到皮肤上的毛孔，都在表达着快乐。 我迅速沉醉在幸福安乐的感觉之中。我的嘴变得湿润柔软。我忘记了喉咙的后部。我的皮肤松弛下来。我的关节更灵活了。我的心跳像一面快乐的鼓在敲，血液开始在血管里流淌，就像参加婚礼回来的汽车一路鸣着喇叭穿过小镇。我的肌肉又恢复了力量和敏捷。我的大脑更加清醒了。真的，我是在起死回生。这样的沉醉令我欣喜若狂，欣喜若狂。我告诉你，喝醉了酒很丢人,但喝醉了水却那么光彩，令人心醉神迷。有好几分钟我都沐浴在狂喜与富足之中。 一种空荡荡的感觉引起了我的注意。我摸了摸肚子。那是一个硬邦邦的空洞。要是现在能吃点儿东西就太好了。玛沙拉米粉烙饼和椰子酸辣酱？嗯！甚至更好：酸面薄煎饼！嗯！噢！我把两只手放进嘴里——黑绿豆米饼！仅仅是想到了这个词，我的嘴巴后面就感到一阵疼痛，我的嘴里就涌出了大量唾液。我的右手开始抽搐起来。它伸过去，差点儿碰到了我想像中煮得半熟的美味的扁饭团。右手的手指伸到了冒着热气的滚烫的饭团里……它捏了一个饭团，将饭团浸在沙司里：它把饭团放进我嘴里……我嚼了起来……噢，多么剧烈的痛苦啊！ 我往锁柜里看去，寻找着食物。我找到几盒"七重洋标准急用口粮"，是遥远的带有异国情调的挪威卑尔根产的。这顿早饭要补上九顿没有吃的饭，还不包括母亲带来的少量饭菜。这顿饭是半公斤重的一个方块，紧密，实在，用银色塑料真空包装，外面用十二种语言写着说明。英语说明是，这盒口粮里包括18块强化饼干，其中的成分有烤小麦、动物脂肪和葡萄糖，每24小时食用量不得超过6块。脂肪让人遗憾，但是考虑到特殊情况，那个素食的我完全可以捏着鼻子忍受。 方块上方写着沿此处撕开，一个黑色箭头指着塑料边缘。边缘在我的手指下开了。9个用蜡纸包着的长方形条状的东西掉了出来。我打开一条。里面的东西自然地分成了两半。是两块几乎是正方形的饼干，颜色淡淡的，香气扑彝。我咬了一口。天啊，谁会想到呢？我从来没有料想到。这是我一直都不知道的秘密：挪威烹调技术是世界上最高明的！这些饼干好吃得令人惊讶。芳香可口，碰在上腭上，感觉柔软细腻，既不太甜也不太咸。被牙齿咬碎时发出愉快的嘎吱嘎吱声。饼干和唾液混合在一起，成了颗粒状的面糊，让舌头和嘴巴欣喜陶醉。当我把饼干咽下去时，我的肚子只能说出一个词：哈利路亚！ 几分钟后整包饼干就不见了，包装纸随风飞舞。我想再打开一盒，但又想了想，还是决定不这么做。稍微克制一下没有坏处。实际上，肚子里装着半千克急用口粮，我已经感觉很饱了。 我决定应该弄清楚我面前的珍宝箱里究竟有些什么。锁柜很大，比开口要大。里面的空间一直延伸到船壳，并向舷边坐板里面伸进去一些。我把脚放进锁柜,坐在柜子边上，背靠着艏柱。我数了数七重洋盒子。我已经吃了一盒，还剩31盒。按照说明，每盒500克一盒的口粮应该可以供一个幸存者食用3天。那就是说我的口粮可以够我吃——31x3——93天！说明还建议幸存者限制自己的饮水量，每24小时只喝半升水。我数了数装水的罐子。一共124雄。每罐有半升水。因此水可以够我喝124天。简单的算术从来没有让我这样高兴过。 我还有什么？我迫不及待地把胳膊猛地伸进锁柜，拿上来一件又一件美妙的东西。每一件东西，无论是什么，都让我感到安慰。我需要陪伴和安慰，这种感觉太强烈了，我感觉制造这些大批量生产的东西当中的每一件所需要的注意力就像是对我的特别关注。我不停地咕哝着谢谢！谢谢！谢谢！" |
CHAPTER 46 Clouds that gathered where ships were supposed to appear, and the passing of the day, slowly did the job of unbending my smile. It is pointless to say that this or that night was the worst of my life. I have so many bad nights to choose from that I've made none the champion. Still, that second night at sea stands in my memory as one of exceptional suffering, different from the frozen anxiety of the first night in being a more conventional sort of suffering, the broken-down kind consisting of weeping and sadness and spiritual pain, and different from later ones in that I still had the strength to appreciate fully what I felt. And that dreadful night was preceded by a dreadful evening. I noticed the presence of sharks around the lifeboat. The sun was beginning to pull the curtains on the day. It was a placid explosion of orange and red, a great chromatic symphony, a colour canvas of supernatural proportions, truly a splendid Pacific sunset, quite wasted on me. The sharks were makos—swift, pointy-snouted predators with long, murderous teeth that protruded noticeably from their mouths. They were about six or seven feet long, one was larger still. I watched them anxiously. The largest one came at the boat quickly, as if to attack, its dorsal fin rising out of the water by several inches, but it dipped below just before reaching us and glided underfoot with fearsome grace. It returned, not coming so close this time, then disappeared. The other sharks paid a longer visit, coming and going at different depths, some in plain sight at hand's reach below the surface of the water, others deeper down. There were other fish too, big and small, colourful, differently shaped. I might have considered them more closely had my attention not been drawn elsewhere: Orange Juice's head came into sight. She turned and brought her arm onto the tarpaulin in a motion that imitated exactly the way you or I would bring out an arm and place it on the back of the chair next to our own in a gesture of expansive relaxation. But such was clearly not her disposition. Bearing an expression profoundly sad and mournful, she began to look about, slowly turning her head from side to side. Instantly the likeness of apes lost its amusing character. She had given birth at the zoo to two young ones, strapping males five and eight years old that were her—and our—pride. It was unmistakably these she had on her mind as she searched over the water, unintentionally mimicking what I had been doing these last thirty-six hours. She noticed me and expressed nothing about it. I was just another animal that had lost everything and was vowed to death. My mood plummeted. Then, with only a snarl for notice, the hyena went amok. It hadn't moved from its cramped quarters all day. It put its front legs on the zebra's side, reached over and gathered a fold of skin in its jaws. It pulled roughly. A strip of hide came off the zebra's belly like gift-wrap paper comes off a gift, in a smooth-edged swath, only silently, in the way of tearing skin, and with greater resistance. Immediately blood poured forth like a river. Barking, snorting and squealing, the zebra came to life to defend itself. It pushed on its front legs and reared its head in an attempt to bite the hyena, but the beast was out of reach. It shook its good hind leg, which did no more than explain the origin of the previous night's knocking: it was the hoof beating against the side of the boat. The zebras attempts at self-preservation only whipped the hyena into a frenzy of snarling and biting. It made a gaping wound in the zebra's side. When it was no longer satisfied with the reach it had from behind the zebra, the hyena climbed onto its haunches. It started pulling out coils of intestines and other viscera. There was no order to what it was doing. It bit here, swallowed there, seemingly overwhelmed by the riches before it. After devouring half the liver, it started tugging on the whitish, balloon-like stomach bag. But it was heavy, and with the zebra's haunches being higher than its belly—and blood being slippery—the hyena started to slide into its victim. It plunged head and shoulders into the zebra's guts, up to the knees of its front legs. It pushed itself out, only to slide back down. It finally settled in this position, half in, half out. The zebra was being eaten alive from the inside. It protested with diminishing vigour. Blood started coming out its nostrils. Once or twice it reared its head straight up, as if appealing to heaven—the abomination of the moment was perfectly expressed. Orange Juice did not view these doings indifferently. She raised herself to her full height on her bench. With her incongruously small legs and massive torso, she looked like a refrigerator on crooked wheels. But with her giant arms lifted in the air, she looked impressive. Their span was greater than her height—one hand hung over the water, the other reached across the width of the lifeboat nearly to the opposite side. She pulled back her lips, showing off enormous canines, and began to roar. It was a deep, powerful, huffing roar, amazing for an animal normally as silent as a giraffe. The hyena was as startled as I was by the outburst. It cringed and retreated. But not for long. After an intense stare at Orange Juice, the hairs on its neck and shoulders stood up and its tail rose straight in the air. It climbed back onto the dying zebra. There, blood dripping from its mouth, it responded to Orange Juice in kind, with a higher-pitched roar. The two animals were three feet apart, wide-open jaws directly facing. They put all their energies into their cries, their bodies shaking with the effort. I could see deep down the hyena's throat. The Pacific air, which until a minute before had been carrying the whistling and whispering of the sea, a natural melody I would have called soothing had the circumstances been happier, was all at once filled with this appalling noise, like the fury of an all-out battle, with the ear-splitting firing of guns and cannons and the thunderous blasts of bombs. The hyena's roar filled the higher range of what my ears could hear, Orange Juice's bass roar filled the lower range, and somewhere in between I could hear the cries of the helpless zebra. My ears were full. Nothing more, not one more sound, could push into them and be registered. I began to tremble uncontrollably. I was convinced the hyena was going to lunge at Orange Juice. I could not imagine that matters could get worse, but they did. The zebra snorted some of its blood overboard. Seconds later there was a hard knock against the boat, followed by another. The water began to churn around us with sharks. They were searching for the source of the blood, for the food so close at hand. Their tail fins flashed out of the water, their heads swung out. The boat was hit repeatedly. I was not afraid we would capsize—I thought the sharks would actually punch through the metal hull and sink us. With every bang the animals jumped and looked alarmed, but they were not to be distracted from their main business of roaring in each others faces. I was certain the shouting match would turn physical. Instead it broke off abruptly after a few minutes. Orange Juice, with huffs and lip-smacking noises, turned away, and the hyena lowered its head and retreated behind the zebra's butchered body. The sharks, finding nothing, stopped knocking on the boat and eventually left. Silence fell at last. A foul and pungent smell, an earthy mix of rust and excrement, hung in the air. There was blood everywhere, coagulating to a deep red crust. A single fly buzzed about, sounding to me like an alarm bell of insanity. No ship, nothing at all, had appeared on the horizon that day, and now the day was ending. When the sun slipped below the horizon, it was not only the day that died and the poor zebra, but my family as well. With that second sunset, disbelief gave way to pain and grief. They were dead; I could no longer deny it. What a thing to acknowledge in your heart! To lose a brother is to lose someone with whom you can share the experience of growing old, who is supposed to bring you a sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, creatures to people the tree of your life and give it new branches. To lose your father is to lose the one whose guidance and help you seek, who supports you like a tree trunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun above you. It is like losing—I'm sorry, I would rather not go on. I lay down on the tarpaulin and spent the whole night weeping and grieving, my face buried in my arms. The hyena spent a good part of the night eating. CHAPTER 47 The day broke, humid and overcast, with the wind warm and the sky a dense blanket of grey clouds that looked like bunched-up, dirty cotton sheets. The sea had not changed. It heaved the lifeboat up and down in a regular motion. The zebra was still alive. I couldn't believe it. It had a two-foot-wide hole in its body, a fistula like a freshly erupted volcano, spewed half-eaten organs glistening in the light or giving off a dull, dry shine, yet, in its strictly essential parts, it continued to pump with life, if weakly. Movement was confined to a tremor in the rear leg and an occasional blinking of the eyes. I was horrified. I had no idea a living being could sustain so much injury and go on living. The hyena was tense. It was not settling down to its night of rest despite the daylight. Perhaps it was a result of taking in so much food; its stomach was grossly dilated. Orange Juice was in a dangerous mood too. She was fidgeting and showing her teeth. I stayed where I was, curled up near the prow. I was weak in body and in soul. I was afraid I would fall into the water if I tried to balance on the oar. The zebra was dead by noon. It was glassy-eyed and had become perfectly indifferent to the hyena's occasional assaults. Violence broke out in the afternoon. Tension had risen to an unbearable level. The hyena was yipping. Orange Juice was grunting and making loud lip-smacking noises. All of a sudden their complaining fused and shot up to top volume. The hyena jumped over the remains of the zebra and made for Orange Juice. I believe I have made clear the menace of a hyena. It was certainly so clear in my mind that I gave up on Orange Juice's life before she even had a chance to defend it. I underestimated her. I underestimated her grit. She thumped the beast on the head. It was something shocking. It made my heart melt with love and admiration and fear. Did I mention she was a former pet, callously discarded by her Indonesian owners? Her story was like that of every inappropriate pet. It goes something like this: The pet is bought when it is small and cute. It gives much amusement to its owners. Then it grows in size and in appetite. It reveals itself incapable of being house-trained. Its increasing strength makes it harder to handle. One day the maid pulls the sheet from its nest because she has decided to wash it, or the son jokingly pinches a morsel of food from its hands—over some such seemingly small matter, the pet flashes its teeth in anger and the family is frightened. The very next day the pet finds itself bouncing at the back of the family Jeep in the company of its human brothers and sisters. A jungle is entered. Everyone in the vehicle finds it a strange and formidable place. A clearing is come to. It is briefly explored. All of a sudden the Jeep roars to life and its wheels kick up dirt and the pet sees all the ones it has known and loved looking at it from the back window as the Jeep speeds away. It has been left behind. The pet does not understand. It is as unprepared for this jungle as its human siblings are. It waits around for their return, trying to quell the panic rising in it. They do not return. The sun sets. Quickly it becomes depressed and gives up on life. It dies of hunger and exposure in the next few days. Or is attacked by dogs. Orange Juice could have been one of these forlorn pets. Instead she ended up at the Pondicherry Zoo. She remained gentle and unaggressive her whole life. I have memories from when I was a child of her never-ending arms surrounding me, her fingers, each as long as my whole hand, picking at my hair. She was a young female practising her maternal skills. As she matured into her full wild self, I observed her at a distance. I thought I knew her so well that I could predict her every move. I thought I knew not only her habits but also her limits. This display of ferocity, of savage courage, made me realize that I was wrong. All my life I had known only a part of her. She thumped the beast on the head. And what a thump it was. The beast's head hit the bench it had just reached, making such a sharp noise, besides splaying its front legs flat out, that I thought surely either the bench or its jaw or both must break. The hyena was up again in an instant, every hair on its body as erect as the hairs on my head, but its hostility wasn't quite so kinetic now. It withdrew. I exulted. Orange Juice's stirring defence brought a glow to my heart. It didn't last long. An adult female orang-utan cannot defeat an adult male spotted hyena. That is the plain empirical truth. Let it become known among zoologists. Had Orange Juice been a male, had she loomed as large on the scales as she did in my heart, it might have been another matter. But portly and overfed though she was from living in the comfort of a zoo, even so she tipped the scales at barely 110 pounds. Female orang-utans are half the size of males. But it is not simply a question of weight and brute strength. Orange Juice was far from defenceless. What it comes down to is attitude and knowledge. What does a fruit eater know about killing? Where would it learn where to bite, how hard, for how long? An orang-utan may be taller, may have very strong and agile arms and long canines, but if it does not know how to use these as weapons, they are of little use. The hyena, with only its jaws, will overcome the ape because it knows what it wants and how to get it. The hyena came back. It jumped on the bench and caught Orange Juice at the wrist before she could strike. Orange Juice hit the hyena on the head with her other arm, but the blow only made the beast snarl viciously. She made to bite, but the hyena moved faster. Alas, Orange Juice's defence lacked precision and coherence. Her fear was something useless that only hampered her. The hyena let go of her wrist and expertly got to her throat. Dumb with pain and horror, I watched as Orange Juice thumped the hyena ineffectually and pulled at its hair while her throat was being squeezed by its jaws. To the end she reminded me of us: her eyes expressed fear in such a humanlike way, as did her strained whimpers. She made an attempt to climb onto the tarpaulin. The hyena violently shook her. She fell off the bench to the bottom of the lifeboat, the hyena with her. I heard noises but no longer saw anything. I was next. That much was clear to me. With some difficulty I stood up. I could hardly see through the tears in my eyes. I was no longer crying because of my family or because of my impending death. I was far too numb to consider either. I was crying because I was exceedingly tired and it was time to get rest. I advanced over the tarpaulin. Though tautly stretched at the end of the boat, it sagged a little in the middle; it made for three or four toilsome, bouncy steps. And I had to reach over the net and the rolled-up tarpaulin. And these efforts in a lifeboat that was constantly rolling. In the condition I was in, it felt like a great trek. When I laid my foot on the middle cross bench, its hardness had an invigorating effect on me, as if I had just stepped on solid ground. I planted both my feet on the bench and enjoyed my firm stand. I was feeling dizzy, but since the capital moment of my life was coming up this dizziness only added to my sense of frightened sublimity. I raised my hands to the level of my chest—the weapons I had against the hyena. It looked up at me. Its mouth was red. Orange Juice lay next to it, against the dead zebra. Her arms were spread wide open and her short legs were folded together and slightly turned to one side. She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross. Except for her head. She was beheaded. The neck wound was still bleeding. It was a sight horrible to the eyes and killing to the spirit. Just before throwing myself upon the hyena, to collect myself before the final struggle, I looked down. Between my feet, under the bench, I beheld Richard Parker's head. It was gigantic. It looked the size of the planet Jupiter to my dazed senses. His paws were like volumes of Encyclopaedia Britannica. I made my way back to the bow and collapsed. I spent the night in a state of delirium. I kept thinking I had slept and was awaking after dreaming of a tiger. CHAPTER 48 Richard Parker was so named because of a clerical error. A panther was terrorizing the Khulna district of Bangladesh, just outside the Sundarbans. It had recently carried off a little girl. All that was found of her was a tiny hand with a henna pattern on the palm and a few plastic bangles. She was the seventh person killed in two months by the marauder. And it was growing bolder. The previous victim was a man who had been attacked in broad daylight in his field. The beast dragged him off into the forest, where it ate a good part of his head, the flesh off his right leg and all his innards. His corpse was found hanging in the fork of a tree. The villagers kept a watch nearby that night, hoping to surprise the panther and kill it, but it never appeared. The Forest Department hired a professional hunter. He set up a small, hidden platform in a tree near a river where two of the attacks had taken place. A goat was tied to a stake on the river's bank. The hunter waited several nights. He assumed the panther would be an old, wasted male with worn teeth, incapable of catching anything more difficult than a human. But it was a sleek tiger that stepped into the open one night. A female with a single cub. The goat bleated. Oddly, the cub, who looked to be about three months old, paid little attention to the goat. It raced to the water's edge, where it drank eagerly. Its mother followed suit. Of hunger and thirst, thirst is the greater imperative. Only once the tiger had quenched her thirst did she turn to the goat to satisfy her hunger. The hunter had two rifles with him: one with real bullets, the other with immobilizing darts. This animal was not the man-eater, but so close to human habitation she might pose a threat to the villagers, especially as she was with cub. He picked up the gun with the darts. He fired as the tiger was about to fell the goat. The tiger reared up and snarled and raced away. But immobilizing darts don't bring on sleep gently, like a good cup of tea; they knock out like a bottle of hard liquor straight up. A burst of activity on the animal's part makes it act all the faster. The hunter called his assistants on the radio. They found the tiger about two hundred yards from the river. She was still conscious. Her back legs had given way and her balance on her front legs was woozy. When the men got close, she tried to get away but could not manage it. She turned on them, lifting a paw that was meant to kill. It only made her lose her balance. She collapsed and the Pondicherry Zoo had two new tigers. The cub was found in a bush close by, meowing with fear. The hunter, whose name was Richard Parker, picked it up with his bare hands and, remembering how it had rushed to drink in the river, baptized it Thirsty. But the shipping clerk at the Howrah train station was evidently a man both befuddled and diligent. All the papers we received with the cub clearly stated that its name was Richard Parker, that the hunter's first name was Thirsty and that his family name was None Given. Father had had a good chuckle over the mix-up and Richard Parker's name had stuck. I don't know if Thirsty None Given ever got the man-eating panther. CHAPTER 49 In the morning I could not move. I was pinned by weakness to the tarpaulin. Even thinking was exhausting. I applied myself to thinking straight. At length, as slowly as a caravan of camels crossing a desert, some thoughts came together. The day was like the previous one, warm and overcast, the clouds low, the breeze light. That was one thought. The boat was rocking gently, that was another. I thought of sustenance for the first time. I had not had a drop to drink or a bite to eat or a minute of sleep in three days. Finding this obvious explanation for my weakness brought me a little strength. Richard Parker was still on board. In fact, he was directly beneath me. Incredible that such a thing should need consent to be true, but it was only after much deliberation, upon assessing various mental items and points of view, that I concluded that it was not a dream or a delusion or a misplaced memory or a fancy or any other such falsity, but a solid, true thing witnessed while in a weakened, highly agitated state. The truth of it would be confirmed as soon as I felt well enough to investigate. How I had failed to notice for two and a half days a 450-pound Bengal tiger in a lifeboat twenty-six feet long was a conundrum I would have to try to crack later, when I had more energy. The feat surely made Richard Parker the largest stowaway, proportionally speaking, in the history of navigation. From tip of nose to tip of tail he took up over a third of the length of the ship he was on. You might think I lost all hope at that point. I did. And as a result I perked up and felt much better. We see that in sports all the time, don't we? The tennis challenger starts strong but soon loses confidence in his playing. The champion racks up the games. But in the final set, when the challenger has nothing left to lose, he becomes relaxed again, insouciant, daring. Suddenly he's playing like the devil and the champion must work hard to get those last points. So it was with me. To cope with a hyena seemed remotely possible, but I was so obviously outmatched by Richard Parker that it wasn't even worth worrying about. With a tiger aboard, my life was over. That being settled, why not do something about my parched throat? I believe it was this that saved my life that morning, that I was quite literally dying of thirst. Now that the word had popped into my head I couldn't think of anything else, as if the word itself were salty and the more I thought of it, the worse the effect. I have heard that the hunger for air exceeds as a compelling sensation the thirst for water. Only for a few minutes, I say. After a few minutes you die and the discomfort of asphyxiation goes away. Whereas thirst is a drawn-out affair. Look: Christ on the Cross died of suffocation, but His only complaint was of thirst. If thirst can be so taxing that even God Incarnate complains about it, imagine the effect on a regular human. It was enough to make me go raving mad. I have never known a worse physical hell than this putrid taste and pasty feeling in the mouth, this unbearable pressure at the back of the throat, this sensation that my blood was turning to a thick syrup that barely flowed. Truly, by comparison, a tiger was nothing. And so I pushed aside all thoughts of Richard Parker and fearlessly went exploring for fresh water. The divining rod in my mind dipped sharply and a spring gushed water when I remembered that I was on a genuine, regulation lifeboat and that such a lifeboat was surely outfitted with supplies. That seemed like a perfectly reasonable proposition. What captain would fail in so elementary a way to ensure the safety of his crew? What ship chandler would not think of making a little extra money under the noble guise of saving lives? It was settled. There was water aboard. All I had to do was find it. Which meant I had to move. I made it to the middle of the boat, to the edge of the tarpaulin. It was a hard crawl. I felt I was climbing the side of a volcano and I was about to look over the rim into a boiling cauldron of orange lava. I lay flat. I carefully brought my head over. I did not look over any more than I had to. I did not see Richard Parker. The hyena was plainly visible, though. It was back behind what was left of the zebra. It was looking at me. I was no longer afraid of it. It wasn't ten feet away, yet my heart didn't skip a beat. Richard Parker's presence had at least that useful aspect. To be afraid of this ridiculous dog when there was a tiger about was like being afraid of splinters when trees are falling down. I became very angry at the animal. "You ugly, foul creature," I muttered. The only reason I didn't stand up and beat it off the lifeboat with a stick was lack of strength and stick, not lack of heart. Did the hyena sense something of my mastery? Did it say to itself, "Super alpha is watching me—I better not move"? I don't know. At any rate, it didn't move. In fact, in the way it ducked its head it seemed to want to hide from me. But it was no use hiding. It would get its just deserts soon enough. Richard Parker also explained the animals' strange behaviour. Now it was clear why the hyena had confined itself to such an absurdly small space behind the zebra and why it had waited so long before killing it. It was fear of the greater beast and fear of touching the greater beast's food. The strained, temporary peace between Orange Juice and the hyena, and my reprieve, were no doubt due to the same reason: in the face of such a superior predator, all of us were prey, and normal ways of preying were affected. It seemed the presence of a tiger had saved me from a hyena—surely a textbook example of jumping from the frying pan into the fire. But the great beast was not behaving like a great beast, to such an extent that the hyena had taken liberties. Richard Parker's passivity, and for three long days, needed explaining. Only in two ways could I account for it: sedation and seasickness. Father regularly sedated a number of the animals to lessen their stress. Might he have sedated Richard Parker shortly before the ship sank? Had the shock of the shipwreck—the noises, the falling into the sea, the terrible struggle to swim to the lifeboat—increased the effect of the sedative? Had seasickness taken over after that? These were the only plausible explanations I could come up with. I lost interest in the question. Only water interested me. I took stock of the lifeboat. CHAPTER 50 It was three and a half feet deep, eight feet wide and twenty-six feet long, exactly. I know because it was printed on one of the side benches in black letters. It also said that the lifeboat was designed to accommodate a maximum of thirty-two people. Wouldn't that have been merry, sharing it with so many? Instead we were three and it was awfully crowded. The boat was symmetrically shaped, with rounded ends that were hard to tell apart. The stern was hinted at by a small fixed rudder, no more than a rearward extension of the keel, while the bow, except for my addition, featured a stem with the saddest, bluntest prow in boat-building history. The aluminum hull was studded with rivets and painted white. That was the outside of the lifeboat. Inside, it was not as spacious as might be expected because of the side benches and the buoyancy tanks. The side benches ran the whole length of the boat, merging at the bow and stern to form end benches that were roughly triangular in shape. The benches were the top surfaces of the sealed buoyancy tanks. The side benches were one and a half feet wide and the end benches were three feet deep; the open space of the lifeboat was thus twenty feet long and five feet wide. That made a territory of one hundred square feet for Richard Parker. Spanning this space width-wise were three cross benches, including the one smashed by the zebra. These benches were two feet wide and were evenly spaced. They were two feet above the floor of the boat—the play Richard Parker had before he would knock his head against the ceiling, so to speak, if he were beneath a bench. Under the tarpaulin, he had another twelve inches of space, the distance between the gunnel, which supported the tarpaulin, and the benches, so three feet in all, barely enough for him to stand. The floor, consisting of narrow planks of treated wood, was flat and the vertical sides of the buoyancy tanks were at right angles to it. So, curiously, the boat had rounded ends and rounded sides, but the interior volume was rectangular. It seems orange—such a nice Hindu colour—is the colour of survival because the whole inside of the boat and the tarpaulin and the life jackets and the lifebuoy and the oars and most every other significant object aboard was orange. Even the plastic, beadless whistles were orange. The words Tsimtsum and Panama were printed on each side of the bow in stark, black, roman capitals. The tarpaulin was made of tough, treated canvas, rough on the skin after a while. It had been unrolled to just past the middle cross bench. So one cross bench was hidden beneath the tarpaulin, in Richard Parker's den; the middle cross bench was just beyond the edge of the tarpaulin, in the open; and the third cross bench lay broken beneath the dead zebra. There were six oarlocks, U-shaped notches in the gunnel for holding an oar in place, and five oars, since I had lost one trying to push Richard Parker away. Three oars rested on one side bench, one rested on the other and one made up my life-saving prow. I doubted the usefulness of these oars as a means of propulsion. This lifeboat was no racing shell. It was a heavy, solid construction designed for stolid floating, not for navigating, though I suppose that if we had been thirty-two to row we could have made some headway. I did not grasp all these details—and many more—right away. They came to my notice with time and as a result of necessity. I would be in the direst of dire straits, facing a bleak future, when some small thing, some detail, would transform itself and appear in my mind in a new light. It would no longer be the small thing it was before, but the most important thing in the world, the thing that would save my life. This happened time and again. How true it is that necessity is the mother of invention, how very true. |
第46章 在船只应该出现的地方堆积起来的云层和渐渐消逝的白天慢慢将我微笑的弯弯的嘴角拉直了。要说这一夜或那一夜是我一生中最糟糕的夜晚，这是毫无意义的。我度过了那么多糟糕的夜晚，没有一夜可以被评为糟糕之最。但是，在我的记忆中，在海上度过的第二个夜晚异常痛苦，这种痛苦与第一夜焦虑得发呆的情况不同，那种焦虑是更常见的痛苦，是崩溃，包括哭泣、伤心和精神痛苦；这种痛苦与后来的痛苦也不同，后来我还能有力气去充分体会自己的感受。在那个可怕的夜晚之前，是一个可怕的傍晚。 我注意到救生艇周围有鲨鱼出现。太阳已经开始拉上帷幕，白天就要结束了。那是橘黄色和红色平静的爆发，是一首伟大的变音交响乐，是一块超自然尺寸的彩色画布，那是太平洋上一次真正壮丽的日落，而我却没能好好欣赏。那几条鲨鱼是灰鲭鲨——速度极快的尖鼻子食肉动物，长长的杀人的牙齿引人注目地从嘴里伸出来。它们大约有六七英尺长，其中一条还要更大一些。我不安地看着它们。最大的一条迅速朝船游过来，似乎要发起袭击，它的背鳍伸出了水面好几英寸，但就在快要到船面前时，它却没入水中，以令人畏惧的优雅动作在水下滑行。它转过身来，这一次游得不那么近，然后消失了。其他鲨鱼在船附近待的时间更长一些，在不同深度的水中来来回回地游，有几条就在伸手可及的水面下，看得清清楚楚，还有几条在更深的水里。还有其他的鱼，大大小小,五颜六色，形状各异。要不是我的注意力被吸引到别处去，也许我会更仔细地打量它们的："橘子汁"进入了我的视线。 她转过身来，把手臂放在油布上，那动作就像你我抬起胳膊，非常放松地搭在旁边的椅子背上一模一样。但是她显然并不放松。她带着一副非常伤心悲痛的表情，开始四处张望，慢慢地把头从一边转向另一边。就在那一瞬间，我们与猿猴之间的相似之处变得并不可笑了。她在动物园里生了两只小猩猩，这两只雄性猩猩分别有5岁和8岁，它们身强体壮，是她的骄傲，也是我们的骄傲。毫无疑问，她在仔细搜寻水面，不经意之间模仿着我在过去36个小时内所做的事的时候，心里牵挂的就是他们。她注意到了我，却没有表达自己的心情。我只是另一只失去了一切、必死无疑的动物。我的情绪突然变糟了。 后来，鬣狗只嗥叫了一声，算是征兆，然后便露出了杀气。它已经一整天没有从狭窄的住舱里出来了。现在，它把前腿搭在斑马体侧，伸过头去，用嘴咬住了一块皮，用力地拽。斑马肚子上的一长条皮被拽了下来，像礼物外面的包装纸被撕开了边缘整齐、又长又宽的一条，只是现在被撕下来的是皮，因此没有声音，而且遇到了很大的阻力。血立刻像河水一样喷涌而出。斑马恢复了生气，吠叫着，喷着鼻息，发出长长的尖叫声，来保护自己。它匆匆迈着前腿，昂起头，想要咬鬣狗，但却够不到那头野兽。它摇晃着那条好的后腿，却只说明了前一天晚上敲打声的来源：那是蹄子敲打船侧发出的声音。斑马保全自己的努力只让鬣狗突然疯狂地嗥叫和撕咬起来。斑马的体侧有了一个裂开的伤口。鬣狗已经不再满足于从斑马背后伸头去咬，它爬到了斑马的腰上。它开始从斑马肚子里拽出一团团的肠子和其他内脏。它的行为没有任何规律。它在这儿咬一口，在那儿吞一口，似乎被眼前这么丰盛的食物弄得不知所措。吞下半个肝脏以后，它又开始用力扯发白的气球一样的胃囊。但是胃囊很重，而且斑马的腰部比它的腹部要高，血又很滑，于是鬣狗开始滑进受害者的身体里。它猛地把头和肩膀伸进斑马的内脏，连前腿膝盖都进去了。然后它又想把自己拖出来，却滑了下来。最后它固定了这样一个姿势，一半身体在里面，一半身体在外面。斑马在从身体内部开始被活活吃掉。 它反抗的力气越来越小。血开始从它的鼻孔里流出来。有一两次，它笔直地昂起头，似乎在向上苍乞求——淋漓尽致地表达了那一刻的憎恶。 "橘子汁"并没有漠不关心地目睹这一切。她从坐板上完全站了起来。巨大的身躯和短小得不相称的腿让她看上去像一台架在扭曲的轮子上的冰箱。但是她高高地举起巨大手臂的样子十分威严。她两只手臂伸展开的长度比她的身高还长。她一只手臂悬在水上，另一只手臂几乎能横着伸到救生艇另一边。她缩回嘴唇，露出巨大的犬齿，开始咆哮起来。叫声低沉、有力，带着愤怒，一个平常像长颈鹿一样安静的动物像这样叫，真令人惊奇。鬣狗和我一样被突然爆发的叫声吓了一跳。但时间不长。在紧张地盯着"橘子汁"看了一眼之后，它脖子上和背上的毛竖了起来，尾巴也直直地向上竖了起来。它爬回到奄奄一息的斑马身上，嘴上滴着血，同样用高声的吼叫回敬"橘子汁"。两只动物相距3英尺，嘴巴张得大大的，面对着面。它们把所有的力气都用来叫喊，身体因为用力而颤抖着。我能看到鬣狗的喉咙深处。一分钟之前，太平洋上的空气中还响着大海的啸叫声和低语声，这是一种自然的旋律，在更快乐的情况下，我可以称之为令人心旷神怡，现在却突然充斥了这种可怕的噪音，像一场大规模的猛烈战斗中震耳的熗炮声和雷鸣般的爆炸声。我耳朵所能听见的高音域部分充斥着鬣狗的吼叫声，低音域部分充斥着"橘子汁"的低沉吼叫声，在这两部分之间是斑马的无助的叫声。我的耳朵被各种声音塞满了。没有别的声音，没有任何一种别的声音能够挤过这些声音，被我听到。 我开始无法控制地颤抖起来。我坚信鬣狗要朝“橘子汁”冲过去了。 我无法想像事情还能比这更糟，但事情的确变得更糟了。斑马把一些血喷进了海里。几秒钟后，船被重重敲了一下，接着又是一下。我们周围的海水开始被鲨鱼搅得浪花翻滚。它们在寻找血的来源，寻找近在嘴边的食物。它们的尾鳍迅速在水上掠过，头突然伸出水面。船不停地遭到撞击。我并不担心船会翻——我想鲨鱼实际上会穿过金属船壳，把船弄沉。 船每次被撞一下，那两只动物都会跳起来，看上去像受了惊，但是它们主要的事就是互相吼叫，它们是不会从这件事上分心的。我肯定这场吼叫比赛会变成身体对抗。然而叫声却突然中断了几分钟。"橘子汁"气呼呼地咂着嘴转过身去，而鬣狗则低下头，退回到斑马被宰割的身体后面。鲨鱼什么也没找到，于是停止敲船，最后离开了。一切终于安静下来。 空气中飘浮着刺鼻的恶臭，一种锈蚀和排泄物相混合的土腥味。到处都是血，渐渐凝结成深红色的硬壳。只有一只苍蝇嗡嗡地飞，在我听来像报告疯狂的警铃。那天,地平线上没有出现船只，没有出现任何东西。现在一天就要结束了。当太阳滑到地平线下面的时候，逝去的不仅是白天和可怜的斑马，还有我的家人。第二次日落时，不相信被痛苦和悲伤所取代。他们死了；我不能再否认。这是你心里必须承认的一件什么样的事啊！失去一位哥哥就失去了一个可以分享成长经历的人，一个应该给你带来嫂子和侄子侄女的人，他们是为你的生命之树增添新的枝叶的人。失去父亲就失去了你可以寻求指导和帮助的人，一个像树干支撑树枝一样支持你的人。失去母亲，啊,那就像失去了你头顶的太阳。那就像失去了——对不起，我不想再说下去了。我在油布上躺下，脸埋在胳膊里，伤心哭泣了一整夜。鬣狗夜里的大部分时间都在吃。 第47章 天亮了，空气潮湿，阴云密布，风是暖的，天空像一块乌云织成的厚密的毯子，而乌云就像堆成团的肮脏的棉被单。 斑马还活着。我无法相信。它身上有一个两英尺宽的洞，洞口像一座刚刚爆发的火山，喷出被吃了一半的器官，在光线下闪着亮或发出晦暗的干巴巴的光，然而，在它最重要的部分，生命仍然在跳动着，尽管十分微弱。它的活动仅限于顫抖一下后腿，偶尔眨一下眼睛。我吓坏了。我不知道一个生命可以承受如此严重的伤害却还活着。 鬣狗很紧张。虽然天已经亮了，但是它并没有安下心来休息。这也许是因为吃得太多了吧；它的肚子胀得大大的。"橘子汁"的情绪也很危险。她坐立不安，露着牙齿。 我待在原地，在靠近船头的地方蜷缩着。我的身体和精神都很虚弱。我担心如果在船桨上平衡不了身体就会掉进水里去。 中午的时候，斑马死了。它的眼睛毫无生气，对鬣狗偶尔的攻击已经毫不在意了。 下午，暴力爆发了。情绪已经紧张到了无法忍受的程度。鬣狗在尖声吠叫。"橘子汁"在发出呼噜声和很响的咂嘴声。突然，它们的抱怨被引燃，大量喷射而出。鬣狗跳到斑马残缺的尸体上，朝"橘子汁"冲了过去。 我想我已经把鬣狗的威胁说得很清楚了。我心里非常清楚，在"橘子汁"还没有机会保卫自己之前，我已经对她的生命不抱任何希望了。我低估了她。我低估了她的勇气。 她重重地捶了一下那只野兽的头。这是个令人震惊的动作。这使我的心因为爱、崇拜和恐惧而融化了。我有没有说过她以前是只宠物，被她的印度尼西亚主人麻木不仁地抛弃了——她的故事和所有不合造做宠物的动物的故事一样。故事大概是这样的：宠物在年幼可爱的时候被买了回去。它给主人一家带来了许多欢乐。后来它长大了，胃口也大了。它的表现说明它不可能被训练得服从管教。越来越大的力气使它变得很难管。一天,女仆把它窝里的床单抽出来，因为她决定要洗床单，或者，主人家的儿子开玩笑地从它手里抢走了一块食物一为了这些看上去很小的事情，宠物生气地露出了牙齿。家里人害怕了。第二天，宠物发现自己和人类兄弟姐妹一起在吉普车的后排座上颠簸。车子开进了一座丛林。车上的每个人都认为那是一个奇怪的可怕的地方。他们来到一块林中空地。他们迅速查看了一下空地。突然，吉普车吼叫着开动起来，轮子卷起了灰尘，宠物看到它认识的那些人，它爱的那些人，正透过吉普车的后窗看着它，吉普车飞快地开走了。它被留了下来。宠物不明白。它和它的人类兄弟姐妹―样没有在这座丛林里生活的准备。它在附近等他们回来，努力消除心里涌起的恐慌。他们没有回来。太阳落山了。它很快便变得沮丧，放弃了对生命的希望。几天后它会死于饥饿和曝晒，或者是被犬类攻击。 "橘子汁"可能成为这些被遗弃的宠物中的一只。但她却进了本地治里动物园。她一生温柔平和。我记得，从我还是个孩子的时候起，她总是把我抱在怀里，用她有我手掌长的手指抓弄我的头发。她是一只年轻的雌性猩猩，在练习做妈妈的技巧。她长大成年，成了一只野性十足的猩猩时，我便在远处观察她。我以为自己非常了解她，可以预测她的每一个动作。这种凶残的野蛮的勇气让我意识到自己错了。我一生只了解她的一部分。 她重重地捶了一下那只野兽的头。那一下多重啊。那只野兽刚跑到坐板边上，便撞了上去，发出一声很尖锐的声音，同时它的前腿叉开，趴在了地上，我以为坐板或它的嘴或两者肯定碎了。鬣狗一瞬间便站了起来，身上的每一根毛都竖了起来，我的每一根头发也竖了起来，但是现在它的敌意已经不那么活跃。它退了回去。我欣喜若狂。"橘子汁"鼓舞人心的自我防卫让我的心里感到一阵喜悦。 喜悦的心情没有持续多久。 成年雌性猩猩打不过成年雄性斑点鬣狗。这是根据经验总结出的明显事实。让动物学家们了解这一点吧。如果"橘子汁"是只雄猩猩，如果她在磅秤上和她在我心中的分量一样重，事情也许会不一样。但是尽管她因为生活在动物园里，所以吃得太多，身体肥胖,她也只有110镑重。雌猩猩的个头只有雄猩猩一半大。但这不仅仅是一个重量和蛮力的问題。"橘子汁"并非毫无防御能力。最终起决定作用的是态度和知识。以水果为食的动物对捕杀知道多少？它能从哪里学到嫁往哪儿咬，咬多狠，咬多久？猩猩也许高一些，也许有强壮灵巧的手臂和长长的犬齿，但是如果它不知道如何将这些当做武器使用，那么这些就没有用处。鬣狗只用嘴便能打败猿猴，因为它知道自己想要什么，也知道如何去得到。 鬣狗回来了。它跳到坐板上，在"橘子汁"还没来得及出手之前便抓住了她的手腕。"橘子汁"用另一只胳膊去打鬣狗的头，但是这一下只让那野兽恶毒地嗥叫起来。她想用嘴咬，但是鬣狗的速度更快。哎，"橘子汁"的防御缺乏精确性和连贯性。她的恐惧 毫无用处，只妨碍了她。鬣狗放开她的手腕，很在行地咬住了她的脖子。 痛苦和恐惧让我说不出话来，我看着"橘子汁"徒劳地捶鬣狗，拽它的毛，同时她的喉咙被它的嘴紧紧地咬着。到了最后，她让我想到了我们自己：她写满恐惧的眼神，还有压抑的呜咽，都太像人类了。她努力想爬到油布上。鬣狗剧烈地摇晃着她。她从坐板上摔下来，摔到了船底，鬣狗也和她一起摔了下去。我听见声音，但是什么也没再看见。 下一个就是我：这一点非常清楚。我艰难地站了起来。泪水模糊了我的双眼，让我看不清。我已经不是在为我的家庭或是即将到来的死亡而哭泣了。我已经太麻木，想不到这些了。我哭是因为我实在太累了，该休息了。 我在油布上向前走去。船两端的油布尽管绷得很紧，但是中间却有些松；这一段能让我费力地颠着走三四步。我还得走到网和卷起来的油布旁边。在我当时的状况下，这就像一次艰苦的跋涉。当我把脚踏在中间横坐板上时，坚硬的坐板使我充满了生气，仿佛我踏上的是坚实的陆地。我让两只脚都站在坐板上，享受着稳稳站立的姿势。我感到头晕，但是既然死亡的时刻即将到来，这样的晕眩只让我更加感到一种恐惧的庄严。我把手抬到胸前一它们是我对付鬣狗的武器。它抬头看着我。它的嘴是红的。"橘子汁"躺在它身边，靠着死去的斑马。她的手臂张开着，短短的腿交叉着，稍稍转向一边。她看上去像被钉在十字架上的猿猴基督。只是她没有头。她的头被咬掉了。脖子上的伤口还在流血。这样的景象让眼睛感到恐惧，让心灵感到难以忍受。在朝鬣狗扑过去之前，为了在最后的搏斗之前鼓起勇气，我低下了头。 在我的两腿之间，在坐板下面，我看见了理查德·帕克的脑袋。巨大的脑袋。恍惚之中，那只脑袋看上去有木星那么大。爪子就像几卷《大不列颠百科全书》。 我回到船头，倒了下来。 那个夜晚我是在谵妄的状态中度过的。我一直在想我是睡着了，梦见了一只老虎，现在正在醒来。 第48章 理查德·帕克的名字是一个笔误。一只黑豹在给孟加拉库尔纳区松达班以外的地方带来恐慌。它最近刚叼走了一个小女孩。人们只找到她的一只小手，手心有用散沫花汁画的图案，手上戴着几只塑料手镯。她是这只擭食的动物两个月来杀死的第七个人。而且它越来越大胆了。前一个受害者是一个男人，他大白天里在自己的田里遭到了袭击。那只野兽把他拖进森林里，吃了他的大半个头，右腿的肉和所有内脏。他的尸体被发现时，正挂在树杈上。那天夜里，村民在附近安排了一个人值班，希望当场捉住它，杀死它，但是它一直没有出现。林业部雇用了一个专业猎手。他在曾有两个人遭到袭击的河边的一棵树上搭了一个隐蔽的小平台。一只山羊被拴在河岸的一根柱子上。猎手守候了好几夜。他以为那只黑豹会是年老体弱的雄豹，牙齿都咬不动了，只能抓像人这样容易抓的猎物。但是，一天夜里，走到空地上来的是一只漂亮的老虎。一只带着一只小虎崽的雌虎。山羊咩咩地叫了起来。奇怪的是,那只看上去大约三个月大的小虎崽却没有理睬山羊。它快步跑到水边，迫不及待地喝起水来。虎妈妈也和它一样。和饥饿相比,干渴更为急迫。老虎解渴之后才转向山羊，想要吃饱肚子。猎手有两枝熗：一枝装的是真正的子弹，另一枝装的是麻醉镖。这只动物不是吃人的豹子，但是她靠人类居住的地方太近了，可能会给村民造成威胁，尤其是她带着一只小虎崽。他拿起了那枝装了麻醉镖的熗。就在老虎准备扑倒山羊的时候，他开熗了。老虎用后腿直立起来，吼叫着跑走了。但是麻醉镖并不像一杯好茶一样让人慢慢人睡；而是像一瓶烈酒一样让人很快丧失知觉。老虎的突然动作使麻醉剂更快地起了作用。猎手用无线电通知了自己的助手。他们在离小河200码的地方发现了老虎。她还有知觉。她的后腿已经不能动弹，前腿摇摇晃晃地站不稳。猎手们靠近时，她想逃走，但是却无法动弹。她转身面对着他们,抬起一只爪子，想要杀死他们。这个动作只是让她失去了平衡。她倒了下去，本地治里动物园有了两只新来的老虎。小虎崽在附近的灌木丛里被发现了，它正害怕得喵喵直叫。那个叫理查德·帕克的猎手空手把他抱了起来。他记得他曾急急忙忙地跑到河边去喝水，于是给他起了一个教名叫"口渴"。但是豪拉火车站的运货员显然是个又糊涂又勤勉的人。我们收到的所有有关小虎崽的文件上都清楚地写着他的名字是理查德·帕克，猎手名叫口渴，而他的姓氏不详。父亲因为这弄混淆的名字格格格地笑了好一阵子，而理查德·帕克的名字便这么用了下来。 我不知道那位口渴·不详先生有没有捉到那只吃人的黑豹。 第49章 今晨，我无法动弹。虚弱的身体将我钉在了油布上。每一次思考都让我筋疲力尽。我让自己专心于正确的思考。最后，几个想法就像穿越沙漠的一队骆驼一样，慢慢地聚到了一起。 这一天就像前一天一样，空气温暖，阴云密布，云很低，风很轻。这是一个想法。船在轻轻地摇晃，这是另一个想法。 我第一次想到了食物。三天来我没有喝一滴水，没有吃一口东西，没有睡一分钟。显然这就是我为什么如此虚弱的原因。这一发现让我有了一点儿力气。 理查德·帕克还在船上。实际上，他就在我下面。这样一件事情还需要经过确认才能相信是真的，真让人难以置信，但是我在仔细考虑了很久以后，在对心里的不同想法和观点做了评估以后，才得出结论：这不是一个梦，不是一个错觉，不是一个错误的记忆，不是一个幻觉，也不是任何其他不真实的东西，而是我在虚弱和非常焦虑的状态下看见的一件实实在在的真实的事情。一旦我感到自己好一些了，可以去调查了，我就会去证实这件事情的真实性。 两天半以来，我一直都没有注意到在这条26英尺长的救生艇上有一只450磅重的孟加拉虎，这个谜题等我以后更有力气的时候一定要努力解开。按比例算，这样的事迹肯定使理查德·帕克成了航海史上最大的偷渡者。从鼻尖算到尾巴尖，他的身体占据了船长的三分之一。 你也许认为那一刻我丧失了所有的希望。的确如此。正因为如此，我振作了起来，感到好多了。我们常常在体育比赛中看到这样的情形，难道不是吗？网球赛的挑战者开始的时候很强壮，但是在比赛中很快便失去了信心。上届冠军连连得分。但是在最后一局，当挑战者已经没有什么好输的时候，他又开始变得放松，大胆，无忧无虑。突然，他开始猛烈拼杀，冠军必须打得非常艰苦才能得到那最后的几分。我也是一样。对付一只鬣狗似乎还有一点点儿可能性，但是理查德·帕克显然比我强壮多了，我甚至都不值得去担心。船上有一只老虎，我完了。既然这一点已经注定了，为什么不为我干渴的喉咙做点儿什么呢？ 我相信那天早晨救了我的命的就是这件事，就是我真的快要渴死了这件事。这个词已经跳进了我的头脑里，我再也不能想任何别的事，似乎这个词本身是咸的，我越想越糟。我听说对空气的渴望是一种非常强烈的感觉，胜过了对水的渴望。我说，这种对空气的渴望只有几分钟。几分钟以后你就死了，窒息的不舒服感觉消失了。而干渴却是一件长期的事。瞧：十字架上的耶稣因窒息而死，但是他惟一的抱怨是太渴了。如果干渴如此累人，甚至上帝的化身都因此而抱怨，那么想想看这对一个普通人的影响吧。这足以让我疯得胡言乱语。我从不知道还有比嘴里这种腐臭的味道和面糊似的感觉，喉咙后面无法忍受的压迫感，还有血液正变成黏稠的糖浆，几乎无法流动的感觉更糟糕的肉体折磨。的确，相比之下，老虎根本算不了什么。 于是，我把关于理查德·帕克的所有想法放到一边，毫不畏惧地去寻找淡水。 我心中能够探测水源的占卜杖灵敏地向下伸去，一口泉眼喷出水来，因为我想起来自己是在一条真正的标准的救生艇上，这样的救生艇一定备有各种补给品的。这似乎是个很有道理的主意。哪一个船长会做不到这样一件保证自己船员安全的最基本的事情呢？哪一个船用杂货零售商不会想到在拯救生命的借口下多赚一些钱呢？这是肯定的。船上有淡水。我所要做的只是找到淡水在哪里。 这就是说我得移动。 我朝船中间、油布边缘爬去。这是艰难的爬行。我感到自己正在爬一座火山山坡，就要越过火山口边缘，看到一大锅沸腾的橘黄色岩浆。我趴在地上，小心地把头移过去。我只把头伸到足以让我看清下面的情况的地方。我没有看见理查德·帕克。但是鬣狗却可以看得很清楚。它在斑马被吃剩的尸体后面。正看着我。 我已经不再害怕它了。它离我还不到10英尺远，但是我的心没有停止跳动一下。理查德·帕克的存在至少有这么一点用处。在老虎面前害怕这样一只滑稽的狗，就像树倒下来时还害怕碎木片。我对这只动物非常生气。"你这只丑陋的臭东西。"我咕哝着说。我没有站起来用一根棍子把它打下船去，这只是因为我没有力气也没有棍子，而不是因为没有勇气。 鬣狗感觉到了我的优势吗？它有没有对自己说超级老大正看着我呢？我最好别动？"我不知道。不管怎样，它没有动。实际上，它低着头的样子似乎说明它想躲开我。但是躲藏是没有用的。很快它就会得到应有的惩罚。 理查德·帕克也是这只动物行为古怪的原因。鬣狗为什么不离开斑马身后这样一个狭小的空间，它为什么等了那么长时间才把斑马杀死，其中的原因现在已经清楚了。它是害怕那只比自己更大的野兽，害怕碰那只更大的野兽的食物。毫无疑问，"橘子汁"和鬣狗之间能有勉强的暂时的和平，我能暂时不受侵害，都是由于这同样的原因：在这样一只强大的食肉动物面前，我们都是猎物，平常的捕猎方式受到了影响。似乎老虎的存在把我从鬣狗嘴里救了出来——显然这是教科书上一个跳出油锅又落火坑的例子。 但是这只巨兽的行为却不像一只巨兽，太不像了，以至于鬣狗敢于冒险。长长的三天当中，理查德·帕克表现消极，这需要解 释。我只能想出两个原因：镇静剂和晕船。父亲通常给一些动物注射镇静剂，以缓解它们的紧张情绪。在船沉没之前他刚给理查德·帕克注射了镇静剂吗？沉船给他带来的震惊一吵闹声，落进海里，挣扎着游到救生艇上一增强广镇静剂的作用吗？在此之后他又开始晕船？这些是我惟一能想到的可能的解释。我对这个问题失去了兴趣。我感兴趣的只有水。 我仔细检查了救生艇。 第50章 救生艇的精确尺寸是深3?5英尺，宽8英尺，长26英尺。我知道这个尺寸，因为这几个黑色的数字就印在舷边坐板上。坐板上还印着一些文字，说明这条救生艇的设计可以使它最多容纳32人。和这么多人一起在救生艇上，那不是很快乐吗？而现在船上只有我们三个，却已经很拥挤了。船的形状是对称的，两端都是圆的，很难区分船头和船尾。一端有一只小小的固定的舵，说明那就是船尾，其实那只舵只不过是龙骨向后延伸的部分，而船头除了我增加的东西之外，还有一根艏柱，它那突出的前端是造船史上最糟、最钝的船首。铝制的船壳漆成白色，上面密密地钉着铆钉。 这是船的外部。船内部有舷边坐板和浮箱，因此不像想像的那么宽敞。船两侧是两排舷边坐板，坐板向船两头延伸，在船头和船尾向上升，形成末端坐板，形状大体上是三角形的。这些坐板就是密封的浮箱的表面。舷边坐板宽1.5英尺，末端坐板高3英尺；因此，救生艇敞开的空间长20英尺，宽5英尺。这个100平方英尺的空间形成了理查德·帕克的地盘。横跨这个空间的是三块横坐板，其中包括被鬣狗撞碎的那块。这三块坐板宽2英尺，坐板与坐板之间距离相等，与船板相距2英尺——如果理查德·帕克在坐板下面，那么他只有这么大的活动空间，如果超出了这个范围,他的头就会撞在所谓的天花扳上。油布下面还有12英寸的空间，就是支撑油布的舷边和坐板之间的距离，因此一共是3英尺的空间，几乎不够他站起来。经过处理的窄木板铺成的船板是水平的，浮箱的立面与船板成直角。因此，奇怪的是，船的两端是圆的，两侧也是圆的，而内部却是长方形的。 似乎橘黄色——如此可爱的印度人喜爱的颜色——是求生的颜色，因为整条船的内部、油布、救生衣、救生圈、船桨和船上其他大多数重要物品都是橘黄色的。甚至无弹珠塑料哨子也是橘黄色的。 船朱两侧分别有罗马大写字母印着"齐姆楚姆"和"巴拿马"的字样，字是黑色的，十分显眼。 油布是经过处理的粗帆布做的，皮肤被磨一会儿就会觉得难以忍受。油布一直铺到中间的横坐板那边。因此一条坐板被盖在油布下面，在理查德·帕克的窝里；中间的横坐板就在油布边上，露在外面；第三条坐板在死斑马的身体下面，已经碎了。 船上有六只桨架，是把船桨固定在舷边的U形槽口；还有五只船桨，第六只在我想把理查德·帕克推开时弄丢了。三只船桨放在一条坐板上，一只放在另一条坐板上，还有一只成了救我性命的船首。我怀疑这些船桨能不能推动船只前进。这只救生艇可不是赛它沉重、结实的结构设计是为了能让它稳稳地浮在海面上，而不是为了让它在海上航行，尽管，我想，如果有32个人划桨，我们应该可以前进的。 我并没有立刻理解所有这些细节——还有很多其他细节。我是出于需要才慢慢地注意到它们的。如果一些小东西，一些细节，产生了变化，在我心里呈现出新的状态，我就会陷人最悲惨的绝境，面临凄凉的未来。那个小东西不再是以前的小东西了，而成了世界上最重要的东西，将会拯救我生命的东西。这样的事一次又一次地发生。需要是发明之母，这句话太对了，真的太对了。 |
CHAPTER 51 But that first time I had a good look at the lifeboat I did not see the detail I wanted. The surface of the stern and side benches was continuous and unbroken, as were the sides of the buoyancy tanks. The floor lay flat against the hull; there could be no cache beneath it. It was certain: there was no locker or box or any other sort of container anywhere. Only smooth, uninterrupted orange surfaces. My estimation of captains and ship chandlers wavered. My hopes for survival flickered. My thirst remained. And what if the supplies were at the bow, beneath the tarpaulin? I turned and crawled back. I felt like a dried-out lizard. I pushed down on the tarpaulin. It was tautly stretched. If I unrolled it, I would give myself access to what supplies might be stored below. But that meant creating an opening onto Richard Parker's den. There was no question. Thirst pushed me on. I eased the oar from under the tarpaulin. I placed the lifebuoy around my waist. I laid the oar across the bow. I leaned over the gunnel and with my thumbs pushed from under one of the hooks the rope that held down the tarpaulin. I had a difficult time of it. But after the first hook, it was easier with the second and the third. I did the same on the other side of the stem. The tarpaulin became slack beneath my elbows. I was lying flat on it, my legs pointed towards the stern. I unrolled it a little. Immediately I was rewarded. The bow was like the stern; it had an end bench. And upon it, just a few inches from the stem, a hasp glittered like a diamond. There was the outline of a lid. My heart began to pound. I unrolled the tarpaulin further. I peeked under. The lid was shaped like a rounded-out triangle, three feet wide and two feet deep. At that moment I perceived an orange mass. I jerked my head back. But the orange wasn't moving and didn't look right. I looked again. It wasn't a tiger. It was a life jacket. There were a number of life jackets at the back of Richard Parker's den. A shiver went through my body. Between the life jackets, partially, as if through some leaves, I had my first, unambiguous, clear-headed glimpse of Richard Parker. It was his haunches I could see, and part of his back. Tawny and striped and simply enormous. He was facing the stern, lying flat on his stomach. He was still except for the breathing motion of his sides. I blinked in disbelief at how close he was. He was right there, two feet beneath me. Stretching, I could have pinched his bottom. And between us there was nothing but a thin tarpaulin, easily got round. "God preserve me!" No supplication was ever more passionate yet more gently carried by the breath. I lay absolutely motionless. I had to have water. I brought my hand down and quietly undid the hasp. I pulled on the lid. It opened onto a locker. I have just mentioned the notion of details that become lifesavers. Here was one: the lid was hinged an inch or so from the edge of the bow bench—which meant that as the lid opened, it became a barrier that closed off the twelve inches of open space between tarpaulin and bench through which Richard Parker could get to me after pushing aside the life jackets. I opened the lid till it fell against the crosswise oar and the edge of the tarpaulin. I moved onto the stem, facing the boat, one foot on the edge of the open locker, the other against the lid. If Richard Parker decided to attack me from below, he would have to push on the lid. Such a push would both warn me and help me fall backwards into the water with the lifebuoy. If he came the other way, climbing atop the tarpaulin from astern, I was in the best position to see him early and, again, take to the water. I looked about the lifeboat. I couldn't see any sharks. I looked down between my legs. I thought I would faint for joy. The open locker glistened with shiny new things. Oh, the delight of the manufactured good, the man-made device, the created thing! That moment of material revelation brought an intensity of pleasure—a heady mix of hope, surprise, disbelief, thrill, gratitude, all crushed into one—unequalled in my life by any Christmas, birthday, wedding, Diwali or other gift-giving occasion. I was positively giddy with happiness. My eyes immediately fell upon what I was looking for. Whether in a bottle, a tin can or a carton, water is unmistakably packaged. On this lifeboat, the wine of life was served in pale golden cans that fit nicely in the hand. Drinking Water said the vintage label in black letters. HP Foods Ltd. were the vintners. 500 ml were the contents. There were stacks of these cans, too many to count at a glance. With a shaking hand I reached down and picked one up. It was cool to the touch and heavy. I shook it. The bubble of air inside made a dull glub glub glub sound. I was about to be delivered from my hellish thirst. My pulse raced at the thought. I only had to open the can. I paused. How would I do that? I had a can—surely I had a can opener? I looked in the locker. There was a great quantity of things. I rummaged about. I was losing patience. Aching expectation had run its fruitful course. I had to drink now—or I would die. I could not find the desired instrument. But there was no time for useless distress. Action was needed. Could I prise it open with my fingernails? I tried. I couldn't. My teeth? It wasn't worth trying. I looked over the gunnel. The tarpaulin hooks. Short, blunt, solid. I kneeled on the bench and leaned over. Holding the can with both my hands, I sharply brought it up against a hook. A good dint. I did it again. Another dint next to the first. By dint of dinting, I managed the trick. A pearl of water appeared. I licked it off. I turned the can and banged the opposite side of the top against the hook to make another hole. I worked like a fiend. I made a larger hole. I sat back on the gunnel. I held the can up to my face. I opened my mouth. I tilted the can. My feelings can perhaps be imagined, but they can hardly be described. To the gurgling beat of my greedy throat, pure, delicious, beautiful, crystalline water flowed into my system. Liquid life, it was. I drained that golden cup to the very last drop, sucking at the hole to catch any remaining moisture. I went, "Ahhhhhh!", tossed the can overboard and got another one. I opened it the way I had the first and its contents vanished just as quickly. That can sailed overboard too, and I opened the next one. Which, shortly, also ended up in the ocean. Another can was dispatched. I drank four cans, two litres of that most exquisite of nectars, before I stopped. You might think such a rapid intake of water after prolonged thirst might upset my system. Nonsense! I never felt better in my life. Why, feel my brow! My forehead was wet with fresh, clean, refreshing perspiration. Everything in me, right down to the pores of my skin, was expressing joy. A sense of well-being quickly overcame me. My mouth became moist and soft. I forgot about the back of my throat. My skin relaxed. My joints moved with greater ease. My heart began to beat like a merry drum and blood started flowing through my veins like cars from a wedding party honking their way through town. Strength and suppleness came back to my muscles. My head became clearer. Truly, I was coming back to life from the dead. It was glorious, it was glorious. I tell you, to be drunk on alcohol is disgraceful, but to be drunk on water is noble and ecstatic. I basked in bliss and plenitude for several minutes. A certain emptiness made itself felt. I touched my belly. It was a hard and hollow cavity. Food would be nice now. A masala dosai with a coconut chutney—hmmmmm! Even better: oothappam! HMMMMM! Oh! I brought my hands to my mouth—IDLI! The mere thought of the word provoked a shot of pain behind my jaws and a deluge of saliva in my mouth. My right hand started twitching. It reached and nearly touched the delicious flattened balls of parboiled rice in my imagination. It sank its fingers into their steaming hot flesh... It formed a ball soaked with sauce... It brought it to my mouth... I chewed... Oh, it was exquisitely painful! I looked into the locker for food. I found cartons of Seven Oceans Standard Emergency Ration, from faraway, exotic Bergen, Norway. The breakfast that was to make up for nine missed meals, not to mention odd tiffins that Mother had brought along, came in a half-kilo block, dense, solid and vacuum-packed in silver-coloured plastic that was covered with instructions in twelve languages. In English it said the ration consisted of eighteen fortified biscuits of baked wheat, animal fat and glucose, and that no more than six should be eaten in a twenty-four-hour period. Pity about the fat, but given the exceptional circumstances the vegetarian part of me would simply pinch its nose and bear it. At the top of the block were the words Tear here to open and a black arrow pointing to the edge of the plastic. The edge gave way under my fingers. Nine wax-paper-wrapped rectangular bars tumbled out. I unwrapped one. It naturally broke into two. Two nearly square biscuits, pale in colour and fragrant in smell. I bit into one. Lord, who would have thought? I never suspected. It was a secret held from me: Norwegian cuisine was the best in the world! These biscuits were amazingly good. They were savoury and delicate to the palate, neither too sweet nor too salty. They broke up under the teeth with a delightful crunching sound. Mixed with saliva, they made a granular paste that was enchantment to the tongue and mouth. And when I swallowed, my stomach had only one thing to say: Hallelujah! The whole package disappeared in a few minutes, wrapping paper flying away in the wind. I considered opening another carton, but I thought better. No harm in exercising a little restraint. Actually, with half a kilo of emergency ration in my stomach, I felt quite heavy. I decided I should find out what exactly was in the treasure chest before me. It was a large locker, larger than its opening. The space extended right down to the hull and ran some little ways into the side benches. I lowered my feet into the locker and sat on its edge, my back against the stem. I counted the cartons of Seven Ocean. I had eaten one; there were thirty-one left. According to the instructions, each 500-gram carton was supposed to last one survivor three days. That meant I had food rations to last me?1 X 3?3 days! The instructions also suggested survivors restrict themselves to half a litre of water every twenty-four hours. I counted the cans of water. There were 124. Each contained half a litre. So I had water rations to last me 124 days. Never had simple arithmetic brought such a smile to my face. What else did I have? I plunged my arm eagerly into the locker and brought up one marvellous object after another. Each one, no matter what it was, soothed me. I was so sorely in need of company and comfort that the attention brought to making each one of these mass-produced goods felt like a special attention paid to me. I repeatedly mumbled, "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" CHAPTER 52 After a thorough investigation, I made a complete list: 192 tablets of anti-seasickness medicine 124 tin cans of fresh water, each containing 500 millilitres, so 62 litres in all 32 plastic vomit bags 31 cartons of emergency rations, 500 grams each, so 15.5 kilos in all 16 wool blankets 12 solar stills 10 or so orange life jackets, each with an orange, beadless whistle attached by a string 6 morphine ampoule syringes 6 hand flares 5 buoyant oars 4 rocket parachute flares 3 tough, transparent plastic bags, each with a capacity of about 50 litres 3 can openers 3 graduated glass beakers for drinking 2 boxes of waterproof matches 2 buoyant orange smoke signals 2 mid-size orange plastic buckets 2 buoyant orange plastic bailing cups 2 multi-purpose plastic containers with airtight lids 2 yellow rectangular sponges 2 buoyant synthetic ropes, each 50 metres long 2 non-buoyant synthetic ropes of unspecified length, but each at least 30 metres long 2 fishing kits with hooks, lines and sinkers 2 gaffs with very sharp barbed hooks 2 sea anchors 2 hatchets 2 rain catchers 2 black ink ballpoint pens 1 nylon cargo net 1 solid lifebuoy with an inner diameter of 40 centimetres and an outer diameter of 80 centimetres, and an attached rope 1 large hunting knife with a solid handle, a pointed end and one edge a sharp blade and the other a sawtoothed blade; attached by a long string to a ring in the locker 1 sewing kit with straight and curving needles and strong white thread 1 first-aid kit in a waterproof plastic case 1 signalling mirror 1 pack of filter-tipped Chinese cigarettes 1 large bar of dark chocolate 1 survival manual 1 compass 1 notebook with 98 lined pages 1 boy with a complete set of light clothing but for one lost shoe 1 spotted hyena 1 Bengal tiger 1 lifeboat 1 ocean 1 God I ate a quarter of the large chocolate bar. I examined one of the rain catchers. It was a device that looked like an inverted umbrella with a good-sized catchment pouch and a connecting rubber tube. I crossed my arms on the lifebuoy around my waist, brought my head down and fell soundly asleep. CHAPTER 53 I slept all morning. I was roused by anxiety. That tide of food, water and rest that flowed through my weakened system, bringing me a new lease on life, also brought me the strength to see how desperate my situation was. I awoke to the reality of Richard Parker. There was a tiger in the lifeboat. I could hardly believe it, yet I knew I had to. And I had to save myself. I considered jumping overboard and swimming away, but my body refused to move. I was hundreds of miles from landfall, if not over a thousand miles. I couldn't swim such a distance, even with a lifebuoy. What would I eat? What would I drink? How would I keep the sharks away? How would I keep warm? How would I know which way to go? There was not a shadow of doubt about the matter: to leave the lifeboat meant certain death. But what was staying aboard? He would come at me like a typical cat, without a sound. Before I knew it he would seize the back of my neck or my throat and I would be pierced by fang-holes. I wouldn't be able to speak. The lifeblood would flow out of me unmarked by a final utterance. Or he would kill me by clubbing me with one of his great paws, breaking my neck. "I'm going to die," I blubbered through quivering lips. Oncoming death is terrible enough, but worse still is oncoming death with time to spare, time in which all the happiness that was yours and all the happiness that might have been yours becomes clear to you. You see with utter lucidity all that you are losing. The sight brings on an oppressive sadness that no car about to hit you or water about to drown you can match. The feeling is truly unbearable. The words Father, Mother, Ravi, India, Winnipeg struck me with searing poignancy. I was giving up. I would have given up—if a voice hadn't made itself heard in my heart. The voice said, "I will not die. I refuse it. I will make it through this nightmare. I will beat the odds, as great as they are. I have survived so far, miraculously. Now I will turn miracle into routine. The amazing will be seen every day. I will put in all the hard work necessary. Yes, so long as God is with me, I will not die. Amen." My face set to a grim and determined expression. I speak in all modesty as I say this, but I discovered at that moment that I have a fierce will to live. It's not something evident, in my experience. Some of us give up on life with only a resigned sigh. Others fight a little, then lose hope. Still others—and I am one of those—never give up. We fight and fight and fight. We fight no matter the cost of battle, the losses we take, the improbability of success. We fight to the very end. It's not a question of courage. It's something constitutional, an inability to let go. It may be nothing more than life-hungry stupidity. Richard Parker started growling that very instant, as if he had been waiting for me to become a worthy opponent. My chest became tight with fear. "Quick, man, quick," I wheezed. I had to organize my survival. Not a second to waste. I needed shelter and right away. I thought of the prow I had made with an oar. But now the tarpaulin was unrolled at the bow; there was nothing to hold the oar in place. And I had no proof that hanging at the end of an oar provided real safety from Richard Parker. He might easily reach and nab me. I had to find something else. My mind worked fast. I built a raft. The oars, if you remember, floated. And I had life jackets and a sturdy lifebuoy. With bated breath I closed the locker and reached beneath the tarpaulin for the extra oars on the side benches. Richard Parker noticed. I could see him through the life jackets. As I dragged each oar out—you can imagine how carefully—he stirred in reaction. But he did not turn. I pulled out three oars. A fourth was already resting crosswise on the tarpaulin. I raised the locker lid to close the opening onto Richard Parker's den. I had four buoyant oars. I set them on the tarpaulin around the lifebuoy. The lifebuoy was now squared by the oars. My raft looked like a game of tic-tac-toe with an O in the centre as the first move. Now came the dangerous part. I needed the life jackets. Richard Parker's growling was now a deep rumble that shook the air. The hyena responded with a whine, a wavering, high-pitched whine, a sure sign that trouble was on the way. I had no choice. I had to act. I lowered the lid again. The life jackets were at hand's reach. Some were right against Richard Parker. The hyena broke into a scream. I reached for the closest life jacket. I had difficulty grasping it, my hand was trembling so much. I pulled the jacket out. Richard Parker did not seem to notice. I pulled another one out. And another. I was feeling faint with fear. I was having great difficulty breathing. If need be, I told myself, I could throw myself overboard with these life jackets. I pulled a last one out. I had four life jackets. Pulling the oars in one after the next, I worked them through the armholes of the life jackets—in one armhole, out the other—so that the life jackets became secured to the four corners of the raft. I tied each one shut. I found one of the buoyant ropes in the locker. With the knife, I cut four segments. I tightly lashed the four oars where they met. Ah, to have had a practical education in knots! At each corner I made ten knots and still I worried that the oars would come apart. I worked feverishly, all the while cursing my stupidity. A tiger aboard and I had waited three days and three nights to save my life! I cut four more segments of the buoyant rope and tied the lifebuoy to each side of the square. I wove the lifebuoy's rope through the life jackets, around the oars, in and out of the lifebuoy—all round the raft—as yet another precaution against the raft breaking into pieces. The hyena was now screaming at top pitch. One last thing to do. "God, give me the time," I implored. I took the rest of the buoyant line. There was a hole that went through the stem of the boat, near the top. I brought the buoyant rope through it and hitched it. I only had to hitch the other end of the rope to the raft and I might be saved. The hyena fell silent. My heart stopped and then beat triple speed. I turned. "Jesus, Mary, Muhammad and Vishnu!" I saw a sight that will stay with me for the rest of my days. Richard Parker had risen and emerged. He was not fifteen feet from me. Oh, the size of him! The hyena's end had come, and mine. I stood rooted to the spot, paralyzed, in thrall to the action before my eyes. My brief experience with the relations of unconfined wild animals in lifeboats had made me expect great noise and protest when the time came for bloodshed. But it happened practically in silence. The hyena died neither whining nor whimpering, and Richard Parker killed without a sound. The flame-coloured carnivore emerged from beneath the tarpaulin and made for the hyena. The hyena was leaning against the stern bench, behind the zebra's carcass, transfixed. It did not put up a fight. Instead it shrank to the floor, lifting a forepaw in a futile gesture of defence. The look on its face was of terror. A massive paw landed on its shoulders. Richard Parker's jaws closed on the side of the hyena's neck. Its glazed eyes widened. There was a noise of organic crunching as windpipe and spinal cord were crushed. The hyena shook. Its eyes went dull. It was over. Richard Parker let go and growled. But a quiet growl, private and half-hearted, it seemed. He was panting, his tongue hanging from his mouth. He licked his chops. He shook his head. He sniffed the dead hyena. He raised his head high and smelled the air. He placed his forepaws on the stern bench and lifted himself. His feet were wide apart. The rolling of the boat, though gentle, was visibly not to his liking. He looked beyond the gunnel at the open seas. He put out a low, mean snarl. He smelled the air again. He slowly turned his head. It turned—turned—turned full round—till he was looking straight at me. I wish I could describe what happened next, not as I saw it, which I might manage, but as I felt it. I beheld Richard Parker from the angle that showed him off to greatest effect: from the back, half-raised, with his head turned. The stance had something of a pose to it, as if it were an intentional, even affected, display of mighty art. And what art, what might. His presence was overwhelming, yet equally evident was the lithesome grace of it. He was incredibly muscular, yet his haunches were thin and his glossy coat hung loosely on his frame. His body, bright brownish orange streaked with black vertical stripes, was incomparably beautiful, matched with a tailor's eye for harmony by his pure white chest and underside and the black rings of his long tail. His head was large and round, displaying formidable sideburns, a stylish goatee and some of the finest whiskers of the cat world, thick, long and white. Atop the head were small, expressive ears shaped like perfect arches. His carrot orange face had a broad bridge and a pink nose, and it was made up with brazen flair. Wavy dabs of black circled the face in a pattern that was striking yet subtle, for it brought less attention to itself than it did to the one part of the face left untouched by it, the bridge, whose rufous lustre shone nearly with a radiance. The patches of white above the eyes, on the cheeks and around the mouth came off as finishing touches worthy of a Kathakali dancer. The result was a face that looked like the wings of a butterfly and bore an expression vaguely old and Chinese. But when Richard Parker's amber eyes met mine, the stare was intense, cold and unflinching, not flighty or friendly, and spoke of self-possession on the point of exploding with rage. His ears twitched and then swivelled right around. One of his lips began to rise and fall. The yellow canine thus coyly revealed was as long as my longest finger. Every hair on me was standing up, shrieking with fear. That's when the rat appeared. Out of nowhere, a scrawny brown rat materialized on the side bench, nervous and breathless. Richard Parker looked as astonished as I was. The rat leapt onto the tarpaulin and raced my way. At the sight, in shock and surprise, my legs gave way beneath me and I practically fell into the locker. Before my incredulous eyes the rodent hopped over the various parts of the raft, jumped onto me and climbed to the top of my head, where I felt its little claws clamping down on my scalp, holding on for dear life. Richard Parker's eyes had followed the rat. They were now fixed on my head. He completed the turn of his head with a slow turn of his body, moving his forepaws sideways along the side bench. He dropped to the floor of the boat with ponderous ease. I could see the top of his head, his back and his long, curled tail. His ears lay flat against his skull. In three paces he was at the middle of the boat. Without effort the front half of his body rose in the air and his forepaws came to rest on the rolled-up edge of the tarpaulin. He was less than ten feet away. His head, his chest, his paws—so big! so big! His teeth—an entire army battalion in a mouth. He was making to jump onto the tarpaulin. I was about to die. But the tarpaulin's strange softness bothered him. He pressed at it tentatively. He looked up anxiously—the exposure to so much light and open space did not please him either. And the rolling motion of the boat continued to unsettle him. For a brief moment, Richard Parker was hesitating. I grabbed the rat and threw it his way. I can still see it in my mind as it sailed through the air—its outstretched claws and erect tail, its tiny elongated scrotum and pinpoint anus. Richard Parker opened his maw and the squealing rat disappeared into it like a baseball into a catcher's mitt. Its hairless tail vanished like a spaghetti noodle sucked into a mouth. He seemed satisfied with the offering. He backed down and returned beneath the tarpaulin. My legs instantly became functional again. I leapt up and raised the locker lid again to block the open space between bow bench and tarpaulin. I heard loud sniffing and the noise of a body being dragged. His shifting weight made the boat rock a little. I began hearing the sound of a mouth eating. I peeked beneath the tarpaulin. He was in the middle of the boat. He was eating the hyena by great chunks, voraciously. This chance would not come again. I reached and retrieved the remaining life jackets—six in all—and the last oar. They would go to improving the raft. I noticed in passing a smell. It was not the sharp smell of cat piss. It was vomit. There was a patch of it on the floor of the boat. It must have come from Richard Parker. So he was indeed seasick. I hitched the long rope to the raft. Lifeboat and raft were now tethered. Next I attached a life jacket to each side of the raft, on its underside. Another life jacket I strapped across the hole of the lifebuoy to act as a seat. I turned the last oar into a footrest, lashing it on one side of the raft, about two feet from the lifebuoy, and tying the remaining life jacket to it. My fingers trembled as I worked, and my breath was short and strained. I checked and rechecked all my knots. I looked about the sea. Only great, gentle swells. No whitecaps. The wind was low and constant. I looked down. There were fish—big fish with protruding foreheads and very long dorsal fins, dorados they are called, and smaller fish, lean and long, unknown to me, and smaller ones still—and there were sharks. I eased the raft off the lifeboat. If for some reason it did not float, I was as good as dead. It took to the water beautifully. In fact, the buoyancy of the life jackets was such that they pushed the oars and the lifebuoy right out of the water. But my heart sank. As soon as the raft touched the water, the fish scattered—except for the sharks. They remained. Three or four of them. One swam directly beneath the raft. Richard Parker growled. I felt like a prisoner being pushed off a plank by pirates. I brought the raft as close to the lifeboat as the protruding tips of the oars would allow. I leaned out and lay my hands on the lifebuoy. Through the "cracks" in the floor of the raft—yawning crevasses would be more accurate—I looked directly into the bottomless depths of the sea. I heard Richard Parker again. I flopped onto the raft on my stomach. I lay flat and spread-eagled and did not move a finger. I expected the raft to overturn at any moment. Or a shark to lunge and bite right through the life jackets and oars. Neither happened. The raft sank lower and pitched and rolled, the tips of the oars dipping underwater, but it floated robustly. Sharks came close, but did not touch. I felt a gentle tug. The raft swung round. I raised my head. The lifeboat and the raft had already separated as far as the rope would go, about forty feet. The rope tensed and lifted out of the water and wavered in the air. It was a highly distressing sight. I had fled the lifeboat to save my life. Now I wanted to get back. This raft business was far too precarious. It only needed a shark to bite the rope, or a knot to become undone, or a large wave to crash upon me, and I would be lost. Compared to the raft, the lifeboat now seemed a haven of comfort and security. I gingerly turned over. I sat up. Stability was good, so far. My footrest worked well enough. But it was all too small. There was just enough space to sit on and no more. This toy raft, mini-raft, micro-raft, might do for a pond, but not for the Pacific Ocean. I took hold of the rope and pulled. The closer I got to the lifeboat, the slower I pulled. When I was next to the lifeboat, I heard Richard Parker. He was still eating. I hesitated for long minutes. I stayed on the raft. I didn't see what else I could do. My options were limited to perching above a tiger or hovering over sharks. I knew perfectly well how dangerous Richard Parker was. Sharks, on the other hand, had not yet proved to be dangerous. I checked the knots that held the rope to the lifeboat and to the raft. I let the rope out until I was thirty or so feet from the lifeboat, the distance that about rightly balanced my two fears: being too close to Richard Parker and being too far from the lifeboat. The extra rope, ten feet or so, I looped around the footrest oar. I could easily let out slack if the need arose. The day was ending. It started to rain. It had been overcast and warm all day. Now the temperature dropped, and the downpour was steady and cold. All around me heavy drops of fresh water plopped loudly and wastefully into the sea, dimpling its surface. I pulled on the rope again. When I was at the bow I turned onto my knees and took hold of the stem. I pulled myself up and carefully peeped over the gunnel. He wasn't in sight. I hurriedly reached down into the locker. I grabbed a rain catcher, a fifty-litre plastic bag, a blanket and the survival manual. I slammed the locker lid shut. I didn't mean to slam it—only to protect my precious goods from the rain—but the lid slipped from my wet hand. It was a bad mistake. In the very act of revealing myself to Richard Parker by bringing down what blocked his view, I made a great loud noise to attract his attention. He was crouched over the hyena. His head turned instantly. Many animals intensely dislike being disturbed while they are eating. Richard Parker snarled. His claws tensed. The tip of his tail twitched electrically. I fell back onto the raft, and I believe it was terror as much as wind and current that widened the distance between raft and lifeboat so swiftly. I let out all the rope. I expected Richard Parker to burst forth from the boat, sailing through the air, teeth and claws reaching for me. I kept my eyes on the boat. The longer I looked, the more unbearable was the expectation. He did not appear. By the time I had opened the rain catcher above my head and tucked my feet into the plastic bag, I was already soaked to the bones. And the blanket had got wet when I fell back onto the raft. I wrapped myself with it nonetheless. Night crept up. My surroundings disappeared into pitch-black darkness. Only the regular tugging of the rope at the raft told me that I was still attached to the lifeboat. The sea, inches beneath me yet too far for my eyes, buffeted the raft. Fingers of water reached up furtively through the cracks and wet my bottom. |
第51章 但是我第一次看救生艇的时候，并没有看见我想看见的细节。船尾和舷边坐板表面没有一处接缝，浮箱的外壁也是一样。船板平平的，与船壳相连；下面不可能有密窖。这一点是肯定的了：船上任何地方都没有锁柜、盒子或任何其他容器。只有平滑的没有一丝接缝的橘黄色的表面。 我对船长和船用杂货零售商的判断产生了动摇。生存的希望之光开始摇曳不定。我的干渴仍然没有消除。 要是补给品在船头油布下面呢？我又转身往回爬。我感到自己就像一只干瘪的蜥蜴。我把油布往下按了按。油布绷得很紧。如果我把它卷起来，就可以看到下面可能储存的补给品了。但那就意味着在理查德·帕克的窝的上方开一个孔。 这没问题。干渴促使我开始行动。我把船桨从油布下面抽了出来，把救生圈套在腰间，把船桨横放在船头。我趴在舷边，用两个拇指把拉住油布的绳子从一只钩子下面推过去。这很费劲。但是从第一只钩子下面推过去之后，再推过第二只第三只就容易多了。艏柱另一边也是同样。我胳膊肘下面的油布变松了。我趴在油布上，两条腿对着船尾。 我把油布卷起来一点儿。我立刻得到了回报。船头和船尾一样，有一块末端坐板。在坐板上，离艏柱只有几英寸的地方，一只搭扣像一粒钻石一样闪闪发光。一只盖子的轮廓出现了。我的心开始枰怦直跳。我又把油布卷起来一些。我向下望去。盖子的形状像一个角被磨圆了的三角形，3英尺宽，2英尺深。就在那个时候，我看见了一堆黄色。我猛地把头缩了回来。但是那堆黄色并没有动，而且看上去不大对劲。我又看了看。那不是一只老虎。是一件救生衣。理查德·帕克的窝后面有好几件救生衣。 一阵颤抖传遍了我全身。就好像透过树叶之间的空隙一样，我透过救生衣之间的空隙，第一次真真切切地头脑清醒地瞥见了理查德·帕克的部分身体。我能看见的是他的腰腿部和一部分后背。黄褐色，有条纹，简直庞大极了。他正面对着船尾趴着。除了身体两侧因呼吸而起伏外，他一动不动。我眨了眨眼睛，不敢相信他离我那么近。他就在那儿,在我身体下面2英尺的地方。如果伸直了身子，我可以拧到他的屁股。我们之间什么都没有，只隔着一块油布，而油布是个很容易克服的障碍。 "上帝保全我吧！"没有任何祈求比这一句更加饱含激情、语气却又更加轻柔了。我纹丝不动地躺着。 我必须得有水。我把手伸下去，轻轻地拨开搭扣，揭开盖子。下面是一只锁柜。 我刚刚提到过关于细节成为救命的东西的看法。这儿就有一个细节：盖子用铰链连接在船头坐板边上大约一英寸的地方——这就是说盖子掀开后就隔断了油布和坐板之间12英寸的空间，理查德·帕克把救生衣推开后可以通过这块空间扑向我。我把盖子打开，让它靠在横放的船桨和油布边上。我爬到艏柱上，面对着船，一只脚踩在打开的锁柜边上，另一只脚抵住盖子。如果理查德·帕克决定从身后袭击我，他就必须把盖子推开。这一推不仅能警告我，而且会让我套着救生圈向后掉进水里。如果他从另一边来，从船尾爬到油布上，我极佳的位置让我早早地就能看见他，然后跳进水里。我环顾救生艇四周。没有看见鲨鱼。 我从两腿之间向下看去。我想我高兴得要晕过去了。打开的锁柜里崭新的东西在闪闪发光。噢，多么令人愉快的机器制造的货物，人造的装置，创造的东西啊！物资展现在面前的那一刻给我带来了极大的快乐一希望、惊喜、难以置信、激动、感激令人陶醉地混合在一起，糅合成了一种感情一这是任何圣诞节、生日、婚礼、排灯节或其他赠送礼物的场合都无法相比的。我真的是高兴得晕头转向了。 我的目光立刻落在了我在寻找的东西上。无论是用瓶子、罐子还是盒子,毫无疑问,水被装起来了。在这只救生艇上,生命之酒是盛在淡淡的金色罐子里的，罐子握在手里大小正合适。酿制标签上的黑字写着饮用水。酿造商是只?食品有限公司。容量是500毫升。这样的罐子有好几堆，简直太多了，一眼都数不过来。 我的手颤抖着伸下去拿起一罐。罐子摸上去凉凉的，感觉很重。我摇了摇。里面的气泡发出沉闷的格格格的声音。我很快就不会再受那可恶的干渴的折磨了。这个想法让我的脉搏加快了跳动。我只需要打开罐子就行了。 我犹豫了。怎么打开呢？ 我有一听罐子——我肯定有开罐器吧——我朝锁柜里看去。那里面有很多东西。我仔细地翻找起来。我开始没有耐心了。急切的期待让我再也无法忍受了。我现在就要喝，否则我就要死了。我找不到想要的工具。但是没时间徒劳无益地痛苦了。必须行动。能用指甲把它撬开吗？我试了。撬不开。牙齿呢？不值得一试。我朝舷边看去。油布上的钩子。又短，又钝，又结实。我跪在坐板上，身体前倾，两只手抓住罐子，猛地在钩子上撞了一下。一大块凹痕。又撞了一下。第一块凹痕旁边又有了一块凹痕。借着一下又一下的撞击，我的小窍门成功了。一滴珍珠般的水珠出现了。我把水珠舔了。我把罐子掉过来，把嫌底往钩子上撞，想再撞一个洞。我像上了瘾一样地撞着。撞了一个大洞。我坐回到舷边上。把罐子举到面前。张开嘴。倾斜罐子。 我的感觉也许可以想像，但却很难描绘。伴随着我贪婪的喉咙发出的有节奏的汩汩声，清纯、甘甜、鲜美、晶莹的水流进了我的身体。那就是液体的生命。我喝光了金色杯子里的最后一滴，在洞口吸着吮着，把剩下来的水分都吸进嘴里。我叫了一声"啊"，把罐子扔出船外，又拿了一罐。我用开第一罐水的办法打开第二罐，里面的东西同样迅速消失了。这只罐子也飞到了船外，我又打开了下一罐。很快这只罐子也到了海上。又一罐被匆匆喝光了。我喝了4罐，两升最精美的甘露，然后才停下来。你也许认为在渴了这么长时间以后一下子喝下这么多水可能会让我的身体不舒服。荒唐！我这辈子从来没有感觉这么舒服过。嗨，摸摸我的脑门！我的前额湿湿的，是刚冒出来的干净的令人神清气爽的汗珠。我身体里的每一个部位，直到皮肤上的毛孔，都在表达着快乐。 我迅速沉醉在幸福安乐的感觉之中。我的嘴变得湿润柔软。我忘记了喉咙的后部。我的皮肤松弛下来。我的关节更灵活了。我的心跳像一面快乐的鼓在敲，血液开始在血管里流淌，就像参加婚礼回来的汽车一路鸣着喇叭穿过小镇。我的肌肉又恢复了力量和敏捷。我的大脑更加清醒了。真的，我是在起死回生。这样的沉醉令我欣喜若狂，欣喜若狂。我告诉你，喝醉了酒很丢人,但喝醉了水却那么光彩，令人心醉神迷。有好几分钟我都沐浴在狂喜与富足之中。 一种空荡荡的感觉引起了我的注意。我摸了摸肚子。那是一个硬邦邦的空洞。要是现在能吃点儿东西就太好了。玛沙拉米粉烙饼和椰子酸辣酱？嗯！甚至更好：酸面薄煎饼！嗯！噢！我把两只手放进嘴里——黑绿豆米饼！仅仅是想到了这个词，我的嘴巴后面就感到一阵疼痛，我的嘴里就涌出了大量唾液。我的右手开始抽搐起来。它伸过去，差点儿碰到了我想像中煮得半熟的美味的扁饭团。右手的手指伸到了冒着热气的滚烫的饭团里……它捏了一个饭团，将饭团浸在沙司里：它把饭团放进我嘴里……我嚼了起来……噢，多么剧烈的痛苦啊！ 我往锁柜里看去，寻找着食物。我找到几盒"七重洋标准急用口粮"，是遥远的带有异国情调的挪威卑尔根产的。这顿早饭要补上九顿没有吃的饭，还不包括母亲带来的少量饭菜。这顿饭是半公斤重的一个方块，紧密，实在，用银色塑料真空包装，外面用十二种语言写着说明。英语说明是，这盒口粮里包括18块强化饼干，其中的成分有烤小麦、动物脂肪和葡萄糖，每24小时食用量不得超过6块。脂肪让人遗憾，但是考虑到特殊情况，那个素食的我完全可以捏着鼻子忍受。 方块上方写着沿此处撕开，一个黑色箭头指着塑料边缘。边缘在我的手指下开了。9个用蜡纸包着的长方形条状的东西掉了出来。我打开一条。里面的东西自然地分成了两半。是两块几乎是正方形的饼干，颜色淡淡的，香气扑彝。我咬了一口。天啊，谁会想到呢？我从来没有料想到。这是我一直都不知道的秘密：挪威烹调技术是世界上最高明的！这些饼干好吃得令人惊讶。芳香可口，碰在上腭上，感觉柔软细腻，既不太甜也不太咸。被牙齿咬碎时发出愉快的嘎吱嘎吱声。饼干和唾液混合在一起，成了颗粒状的面糊，让舌头和嘴巴欣喜陶醉。当我把饼干咽下去时，我的肚子只能说出一个词：哈利路亚！ 几分钟后整包饼干就不见了，包装纸随风飞舞。我想再打开一盒，但又想了想，还是决定不这么做。稍微克制一下没有坏处。实际上，肚子里装着半千克急用口粮，我已经感觉很饱了。 我决定应该弄清楚我面前的珍宝箱里究竟有些什么。锁柜很大，比开口要大。里面的空间一直延伸到船壳，并向舷边坐板里面伸进去一些。我把脚放进锁柜,坐在柜子边上，背靠着艏柱。我数了数七重洋盒子。我已经吃了一盒，还剩31盒。按照说明，每盒500克一盒的口粮应该可以供一个幸存者食用3天。那就是说我的口粮可以够我吃——31x3——93天！说明还建议幸存者限制自己的饮水量，每24小时只喝半升水。我数了数装水的罐子。一共124雄。每罐有半升水。因此水可以够我喝124天。简单的算术从来没有让我这样高兴过。 我还有什么？我迫不及待地把胳膊猛地伸进锁柜，拿上来一件又一件美妙的东西。每一件东西，无论是什么，都让我感到安慰。我需要陪伴和安慰，这种感觉太强烈了，我感觉制造这些大批量生产的东西当中的每一件所需要的注意力就像是对我的特别关注。我不停地咕哝着谢谢！谢谢！谢谢！" 第52章 在做了全面调查之后，我列了一个详细的清单： ●192片抗晕船药片 ●124锡罐淡水，每罐500毫升，共62升 ●32只呕吐用塑料袋 ●31盒紧急情况下食用的口粮，每盒500克，因此一共15.5 千克 ●16条羊毛毯 ●12台太阳能蒸馏器 ●大约10件橘黄色救生衣，每件都有一只用细绳挂着的橘黄色无珠哨子 ●6支吗啡安瓿注射器 ●6枚手动照明弹 ●5支能浮于水的船桨 ●4枚火箭式照明弹 ●4枚火箭伞投照明弹 ●3只粗质透明塑料袋，每只的容量是50升 ●3只开罐器 ●2只标有刻度的喝水用的玻璃烧杯 ●2盒防水火柴 ●2只橘黄色烟雾信号 ●2只中等大小橘黄色塑料桶 ●2只能浮于水的橘黄色塑料戽斗 ●2只带密封盖的多功能塑料容器 ●2块长方形黄色海绵 ●2根能浮于水的合成缆绳，每根长50米 ●2根不浮于水的合成缆绳，长度不确定，但每根至少有30米长 ●两套捕鱼工具，有鱼钩、鱼线和坠子 ●两支鱼叉，上面有非常尖利的带刺的钩子 ●两只海锚 ●两把斧子 ●两只接雨器 ●两枝黑墨水圆珠笔 ●一张尼龙货网 ●一只结实的救生圈，内径40厘米，外径80厘米，上面拴着 绳子 ●一把大猎刀，刀把结实，刀尖尖锐，一边是锋利的刀刃，一边是锯齿状刀刃；一根长长的线把刀拴在锁柜的一只环上。 ●一个针线盒，里面有直的和弯的针和很牢的白线 ●一套装在防水塑料箱里的急救用品 ●一面信号镜 ●一包中国造的过滤嘴香烟 ●一大块黑巧克力 ●一本求生指南 ●一只指南针 ●一本98页的画线笔记本 ●一个男孩,穿着一整套单薄的衣服，但是不见了一只鞋 ●一只斑点鬣狗 ●一只孟加拉虎? ●一只救生艇 ●一座海洋 ●一个上帝 我吃了四分之一块的大块黑巧克力。我检查了一只接雨器。那是一种像倒置的雨伞的装置，有一个相当大的贮水袋，袋子上连着一根橡皮管子。 我把胳膊交叉放在套在腰间的救生圈上，低下头，沉沉地睡了。 第53章 整个上午我都在睡觉。焦虑使我醒来。仿佛浪潮一般从我虚弱的身体里流过的食物、水和休息给我带来了愉快和更有生气的生活，同时也让我有力气看清自己的处境是多么绝望。我醒来面对的是理查德·帕克。救生艇上有一只老虎。我简直不敢相信，但我知道我必须相信。并且我得救自己。 我想跳下船去游走，但是我的身体拒绝动一动。我离能看见的陆地还有几百英里，如果不是一千多英里的话。我游不了那么远的距离，就算有救生圈也不行。我吃什么呢？我喝什么呢？我怎么才能不让鲨鱼靠近？我怎么保持温暖？我怎么知道该往哪个方向游？这厂点毫无疑问：离开救生艇就意味着死亡。但是待在船上又能如何？他会像一只典型的猫科动物一样向我扑来，不发出一点声音。我还不知道是怎么回事，他就抓住了我的颈背或喉咙，我会被尖牙咬穿几个洞。我会说不出话来。生命之血会流出我的身体，没有留下我的最后一句话。或者他会用一只巨大的爪子打我，打断我的脖子。 "我要死了。"我颤抖着双唇抽泣着说。 即将到来的死亡已经够可怕的了，但更糟的是死亡还有一段时间才到来，在这段时间里，你曾经拥有的所有快乐和你可能拥有的所有快乐都变得那么宝贵。你非常清楚地看见自己正在失去的一切。这样的景象带给你难以忍受的悲伤，这是任何即将撞死你的汽车或即将淹死你的大水都无法相比的。父亲，母亲，拉维,印度，温尼伯，这几个词让我感到一阵钻心的辛酸。 我在放弃。我可能已经放弃了，如果我心里没有响起一个声音。那个声音说我不会死的。我拒绝去死。我要结束这场噩梦。我要战胜困难，尽管困难很大。到目前为止我都活了下来，奇迹般地活了下来。现在我要把奇迹变成规律。令人惊奇的事将会每天发生。我要付出所有必要的努力。是的，只要上帝和我在一起，我就不会死。阿门。" 我的脸上出现了严肃的坚定的表情。现在我在说这件事的时候，描述非常适度，但是那一刻我发现自己有了非常强烈的生存愿望。根据我的经验，这不是显而易见的事。有些人只顺从地叹一口气，便对生命绝望了。另一些人斗争了一会儿，然后便失去了希望。还有一些人一我便是其中一个一却从不放弃。我们不断地斗争、斗争、斗争。无论这场战斗需要付出多大的代价，无论我们会遭受多大的损失，无论胜利是多么不可能，我们都要斗争。我们一直斗争到底。这不是勇气的问题。这是与生俱来的，不愿放弃的能力。也许这只是一种渴望生命的愚蠢。 就在那一刻，理查德·帕克开始咆哮起来，仿佛他一直在等着我成为一个值得较量的对手。我的胸口因为害怕而绷紧了。 "快呀，伙计，快。"我气喘吁吁地说。我得安排好如何逃生。一秒钟都不能浪费。我需要躲藏的地方，立刻就需要。我想到了自己用船桨做的船首。但是现在船头的油布是铺开的；没有东西可以固定船桨。而且没有证据表明吊在船桨末端能让我在理查德·帕克面前真正安全。也许他可以轻易地够到我，捉住我。我得找点儿别的东西。我迅速思考着。 我造了一只小筏子。如果你还记得，船桨是可以浮在水上的。我还有救生衣和一只结实的救生圈。 我屏住呼吸，关上锁柜,伸手到油布下面去够舷边坐板上另外几只船桨。理查德·帕克注意到了。我能透过救生衣看见他。我每拽出一只船桨——你能想像我是多么小心翼翼——他都动一下。但他没有转过身来。我拽出来三只船桨。第四只船桨已经横放在油布上了。我拿起锁柜盖子，盖住理查德·帕克的窝上方的开口。 我有四只能浮于水的船桨。我把它们放在油布上，围住救生圈。这时救生圈外面的船桨就形成了一个正方形。我的小筏子看上去就像玩画"连城"游戏①时第一步在中间画的那个O。 【①两人轮流在一井宇方格内画"X"和"O"，以先列成一行者成胜。】 现在到了危险的部分了。我需要救生衣。现在理查德·帕克的咆哮声巳经成了让空气震动的低沉的隆隆声。作为回答，鬣狗发出一声哀鸣，一声颤抖的尖利的哀鸣，这明确地表示，麻烦就要开始了。 我别无选择。我必须行动。我又放下盖子。只要一伸手，就能够到救生衣。有几件就靠在理查德·帕克身上。鬣狗突然尖叫起来。 我伸手去够离我最近的一件救生衣。我的手抖得太厉害了，要抓住救生衣很困难。我把救生衣拽了出来。理查德·帕克似乎没有注意到。我又拽出来一件。又拽一件。我害怕得快要晕过去了。我的呼吸变得非常困难。我对自己说，如果有必要，我可以带着这些救生衣跳海。我拽出了最后一件。一共有4件救生衣。 我把船桨一只接一只地穿过救生衣的袖孔一从一只袖孔穿进去，再从另一只袖孔穿出来一一这样救生衣就被牢牢地固定在小筏子的四个角上。我把每一件救生衣都系紧了。 我在锁柜里找到了一根能浮于水的缆绳，用刀切下四段，把四只船桨的连接处扎紧。啊，学过打绳结的实用知识真好！我在每一个角打了十个结，但还是担心船桨会散开。我紧张兴奋地干着活，一边干一边不停地骂自己笨。船上有一只老虎，而我却等了三天三夜才救自己！ 我又切下四段能浮于水的缆绳，把救生圈系在正方形的每一个边上。我把救生圈上的缆绳穿过救生衣，绕过船桨，从救生圈里穿进去再穿出来一沿着小筏子绕一圈一作为防止小筏子散成碎片的另一个预防措施。 鬣狗现在高声尖叫起来。 还有最后一件事。"上帝啊，给我时间吧。"我祈求道。我拿起剩下的能浮于水的绳子。在小船艏柱上，靠近顶端的地方,有一个洞。我把能浮于水的缆绳从洞里穿过去，系牢了。只要把缆绳另一端系在小筏子上，也许我就得救了。 鬣狗不叫了。我的心停止了跳动，接着又以三倍的速度狂跳起来。我转过身。 "耶稣，马利亚，穆罕默德和毗湿奴啊?" 我看见了一幅我一辈子都不会忘记的景象。理查德·帕克已经站起来，出现在我眼前。他离我还不到十五英尺。噢，他多么庞大啊！鬣狗的末日到了，我的末日也到了。我像被钉在了原地，无法动弹，完全被眼前的情节吸引住了。与救生艇上没被关在笼子里的野生动物短时间相处的经验使我以为，当流血的时刻到来时，会有巨大的声响和反抗。但这几乎是静静地发生的。鬣狗既没有哀叫也没有呜咽就死了，理查德·帕克没有发出一点声响就杀死了它。火焰色的食肉动物从油布下出现，朝鬣狗冲了过去。鬣狗正靠在斑马尸体后面的船尾坐板上，呆若木鸡。它没有进行搏斗。相反，它缩在船板上，哮起一只脚，做出一个徒劳的防御动作。它脸上满是惊恐的表情。一只巨大的爪子放在了它的肩上。理查德·帕克的嘴咬住了鬣狗的脖子。它那双目光呆滞的眼睛睁大了。气管和脊髓被咬碎时发出嘎吱一声。鬣狗抖了一下。它的眼睛里没有了生气。一切都过去了。 理查德·帕克放开它，吼了一声。但是这声吼叫的声音很轻，似乎是叫给自己听的，而且是漫不经心的。他在喘气，舌头从嘴里伸了出来。他舔了舔自己的嘴。摇了摇头。嗔了嗔死了的鬣狗。他高昂起头，闻了闻空气。他把前爪放在船尾坐板上，直立了起来。他的双脚分得很开。船在摇晃，虽然很轻，但显然他不喜欢。他越过舷边看着广阔的大海。他发出一声低沉的情绪低落的嗥叫声。又闻了闻空气。然后慢慢地转着头。他把头转过来一转过去——完全转过来——最后直直地看着我。 我希望自己能描述下面发生的事情，不是我所看见的，那样也许我能做到，而是我所感觉到的。我从一个最能展示理查德·帕克的角度观察他：从他的背后，在他直立起来，转过头的时候。这个姿势有点儿像摆出来的，好像在故意地，甚至装模作样地表现非凡的本领。多么了不起的本领啊，多么强大的力量。他的存在有着逼人的气势，然而同时又是那么地高雅自如。他的肌肉惊人地发达，然而他的腰腿部位却很瘦，他那富有光泽的毛皮松松地披在身上。他那棕黄色带黑色横条的色彩斑埔的身体美得无与伦比，雪白的胸脯和肚皮及长长的尾巴上一圈圈的黑色条纹即使在裁缝的眼里也一定是一幅色彩协调的图案。他的头又大又圆，长着令人惊叹的连鬓胡子，一缕漂亮的山羊胡子，还有猫科动物中最好看的胡须，又粗又长又白。头上长着小小的富于表现力的耳朵，呈完美的拱形。胡萝卜黄色的脸上有一道宽宽的鼻梁和一个粉红色的鼻子，看上去大胆夸张。脸周围是一小块一小块波浪形的黑毛，构成的图案惹人注目却又十分微妙，因为它让人们不那么注意它本身，而更加注意没有图案的那部分脸，也就是鼻梁，鼻梁上赤褐色的光泽几乎像在闪着光。眼睛上方、脸颊上和嘴周围的一块块白色是最后的修饰，可以和卡达卡里舞者相媲美。结果是这张脸看上去就像蝴蝶翅膀，脸上的表情有些像老人，也有些像中国人。但是当理查德·帕克琥珀色的眼睛和我的眼神相遇时，他的目光专注、冷漠、坚定，不轻浮也不友善，流露出愤怒即将爆发前的镇定。他的耳朵抽动了几下，然后转了过去。他的一片嘴唇开始张开又合上。张合之间半隐半露的黄色犬牙和我最长的手指一样长。 我头上的每一根头发都竖了起来，发出恐惧的尖叫。 就在这时,老鼠出现了。不知哪来的一只瘦小的棕色老鼠突然出现在舷边坐板上，紧张得屏住了呼吸。理查德·帕克看上去和我一样吃惊。老鼠跳到油布上,飞快地朝我跑过来。看到这一情景，我大惊失色，两腿一软，差点儿摔进锁柜里。我简直不敢相信自己的眼睛，这只啮齿动物就在我眼前从小筏子上迅速跳过来，跳到我身上，爬到了我的头顶上，我感到它小小的爪子重重地压在我的头颅上，紧紧地抓住宝贵的生命不放。 理查德·帕克的目光刚才一直追随着老鼠。现在这目光停留在了我的头上。 他的头完全转了过来，接着身体也开始慢慢地转过来，前爪沿着舷边坐板横着走过来。他缓慢但轻巧地跳到船板上。我能看到他的头顶、背部和长长的卷曲的尾巴。他的耳朵紧贴着头。他三步便走到了船中间。他的上半身毫不费力地抬了起来，前爪搭在油布卷起来的边上。 他离我还不到十英尺。他的脑袋，他的胸脯，他的爪子——多么大啊！多么大啊！他的牙齿——仿佛是嘴里整整一个军营的士兵。他正准备跳上油布。我就要死了。 但是油布软软的，这奇怪的感觉让他感到不安。他试探性地在上面按了按。他焦虑地抬头看了看一眼前如此强烈的光线和如此开阔的空间也让他感到不高兴。小船的摇晃仍然让他感到不舒服。就在那一瞬间，理查德·帕克犹豫了。 我抓起老鼠，朝他扔过去。现在我仍能回想起老鼠在空中飞过的情景——它伸出的爪子和竖起的尾巴，它小小的拉长了的阴襄和针尖大小的肛门。理查德·帕克张开咽喉，吱吱叫的老鼠消失在了里面，就像棒球消失在接手的手套里。它没有毛的尾巴像一根意大利细面条消失在嘴巴里。 他似乎对这份礼物感到满意。他退回去，回到了油布下面。我的双腿立刻恢复了功能。我一跃而起，再一次把锁柜盖子打开，挡住船头坐板和油布之间的空间。 我听见很响的嗅闻的声音和尸体被拖动的声音。他走动的沉重身体让船有点儿摇晃。我开始听见嘴吃东西的声音。我偷偷朝油布下面看去。他正在船中间。他正贪婪地大块大块地吃着鬣狗。机不可失。我伸过手去，拿回了剩下的救生衣——共6件——和最后一支船桨。它们可以用来改进小筏子。我在不经意间闻到了一种气味。不是猫尿的剌鼻气味。是呕吐物。船板上有一摊呕吐物。一定是理查德·帕克吐的。那么他的确是晕船。 我把长缆绳系在小筏子上。现在救生艇和小筏子拴在一起了。接着我在小筏子下面的每一边都绑上一件救生衣。我把另外一件救生衣绑在救生圈上，盖住中间的洞，当做座位。我把最后一支船桨用做搁脚物，牢牢扎在小筏子一侧，离救生圈大约两英尺的地方，再把剩下的救生衣系在上面。在做着这些的时候，我的手指在颤抖，我的呼吸急促而紧张。我把所有的绳结都检查了一遍又一遍。 我环顾大海。只有巨大的轻柔的排浪。没有白浪。风很和缓，不停地吹。我向下看去。水里有鱼。长着突出的前额和非常长背鳍的大鱼，它们叫做鯕鳅，还有小鱼，细细长长的，我不知道名字，还有更小的鱼——还有鲨鱼。 我把小筏子从救生艇上轻轻推了下去。如果因为某种原因它浮不起来，我的麻烦就大了。它对水非常适应。事实上，救生衣的浮力太大了，把船桨和小筏子整个从水里推了出来。但是我的心却沉了下去。小筏子刚碰到水面，鱼群便四散逃开——除了鲨鱼。它们没有游开。有三四条。其中一条就在小筏子下面游着。理查德·帕克又吼叫起来。 我感到自己就像被海盗推下木壳板的囚犯。 我在突出的船桨顶端允许的范围内让小筏子靠近救生艇。我探出身子，把手放在救生艇上。透过小筏子的船板上的"缝隙"——说是豁开的裂隙更确切一些——我直接朝深不见底的大海看去。我又听见了理查德·帕克的声音。我肚子朝下扑倒在小筏子上。我平躺着，张开四肢，连一根手指头都没有动。我时刻准备着小筏子会翮掉。或者一条鲨鱼冲过来咬穿了救生衣和船桨。两件事都没有发生。小筏子往水里沉得更多了，上下颠簸，左右摇晃，船桨的顶端不停地伸进水里，但是它坚定地在水上漂着。鲨鱼游近了，但是并没有碰它。 我感到缆绳突然被轻轻拉了一下。我抬起头。救生艇和小筏子之间已经隔开了缆绳长度所能允许的距离，大约四十英尺。缆绳绷紧了，从水里露了出来，在空中摇摆着。这是非常紧张的景象。为了救自己的命，我从救生艇上逃了下来。现在我想回去了。小筏子这个装置实在太靠不住了。只要鲨鱼咬断缆绳，或者一个绳结松开了，或者一个大浪打来，我就完了。和小筏子相比，救生艇现在成了一个舒适安全的避难所。 我小心翼翼地翻过身。我坐了起来。到目前为止，稳定性还不错。我的搁脚物挺好。但是它太小了。只够我坐下来，再也没有多余的空间了。这个玩具小筏子，迷你小筏子，微型小筏子，在池塘里也许能行，但是在太平洋里不行。我抓住缆绳，拉了起来。离救生艇越近，我拉得越慢。靠近救生艇时，我听见了理查德·帕克的声音。他还在吃。 我犹豫了很长时间。 我待在了小筏子上。我不知道自己还能做什么。我只有两个选择，要不在老虎背上栖息，要不在鲨鱼头顶盘旋。我非常清楚老虎有多么危险。另一方面，鲨鱼是否危险还没有得到证实。我检查了一下把缆绳系在救生艇和小筏子上的几个绳结。我把缆绳放出去，直到自己离救生艇大约有三十英尺，这个距离大约正好能平衡我的两种恐惧：怕离理查德·帕克太近，又怕离救生艇太远。那根大约十英尺长的多出来的缆绳被我绕在了搁脚的船桨上。如果有必要,我可以很容易把绳子放松。 一天就要结束了。开始下起雨来。那天一整天都很温暖，阴云密布。现在气温降了下去，倾盆大雨不停地下着，雨水冰凉。在我四周，大滴大滴的淡水啪嗒啪嗒很响地落进大海浪费了，在海面上激起一圈圈涟漪。我又拽着绳子，把小筏子往救生艇那边拉。来到船头后，我将身体重心移向双膝，抓住艏柱,然后站起身来，越过舷边偷偷往里看。我没有看见他。 我匆匆把手伸进锁柜，抓了一只接雨器，一只50升容量的塑料袋,一条毯子和求生指南。我猛地把锁柜盖子盖上。我不想猛地盖上盖子的——只是为了保护我宝贵的食品不被雨淋——但是盖子从我潮湿的手里滑了出去。这是个糟糕的错误。这个动作放下了挡住理查德·帕克的视线的盖子，让我暴露在了他的面前，同时我还发出一声巨响，吸引了他的注意力。他正蹲在鬣狗身上。他立刻转过头来。很多动物都极不喜欢在进食的时候被打扰。理查德·帕克嗥叫起来。他的爪子也紧张起来。他的尾巴尖像触了电一样抽动着。我跌回到小筏子上。我相信是恐惧和风浪共同迅速拉大了小筏子和救生艇之间的距离。我把所有的缆绳都放了出去。我以为理查德·帕克会从船上猛冲过来,从空中飞过，露出牙齿来咬我，张开爪子来抓我。我目不转睛地盯着船看。看的时间越长，这样的设想就越让我难以忍受。 他没有出现。 我把接雨器在头顶上掙开，把脚塞进塑料袋的时候，身上已经湿透了。毯子也在我跌回小筏子的时候被弄湿了。但我还是用它把自己裹了起来。 夜晚已在不知不觉中到来。我周围的一切消失在了漆黑的夜色中。只有小筏子上的缆绳有规律的牵动在告诉我，我还与救生艇连在一起。就在我脚下几英寸，却又遥远得让我看不见的大海拍打着小筏子。海水像手指一样偷偷摸摸地从缝隙伸上来，弄湿了我的屁股。 |
CHAPTER 54 It rained all night. I had a horrible, sleepless time of it. It was noisy. On the rain catcher the rain made a drumming sound, and around me, coming from the darkness beyond, it made a hissing sound, as if I were at the centre of a great nest of angry snakes. Shifts in the wind changed the direction of the rain so that parts of me that were beginning to feel warm were soaked anew. I shifted the rain catcher, only to be unpleasantly surprised a few minutes later when the wind changed once more. I tried to keep a small part of me dry and warm, around my chest, where I had placed the survival manual, but the wetness spread with perverse determination. I spent the whole night shivering with cold. I worried constantly that the raft would come apart, that the knots holding me to the lifeboat would become loose, that a shark would attack. With my hands I checked the knots and lashings incessantly, trying to read them the way a blind man would read Braille. The rain grew stronger and the sea rougher as the night progressed. The rope to the lifeboat tautened with a jerk rather than with a tug, and the rocking of the raft became more pronounced and erratic. It continued to float, rising above every wave, but there was no freeboard and the surf of every breaking wave rode clear across it, washing around me like a river washing around a boulder. The sea was warmer than the rain, but it meant that not the smallest part of me stayed dry that night. At least I drank. I wasn't really thirsty, but I forced myself to drink. The rain catcher looked like an inverted umbrella, an umbrella blown open by the wind. The rain flowed to its centre, where there was a hole. The hole was connected by a rubber tube to a catchment pouch made of thick, transparent plastic. At first the water had a rubbery taste, but quickly the rain rinsed the catcher and the water tasted fine. During those long, cold, dark hours, as the pattering of the invisible rain got to be deafening, and the sea hissed and coiled and tossed me about, I held on to one thought: Richard Parker. I hatched several plans to get rid of him so that the lifeboat might be mine. Plan Number One: Push Him off the Lifeboat. What good would that do? Even if I did manage to shove 450 pounds of living, fierce animal off the lifeboat, tigers are accomplished swimmers. In the Sundarbans they have been known to swim five miles in open, choppy waters. If he found himself unexpectedly overboard, Richard Parker would simply tread water, climb back aboard and make me pay the price for my treachery. Plan Number Two: Kill Him with the Six Morphine Syringes. But I had no idea what effect they would have on him. Would they be enough to kill him? And how exactly was I supposed to get the morphine into his system? I could remotely conceive surprising him once, for an instant, the way his mother had been when she was captured—but to surprise him long enough to give him six consecutive injections? Impossible. All I would do by pricking him with a needle would be to get a cuff in return that would take my head off. Plan Number Three: Attack Him with All Available Weaponry. Ludicrous. I wasn't Tarzan. I was a puny, feeble, vegetarian life form. In India it took riding atop great big elephants and shooting with powerful rifles to kill tigers. What was I supposed to do here? Fire off a rocket flare in his face? Go at him with a hatchet in each hand and a knife between my teeth? Finish him off with straight and curving sewing needles? If I managed to nick him, it would be a feat. In return he would tear me apart limb by limb, organ by organ. For if there's one thing more dangerous than a healthy animal, it's an injured animal. Plan Number Four: Choke Him. I had rope. If I stayed at the bow and got the rope to go around the stern and a noose to go around his neck, I could pull on the rope while he pulled to get at me. And so, in the very act of reaching for me, he would choke himself. A clever, suicidal plan. Plan Number Five: Poison Him, Set Him on Fire, Electrocute Him. How? With what? Plan Number Six: Wage a War of Attrition. All I had to do was let the unforgiving laws of nature run their course and I would be saved. Waiting for him to waste away and die would require no effort on my part. I had supplies for months to come. What did he have? Just a few dead animals that would soon go bad. What would he eat after that? Better still: where would he get water? He might last for weeks without food, but no animal, however mighty, can do without water for any extended period of time. A modest glow of hope flickered to life within me, like a candle in the night. I had a plan and it was a good one. I only needed to survive to put it into effect. CHAPTER 55 Dawn came and matters were worse for it. Because now, emerging from the darkness, I could see what before I had only felt, the great curtains of rain crashing down on me from towering heights and the waves that threw a path over me and trod me underfoot one after another. Dull-eyed, shaking and numb, one hand gripping the rain catcher, the other clinging to the raft, I continued to wait. Sometime later, with a suddenness emphasized by the silence that followed, the rain stopped. The sky cleared and the waves seemed to flee with the clouds. The change was as quick and radical as changing countries on land. I was now in a different ocean. Soon the sun was alone in the sky, and the ocean was a smooth skin reflecting the light with a million mirrors. I was stiff, sore and exhausted, barely grateful to be still alive. The words "Plan Number Six, Plan Number Six, Plan Number Six" repeated themselves in my mind like a mantra and brought me a small measure of comfort, though I couldn't recall for the life of me what Plan Number Six was. Warmth started coming to my bones. I closed the rain catcher. I wrapped myself with the blanket and curled up on my side in such a way that no part of me touched the water. I fell asleep. I don't know how long I slept. It was mid-morning when I awoke, and hot. The blanket was nearly dry. It had been a brief bout of deep sleep. I lifted myself onto an elbow. All about me was flatness and infinity, an endless panorama of blue. There was nothing to block my view. The vastness hit me like a punch in the stomach. I fell back, winded. This raft was a joke. It was nothing but a few sticks and a little cork held together by string. Water came through every crack. The depth beneath would make a bird dizzy. I caught sight of the lifeboat. It was no better than half a walnut shell. It held on to the surface of the water like fingers gripping the edge of a cliff. It was only a matter of time before gravity pulled it down. My fellow castaway came into view. He raised himself onto the gunnel and looked my way. The sudden appearance of a tiger is arresting in any environment, but it was all the more so here. The weird contrast between the bright, striped, living orange of his coat and the inert white of the boat's hull was incredibly compelling. My overwrought senses screeched to a halt. Vast as the Pacific was around us, suddenly, between us, it seemed a very narrow moat, with no bars or walls. "Plan Number Six, Plan Number Six, Plan Number Six," my mind whispered urgently. But what was Plan Number Six? Ah yes. The war of attrition. The waiting game. Passivity. Letting things happen. The unforgiving laws of nature. The relentless march of time and the hoarding of resources. That was Plan Number Six. A thought rang in my mind like an angry shout: "You fool and idiot! You dimwit! You brainless baboon! Plan Number Six is the worst plan of all! Richard Parker is afraid of the sea right now. It was nearly his grave. But crazed with thirst and hunger he will surmount his fear, and he will do whatever is necessary to appease his need. He will turn this moat into a bridge. He will swim as far as he has to, to catch the drifting raft and the food upon it. As for water, have you forgotten that tigers from the Sundarbans are known to drink saline water? Do you really think you can outlast his kidneys? I tell you, if you wage a war of attrition, you will lose it! You will die! IS THAT CLEAR?" CHAPTER 56 I must say a word about fear. It is life's only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life. It is a clever, treacherous adversary, how well I know. It has no decency, respects no law or convention, shows no mercy. It goes for your weakest spot, which it finds with unerring ease. It begins in your mind, always. One moment you are feeling calm, self-possessed, happy. Then fear, disguised in the garb of mild-mannered doubt, slips into your mind like a spy. Doubt meets disbelief and disbelief tries to push it out. But disbelief is a poorly armed foot soldier. Doubt does away with it with little trouble. You become anxious. Reason comes to do battle for you. You are reassured. Reason is fully equipped with the latest weapons technology. But, to your amazement, despite superior tactics and a number of undeniable victories, reason is laid low. You feel yourself weakening, wavering. Your anxiety becomes dread. Fear next turns fully to your body, which is already aware that something terribly wrong is going on. Already your lungs have flown away like a bird and your guts have slithered away like a snake. Now your tongue drops dead like an opossum, while your jaw begins to gallop on the spot. Your ears go deaf. Your muscles begin to shiver as if they had malaria and your knees to shake as though they were dancing. Your heart strains too hard, while your sphincter relaxes too much. And so with the rest of your body. Every part of you, in the manner most suited to it, falls apart. Only your eyes work well. They always pay proper attention to fear. Quickly you make rash decisions. You dismiss your last allies: hope and trust. There, you've defeated yourself. Fear, which is but an impression, has triumphed over you. The matter is difficult to put into words. For fear, real fear, such as shakes you to your foundation, such as you feel when you are brought face to face with your mortal end, nestles in your memory like a gangrene: it seeks to rot everything, even the words with which to speak of it. So you must fight hard to express it. You must fight hard to shine the light of words upon it. Because if you don't, if your fear becomes a wordless darkness that you avoid, perhaps even manage to forget, you open yourself to further attacks of fear because you never truly fought the opponent who defeated you. CHAPTER 57 It was Richard Parker who calmed me down. It is the irony of this story that the one who scared me witless to start with was the very same who brought me peace, purpose, I dare say even wholeness. He was looking at me intently. After a time I recognized the gaze. I had grown up with it. It was the gaze of a contented animal looking out from its cage or pit the way you or I would look out from a restaurant table after a good meal, when the time has come for conversation and people-watching. Clearly, Richard Parker had eaten his fill of hyena and drunk all the rainwater he wanted. No lips were rising and falling, no teeth were showing, no growling or snarling was coming from him. He was simply taking me in, observing me, in a manner that was sober but not menacing. He kept twitching his ears and varying the sideways turn of his head. It was all so, well, catlike. He looked like a nice, big, fat domestic cat, a 450-pound tabby. He made a sound, a snort from his nostrils. I pricked up my ears. He did it a second time. I was astonished. Prusten? Tigers make a variety of sounds. They include a number of roars and growls, the loudest of these being most likely the full-throated aaonh, usually made during the mating season by males and oestrous females. It's a cry that travels far and wide, and is absolutely petrifying when heard close up. Tigers go woof when they are caught unawares, a short, sharp detonation of fury that would instantly make your legs jump up and run away if they weren't frozen to the spot. When they charge, tigers put out throaty, coughing roars. The growl they use for purposes of threatening has yet another guttural quality. And tigers hiss and snarl, which, depending on the emotion behind it, sounds either like autumn leaves rustling on the ground, but a little more resonant, or, when it's an infuriated snarl, like a giant door with rusty hinges slowly opening—in both cases, utterly spine-chilling. Tigers make other sounds too. They grunt and they moan. They purr, though not as melodiously or as frequently as small cats, and only as they breathe out. (Only small cats purr breathing both ways. It is one of the characteristics that distinguishes big cats from small cats. Another is that only big cats can roar. A good thing that is. I'm afraid the popularity of the domestic cat would drop very quickly if little kitty could roar its displeasure.) Tigers even go meow, with an inflection similar to that of domestic cats, but louder and in a deeper range, not as encouraging to one to bend down and pick them up. And tigers can be utterly, majestically silent, that too. I had heard all these sounds growing up. Except for prusten. If I knew of it, it was because Father had told me about it. He had read descriptions of it in the literature. But he had heard it only once, while on a working visit to the Mysore Zoo, in their animal hospital, from a young male being treated for pneumonia. Prusten is the quietest of tiger calls, a puff through the nose to express friendliness and harmless intentions. Richard Parker did it again, this time with a rolling of the head. He looked exactly as if he were asking me a question. I looked at him, full of fearful wonder. There being no immediate threat, my breath slowed down, my heart stopped knocking about in my chest, and I began to regain my senses. I had to tame him. It was at that moment that I realized this necessity. It was not a question of him or me, but of him and me. We were, literally and figuratively, in the same boat. We would live—or we would die—together. He might be killed in an accident, or he could die shortly of natural causes, but it would be foolish to count on such an eventuality. More likely the worst would happen: the simple passage of time, in which his animal toughness would easily outlast my human frailty. Only if I tamed him could I possibly trick him into dying first, if we had to come to that sorry business. But there's more to it. I will come clean. I will tell you a secret: a part of me was glad about Richard Parker. A part of me did not want Richard Parker to die at all, because if he died I would be left alone with despair, a foe even more formidable than a tiger. If I still had the will to live, it was thanks to Richard Parker. He kept me from thinking too much about my family and my tragic circumstances. He pushed me to go on living. I hated him for it, yet at the same time I was grateful. I am grateful. It's the plain truth: without Richard Parker, I wouldn't be alive today to tell you my story. I looked around at the horizon. Didn't I have here a perfect circus ring, inescapably round, without a single corner for him to hide in? I looked down at the sea. Wasn't this an ideal source of treats with which to condition him to obey? I noticed a whistle hanging from one of the life jackets. Wouldn't this make a good whip with which to keep him in line? What was missing here to tame Richard Parker? Time? It might be weeks before a ship sighted me. I had all the time in the world. Resolve? There's nothing like extreme need to give you resolve. Knowledge? Was I not a zookeeper's son? Reward? Was there any reward greater than life? Any punishment worse than death? I looked at Richard Parker. My panic was gone. My fear was dominated. Survival was at hand. Let the trumpets blare. Let the drums roll. Let the show begin. I rose to my feet. Richard Parker noticed. The balance was not easy. I took a deep breath and shouted, "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, hurry to your seats! Hurry, hurry. You don't want to be late. Sit down, open your eyes, open your hearts and prepare to be amazed. Here it is, for your enjoyment and instruction, for your gratification and edification, the show you've been waiting for all your life, THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH! Are you ready for the miracle of it? Yes? Well then: they are amazingly adaptable. You've seen them in freezing, snow-covered temperate forests. You've seen them in dense, tropical monsoon jungles. You've seen them in sparse, semi-arid scrublands. You've seen them in brackish mangrove swamps. Truly, they would fit anywhere. But you've never seen them where you are about to see them now! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, without further ado, it is my pleasure and honour to present to you: THE PI PATEL, INDO-CANADIAN, TRANS-PACIFIC, FLOATING CIRCUUUUUSSSSSSSSSSSS!!! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!" I had an effect on Richard Parker. At the very first blow of the whistle he cringed and he snarled. Ha! Let him jump into the water if he wanted to! Let him try! "TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!" He roared and he clawed the air. But he did not jump. He might not be afraid of the sea when he was driven mad by hunger and thirst, but for the time being it was a fear I could rely on. "TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!" He backed off and dropped to the bottom of the boat. The first training session was over. It was a resounding success. I stopped whistling and sat down heavily on the raft, out of breath and exhausted. And so it came to be: Plan Number Seven: Keep Him Alive. CHAPTER 58 I pulled out the survival manual. Its pages were still wet. I turned them carefully. The manual was written by a British Royal Navy commander. It contained a wealth of practical information on surviving at sea after a shipwreck. It included survival tips such as: Always read instructions carefully. Do not drink urine. Or sea water. Or bird blood. Do not eat jellyfish. Or fish that are armed with spikes. Or that have parrot-like beaks. Or that puff up like balloons. Pressing the eyes of fish will paralyze them. The body can be a hero in battle. If a castaway is injured, beware of well-meaning but ill-founded medical treatment. Ignorance is the worst doctor, while rest and sleep are the best nurses. Put up your feet at least five minutes every hour. Unnecessary exertion should be avoided. But an idle mind tends to sink, so the mind should be kept occupied with whatever light distraction may suggest itself. Playing card games, Twenty Questions and I Spy With My Little Eye are excellent forms of simple recreation. Community singing is another sure-fire way to lift the spirits. Yarn spinning is also highly recommended. Green water is shallower than blue water. Beware of far-off clouds that look like mountains. Look for green. Ultimately, a foot is the only good judge of land. Do not go swimming. It wastes energy. Besides, a survival craft may drift faster than you can swim. Not to mention the danger of sea life. If you are hot, wet your clothes instead. Do not urinate in your clothes. The momentary warmth is not worth the nappy rash. Shelter yourself. Exposure can kill faster than thirst or hunger. So long as no excessive water is lost through perspiration, the body can survive up to fourteen days without water. If you feel thirsty, suck a button. Turtles are an easy catch and make for excellent meals. Their blood is a good, nutritious, salt-free drink; their flesh is tasty and filling; their fat has many uses; and the castaway will find turtle eggs a real treat. Mind the beak and the claws. Don't let your morale flag. Be daunted, but not defeated. Remember: the spirit, above all else, counts. If you have the will to live, you will. Good luck! There were also a few highly cryptic lines distilling the art and science of navigation. I learned that the horizon, as seen from a height of five feet on a calm day, was two and a half miles away. The injunction not to drink urine was quite unnecessary. No one called "Pissing" in his childhood would be caught dead with a cup of pee at his lips, even alone in a lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific. And the gastronomic suggestions only confirmed to my mind that the English didn't know the meaning of the word food. Otherwise, the manual was a fascinating pamphlet on how to avoid being pickled in brine. Only one important topic was not addressed: the establishing of alpha-omega relationships with major lifeboat pests. I had to devise a training program for Richard Parker. I had to make him understand that I was the top tiger and that his territory was limited to the floor of the boat, the stern bench and the side benches as far as the middle cross bench. I had to fix in his mind that the top of the tarpaulin and the bow of the boat, bordered by the neutral territory of the middle bench, was my territory and utterly forbidden to him. I had to start fishing very soon. It would not take long for Richard Parker to finish the animal carcasses. At the zoo the adult lions and tigers ate on average ten pounds of meat a day. There were many other things I had to do. I had to find a means of sheltering myself. If Richard Parker stayed under the tarpaulin all the time, it was for a good reason. To be continuously outside, exposed to sun, wind, rain and sea, was exhausting, and not only to the body but also to the mind. Hadn't I just read that exposure could inflict a quick death? I had to devise some sort of canopy. I had to tie the raft to the lifeboat with a second rope, in case the first should break or become loose. I had to improve the raft. At present it was seaworthy, but hardly habitable. I would have to make it fit for living in until I could move to my permanent quarters on the lifeboat. For example, I had to find a way to stay dry on it. My skin was wrinkled and swollen all over from being constantly wet. That had to change. And I had to find a way to store things on the raft. I had to stop hoping so much that a ship would rescue me. I should not count on outside help. Survival had to start with me. In my experience, a castaway's worst mistake is to hope too much and do too little. Survival starts by paying attention to what is close at hand and immediate. To look out with idle hope is tantamount to dreaming one's life away. There was much I had to do. I looked out at the empty horizon. There was so much water. And I was all alone. All alone. I burst into hot tears. I buried my face in my crossed arms and sobbed. My situation was patently hopeless. |
第54章 下了一夜的雨。我度过了一个可怕的无眠之夜。雨声很大。雨打在接雨器上，发出鼓点般的声响，而在我周围，从遥远的黑暗之中传来的，是嘶嘶的雨声，仿佛我正置身于一个满是愤怒的蛇的巨大蛇窝里。风向的改变也改变了雨的方向，因此我身体上刚开始感到温暖的部分又被重新淋湿了。我改变了接雨器的方向，几分钟后却很不高兴地惊讶地发现风向又变了。我试图让身体的一小部分，胸前的部分，保持干燥温暖，那是我放求生指南的地方，然而潮湿却故意下定决心要扩散开来。那一整夜我都冷得发抖。我不停地担心小筏子会散掉，把我与救生艇连接在一起的绳结会松开，鲨鱼会来袭击。我不停地用手检查绳结和捆绑的绳子，试图摸明白，就像盲人读盲文一样。 夜渐渐深了，雨下得更大，大海也更加汹涌。连接救生艇的缆绳不再被轻轻地牵动，而是猛地被拉紧了，小筏子摇晃得更厉害，更不稳了。它还在漂，每一个浪打来它都冲上浪头，但是已经没有干舷，每一朵开花浪冲过来，都冲上小筏子，从我身边冲刷而过，就像河水冲刷着卵石。海水比雨水温暖一些，但这就意味着那天夜里我身上连一小块干的地方也没有了。 至少我喝到水了。我并不是真的很渴，但却强迫自己喝了。接雨器看上去像一把倒置的雨伞，一把被风吹开的雨伞。雨水流到接雨器中心，那里有一个洞。一根橡胶管把这个洞和用厚厚的透明塑料做的接雨水的袋子连了起来。开始水有一股橡胶的味道，但是很快雨水就把接雨器冲洗干净，水就没什么味道了。 在那漫长、寒冷、黑暗的几个小时里，看不见的雨噼里啪啦的声音渐渐变得展耳欲聋，大海撕嘶作响，海浪翻卷，把我扔过来扔过去,这时我只想着一件事：理查德·帕克。我策划了好几个摆脱他的方案，这样救生艇就可以是我的了。 一号方案：把他推下救生艇。那有什么好处呢？即使我能把一只450镑重的活生生的猛兽推下救生艇，老虎可是游泳健将。在松达班，人们都知道它们能在波浪翻滚的河中央游5英里。如果理查德·帕克发现自己意外地翻下了船，他就会踩水，爬回船上,让我为自己的背叛付出代价。 二号方案：用6支吗啡注射器杀死他。但是我不知道吗啡会对他有什么样的影响。这样的剂量能够杀死他吗？我该怎么把吗啡注射到他身体里呢？我只能模糊地想到可以出其不意地让他吃一惊，就像他妈妈被捉时那样？但是要让他吃惊的时间足以让我连续注射6支吗啡？不可能。我只能用针刺他一下，而这会换来他的一巴掌，这一巴掌会把我的头打掉下来的。 三号方案：用所有能找得到的武器袭击他。荒唐。我又不是人猿泰山。我是一条瘦小、虚弱、吃素食的生命。在印度，人们得骑在庞大的大象背上，用火力很足的熗，才能杀死老虎。我在这儿能怎么办？当着他的面发射一枚火箭照明弹？一手提一把斧子，嘴里叼一把刀，朝他扑过去？用直的和弯的缝衣针结果了他？如果我能砍伤他，那会是一项了不起的英雄业绩。作为回报，他会把我一只胳膊一条腿、一个器官一个器官地撕成碎片。因为，如果有什么比健康的动物更危险的话，那就是受伤的动物。 四号方案：勒死他。我有绳子。如果我待在船头，让绳子绕过船尾，用绳套套住他的脖子，我就能拉紧绳子，而他就会拉住绳子来抓我。这样，来抓我这个动作会让他勒死自己。一个聪明的自杀计划。 五号方案：毒死他，烧死他，电死他。如何实施？用什么实施？ 六号方案：发动一场消耗战。我只需顺从无情的自然规律就能得救。等他渐渐衰弱、死亡，这并不需要我花费任何力气。我有足够好几个月吃的食物。他有什么？只有几具很快就会腐烂的动物尸体。吃完这些之后他能吃什么？更好的是：他能从哪儿弄到水呢？他不吃东西也许能活几个星期，但是任何动物，无论他多么强壮，都不可能不喝水还能活很长时间。 我心里闪现出一朵希望的小火苗，就像黑夜中的一枝蜡烛。我有了一个计划，而且是个很好的计划。我只需要活着，就能实施这个计划。 第55章 黎明来临，情况更糟了，因为在此之前我只能感觉到，而现在却能看到，从黑暗中渐渐显露出来的是巨大的雨帘，从高高的空中哗哗地浇在我身上，海浪仿佛在我身上铺了一条路，一个接一个浪头将我踩在脚下。 我目光呆滞，浑身颤抖，四肢麻木,一只手紧握着接雨器，另一只手紧抓着小筏子，继续等待着。 过了一段时间，雨停了，随之而来的寂静使得这一转变显得特别突然。天气变得晴朗，海浪似乎和乌云一起逃走了。这变化就像在陆地上从一个国家到另一个国家的变化一样迅速而彻底。我现在是在另一座海洋上。很快太阳便独自挂在天上，而大海是光滑的皮肤，用一百万面镜子反射着阳光。 我浑身僵硬硬疼痛，筋疲力尽，对自己仍然活着几乎不存感激。"六号方案，六号方案，六号方案"这几个字像符咒一样在我大脑里不断重复，给我带来了几分安慰，虽然我无论如何也想不起来六号方案是什么了。我的骨头里开始有了热气。我把接雨器关上。我用毯子把自己裹起来，侧着身子蜷缩着，让身体的任何部位都碰不到水。我睡着了。我不知道自己睡了多长时间。醒来的时候，已经快到中午，天也热起来了。毯子差不多已经干了。这一觉睡的时间很短，但却很沉。我用胳膊肘支撑起身体。 我周围的一切平平坦坦，无限延伸，是一幅无边无际的蓝色全景。没有任何东西遮挡我的视线。这浩瀚无垠的景象像一只拳头，打在我肚子上。我向后跌去，蜷曲起来。这只小筏子是个笑话。它只是用一根绳子捆在一起的几根棍子和一块软木。水从每―道缝里渗进来。脚下深深的海水会让鸟也感到头晕目眩。我看到了救生艇。它比半只核桃壳也好不了多少。它紧贴在水面上，就像手指紧紧抓住悬崖边。重力迟早会把它拖下去的。 我的漂流伙伴进入了视线。他趴在舷边，朝我这边看。无论在任何环境里，一只突然出现的老虎都十分醒目，在这里更加如此。他那身有条纹的鲜艳斑斓的橘黄色毛皮和毫无生气的白色船壳之间的对比十分奇特，形成了引人注目的强烈效果。我过度紧张的感觉戛然刹住了。虽然我们周围的太平洋很广阔，但是在我们之间似乎突然出现了一道非常窄的深沟，沟边没有沙洲也没有城墙。 "六号方案,六号方案,六号方案。"我的大脑急切地低语着。但是六号方案是什么呢？啊对了。消耗战。等待的游戏。不主动出击。让事情发生。毫不留情的自然规律。时间无情的流逝和资源的贮藏。那就是六号方案。 一个想法在我大脑里响起，像一声怒吼：“你这个笨蛋加白痴！你这个没脑子的粗人！六号方案是最糟糕的方案！理查德·帕克现在害怕大海。大海几乎是他的坟墓。但是在饥饿和干渴逼得他发疯的时候他就会战胜恐惧，他就会做任何必要的事情来满足他的需要。他会把这道深沟变成一座桥。他必要时会游过来，来抓住小筏子和上面的食物。至于水，难道你忘了松达班的老虎能喝含盐的水吗？你真的以为自己能比他的肾脏忍耐的时间更长吗？我告诉你吧，如果你发动一场消耗战，你会输的?你会死的！明白了吗？” 第56章 我必须说说恐惧。这是生命惟一真正的对手。只有恐惧能够打败生命。它是个聪明又奸诈的对手，这一点我太了解了。它没有尊严，既不遵守法律也不尊重传统，冷酷无情。它直击你的最弱点，它可以毫不费力地准确地发现你的最弱点在哪里。它总是先攻击你的大脑。刚才你还感觉平静、沉着、快乐。紧接着，恐惧装扮成轻微的怀疑，像个间谍一样溜进了你的大脑。怀疑遇到了不相信，不相信试图把它推出去。但是不相信是个武器装备很糟糕的步兵。怀疑没费什么力气就把它除掉了。你变得焦虑起来。理性来为你作战了。你消除了疑虑。理性用最新的武器技术全副武装。但是，让你惊讶的是，尽管有高级的战术，也取得了一些不可否认的胜利，但是理性还是被击倒了。你感到自己变得软弱，产生了动摇。你的焦虑变成了畏惧。 接着恐惧开始全面进攻你的身体，你的身体已经意识到有―件很不对劲的事正在发生。你的肺叶已经像小鸟一样飞走了，你的内脏已经像蛇一样滑走了。现在你的舌头像一只负鼠一样倒下去死了，而你的下巴立刻飞跑而去。你的耳朵聋了。你的肌肉开始像得了疟疾一样颤抖，你的膝盖开始像跳舞一样抖动。你的心脏太紧张，而你的括约肌却太放松。你身体的其他部分也一样。你的每一个部分都以与它最匹配的方式崩溃了。只有眼睛还在工作。它们总是给恐惧以适当的注意力。 你很快做出了草率的决定。你打发走了最后的同盟：希望和信任。瞧，你打败了自己。恐惧只是一种印象，却战胜了你。 这件事很难用语言表达。因为恐惧，真正的恐惧，从根本上使你动摇的恐惧，当你面对死亡时所感觉到的恐惧，像坏疽一样在你的记忆中筑了巢：它想要让一切都腐烂，甚至包括谈论它的语言。因此你必须非常努力地把它表达出来。你必须非常努力地让语言的光辉照耀它。因为如果你不这么做，如果你的恐惧成了你逃避的、也许甚至想方设法忘记的无语的黑暗，那么你就使自己容易受到恐惧的进一步打击，因为你从不曾真正与打败你的对手交战。 第57章 是理查德·帕克让我平静下来。这个故事的讽刺意义在于，恰恰是开始把我吓得神经错乱的东西让我安静下来，给了我决心，我敢说甚至还让我变得健全。 他正专注地看着我。过了一会儿，我想起了这种眼神。我是在这种眼神下长大的。这是一只感到满足的动物从笼子里或兽栏里往外看的眼神，就像你我美餐一顿以后开始聊天时坐在餐馆桌边往外看一样。显然理查德·帕克吃饱了鬣狗，喝足了雨水。他的嘴唇没有上下开合，牙齿没有露出来，咆哮声或吼叫声也没有发出来。他只是在注视我，观察我，样子严肃但没有威胁。他的耳朵不停地抽动，左右转动着脑袋。这些动作都非常像，嗯，一只猫。他看上去像一只可爱的又大又肥的家养的猫。一只450镑重的斑点猫。 他发出一声声音，是从鼻孔里哼出来的。我竖起了耳朵。他又哼了一声。我很惊讶。他是在打招呼吗？ 老虎会发出各种不同的声音，包括各种咆哮声和吼叫声，最响亮的叫声很可能就是宏亮的嗷嗷声，这是交配季节雄虎和发情的雌虎发出的。这种叫声传得很远，在很大的范围内都能听到，在近处听绝对能让人惊呆。老虎出其不意地被撞见时会发出呜呜声，这是一种愤怒爆发的短促而尖利的叫声，会让你跳起来就跑，如果你的两条腿没有被吓得不能动弹的话。老虎发起攻击时，会发出低沉洪亮的咳嗽般的咆哮声。他们用来进行威胁的吼叫声是另一种喉咙里发出的粗嘎的声音。老虎还会发出嘶嘶声和嗥叫声，根据所表达的感情不同，这些声音听上去或者像秋天的落叶在地上发出的沙沙声，但更响亮一些，或者，如果是愤怒的嗥叫，像一扇铰链生了锈的巨大的门在慢慢打开——两种情况下的叫声都让人脊椎骨发凉。老虎还会发出其他的声音。他们会发出咕噜声和呜咽声。他们会发出呼噜声，尽管不像小猫的叫声那么悦耳，也不像小猫那样经常这么叫，而只是呼气的时候才这样。（只有小猫才在呼气和吸气的时候都发出呼噜声。这是区分大型猫科动物和小型猫科动物的特征之一。另一个特征是大型猫科动物会咆哮。这是件好事。如果小猫咪也能用咆哮来表示不高兴，恐怕家养猫受欢迎的程度就会迅速降低了。）老虎甚至会喵喵叫，声调很像家养的猫，但声音更响，音域更低，不像猫叫那样让人有弯腰抱起它们的愿望。老虎还可能绝对地威严地保持沉默。 在我成长的过程中，我听过所有这些声音。除了招呼声。我知道这种声音，那是因为父亲告诉过我。他在文献中读过关于这种声音的描述。但他只听到过一次，那是在因工作关系参观迈索尔邦动物园的时候，在他们的动物医院里，一只正在接受肺炎治疗的年轻雄性老虎发出了这种声音，就是从鼻子里喷气，表示友好和没有恶意的愿望。 理查德·帕克又哼了一声，这次头也摇了起来。他那个样子就像在问我一个问题。 我看着他，心里充满了带有敬畏的好奇。因为没有迫在眉睫的威胁，我的呼吸慢了下来，我的心不再在胸腔里乱撞，我开始恢复了感觉。 我得驯服他。我就是在那一刻意识到这么做的必要性的。这不是他或我的问题，而是他和我的问题。无论是在真实的意义上还是在比喻的意义上，都可以说我们是在一条船上了。是活，还是死——我们都会在一起。也许他会死于意外，也许他很快就会死于自然原因，但是指望这样的可能性未免太愚蠢了。很可能最糟糕的事情会发生：仅仅随着时间的流逝，他动物的顽强会很轻易地战胜我人类的脆弱。我只有驯服他，才有可能使花招让他先死，如果我们不得不涉及这个伤心的话题的话。 但是不仅如此。我说实话吧。我要告诉你一个秘密：一部分的我很高兴有理查德·帕克在；一部分的我根本不想让理查德·帕克死，因为如果他死了，我就得独自面对绝望，那是比老虎更加可怕的敌人。如果我还有生存的愿望，那得感谢理查德·帕克。是他不让我过多地去想我的家人和我的悲惨境况。他促使我活下去。我为此而恨他，但同时我又感激他。我的确感激他。这是显而易见的事实：没有理查德·帕克，我今天就不会在这儿给你讲这个故事了。 我环顾地平线。难道这不是一个绝妙的马戏场吗——这儿到处都是圆的，没有一个角落可以让他躲藏。我低头看看海。难道这不是训练他听话要用的奖赏的理想来源吗？我看到一件救生衣上挂着的哨子。这不是防止他越轨的一根好鞭子吗？要驯服理查德·帕克还需要什么呢？时间？可能还要再过好几个星期才会有船发现我。我有的是时间。决心？没有什么能比极度的需要更能让你下定决心了。知识？难道我不是动物园主的儿子吗？回报？还有比生命更大的回报吗？还有比死亡更糟糕的惩罚吗？我看了看理查德·帕克。我的惊慌没有了。我的恐惧被控制住了。生存的希望近在咫尺。 让喇叭嘟嘟地吹起来吧。让锣鼓咚咚地敲起来吧。让表演开始吧。我站了起来。理查德·帕克注意到了。保持平衡不容易。我深深吸了一口气，大声说道："女士们先生们，小伙子们姑娘们，快到座位上去吧！快，快。你可不想迟到。坐下来，睁开眼睛，敞开心扉，准备接受惊奇吧。这儿是让你娱乐给你教育，让你满意给你启迪，让你等待了一生的世界上最了不起的表演！你已经准备好观看奇迹了吗？准备好了？那么：它们的适应能力强得令人吃惊。你在天寒地冻、大雪覆盖的温带森林里见过它们。你在茂密的热带季雨林里见过它们。你在土地贫瘠、半是荒凉的灌木丛林地里见过它们。你在略含盐分的红树沼泽地里见过它们。真? 的，它们在任何地方都可以生存。但是你从来没有在你马上就要看见的地方见过它们！女士们先生们，小伙子们姑娘们，我就不再啰嗦了，我非常高兴非常荣幸地向你们推出：派，帕特尔印度—加拿大跨太平洋海上马戏团？！！！瞿！瞿！瞿！瞿！瞿！瞿！" 我对理查德·帕克造成了影响。就在第一声哨声响起的时候，他蜷缩起身体，咆哮起来。哈！要是他愿意的话，让他跳到水里去吧！让他试试看吧！ "瞿！瞿！瞿！瞿！瞿！瞿！" 他咆哮着，爪子在空中抓着。但是他没有跳。也许当他饿得发疯渴得发疯的时候，他会不怕大海，但是现在我相信他一定害怕。 "瞿！瞿！瞿！瞿！瞿！瞿！" 他后退回去，跌进了船底。第一次训练课结束了。这次课取得了巨大的成功。我停止吹哨子，重重地坐在小筏子上，气喘吁吁，筋疲力尽。 因此我有了： 七号方案：让他活着。 第58章 我拿出了求生指南。书页仍然是湿的。我小心翼翼地翻着。指南是一位英国皇家海军中校写的。里面有大量关于沉船后如何在海上生存的有用的信息。其中包括一些求生忠告，例如： ●一定要认真阅读指南。 ●不要喝尿。不要喝海水。也不要喝鸟血。 ●不要吃水母。也不要吃带刺的鱼，或长着和鹦鹉一样的尖嘴的鱼，或像气球一样鼓起来的鱼。 ●按压鱼的眼睛能使它们无法动弹。 ●身体可能是战斗英雄。如果失事者受了伤，要当心出于好心却没有根据的医治方法。无知是最糟糕的医生，而休息和睡眠是最好的护士。 ●每小时最少把双脚抬起五分钟。 ●一定要避免不必要的劳累。但是不思考的大脑往往会衰退，因此一定要保持大脑不断地思考，可以思考任何出现在心里的可以稍微分散注意力的事情。纸牌游戏、"二十问"和"我用一双小眼睛看见了……"都是极好的简单的休息方式。集体唱歌是另一种一定能振奋精神的方式。极力推荐绕毛线的活动。 ●绿色海水比蓝色海水浅。 ●当心远处像山一样的云。寻找绿色。最终惟一能对陆地作出出色判断的是脚。 ●不要去游泳。这是浪费精力。而且救生船漂流的速度比你游泳的速度快。 ●更不用提海生动物所带来的危险了。如果你热，就把衣服打湿。 ●不要穿着衣服小便。为了暂时的温暖而得尿疹，不值得。 ●躲在荫蔽处。曝晒能比干渴或饥饿更快地杀死你。 ●只要不通过出汗丧失过多的水分，身体就可以在不喝水的情况下存活14天。如果你感到渴，就吮吸纽扣。 ●海龟很好抓，是很好的食物。海龟血是一种美味、营养、不含盐的饮料；海龟肉口味鲜美，也容易填饱肚子；海龟油有很多用途；失事者会发现海龟蛋是真正的美味。小心海龟嘴和爪子。 ●不要让自己泄气。可以胆怯，但不可以被打败。记住：最重要的是精神。如果你有生存的愿望，你就能生存下去。祝你好运！ 还有几句简短含糊的话，浓缩了航海艺术和航海科学。我从中学到，风平浪静的时候，在五英尺高处能看到地平线就在两英 里半远处。 关于不要喝尿的叮嘱很没有必要。没有一个小时候叫排泄哩的人会在喝一杯尿的时候被逮个正着，即使他是独自一人在太平洋中央的救生艇上。美食建议则让我证实了英国人的确不懂得食物这个词的含义。除此之外，指南是一本关于如何避免被海水腌制的有趣的小册子。只有一个重要话题没有提到：与救生艇上的较大的宠物建立老大与老小的关系。 我得为理查德·帕克设计一套训练方案。我得让他明白，我是地位最高的老虎，他的地盘仅仅局限于船板上，船尾坐板和舷边坐板，一直到中间的横坐板。我得让他有一个根深蒂固的概念，那就是油布顶上和船头，以中间坐板处的中立区为界，是我的地盘，对他是绝对的禁地。 我得很快就开始捕鱼。不用很长时间，理查德·帕克就会把动物尸体吃完。在动物园里，成年狮子和老虎平均每天要吃十磅肉。 还有很多其他事情要做。我得找到一个方法，为自己遮蔽阳光和风雨。理查德·帕克总是待在油布下面，那是很有道理的。一直在外面，暴露在日晒、风吹、雨淋、海浪拍打之中，这很让人疲劳，不仅身体疲劳，精神也疲劳。我不是刚刚读过曝晒会迅速致 人于死地吗？我得设计一个顶篷。 我得再用一根缆绳把小筏子系在救生艇上，以防第一根缆绳断掉，或者变松。 我得改进小筏子。目前它能经得起风浪，但几乎不能住人。在我搬到救生艇上的永久住舱之前，我得把小筏子变成一个适合居住的地方。例如，我得找到一种办法，让自己在上面能保持干燥。因为总是湿漉漉的，我全身的皮肤都又皱又肿。这个情况必须改变。我还得找到一个在小筏子上储藏东西的方法。 我得停止对被船只救起抱太大的希望。我不应该依靠外来的帮助。生存得从我开始。根据我的经验，失事者最糟糕的错误就是抱的希望太大，做的事情却太少。生存从注意近在手边的东西和需要立即去做的事情开始。带着盲目的希望往外看就等于虚度生命。 有很多我得做的事情。 我朝船外面空荡荡的地平线望去。水那么多。而我却独自一人。独自一人。 热泪涌出了眼眶。我把脸埋进交叉的双臂里，抽泣起来。我的处境显然毫无希望。 |
CHAPTER 59 Alone or not, lost or not, I was thirsty and hungry. I pulled on the rope. There was a slight tension. As soon as I lessened my grip on it, it slid out, and the distance between the lifeboat and the raft increased. So the lifeboat drifted faster than the raft, pulling it along. I noted the fact without thinking anything of it. My mind was more focused on the doings of Richard Parker. By the looks of it, he was under the tarpaulin. I pulled the rope till I was right next to the bow. I reached up to the gunnel. As I was crouched, preparing myself for a quick raid on the locker, a series of waves got me thinking. I noticed that with the raft next to it, the lifeboat had changed directions. It was no longer perpendicular to the waves but broadside to them and was beginning to roll from side to side, that rolling that was so unsettling for the stomach. The reason for this change became clear to me: the raft, when let out, was acting as a sea anchor, as a drag that pulled on the lifeboat and turned its bow to face the waves. You see, waves and steady winds are usually perpendicular to each other. So, if a boat is pushed by a wind but held back by a sea anchor, it will turn until it offers the least resistance to the wind—that is, until it is in line with it and at right angles to the waves, which makes for a front-to-back pitching that is much more comfortable than a side-to-side rolling. With the raft next to the boat, the dragging effect was gone, and there was nothing to steer the boat head into the wind. Therefore it turned broadside and rolled. What may seem like a detail to you was something which would save my life and which Richard Parker would come to regret. As if to confirm my fresh insight, I heard him growl. It was a disconsolate growl, with something indefinably green and queasy in its tone. He was maybe a good swimmer, but he was not much of a sailor. I had a chance yet. Lest I got cocky about my abilities to manipulate him, I received at that moment a quiet but sinister warning about what I was up against. It seemed Richard Parker was such a magnetic pole of life, so charismatic in his vitality, that other expressions of life found it intolerable. I was on the point of raising myself over the bow when I heard a gentle thrashing buzz. I saw something small land in the water next to me. It was a cockroach. It floated for a second or two before being swallowed by an underwater mouth. Another cockroach landed in the water. In the next minute, ten or so cockroaches plopped into the water on either side of the bow. Each was claimed by a fish. The last of the foreign life forms was abandoning ship. I carefully brought my eyes over the gunnel. The first thing I saw, lying in a fold of the tarpaulin above the bow bench, was a large cockroach, perhaps the patriarch of the clan. I watched it, strangely interested. When it decided it was time, it deployed its wings, rose in the air with a minute clattering, hovered above the lifeboat momentarily, as if making sure no one had been left behind, and then veered overboard to its death. Now we were two. In five days the populations of orang-utans, zebras, hyenas, rats, flies and cockroaches had been wiped out. Except for the bacteria and worms that might still be alive in the remains of the animals, there was no other life left on the lifeboat but Richard Parker and me. It was not a comforting thought. I lifted myself and breathlessly opened the locker lid. I deliberately did not look under the tarpaulin for fear that looking would be like shouting and would attract Richard Parker's attention. Only once the lid was leaning against the tarpaulin did I dare let my senses consider what was beyond it. A smell came to my nose, a musky smell of urine, quite sharp, what every cat cage in a zoo smells of. Tigers are highly territorial, and it is with their urine that they mark the boundaries of their territory. Here was good news wearing a foul dress: the odour was coming exclusively from below the tarpaulin. Richard Parker's territorial claims seemed to be limited to the floor of the boat. This held promise. If I could make the tarpaulin mine, we might get along. I held my breath, lowered my head and cocked it to the side to see beyond the edge of the lid. There was rainwater, about four inches of it, sloshing about the floor of the lifeboat—Richard Parker's own freshwater pond. He was doing exactly what I would be doing in his place: cooling off in the shade. The day was getting beastly hot. He was flat on the floor of the boat, facing away from me, his hind legs sticking straight back and splayed out, back paws facing up, and stomach and inner thighs lying directly against the floor. The position looked silly but was no doubt very pleasant. I returned to the business of survival. I opened a carton of emergency ration and ate my fill, about one-third of the package. It was remarkable how little it took to make my stomach feel full. I was about to drink from the rain-catcher pouch slung across my shoulder when my eyes fell upon the graduated drinking beakers. If I couldn't go for a dip, could I at least have a sip? My own supplies of water would not last forever. I took hold of one of the beakers, leaned over, lowered the lid just as much as I needed to and tremulously dipped the beaker into Parker's Pond, four feet from his back paws. His upturned pads with their wet fur looked like little desert islands surrounded by seaweed. I brought back a good 500 millilitres. It was a little discoloured. Specks were floating in it. Did I worry about ingesting some horrid bacteria? I didn't even think about it. All I had on my mind was my thirst. I drained that beaker to the dregs with great satisfaction. Nature is preoccupied with balance, so it did not surprise me that nearly right away I felt the urge to urinate. I relieved myself in the beaker. I produced so exactly the amount I had just downed that it was as if a minute hadn't passed and I were still considering Richard Parker's rainwater. I hesitated. I felt the urge to tilt the beaker into my mouth once more. I resisted the temptation. But it was hard. Mockery be damned, my urine looked delicious! I was not suffering yet from dehydration, so the liquid was pale in colour. It glowed in the sunlight, looking like a glass of apple juice. And it was guaranteed fresh, which certainly couldn't be said of the canned water that was my staple. But I heeded my better judgment. I splashed my urine on the tarpaulin and over the locker lid to stake my claim. I stole another two beakers of water from Richard Parker, without urinating this time. I felt as freshly watered as a potted plant. Now it was time to improve my situation. I turned to the contents of the locker and the many promises they held. I brought out a second rope and tethered the raft to the lifeboat with it. I discovered what a solar still is. A solar still is a device to produce fresh water from salt water. It consists of an inflatable transparent cone set upon a round lifebuoy-like buoyancy chamber that has a surface of black rubberized canvas stretched across its centre. The still operates on the principle of distillation: sea water lying beneath the sealed cone on the black canvas is heated by the sun and evaporates, gathering on the inside surface of the cone. This salt-free water trickles down and collects in a gully on the perimeter of the cone, from which it drains into a pouch. The lifeboat came equipped with twelve solar stills. I read the instructions carefully, as the survival manual told me to. I inflated all twelve cones with air and I filled each buoyancy chamber with the requisite ten litres of sea water. I strung the stills together, tying one end of the flotilla to the lifeboat and the other to the raft, which meant that not only would I not lose any stills should one of my knots become loose, but also that I had, in effect, a second emergency rope to keep me tethered to the lifeboat. The stills looked pretty and very technological as they floated on the water, but they also looked flimsy, and I was doubtful of their capacity to produce fresh water. I directed my attention to improving the raft. I examined every knot that held it together, making sure each was tight and secure. After some thought, I decided to transform the fifth oar, the footrest oar, into a mast of sorts. I undid the oar. With the sawtoothed edge of the hunting knife I painstakingly cut a notch into it, about halfway down, and with the knife's point I drilled three holes through its flat part. Work was slow but satisfying. It kept my mind busy. When I had finished I lashed the oar in a vertical position to the inside of one of the corners of the raft, flat part, the masthead, rising in the air, handle disappearing underwater. I ran the rope tightly into the notch, to prevent the oar from slipping down. Next, to ensure that the mast would stand straight, and to give myself lines from which to hang a canopy and supplies, I threaded ropes through the holes I had drilled in the masthead and tied them to the tips of the horizontal oars. I strapped the life jacket that had been attached to the footrest oar to the base of the mast. It would play a double role: it would provide extra flotation to compensate for the vertical weight of the mast, and it would make for a slightly raised seat for me. I threw a blanket over the lines. It slid down. The angle of the lines was too steep. I folded the lengthwise edge of the blanket over once, cut two holes midway down, about a foot apart, and linked the holes with a piece of string, which I made by unweaving a length of rope. I threw the blanket over the lines again, with the new girdle string going around the masthead. I now had a canopy. It took me a good part of the day to fix up the raft. There were so many details to look after. The constant motion of the sea, though gentle, didn't make my work any easier. And I had to keep an eye on Richard Parker. The result was no galleon. The mast, so called, ended hardly a few inches above my head. As for the deck, it was just big enough to sit on cross-legged or to lie on in a tight, nearly-to-term fetal position. But I wasn't complaining. It was seaworthy and it would save me from Richard Parker. By the time I had finished my work, the afternoon was nearing its end. I gathered a can of water, a can opener, four biscuits of survival ration and four blankets. I closed the locker (very softly this time), sat down on the raft and let out the rope. The lifeboat drifted away. The main rope tensed, while the security rope, which I had deliberately measured out longer, hung limply. I laid two blankets beneath me, carefully folding them so that they didn't touch the water. I wrapped the other two around my shoulders and rested my back against the mast. I enjoyed the slight elevation I gained from sitting on the extra life jacket. I was hardly higher up from the water than one would be from a floor sitting on a thick cushion; still, I hoped not to get wet so much. I enjoyed my meal as I watched the sun's descent in a cloudless sky. It was a relaxing moment. The vault of the world was magnificently tinted. The stars were eager to participate; hardly had the blanket of colour been pulled a little than they started to shine through the deep blue. The wind blew with a faint, warm breeze and the sea moved about kindly, the water peaking and troughing like people dancing in a circle who come together and raise their hands and move apart and come together again, over and over. Richard Parker sat up. Only his head and a little of his shoulders showed above the gunnel. He looked out. I shouted, "Hello, Richard Parker!" and I waved. He looked at me. He snorted or sneezed, neither word quite captures it. Prusten again. What a stunning creature. Such a noble mien. How apt that in full it is a Royal Bengal tiger. I counted myself lucky in a way. What if I had ended up with a creature that looked silly or ugly, a tapir or an ostrich or a flock of turkeys? That would have been a more trying companionship in some ways. I heard a splash. I looked down at the water. I gasped. I thought I was alone. The stillness in the air, the glory of the light, the feeling of comparative safety—all had made me think so. There is commonly an element of silence and solitude to peace, isn't there? It's hard to imagine being at peace in a busy subway station, isn't it? So what was all this commotion? With just one glance I discovered that the sea is a city. Just below me, all around, unsuspected by me, were highways, boulevards, streets and roundabouts bustling with submarine traffic. In water that was dense, glassy and flecked by millions of lit-up specks of plankton, fish like trucks and buses and cars and bicycles and pedestrians were madly racing about, no doubt honking and hollering at each other. The predominant colour was green. At multiple depths, as far as I could see, there were evanescent trails of phosphorescent green bubbles, the wake of speeding fish. As soon as one trail faded, another appeared. These trails came from all directions and disappeared in all directions. They were like those time-exposure photographs you see of cities at night, with the long red streaks made by the tail lights of cars. Except that here the cars were driving above and under each other as if they were on interchanges that were stacked ten storeys high. And here the cars were of the craziest colours. The dorados—there must have been over fifty patrolling beneath the raft—showed off their bright gold, blue and green as they whisked by. Other fish that I could not identify were yellow, brown, silver, blue, red, pink, green, white, in all kinds of combinations, solid, streaked and speckled. Only the sharks stubbornly refused to be colourful. But whatever the size or colour of a vehicle, one thing was constant: the furious driving. There were many collisions—all involving fatalities, I'm afraid—and a number of cars spun wildly out of control and collided against barriers, bursting above the surface of the water and splashing down in showers of luminescence. I gazed upon this urban hurly-burly like someone observing a city from a hot-air balloon. It was a spectacle wondrous and awe-inspiring. This is surely what Tokyo must look like at rush hour. I looked on until the lights went out in the city. From the Tsimtsum all I had seen were dolphins. I had assumed that the Pacific, but for passing schools of fish, was a sparsely inhabited waste of water. I have learned since that cargo ships travel too quickly for fish. You are as likely to see sea life from a ship as you are to see wildlife in a forest from a car on a highway. Dolphins, very fast swimmers, play about boats and ships much like dogs chase cars: they race along until they can no longer keep up. If you want to see wildlife, it is on foot, and quietly, that you must explore a forest. It is the same with the sea. You must stroll through the Pacific at a walking pace, so to speak, to see the wealth and abundance that it holds. I settled on my side. For the first time in five days I felt a measure of calm. A little bit of hope—hard earned, well deserved, reasonable—glowed in me. I fell asleep. CHAPTER 60 I awoke once during the night. I pushed the canopy aside and looked out. The moon was a sharply defined crescent and the sky was perfectly clear. The stars shone with such fierce, contained brilliance that it seemed absurd to call the night dark. The sea lay quietly, bathed in a shy, light-footed light, a dancing play of black and silver that extended without limits all about me. The volume of things was confounding—the volume of air above me, the volume of water around and beneath me. I was half-moved, half-terrified. I felt like the sage Markandeya, who fell out of Vishnu's mouth while Vishnu was sleeping and so beheld the entire universe, everything that there is. Before the sage could die of fright, Vishnu awoke and took him back into his mouth. For the first time I noticed—as I would notice repeatedly during my ordeal, between one throe of agony and the next—that my suffering was taking place in a grand setting. I saw my suffering for what it was, finite and insignificant, and I was still. My suffering did not fit anywhere, I realized. And I could accept this. It was all right. (It was daylight that brought my protest: "No! No! No! My suffering does matter. I want to live! I can't help but mix my life with that of the universe. Life is a peephole, a single tiny entry onto a vastness—how can I not dwell on this brief, cramped view I have of things? This peephole is all I've got!") I mumbled words of Muslim prayer and went back to sleep. |
第59章 无论孤独与否，无论迷失与否，我都又渴又饿。我拉了拉缆绳。有些紧。我刚松手，缆绳就滑了出来，救生艇和小筏子之间的距离拉大了。这么说，救生艇比小筏子漂得快，在拖着小筏子走。我注意到了这个事实，却没有想什么。我的心思更多的是放在理查德·帕克的动作上。 看上去他在油布下面。 我拉住缆绳,让自己靠到船头旁边。我抬起胳膊,去抓舷边。就在我蹲在那儿，准备对锁柜发动突然袭击的时候，几个浪头让我思考起来。我注意到小筏子靠拢后，救生艇改变了方向，不再是与海浪的方向垂直，而是用舷侧对着海浪了，而且船开始左右摇晃，晃得胃里很不舒服。产生这一变化的原因很清楚：小筏子被放出去的时候，起到了和海锚相同的作用，它拉着救生艇，让救生艇改变方向，用船头对着海浪。你知道，海浪的方向与变化不大的风的方向通常是相互垂直的。因此，如果船被风向前推，却又被海锚拉住了，它就会改变方向，直到对风形成最小的阻力一也就是说，直到它与风的方向一致，与海浪的方向垂直，这样它就会前后颠簸，这比左右摇晃舒服多了。小筏子靠拢救生艇以后，拉力消失了，没有力量能够操纵救生艇的方向，让它顶着风。于是它横了过来，并且摇晃起来。 这个在你看来也许很小的细节后来却救了我的命，而且让理查德·帕克后悔不已。 好像是在证实我刚悟出的道理似的，我听见他吼了起来。那是一种愁闷的吼声，声音中带着难以名状的病痛与不安的腔调。也许他是个游泳健将，但他不是个好水手。 我还有机会。 为了不使我对控制他的能力感到骄傲，我在那一刻受到了对我所面临的情况的轻声但却不祥的瞀告。仿佛理查德·帕克是生命的一个磁极，他的生命力如此超凡，使其他的生命形式都无法忍受。我正准备爬上船头，突然听见轻轻的嗞的一声拍打声。我看见一个小东西落进我旁边的水里。 是一只蟑螂。它在水上浮了一两秒钟，就被水下的一张嘴吞了下去。又一只蟑瑯落进了水里。在接下来的几分钟里，大约有十只蟑螂从船头两边扑通扑通地跳进了水里。所有蟑螂都被鱼吃了。 最后一种其他的生命形式正在弃船离开。 我小心地越过船舷看去。我第一眼看见的，是船头坐板上面的油布的一道褶缝里躺着的一只大蟑螂，也许是这个蟑蝉家族的族长。我看着它，感到异常好奇。当它认定时候已到时，便展开翅膀，飞到空中，发出一声微弱的撞击声，绕着救生艇飞了几圈，似乎是在查看是否确实一只都没有留下,然后改变方向，飞出船外，朝死亡飞去。 现在就剩下我们俩了。五天之内，猩猩、斑马、鬣狗、老鼠和蟑螂都被消灭了。除了吃剩的动物尸体上也许还生活着细菌和小虫子，船上除了理查德·帕克和我已经没有其他生命了。这可不是个让人感到安慰的想法。 我抬起身子，屏住呼吸，打开了锁柜盖子。我故意不朝油布下面看，害怕看一眼会像叫一声一样吸引理查德·帕克的注意力。盖子靠在油布上的时候，我才敢让自己考虑油布那边是什么。 一阵气味钻进我的鼻子，是带麝香气的尿味，非常刺鼻，动物园里每只猫科动物的笼子里都会有这种味儿。老虎的地盘观念很强，它们是用尿液来标出地盘边界的。这气味虽然恶臭，但却是个好消息：气味全部来自油布下面。理查德·帕克似乎只要求拥有船板。这就有了希望。如果我能把油布变成我的地盘，也许我们可以和睦相处。 我屏住呼吸，低下头，侧向一边，朝盖子那边看去。船板上晃 动着雨水，大约有四英寸深一那是理查德·帕克自己的淡水池。他正在做我处在他的位置一定会做的事：乘凉。天开始变得热得要命。他趴在船板上，背对着我，后腿分开，笔直地向后伸，后脚朝上，肚子和大腿内侧直接贴着船板。这个姿势看上去很傻，但显然很舒服。 我接着为生存忙碌。我打开一盒急用口粮吃了个饱，吃掉了大约三分之一盒。只吃这么少就可以让肚子感觉饱了，真令人惊奇。我正准备喝挂在肩膀上的接雨器袋子里的水,这时我看见了带刻度的喝水用的烧杯。如果我不能去洗个澡，至少我可以喝一小口吧？我自己的水不会永远都喝不完的。我拿起一只烧杯,身体向前倾，把锁柜盖子放下一点点，刚好够我探过身子，颤颤巍巍地把烧杯伸进帕克水池里距离他的后脚四英尺的地方。他脚上朝上的肉垫和潮湿的毛看上去就像被海草包围的沙漠小岛。 我舀回了足足500毫升。水有些变色了。里面漂浮着斑斑污点。我有没有担心会咽下某种可怕的细菌——我甚至没有想到这个。我心里只想着我渴。我非常满意地把烧杯里的水喝了个精光。 大自然充满了平衡，因此，当我几乎立刻就想小便的时候，我一点儿也不感到惊讶。我尿在了烧杯里。小便的量和我刚才大口喝下去的水刚好一样多，似乎一分钟并没有过去,我还在想着理查德·帕克的雨水。我犹豫了片刻。我很想再把烧杯里的东西倒进嘴里。我抵制住了诱惑。但这太难了。让嘲笑见鬼去吧，我的尿看上去很鲜美！我还没有脱水，因此尿液的颜色是淡的。它在阳光下闪着光，像一杯苹果汁。而且它肯定是新鲜的，而我主要饮用的罐装水是否新鲜却没有保证。但是我听从了自己明智的判断，把尿液洒在了油布上和锁柜盖子上，划出我的地盘。 我从理查德·帕克那里又偷了两烧杯水，但这次没有小便。我感到自己就像一株花盆里的植物一样刚被浇了水。 现在是改善我的处境的时候了。我把注意力转向锁柜里的东西和它们所包含的许多希望。 我又拿出一根绳子，用它把小筏子系在救生艇上。 我弄明白了太阳能蒸馏器是什么。太阳能蒸馏器是利用海水制备淡水的一种装置。它里面有一只可充气的透明圆锥形的筒，这只筒架在一个圆形的像救生圈一样的能浮于水的容器上，容器表面蒙着一层涂了橡胶的黑色帆布。蒸馏器是根据蒸馏的原理工作的：封闭的锥形筒下面黑色的帆布上的海水被太阳加热后蒸发，蒸汽被锥形筒内壁收集起来。不含盐的细细的水流流下去，在锥形筒周边的水沟里汇集，然后从那里流进一只袋子。救生艇上一共有12台太阳能蒸馏器。我按照求生指南的要求仔细阅读了说明。我给12只锥形筒都充满空气，把每一只能浮于水的容器都装上必不可少的十升海水。我用绳子把所有蒸馏器都串在一起，然后把这只小船队的一头系在救生艇上，另一头系在小筏子上,这就不仅意味着即使一只绳结松了，我也不会丢掉任何一只蒸馏器，而且意味着实际上我又有了一根紧急情况下可用的绳子，把我和救生艇系在一起。蒸馏器浮在水上，看上去很漂亮，技术含量很高，但同时也很容易损坏，而且我怀疑它们是否能生产出淡水来。 我把注意力转移到了改进小筏子上。我检查了每一只将小筏子绑在一起的绳结，确保每一只都系得很紧很安全。思考一番之后，我决定把第五支船桨，就是用来搁脚的那只，变成一根类似于桅杆的东西。我把船桨解下来,用猎刀带锯齿的一边在船桨上大约中间的位置费力地锯出一道凹槽，然后用刀尖扁平的部分钻了三个孔。工作进行得缓慢，但令人满意。这让我的大脑一直忙于思考。做好这两件事后，我把船桨竖着捆扎在小筏子一角的内侧，扁平部分，即桅顶，竖在空中，桨柄伸进水下。我把缆绳紧紧卡在凹槽里，防止船桨滑下来。接着，为了保证桅杆能立得直,也为了让自己能有几根绳子挂顶篷和食品，我把缆绳穿过打在桅顶上的孔，系在几支水平的桨的末端。我把原来系在搁脚的桨上的救生衣牢牢扎在桅杆底部。救生衣有两个作用：它可以增加浮力，从而抵消桅杆垂直的重量，它还可以让我有一个稍微高起来一些的座位。 我把一块毯子扔到绳子上。毯子滑了下来。绳子的角度太陡了。我把毯子长头一边折了两道，在中间戳了两个孔，两个孔之间的距离大约是一英尺，然后把一根缆绳拆开，做成细绳，用细绳把两个孔连起来。我又把毯子扔到绳子上，把新的系绳绕在桅顶上。现在我就有了一个顶篷。 我花了大半天的时间才把小筏子修好。需要照顾到的细节太多了。大海不停的起伏虽然轻柔，却并没有让我的工作变得容易一些。我还得留意理查德·帕克。小筏子并没有变成一艘西班牙大帆船。所谓的桅杆结果只高出我头顶几英寸。至于甲板，它只够我盘腿坐在上面，或者紧紧蜷缩着,用差不多可以称做胎位的姿势躺着。但我不是在抱怨。它经得起海上的风浪，它会把我从理查德·帕克那里救出来的。 等我干完时,下午已经快要结束了。我拿了一罐水，一只开罐器，用做生存口粮的4块饼干和4条毯子。我把锁柜盖上（这次动作很轻），坐上小筏子，放开绳子。救生艇漂走了。主缆绳拉紧了，但是我故意放长了些的起保障作用的缆绳还松松的。我把两条毯子垫在身体下面，小心地折好，不让它们碰到水。我用另两 条毯子围住肩膀,然后背靠桅杆坐着。因为坐在多出来的一件救生衣上，我被稍微抬高了一点，我很喜欢这样。我比水面高不了多少，就像坐在厚垫子上的人比地板高不了多少一样；尽管如此，我还是希望不要被弄得太湿了。 我一边看着太阳从万里无云的天空落下，一边享受着晚餐。这是放松的时刻。世界的穹顶染上了绚丽的色彩。星星也迫不及待地想要参加进来；彩色的毯子刚刚拉开，它们便开始在深蓝色的天幕上闪耀起来。微风懒洋洋地温暖地吹拂着，大海惬意地起伏着，海浪升起来又落下去，像围成圆圈跳舞的人一起跑到圈子中间，举起手臂，又跑开来，然后又跑到一起，一次又一次。 理查德·帕克坐了起来。只有他的脑袋和一小部分肩膀露出了舷边。他朝外面看去。我叫道："你好，理查德·帕克！"还挥了挥手。他看着我。他喷了个响鼻，或者打了个喷嚏，这两个词都不够准确。又是打招呼。多好的一只动物啊。如此高贵的风度。他的全称是皇家孟加拉虎，这个称呼太合适了。我认为自己在某种意义上是幸运的。要是我最终和一只看上去傻乎乎的或相貌丑陋的动物在一起，一只貘或一只鸵鸟或一群火鸡，那会怎么样？那从很多方面看都会是更加恼人的伙伴关系。 我听见扑通一声。我低头看看海水，吃惊得倒抽了一口气。我以为自己是孤独一人。静止的空气、灿烂的星光、相对安全的感觉一这一切都让我这么想。通常平静之中包含着安静和孤独的因素，不是吗？很难想像在繁忙的地铁车站感到平静，不是吗？那么所有这些喧闹骚动是什么呢？ 只匆匆一眼，我便发现大海是座城市。就在我脚下，在我身边，我从未察觉到的是高速公路、林阴大道、大街和绕道，海下的车辆行人熙熙攘攘。在颜色深暗、清澈透明、点缀着几百万发出亮光的微小的浮游生物的水里，鱼儿好像卡车、公共汽车、小汽车、自行车和行人在疯狂疾驰，同时无疑在互相鸣响喇叭，大叫大喊。最主要的颜色是绿色。在我所能看见的深度不同的水里，有发出磷光的绿色气泡形成的一道道转瞬即逝的光痕，那是快速游过的鱼留下的痕迹。一道光痕刚刚消失，另一道光痕又立即出现了。这些光痕从四面八方汇集而来，又向四面八方消散而去。它们就像你看见的那些定时曝光的夜晚的城市的照片，上面有汽车尾灯拖出的长长的红色光痕。只是这儿的小汽车在其他车的上面或下面开，好像它们是在堆成十层高的立交桥上。这儿的小汽车有着最令人赞叹的颜色。鯕鳅——小筏子下面一定有五十多条在巡游——迅速游过时炫耀着身上鲜艳的金色、蓝色和绿色。其他我认不出来的鱼有黄色的、棕色的、银色的、蓝色的、红色的、粉红的、绿色的、白色的，有色彩斑斓的，有纯色的，有长着条纹和斑点的。只有鲨鱼顽固地拒绝色彩。但是无论车辆有多大，是什么颜色，有一点是不变的：车开得很猛。发生了很多次撞车一很遗憾，每次都有死亡一还有很多小汽车失去了控制，疯狂地旋转着，撞上了障碍物，冲出水面，又在阵阵冷光中扑通扑通地落回水里。我出神地看着这城市的喧闹，就像一个人在热气球上观察一座城市。这是一幅令人惊叹、使人敬畏的景象。东京在上下班的高峰期时一定就是这幅景象。 我一直看着,直到城市的灯光熄灭。 在"齐姆楚姆"号上，我只见过海豚。当时我以为要不是有经过的鱼群，太平洋就是一片居民稀少的荒芜的水域。从那以后我才知道，货船开得太快，鱼跟不上。你在船上看见海洋生物的可能性就和你在高速公路上的汽车里看见森林里的野生动物的可能性一样小。海豚游的速度非常快，它们在小船和大船周围玩耍，就像狗在追猫：它们一直向前冲，直到跟不上为止。如果你想看野生动物，那就必须在森林里静静地步行考察。在大海上也是一样。打个比方说，你必须用步行的速度在太平洋上逛过去，才能看到那里的富有和丰饶。 我侧身躺了下来。五天来我第一次感到了几分平静。一线希望一来之不易、受之无愧、合情合理的希望一在我心中燃起。我睡着了。 第60章 夜里，我醒了一次。我把顶篷推开，向外面望去。天空异常明净，一轮弯月挂在天上，轮廓十分清晰。星星如此耀眼地平静地闪烁着，要说夜晚是黑暗的，似乎很荒唐。海静静地躺着，沐浴在羞怯的轻盈的光里，那是跳动摇曳的黑色与银色，在我周围无限伸展。周围的一切多得令我不知所措一我周围的空气那么多，我四周和下面的水那么多。我半是感动，半是害怕。我感到自己就像圣人马肯得亚，在毗湿奴睡着的时候从他嘴里掉了出来，于是他看见了整个的宇宙，所有的一切。就在他快被吓死的时候，毗湿奴醒了，把他放回了嘴里。我第一次注意到一在我的苦难经历中，在一阵剧烈的痛苦和下一阵剧烈的痛苦之间，我还将不断地注意到一我的痛苦是在一个宏伟庄严的环境中发生的。我从痛苦本身去看待它，认为它是有限的、不重要的，而我是静止不动的。我意识到自己的痛苦并不算什么。我能接受痛苦。这没关系。（是白昼让我抗议不！不！不！我的痛苦有关系。我想要活！我情不自禁地要把自己的生命和宇宙的生命融合在一起。生命就是一个窥孔，是通向广袤无垠的惟一一个小小的人口——我怎么能不凝视我看到的这短暂而狭小的景象呢——这个窥孔就是我的全部所有啊！")我咕哝了几句穆斯林祷告词，又接着睡了。 |
CHAPTER 61 The next morning I was not too wet and I was feeling strong. I thought this was remarkable considering the strain I was under and how little I had eaten in the last several days. It was a fine day. I decided to try my hand at fishing, for the first time in my life. After a breakfast of three biscuits and one can of water, I read what the survival manual had to say on the subject. The first problem arose: bait. I thought about it. There were the dead animals, but stealing food from under a tiger's nose was a proposition I was not up to. He would not realize that it was an investment that would bring him an excellent return. I decided to use my leather shoe. I had only one left. The other I had lost when the ship sank. I crept up to the lifeboat and I gathered from the locker one of the fishing kits, the knife and a bucket for my catch. Richard Parker was lying on his side. His tail jumped to life when I was at the bow but his head did not lift. I let the raft out. I attached a hook to a wire leader, which I tied to a line. I added some lead weights. I picked three that had an intriguing torpedo shape. I removed my shoe and cut it into pieces. It was hard work; the leather was tough. I carefully worked the hook into a flat piece of hide, not through it but into it, so that the point of the hook was hidden. I let the line down deep. There had been so many fish the previous evening that I expected easy success. I had none. The whole shoe disappeared bit by bit, slight tug on the line by slight tug on the line, happy freeloading fish by happy freeloading fish, bare hook by bare hook, until I was left with only the rubber sole and the shoelace. When the shoelace proved an unconvincing earthworm, out of sheer exasperation I tried the sole, all of it. It was not a good idea. I felt a slight, promising tug and then the line was unexpectedly light. All I pulled in was line. I had lost the whole tackle. This loss did not strike me as a terrible blow. There were other hooks, leader wires and weights in the kit, besides a whole other kit. And I wasn't even fishing for myself. I had plenty of food in store. Still, a part of my mind—the one that says what we don't want to hear—rebuked me. "Stupidity has a price. You should show more care and wisdom next time." Later that morning a second turtle appeared. It came right up to the raft. It could have reached up and bit my bottom if it had wanted to. When it turned I reached for its hind flipper, but as soon as I touched it I recoiled in horror. The turtle swam away. The same part of my mind that had rebuked me over my fishing fiasco scolded me again. "What exactly do you intend to feed that tiger of yours? How much longer do you think he'll last on three dead animals? Do I need to remind you that tigers are not carrion eaters? Granted, when he's on his last legs he probably won't lift his nose at much. But don't you think that before he submits to eating puffy, putrefied zebra he'll try the fresh, juicy Indian boy just a short dip away? And how are we doing with the water situation? You know how tigers get impatient with thirst. Have you smelled his breath recently? It's pretty awful. That's a bad sign. Perhaps you're hoping that he'll lap up the Pacific and in quenching his thirst allow you to walk to America? Quite amazing, this limited capacity to excrete salt that Sundarbans tigers have developed. Comes from living in a tidal mangrove forest, I suppose. But it is a limited capacity. Don't they say that drinking too much saline water makes a man-eater of a tiger? Oh, look. Speak of the devil. There he is. He's yawning. My, my, what an enormous pink cave. Look at those long yellow stalactites and stalagmites. Maybe today you'll get a chance to visit." Richard Parker's tongue, the size and colour of a rubber hot-water bottle, retreated and his mouth closed. He swallowed. I spent the rest of the day worrying myself sick. I stayed away from the lifeboat. Despite my own dire predictions, Richard Parker passed the time calmly enough. He still had water from the rainfall and he didn't seem too concerned with hunger. But he did make various tiger noises—growls and moans and the like—that did nothing to put me at ease. The riddle seemed irresolvable: to fish I needed bait, but I would have bait only once I had fish. What was I supposed to do? Use one of my toes? Cut off one of my ears? A solution appeared in the late afternoon in a most unexpected way. I had pulled myself up to the lifeboat. More than that: I had climbed aboard and was rummaging through the locker, feverishly looking for an idea that would save my life. I had tied the raft so that it was about six feet from the boat. I fancied that with a jump and a pull at a loose knot I could save myself from Richard Parker. Desperation had pushed me to take such a risk. Finding nothing, no bait and no new idea, I sat up—only to discover that I was dead centre in the focus of his stare. He was at the other end of the lifeboat, where the zebra used to be, turned my way and sitting up, looking as if he'd been patiently waiting for me to notice him. How was it that I hadn't heard him stir? What delusion was I under that I thought I could outwit him? Suddenly I was hit hard across the face. I cried out and closed my eyes. With feline speed he had leapt across the lifeboat and struck me. I was to have my face clawed off—this was the gruesome way I was to die. The pain was so severe I felt nothing. Blessed be shock. Blessed be that part of us that protects us from too much pain and sorrow. At the heart of life is a ruse box. I whimpered, "Go ahead, Richard Parker, finish me off. But please, what you must do, do it quickly. A blown fuse should not be overtested." He was taking his time. He was at my feet, making noises. No doubt he had discovered the locker and its riches. I fearfully opened an eye. It was a fish. There was a fish in the locker. It was flopping about like a fish out of water. It was about fifteen inches long and it had wings. A flying fish. Slim and dark grey-blue, with dry, featherless wings and round, unblinking, yellowish eyes. It was this flying fish that had struck me across the face, not Richard Parker. He was still fifteen feet away, no doubt wondering what I was going on about. But he had seen the fish. I could read a keen curiosity on his face. He seemed about ready to investigate. I bent down, picked up the fish and threw it towards him. This was the way to tame him! Where a rat had gone, a flying fish would follow. Unfortunately, the flying fish flew. In mid-air, just ahead of Richard Parker's open mouth, the fish swerved and dropped into the water. It happened with lightning speed. Richard Parker turned his head and snapped his mouth, jowls flapping, but the fish was too quick for him. He looked astonished and displeased. He turned to me again. "Where's my treat?" his face seemed to inquire. Fear and sadness gripped me. I turned with the half-hearted, half-abandoned hope that I could jump onto the raft before he could jump onto me. At that precise instant there was a vibration in the air and we were struck by a school of flying fish. They came like a swarm of locusts. It was not only their numbers; there was also something insect-like about the clicking, whirring sound of their wings. They burst out of the water, dozens of them at a time, some of them flick-flacking over a hundred yards through the air. Many dived into the water just before the boat. A number sailed clear over it. Some crashed into its side, sounding like firecrackers going off. Several lucky ones returned to the water after a bounce on the tarpaulin. Others, less fortunate, fell directly into the boat, where they started a racket of flapping and flailing and splashing. And still others flew right into us. Standing unprotected as I was, I felt I was living the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian. Every fish that hit me was like an arrow entering my flesh. I clutched at a blanket to protect myself while also trying to catch some of the fish. I received cuts and bruises all over my body. The reason for this onslaught became evident immediately: dorados were leaping out of the water in hot pursuit of them. The much larger dorados couldn't match their flying, but they were faster swimmers and their short lunges were very powerful. They could overtake flying fish if they were just behind them and lunging from the water at the same time and in the same direction. There were sharks too; they also leapt out of the water, not so cleanly but with devastating consequence for some dorados. This aquatic mayhem didn't last long, but while it did, the sea bubbled and boiled, fish jumped and jaws worked hard. Richard Parker was tougher than I was in the face of these fish, and far more efficient. He raised himself and went about blocking, swiping and biting all the fish he could. Many were eaten live and whole, struggling wings beating in his mouth. It was a dazzling display of might and speed. Actually, it was not so much the speed that was impressive as the pure animal confidence, the total absorption in the moment. Such a mix of ease and concentration, such a being-in-the-present, would be the envy of the highest yogis. When it was over, the result, besides a very sore body for me, was six flying fish in the locker and a much greater number in the lifeboat. I hurriedly wrapped a fish in a blanket, gathered a hatchet and made for the raft. I proceeded with great deliberation. The loss of my tackle that morning had had a sobering effect on me. I couldn't allow myself another mistake. I unwrapped the fish carefully, keeping a hand pressed down on it, fully aware that it would try to jump away to save itself. The closer the fish was to appearing, the more afraid and disgusted I became. Its head came into sight. The way I was holding it, it looked like a scoop of loathsome fish ice cream sticking out of a wool blanket cone. The thing was gasping for water, its mouth and gills opening and closing slowly. I could feel it pushing with its wings against my hand. I turned the bucket over and brought its head against the bottom. I took hold of the hatchet. I raised it in the air. Several times I started bringing the hatchet down, but I couldn't complete the action. Such sentimentalism may seem ridiculous considering what I had witnessed in the last days, but those were the deeds of others, of predatory animals. I suppose I was partly responsible for the rat's death, but I'd only thrown it; it was Richard Parker who had killed it. A lifetime of peaceful vegetarianism stood between me and the willful beheading of a fish. I covered the fish's head with the blanket and turned the hatchet around. Again my hand wavered in the air. The idea of beating a soft, living head with a hammer was simply too much. I put the hatchet down. I would break its neck, sight unseen, I decided. I wrapped the fish tightly in the blanket. With both hands I started bending it. The more I pressed, the more the fish struggled. I imagined what it would feel like if I were wrapped in a blanket and someone were trying to break my neck. I was appalled. I gave up a number of times. Yet I knew it had to be done, and the longer I waited, the longer the fish's suffering would go on. Tears flowing down my cheeks, I egged myself on until I heard a cracking sound and I no longer felt any life fighting in my hands. I pulled back the folds of the blanket. The flying fish was dead. It was split open and bloody on one side of its head, at the level of the gills. I wept heartily over this poor little deceased soul. It was the first sentient being I had ever killed. I was now a killer. I was now as guilty as Cain. I was sixteen years old, a harmless boy, bookish and religious, and now I had blood on my hands. It's a terrible burden to carry. All sentient life is sacred. I never forget to include this fish in my prayers. After that it was easier. Now that it was dead, the flying fish looked like fish I had seen in the markets of Pondicherry. It was something else, something outside the essential scheme of creation. I chopped it up into pieces with the hatchet and put it in the bucket. In the dying hours of the day I tried fishing again. At first I had no better luck than I'd had in the morning. But success seemed less elusive. The fish nibbled at the hook with fervour. Their interest was evident. I realized that these were small fish, too small for the hook. So I cast my line further out and let it sink deeper, beyond the reach of the small fish that concentrated around the raft and lifeboat. It was when I used the flying fish's head as bait, and with only one sinker, casting my line out and pulling it in quickly, making the head skim over the surface of the water, that I finally had my first strike. A dorado surged forth and lunged for the fish head. I let out a little slack, to make sure it had properly swallowed the bait, before giving the line a good yank. The dorado exploded out of the water, tugging on the line so hard I thought it was going to pull me off the raft. I braced myself. The line became very taut. It was good line; it would not break. I started bringing the dorado in. It struggled with all its might, jumping and diving and splashing. The line cut into my hands. I wrapped my hands in the blanket. My heart was pounding. The fish was as strong as an ox. I was not sure I would be able to pull it in. I noticed all the other fish had vanished from around the raft and boat. No doubt they had sensed the dorado's distress. I hurried. Its struggling would attract sharks. But it fought like a devil. My arms were aching. Every time I got it close to the raft, it beat about with such frenzy that I was cowed into letting out some line. At last I managed to haul it aboard. It was over three feet long. The bucket was useless. It would fit the dorado like a hat. I held the fish down by kneeling on it and using my hands. It was a writhing mass of pure muscle, so big its tail stuck out from beneath me, pounding hard against the raft. It was giving me a ride like I imagine a bucking bronco would give a cowboy. I was in a wild and triumphant mood. A dorado is a magnificent-looking fish, large, fleshy and sleek, with a bulging forehead that speaks of a forceful personality, a very long dorsal fin as proud as a cock's comb, and a coat of scales that is smooth and bright. I felt I was dealing fate a serious blow by engaging such a handsome adversary. With this fish I was retaliating against the sea, against the wind, against the sinking of ships, against all circumstances that were working against me. "Thank you, Lord Vishnu, thank you!" I shouted. "Once you saved the world by taking the form of a fish. Now you have saved me by taking the form of a fish. Thank you, thank you!" Killing it was no problem. I would have spared myself thd trouble—after all, it was for Richard Parker and he would have dispatched it with expert ease—but for the hook that was embedded in its mouth. I exulted at having a dorado at the end of my line—I would be less keen if it were a tiger. I went about the job in a direct way. I took the hatchet in both my hands and vigorously beat the fish on the head with the hammerhead (I still didn't have th stomach to use the sharp edge). The dorado did a most extraordinary thing as it died: it began to flash all kinds of colours in rapid succesion. Blue, green, red, gold and violet flickered and shimmered neon-like on its surface as it struggled. I felt I was beating a rainbow to death. (I found out later that the dorado is famed for its death-knell iridescence.) At last it lay still and dull-coloured, and I could remove the hook. I even managed to retrieve a part of my bait. You may be astonished that in such a short period of time I could go from weeping over the muffled killing of a flying fish to gleefully bludgeoning to death a dorado. I could explain it by arguing that profiting from a pitiful flying fish's navigational mistake made me shy and sorrowful, while the excitement of actively capturing a great dorado made me sanguinary and self-assured. But in point of fact the explanation lies elsewhere. It is simple and brutal: a person can get used to anything, even to killing. It was with a hunter's pride that I pulled the raft up to the lifeboat. I brought it along the side, keeping very low. I swung my arm and dropped the dorado into the boat. It landed with a heavy thud and provoked a gruff expression of surprise from Richard Parker. After a sniff or two, I heard the wet mashing sound of a mouth at work. I pushed myself off, not forgetting to blow the whistle hard several times, to remind Richard Parker of who had so graciously provided him with fresh food. I stopped to pick up some biscuits and a can of water. The five remaining flying fish in the locker were dead. I pulled their wings off, throwing them away, and wrapped the fish in the now-consecrated fish blanket. By the time I had rinsed myself of blood, cleaned up my fishing gear, put things away and had my supper, night had come on. A thin layer of clouds masked the stars and the moon, and it was very dark. I was tired, but still excited by the events of the last hours. The feeling of busyness was profoundly satisfying; I hadn't thought at all about my plight or myself. Fishing was surely a better way of passing the time than yarn-spinning or playing I Spy. I determined to start again the next day as soon as there was light. I fell asleep, my mind lit up by the chameleon-like flickering of the dying dorado. CHAPTER 62 I slept in fits that night. Shortly before sunrise I gave up trying to fall asleep again and lifted myself on an elbow. I spied with my little eye a tiger. Richard Parker was restless. He was moaning and growling and pacing about the lifeboat. It was impressive. I assessed the situation. He couldn't be hungry. Or at least not dangerously hungry. Was he thirsty? His tongue hung from his mouth, but only on occasion, and he was not panting. And his stomach and paws were still wet. But they were not dripping wet. There probably wasn't much water left in the boat. Soon he would be thirsty. I looked up at the sky. The cloud cover had vanished. But for a few wisps on the horizon, the sky was clear. It would be another hot, rainless day. The sea moved in a lethargic way, as if already exhausted by the oncoming heat. I sat against the mast and thought over our problem. The biscuits and the fishing gear assured us of the solid part of our diet. It was the liquid part that was the rub. It all came down to what was so abundant around us but marred by salt. I could perhaps mix some sea water with his fresh water, but I had to procure more fresh water to start with. The cans would not last long between the two of us—in fact, I was loath to share even one with Richard Parker—and it would be foolish to rely on rainwater. The solar stills were the only other possible source of drinkable water. I looked at them doubtfully. They had been out two days now. I noticed that one of them had lost a little air. I pulled on the rope to tend to it. I topped off its cone with air. Without any real expectation I reached underwater for the distillate pouch that was clipped to the round buoyancy chamber. My fingers took hold of a bag that was unexpectedly fat. A shiver of thrill went through me. I controlled myself. As likely as not, salt water had leaked in. I unhooked the pouch and, following the instructions, lowered it and tilted the still so that any more water from beneath the cone might flow into it. I closed the two small taps that led to the pouch, detached it and pulled it out of the water. It was rectangular in shape and made of thick, soft, yellow plastic, with calibration marks on one side. I tasted the water. I tasted it again. It was salt-free. "My sweet sea cow!" I exclaimed to the solar still. "You've produced, and how! What a delicious milk. Mind you, a little rubbery, but I'm not complaining. Why, look at me drink!" I finished the bag. It had a capacity of one litre and was nearly full. After a moment of sigh-producing, shut-eyed satisfaction, I reattached the pouch. I checked the other stills. Each one had an udder similarly heavy. I collected the fresh milk, over eight litres of it, in the fish bucket. Instantly these technological contraptions became as precious to me as cattle are to a farmer. Indeed, as they floated placidly in an arc, they looked almost like cows grazing in a field. I ministered to their needs, making sure that there was enough sea water inside each and that the cones and chambers were inflated to just the right pressure. After adding a little sea water to the bucket's contents, I placed it on the side bench just beyond the tarpaulin. With the end of the morning coolness, Richard Parker seemed safely settled below. I tied the bucket in place using rope and the tarpaulin hooks on the side of the boat. I carefully peeked over the gunnel. He was lying on his side. His den was a foul sight. The dead mammals were heaped together, a grotesque pile of decayed animal parts. I recognized a leg or two, various patches of hide, parts of a head, a great number of bones. Flying-fish wings were scattered about. I cut up a flying fish and tossed a piece onto the side bench. After I had gathered what I needed for the day from the locker and was ready to go, I tossed another piece over the tarpaulin in front of Richard Parker. It had the intended effect. As I drifted away I saw him come out into the open to fetch the morsel of fish. His head turned and he noticed the other morsel and the new object next to it. He lifted himself. He hung his huge head over the bucket. I was afraid he would tip it over. He didn't. His face disappeared into it, barely fitting, and he started to lap up the water. In very little time the bucket started shaking and rattling emptily with each strike of his tongue. When he looked up, I stared him aggressively in the eyes and I blew on the whistle a few times. He disappeared under the tarpaulin. It occurred to me that with every passing day the lifeboat was resembling a zoo enclosure more and more: Richard Parker had his sheltered area for sleeping and resting, his food stash, his lookout and now his water hole. The temperature climbed. The heat became stifling. I spent the rest of the day in the shade of the canopy, fishing. It seems I had had beginner's luck with that first dorado. I caught nothing the whole day, not even in the late afternoon, when marine life appeared in abundance. A turtle turned up, a different kind this time, a green sea turtle, bulkier and smoother-shelled, but curious in the same fixed way as a hawksbill. I did nothing about it, but I started thinking that I should. The only good thing about the day being so hot was the sight the solar stills presented. Every cone was covered on the inside with drops and rivulets of condensation. The day ended. I calculated that the next morning would make it a week since the Tsimtsum had sunk. CHAPTER 63 The Robertson family survived thirty-eight days at sea. Captain Bligh of the celebrated mutinous Bounty and his fellow castaways survived forty-seven days. Steven Callahan survived seventy-six. Owen Chase, whose account of the sinking of the whaling ship Essex by a whale inspired Herman Melville, survived eighty-three days at sea with two mates, interrupted by a one-week stay on an inhospitable island. The Bailey family survived 118 days. I have heard of a Korean merchant sailor named Poon, I believe, who survived the Pacific for 173 days in the 1950s. I survived 227 days. That's how long my trial lasted, over seven months. I kept myself busy. That was one key to my survival. On a lifeboat, even on a raft, there's always something that needs doing. An average day for me, if such a notion can be applied to a castaway, went like this: Sunrise to mid-morning: wake up prayers breakfast for Richard Parker general inspection of raft and lifeboat, with particular attention paid to all knots and ropes tending of solar stills (wiping, inflating, topping off with water) breakfast and inspection of food stores fishing and preparing of fish if any caught (gutting, cleaning, hanging of strips of flesh on lines to cure in the sun) Mid-morning to late afternoon: prayers light lunch rest and restful activities (writing in diary, examining of scabs and sores, upkeeping of equipment, puttering about locker, observation and study of Richard Parker, picking-at of turtle bones, etc.) Late afternoon to early evening: prayers fishing and preparing of fish tending of curing strips of flesh (turning over, cutting away of putrid parts) dinner preparations dinner for self and Richard Parker Sunset: general inspection of raft and lifeboat (knots and ropes again) collecting and safekeeping of distillate from solar stills storing of all foods and equipment arrangements for night (making of bed, safe storage on raft of flare, in case of ship, and rain catcher, in case of rain) prayers Night: fitful sleeping prayers Mornings were usually better than late afternoons, when the emptiness of time tended to make itself felt. Any number of events affected this routine. Rainfall, at any time of the day or night, stopped all other business; for as long as it fell, I held up the rain catchers and was feverishly occupied storing their catch. A turtle's visit was another major disruption. And Richard Parker, of course, was a regular disturbance. Accommodating him was a priority I could not neglect for an instant. He didn't have much of a routine beyond eating, drinking and sleeping, but there were times when he stirred from his lethargy and rambled about his territory, making noises and being cranky. Thankfully, every time, the sun and the sea quickly tired him and he returned to beneath the tarpaulin, to lying on his side again, or flat on his stomach, his head on top of his crossed front legs. But there was more to my dealings with him than strict necessity. I also spent hours observing him because it was a distraction. A tiger is a fascinating animal at any time, and all the more so when it is your sole companion. At first, looking out for a ship was something I did all the time, compulsively. But after a few weeks, five or six, I stopped doing it nearly entirely. And I survived because I made a point of forgetting. My story started on a calendar day—July 2nd, 1977—and ended on a calendar day—February 14th, 1978—but in between there was no calendar. I did not count the days or the weeks or the months. Time is an illusion that only makes us pant. I survived because I forgot even the very notion of time. What I remember are events and encounters and routines, markers that emerged here and there from the ocean of time and imprinted themselves on my memory. The smell of spent hand-flare shells, and prayers at dawn, and the killing of turtles, and the biology of algae, for example. And many more. But I don't know if I can put them in order for you. My memories come in a jumble. |
第61章 第二天早上，我身上不那么湿了，也感觉自己强壮了些。考虑到我有多么紧张，过去几天里我吃得多么少，我想这是一件非常了不起的事。 这是个晴天。我决定试试钓鱼，这是我平生第一次。早饭吃了3块饼干，喝了一罐水之后，我读了求生指南中关于这件事的是怎么说的。第一个问题出现了：鱼饵。我想了想。船上有死动物，但是从老虎鼻子底下偷食物，这可不是我能做到的事。他不会认识到这是一种投资，会给他带来高额的回报。我决定用自己的皮鞋。我还有一只鞋。另一只在船沉的时候弄丢了。 我爬到救生艇上，从锁柜里拿了一套钓鱼工具和刀，还拿了一只桶，用来装钓到的鱼。理查德·帕克侧身躺着。我到船头时， 他的尾巴突然竖了起来，但他没有抬头。我把小筏子放了出去。 我把鱼钩系在金属丝导缆器上，再把导缆器系在鱼线上，然后加上铅坠。我挑了三只有着迷惑力的水雷形状的坠子。我把鞋脱下来，切成片。这很困难，因为皮很硬。我小心翼翼地把鱼钩穿进一块平展的皮里，不是穿过去，而是穿进去，这样钩尖就藏在了皮里面。我把鱼线放进深深的水里。前一天晚上鱼太多了，所以我以为很容易就能钓到。 我一条都没有钓到。整只鞋一点又一点地消失了，鱼线一次又一次地被轻轻拉动，来了一条又一条快乐的吃白食的鱼，鱼钩上一块又一块的饵被吃光了，最后我只剩下了橡胶鞋底和鞋带。当结果证明鞋带不能让鱼相信那是蚯蚓之后，完全出于绝望，我试了鞋底，整只鞋底都用上了。这是个好主意。我感到鱼线被很有希望地轻轻拉了一下，接着变得出乎意料地轻。我拉上来的只有鱼线。整套钓具都丢了。 这次损失并没有给我带来沉重的打击。那套钓鱼工具里还有其他的鱼钩、导缆金属丝和坠子，另外还有一整套钓鱼工具。而且我甚至不是在为自己钓鱼。我的食物储备还有很多。 虽然如此，我大脑的一个部分一说逆耳之言的那部分一却责备了我。"愚蠢是有代价的。下次你应该更小心些，更聪明些。" 那天上午，第二只海龟出现了。它径直游到了小筏子旁边。要是它愿意，它把头伸上来就可以咬我的屁股。它转过身去时，我伸手去抓它的后鳍，但刚一碰到，我就害怕地把手缩了回来，海龟游走了。 责备我钓鱼失败的那部分大脑又批评我了。"你究竟想用什么去喂你那只老虎？你以为他靠吃三只死动物能活多久？我是否需要提醒你，老虎不是腐食动物？就算是，当他濒临死亡的时候，也许他不会挑挑拣拣。但是难道你不认为他在甘愿吃肿胀腐烂的死斑马之前会先尝尝只要游几下就能到口的鲜美多汁的印度小伙子吗？还有，我们怎么解决水的问题呢？你知道老虎渴的时候是多么不耐烦地要喝水。最近你闻了他的口气了吗？相当糟糕。这是个不好的信号。也许你是在希望他会把太平洋的水都舔光，既解了他的渴，又能让你走到美洲去？松达班的老虎有了这种从身体里排出盐分的有限能力，真让人惊奇。我估计这种能力来自它们生活的潮汐林。但它毕竟是有限的。难道他们没有说过喝了太多的海水会让老虎吃人吗？噢，看哪。说到他，他就来了。他在打哈欠。天啊，天啊，一个多么巨大的粉红色岩洞啊。看看那些长长的黄色的钟乳石和石笋。也许今天你就有机会进去参观了。" 理查德·帕克那条大小颜色都和橡胶热水瓶一样的舌头缩了回去，他的嘴合上了。他吞咽了一下。 那天接下来的时间里，我担心得要死。我一直远离救生艇。虽然我自己的预测十分悲惨，但是理查德·帕克却过得相当平静。他还有下雨的时候积的水，而且他似乎并不特别担心饥饿。但是他却发出了老虎会发出的各种声音——咆哮、呜咽以及诸如此类的声音一让我不能安心。这个谜题似乎无法解开：要钓鱼我就需要鱼饵，但是我只有有了鱼才能有鱼饵。我该怎么办呢？用我的一个脚趾？割下我的一只耳朵？ 下午，一个解决办法以最出人意料的方式出现了。我扒上了救生艇。不仅如此：我爬到了船上，在锁柜里仔细翻找，发疯般的寻找着能够救命的主意。我把小筏子系在船上，让它离船有六英尺。我设想，只需一跳，或松开一个绳结，我就能把自己从理查德·帕克的口中救出来。绝望驱使我冒了这个险。 我什么也没找到，没有鱼饵也没有新的主意，于是我坐了起来——却发现他正目不转睛地凝视着我。他在救生艇的另一头，斑马原来待的地方，转身对着我，坐在那儿，看上去好像他一直在耐心地等着我注意到他。我怎么会没有听见他动呢？我以为自己比他聪明，这是什么样的错觉啊？突然，我脸上被重重打了一下。我大叫一声，闭上了眼睛。他用猫科动物的速度在救生艇上 跃过，袭击了我。我的脸会被抓掉的——我会以这样令人厌恶的方式死去。痛得太厉害了，我什么都感觉不到了。感谢震惊。感谢保护我们、让我们免受太多痛苦悲伤的那个部分。生命的中心是一只保险丝盒。我抽泣着说来吧，理查德·帕克，杀死我吧。但是我求你，无论你必须做什么，都请快一些。一根烧坏的保险丝不该被考验太多次。" 他不慌不忙。他就在我脚边，发出叫声。?毫无疑问，他发现了锁柜和里面的宝物。我害怕地睁开一只眼睛。 是一条鱼。锁柜里有一条鱼。它像所有离开水的鱼一样拍打着身体。它大约有十五英寸长,长着翅膀一样的胸鳍。一条飞鱼。它的身体细长，颜色是深灰蓝色，没长羽毛的翅膀是干的，一双圆圆的发黄的眼睛一眨不眨。打在我脸上的是这条飞鱼，不是理查德·帕克。他离我还有十五英尺，肯定正在想我在干什么呢。但是他看见了那条鱼。我能在他脸上看见极度的好奇。他似乎要准备开始调查了。 我弯下腰，把鱼捡起来，朝他扔过去。这就是驯服他的方法！老鼠去的地方，飞鱼可以跟着去。不幸的是，飞鱼会飞。就在理查德·帕克张开的嘴面前，飞鱼在半空中突然转弯，掉进了水里。这一切就像闪电一样迅速发生了。理查德·帕克转过头，猛地咬过去，颈部垂肉晃荡着，但是鱼的速度太快了，他根本咬不到。他看上去很吃惊，很不高兴。他又转向我。"你请我吃的东西呢？"他脸上的表情似乎在问。恐惧和悲伤紧紧擭住了我。我半心半意地转过身去，心里半是希望在他跳起来扑向我之前我能跳到小筏子上去。 就在那一刻，空气一阵震动，我们遭到了一大群飞鱼的袭击。它们就像一群蝗虫一样涌来。说它们像蝗虫，不仅因为它们 数量很多；而且因为它们的胸鳍发出像昆虫一样喀嚓喀嚓、嗡嗡嗡嗡的声音。它们猛地从水里冲出来，每次有几十条，其中有几条嗖嗖地迅速在空中飞出一百多码远。许多鱼就在船面前潜进了水里。不少鱼从船上飞了过去。有些鱼撞上了船舷，发出像燃放鞭炮一样的声音。有几条幸运的在油布上弹了一下，又回到了水里。另一些不那么幸运的直接落在了船上，开始拍打着舞动着身体,扑通扑通地蹦跳着，喧嚷不已。还有一些鱼就直接撞到了我们身上。我站在那儿,没有任何保护，感到自己像圣塞巴斯蒂安一样在乱棍下殉难。每一条鱼撞上我，都像一枝箭射进我的身体。我一边抓起一条毯子保护自己，一边试图抓住一条鱼。我浑身都是伤口和青肿。 这场猛攻的原因很快就清楚了：很多鯕鳅正跃出水面，追赶它们。体型大得多的鯕鳅飞起来无法和它们相比，但却比它们游得快得多，而且近距离猛扑的动作十分有力。如果鯕鳅紧跟在飞鱼后面，与飞鱼同时从水里冲出来，朝同一方向冲过去，就能追上飞鱼。还有鲨鱼；它们也从水里跳出来，虽然跳得不高，但却给一些鯕鳅带来了灾难性的后果。水上的这种极端混乱的状态没有持续多长时间；但是在这期间，海水冒着泡泡翻滚着，鱼在跳，嘴在用力地咬。 理查德·帕克在这群鱼面前比我强硬得多，效率也高得多。他站立起来，开始阻挡、猛击、狠咬所有他能够到的鱼。许多鱼被活生生地整条吃了下去，胸鲔还在他嘴里挣扎着拍打着。这是力量和速度的表现，令人惊叹不已。实际上，给人深刻印象的不是速度，而是纯粹的动物所具有的信心，是那一刻的全神贯注。这种既轻松自在，又专心致志的状态，这种禅定①的状态，就连最高超的瑜伽大师也要羡慕。 【①禅定，瑜伽三个内助阶段之一，指不间断地默想自己沉思的对象，超越任何自我的回忆。】 混乱结束之后，战果除了我痛得厉害的身体，还有锁柜里的六条鱼和救生艇上比这多得多的鱼。我急急忙忙用毯子裹起一条鱼，拿起一把斧子，朝小筏子走去。 我非常小心翼翼地开始做这件事情。那天早晨丢了钓具的事让我清醒了。我不能允许自己再犯错误。我小心地打开毯子，同时一直用一只手按着鱼，心里非常清楚，它会试图跳走，救自己一命。鱼越是快要出现了，我越是感到害怕和恶心。我看见它的头了。我那样抓着它，让它看上去像从羊毛毯蛋筒里伸出来的一勺讨厌的鱼冰淇淋。那个东西正喘息着要喝水，嘴和腮慢慢地一张一合。我能感到它的胸鳍在推我的手。我把桶倒过来，把鱼头压在桶下面。我拿起斧子。我把斧子举了起来。 有好几次，我举起了斧子要往下砍，但却无法完成这个动作。考虑到我在这之前几天所目睹的一切，这样的感情用事也许看上去很滑稽，但那些事不是我干的，是食肉动物干的。我想我对老鼠的死应该负部分的责任，但我只是把它扔了过去；是理查德·帕克杀死了它。我一生奉行的和平的素食主义阻止了我去蓄意砍下鱼头。 我用毯子盖住鱼头，把斧子掉转过来。我的手又一次在空中动摇了。用一把锤子去砸一个软软的活生生的头，这个想法太让人受不了了。 我放下了斧子。我决定要拧断它的脖子，这样就看不见那幅景象了。我把鱼紧紧地裹在毯子里，开始用两只手去拧它。我按得越重，鱼便挣扎得越厉害。我想像如果我自己被裹在毯子里，有人正试图拧断我的脖子，我会有什么样的感觉。我惊呆了。我放弃了很多次。然而我知道这是必须做的，而且我等的时间越长，鱼受折磨的时间便会越长。 泪水在我的双颊滚落，我不断地鼓励自己，直到听见喀嚓一声，我的手不再感到有任何生命在挣扎。我把裹着的毯子打开。飞鱼死了。它的身体被拧断了，头部一侧的鱼鳃处有血。 我为这可怜的小小的逝去的灵魂大哭一场。这是我杀死的第一条有知觉的生命。现在我成了一个杀手。现在我和该隐一样有罪。我是个16岁的无辜的小伙子，酷爱读书，虔信宗教，而现在我的双手却沾满了鲜血。这是个可怕的重负。所有有知觉的生命都是神圣的。我祷告时从没有忘记过为这条鱼祈祷。 在那之后事情就简单多了。既然这条飞鱼已经死了，它看上去就像我在本地治里的市场上看见过的其他鱼一样。它成了别的东西，在基本的造物计划之外的东西。我用斧子把它砍成几块，放进桶里。 白天快要过去时，我又试着钓了一次鱼。开始我的运气不比早上好。但是成功似乎不那么难以得到了。鱼热切地咬着鱼饵。它们显然很感兴趣。我注意到这都是些小鱼，太小了，没法用鱼钩钓上来。于是我把鱼线抛得更远，抛进更深的水里，抛到小筏子和救生艇周围聚集的小鱼够不到的地方。 我用飞鱼鱼头做饵，只用一只坠子，把鱼线抛出去，然后很快拉上来，让鱼头在水面上掠过，我正是用这种方法第一次让鱼上钩了。一条鯕鳅迅速游过来，猛地朝鱼头冲过来。我稍稍放长鱼线，确保它把鱼饵全吞了下去，然后把鱼线猛地一拉。鯕鳅一下子从水里蹦了出来，它用力向下拖着鱼线，力气大得让我以为自己要被它从小筏子上拽掉下去了。我做好了准备。鱼线开始绷得很紧。这条鱼线很牢，它不会断的。我开始把鯕鳅往上拉。它用足全身力气使劲挣扎,蹦着跳着，往水里扑，溅起了一阵阵本 花。鱼线勒进了我手里。我用毯子裹住手。我的心怦怦直跳。这条鱼像一头牛一样壮实。我不知道自己能不能把它拉上来。 我注意到所有其他鱼都从小筏子和船的周围消失了。毫无疑问，它们一定感觉到了这条鯕鳅的痛苦。我加快了动作。它这样挣扎会引来鲨鱼的。但它却拼命斗争。我的胳膊巳经疼了。每次我把它拉近小筏子，它都疯狂地拍打着，我吓得不得不把鱼线放长一些。 最后，我终于把它拉了上来。它有三英尺多长。桶是没有用了。用桶来装鯕鳅就像给它戴上一顶帽子。我跪在鱼身上，用两只手按住它。它完全就是一堆痛苦扭动的肌肉。它太大了，尾巴从我身体下面伸了出来，重重地敲打着小筏子。我想，牛仔骑在一匹弓着背跃起的野马背上的感觉就和我骑在它身上的感觉是一样的吧。我情绪激动，心里充满了胜利的喜悦。鯕鳅模样高贵，个大，肉多，线条优美，突出的前额说明了它坚强的个性，长长的背鳍像鸡冠一样骄傲地竖着，身上覆盖的鳞片又滑又亮。我感到自己与这样溧亮的对手交战是给了命运沉重一击。我在用这条鱼报复大海,报复风，报复沉船事件，报复所有对我不利的事情。"谢谢你，毗湿奴，谢谢你！"我叫道。"你曾变成鱼，拯救了世界。现在你变成鱼，拯救了我。谢谢你！谢谢你！" 杀鱼没有问题。我本来不必找此麻烦——毕竟这是给理查德·帕克的，他可以不费吹灰之力就利索地把鱼杀死——但是他取不出扎进鱼嘴里的鱼钩。我因为鱼线末端有一条鯕鳅而感到欢欣鼓舞——如果那是一只老虎我就不会那么高兴了。我直截了当地开始干活了。我双手抓住斧子，用锤头用力砸鱼头（我还不想用锋利的刀刃）。鯕鳅死的时候做了一件特别不同寻常的事：它开始闪烁各种各样的颜色，这些颜色一种接一种迅速变化着。伴随着它的不断挣扎，蓝色、绿色、红色、金色和紫罗兰色像霓虹灯一样在它身体表面忽隐忽现，闪闪发光。我感到自己正在打死一道彩虹。（后来我发现鯕鳅是以其宣告死亡的彩虹色而闻名的。）最后，它一动不动地躺在那儿，身上颜色暗淡，我可以取出鱼钩了。我甚至取回了一部分鱼饵。 我曾经因为把飞鱼裹住杀死而哭泣，现在却高兴地用大锤头把鯕鳅打死，在这么短的时间内，我的转变如此之快，也许你感到很惊讶。我可以用这个理由来解释，那就是，利用可怜的飞鱼的航海失误而得益，那让我感到害羞和伤心，而主动抓住一条大鯕鳅，这种兴奋却让我变得残忍和自信。但是事实上却另有解释。这很简单也很严峻：人可以习惯任何事情，甚至习惯杀戮。 我是带着猎人的骄傲把小筏子靠上救生艇的。我让小筏子与救生艇并排，低低地猫着腰。我挥舞胳膊，把鯕鳅扔进船里。鱼砰地一声重重地掉在船上，让理查德·帕克惊讶得低低叫了一声。他先闻了几下，接着我便听见咂吧嘴的声音。我把自己从救生艇旁推开，同时没有忘记用力吹几声哨子，提醒理查德·帕克是谁仁慈地给他提供了新鲜的食物。我停下来拿几块饼干和一罐水。锁柜里剩下的五条飞鱼都死了。我把它们的胸鳍拽下来，扔掉，把鱼裹在现在已经变得神圣的裹鱼毯子里。 我把身上的血迹冲洗干净，清理好鱼具，把东西放好，吃过晚饭，这时夜幕已经降临了。薄薄的云层遮住了星星和月亮，周围非常地黑。我累了，但仍然在为前几个小时里发生的事而兴奋。忙碌的感觉非常令人满足；我一点儿也没有想到我的困境或是我自己。与绕毛线或玩"我看见"游戏相比，钓鱼肯定是打发时间的更好办法。我决定第二天天一亮就再开始钓鱼。 我睡着了，奄奄一息的鯕鳅身上像变色蜥蜴一样变换闪烁的鳞光照亮了我的大脑。 第62章 那天夜里我不时地醒来。太阳升起之前，我不再努力人睡，而是用胳膊肘撑着抬起头来。我用一双小眼睛看见了一只老虎。理查德·帕克焦躁不安。他呜咽着，咆哮着，在救生艇上走来走去。那情景令人生畏。我估计了一下情况。他不可能饿了。至少不是饥饿难耐。他渴了吗？他的舌头从嘴里伸了出来，但只是偶尔伸出来，而且他没在喘气。他的肚子和爪子还是湿的。但并没有在滴水。船上也许没有多少水了。很快他就会渴了。 我抬头看了看天。遮住天空的云层已经消失了。天空明净，只有地平线上飘浮着几缕云彩。今天又会是炎热无雨的一天。海面懒洋洋地起伏着，仿佛已经被即将到来的炎热弄得筋疲力尽。 我靠着桅杆坐着，考虑着我们的问题。饼干和鱼具保证了固体食物的供应。难就难在液体食物。这个问题完全可以归结为我们周围大量存在却被盐分破坏了的海水。也许我可以在喂他的淡水里掺一些海水,但是首先我得获取更多的淡水。那几罐水过不了多久就会被我们喝完的——实际上，我甚至连一罐都不愿意和理查德·帕克分享——而且完全依赖雨水是很愚蠢的。 太阳能蒸馏器是可饮用水的另一个惟一可能的来源。我怀疑地看着它们。它们放在外面已经有两天了。我注意到其中一只有点儿漏气。我拉着绳子过去照看。我给圆锥形的筒里打进空气。然后把手伸到水下去摸扣在圆形的能浮于水的容器上的装蒸馏液的袋子，心里并没有抱什么希望：出乎意料的是，我的手指抓住了一个鼓胀的袋子。一阵兴奋的颤抖传遍我全身。我控制住了自己。很可能是咸水漏进去了。我把袋子从钩子上取下来，按照指南±的指示，把它放低，让蒸馏器倾斜，这样圆锥形筒下面残留的水就会流进袋子里了。我关上通向袋子的两个小龙头， 把袋子拿下来，从水里拎了出来。袋子是长方形的，用又厚又软的黄色塑料做成,一边有刻度线。我尝了尝水。又尝了尝。水不含盐。 "我甜蜜的海上母牛啊！"我对太阳能蒸馏器叫道。"你产奶了，而且产了这么多！多鲜美的奶啊！你要知道，水有一点儿橡胶味，但我不是在抱怨。嗨，看着我喝！" 我喝完了袋里的水。能装一升水的袋子几乎是满的。我闭着眼睛，满足地叹了一会儿气之后，又把袋子放了回去。我检查了其他几只蒸馏器。每一只都有和刚才那只一样饱满的乳房。我把八升多"鲜奶"搜集起来，装在鱼桶里。这些技术发明立刻变得对我珍贵起来，就像牛对农夫一样珍贵。实际上，它们呈弧形静静地浮着，看上去几乎就像在田野里吃草的奶牛。我满足它们的需要，确保每一只里都有足够的海水，圆锥形筒和容器里充的气压力恰恰好。 我往桶里加了一点儿海水，然后把桶放在油布边上的舷边坐板上。早晨凉爽的时候已经过去，理查德·帕克似乎在下面安全地安顿了下来。我用绳子和船两侧的油布钩子把桶固定好。我小心地越过舷边偷偷看过去。他正侧着身子躺着。他的窝真令人恶心。死了的哺乳动物堆在一起，形成一堆丑陋的已经腐烂的动物尸体碎块。我认出了一两条腿，好几块皮，一个碎成了几块的头，很多骨头。飞鱼的胸鳍散落得到处都是。 我切开一条飞鱼，扔了一块到舷边坐板上。我从锁柜里拿了 【*此处扫描版缺页*】 第63章 罗伯逊一家在海上存活了38天。著名的参与叛乱的船只"邦蒂"号的布莱特船长和他的失事船员存活了47天。史蒂文·卡拉汉存活了76天。欧文·蔡斯和两位大副在海上存活了83天，其中有一个星期是在一座荒无人烟的岛上度过的，他对"埃塞克斯"号捕鲸船被一条鲸鱼撞沉的叙述启发了赫尔曼·麦尔维尔。巴利一家存活了118天。我听说50年代有一位叫卜的韩国商船船员在太平洋上存活了173天。 我存活了227天。我的磨难就持续了这么长时间，七个多月。我让自己不停地忙碌。这是我能活下来的关键之一。在救生艇上，甚至在小筏子上，总是有事情需要去做。如果这样的观念对乘船失事的人有用的话，那么，我的平常的一天是这么度过的： 日出到上午： 醒来 祷告 给理查德·帕克喂早饭 对救生艇和小筏子做常规检查，尤其注意所有的绳结和缆绳 保养太阳能蒸馏器(擦拭，充气，重新加水） 吃早饭，检查食物储备 捕鱼,如果抓到鱼便加工鱼肉（取出内脏，清洗，把鱼肉条晾在绳子上，让太阳晒干） 上午到下午： 祷告 吃少量的午饭 休息和轻松的活动（写日记，检查痂和疮，保养工具，在锁柜里做些琐碎的事，观察研究理查德·帕克，在海龟骨头上剔肉，等等） 下午到傍晚： 祷告 捕鱼和加工鱼肉（给鱼肉条翻身，切去腐烂的部分） 准备晚饭 自己和理查德·帕克吃晚饭 日落： 对救生艇和小筏子做常规检查（再一次检查绳结和缆绳） 搜集和妥善保管太阳能蒸馏器里的蒸馏液 存放好所有食物和工具 准备过夜（铺床，在小筏子上安全存放照明弹，万一有船只经过时可以用上，安全存放接雨器，万一下雨可以用上） 夜晚： 断断续续的睡眠祷告 早晨通常比下午好过，下午往往能让人感觉得到空闲的时间。 任何事件都会影响这样的惯例。如果下雨了，无论是在白天或黑夜的任何时候，所有其他事情都会停下来；只要雨在下，我就会举起接雨器，发疯般的忙于储备接到的雨水。如果海龟来造访，这是另一件打破惯例的重要事件。当然，理查德·帕克也不断地打扰我。为他提供膳宿是我的头等大事，一刻都不能忽略。除了吃喝和睡觉，他没有什么生活规律，但是有时候，他会从昏睡中醒来，在自己的地盘上漫无目的地走来走去，发出各种声音，脾气很坏。幸运的是，每次阳光和大海很快便让他疲劳了，他又回到了油布下面，侧身躺着，或者趴着，头枕在交叉的前腿上。 但是，我和他的交往并不仅仅是完全出于必要。我还花很长的时间观察他，因为这可以分散我的注意力。无论什么时候，老虎都是令人着迷的动物，当他是你的惟一伙伴时尤其如此。 刚开始的时候，我总是不由自主地寻找船只。但是几个星期以后，大约五六个星期吧，我便不再这么做了。 我能活下来，还因为我打定主意要去忘记。我的故事在日历上的一天——1977年7月2日——开始，在日历上的一天——1978年2月14日——结束，但在这期间没有日历。我不数天数，不数星期，也不数月份。时间是一种幻觉，只能让我们恐慌。我能活下来，因为我甚至忘记了时间概念本身。 我能记得的只有事件，偶遇和惯例，那些从时间的海洋里不时出现的在我脑海里留下深深印象的标记。例如用过的照明弹弹壳的气味，黎明时的祷告，杀海龟，海藻的生活现象。还有更多。但我不知道能否把它们理出一个头绪。我的记忆一片杂乱。 |
CHAPTER 64 My clothes disintegrated, victims of the sun and the salt. First they became gauze-thin. Then they tore until only the seams were left. Lastly, the seams broke. For months I lived stark naked except for the whistle that dangled from my neck by a string. Salt-water boils—red, angry, disfiguring—were a leprosy of the high seas, transmitted by the water that soaked me. Where they burst, my skin was exceptionally sensitive; accidentally rubbing an open sore was so painful I would gasp and cry out. Naturally, these boils developed on the parts of my body that got the most wet and the most wear on the raft; that is, my backside. There were days when I could hardly find a position in which I could rest. Time and sunshine healed a sore, but the process was slow, and new boils appeared if I didn't stay dry. CHAPTER 65 I spent hours trying to decipher the lines in the survival manual on navigation. Plain and simple explanations on living off the sea were given in abundance, but a basic knowledge of seafaring was assumed by the author of the manual. The castaway was to his mind an experienced sailor who, compass, chart and sextant in hand, knew how he found his way into trouble, if not how he would get out of it. The result was advice such as "Remember, time is distance. Don't forget to wind your watch," or "Latitude can be measured with the fingers, if need be." I had a watch, but it was now at the bottom of the Pacific. I lost it when the Tsimtsum sank. As for latitude and longitude, my marine knowledge was strictly limited to what lived in the sea and did not extend to what cruised on top of it. Winds and currents were a mystery to me. The stars meant nothing to me. I couldn't name a single constellation. My family lived by one star alone: the sun. We were early to bed and early to rise. I had in my life looked at a number of beautiful starry nights, where with just two colours and the simplest of styles nature draws the grandest of pictures, and I felt the feelings of wonder and smallness that we all feel, and I got a clear sense of direction from the spectacle, most definitely, but I mean that in a spiritual sense, not in a geographic one. I hadn't the faintest idea how the night sky might serve as a road map. How could the stars, sparkle as they might, help me find my way if they kept moving? I gave up trying to find out. Any knowledge I might gain was useless. I had no means of controlling where I was going—no rudder, no sails, no motor, some oars but insufficient brawn. What was the point of plotting a course if I could not act on it? And even if I could, how should I know where to go? West, back to where we came from? East, to America? North, to Asia? South, to where the shipping lanes were? Each seemed a good and bad course in equal measure. So I drifted. Winds and currents decided where I went. Time became distance for me in the way it is for all mortals—I travelled down the road of life—and I did other things with my fingers than try to measure latitude. I found out later that I travelled a narrow road, the Pacific equatorial counter-current. CHAPTER 66 I fished with a variety of hooks at a variety of depths for a variety of fish, from deep-sea fishing with large hooks and many sinkers to surface fishing with smaller hooks and only one or two sinkers. Success was slow to come, and when it did, it was much appreciated, but the effort seemed out of proportion to the reward. The hours were long, the fish were small, and Richard Parker was forever hungry. It was the gaffs that finally proved to be my most valuable fishing equipment. They came in three screw-in pieces: two tubular sections that formed the shaft—one with a moulded plastic handle at its end and a ring for securing the gaff with a rope—and a head that consisted of a hook measuring about two inches across its curve and ending in a needle-sharp, barbed point. Assembled, each gaff was about five feet long and felt as light and sturdy as a sword. At first I fished in open water. I would sink the gaff to a depth of four feet or so, sometimes with a fish speared on the hook as bait, and I would wait. I would wait for hours, my body tense till it ached. When a fish was in just the right spot, I jerked the gaff up with all the might and speed I could muster. It was a split-second decision. Experience taught me that it was better to strike when I felt I had a good chance of success than to strike wildly, for a fish learns from experience too, and rarely falls for the same trap twice. When I was lucky, a fish was properly snagged on the hook, impaled, and I could confidently bring it aboard. But if I gaffed a large fish in the stomach or tail, it would often get away with a twist and a forward spurt of speed. Injured, it would be easy prey for another predator, a gift I had not meant to make. So with large fish I aimed for the ventral area beneath their gills and their lateral fins, for a fish's instinctive reaction when struck there was to swim up, away from the hook, in the very direction I was pulling. Thus it would happen-sometimes more pricked than actually gaffed, a fish would burst out of the water in my face. I quickly lost my revulsion at touching sea life. None of this prissy fish blanket business any more. A fish jumping out of water was confronted by a famished boy with a hands-on no-holds-barred approach to capturing it. If I felt the gaff's hold was uncertain, I would let go of it—I had not forgotten to secure it with a rope to the raft—and I would clutch at the fish with my hands. Fingers, though blunt, were far more nimble than a hook. The struggle would be fast and furious. Those fish were slippery and desperate, and I was just plain desperate. If only I had had as many arms as the goddess Durga—two to hold the gaffs, four to grasp the fish and two to wield the hatchets. But I had to make do with two. I stuck fingers into eyes, jammed hands into gills, crushed soft stomachs with knees bit tails with my teeth—I did whatever was necessary to hold a fish down until I could reach for the hatchet and chop its head off. With time and experience I became a better hunter. I grew bolder and more agile. I developed an instinct, a feel, for what to do. My success improved greatly when I started using part of the cargo net. As a fishing net it was useless—too stiff and heavy and with a weave that wasn't tight enough. But it was perfect as a lure. Trailing freely in the water, it proved irresistibly attractive to fish and even more so when seaweed started growing on it. Fish that were local in their ambit made the net their neighbourhood, and the quick ones, the ones that tended to streak by, the dorados, slowed down to visit the new development. Neither the residents nor the travellers ever suspected that a hook was hidden in the weave. There were some days—too few unfortunately—when I could have all the fish I cared to gaff. At such times I hunted far beyond the needs of my hunger or my capacity to cure; there simply wasn't enough space on the lifeboat, or lines on the raft, to dry so many strips of dorado, flying fish, jacks, groupers and mackerels, let alone space in my stomach to eat them. I kept what I could and gave the rest to Richard Parker. During those days of plenty, I laid hands on so many fish that my body began to glitter from all the fish scales that became stuck to it. I wore these spots of shine and silver like tilaks, the marks of colour that we Hindus wear on our foreheads as symbols of the divine. If sailors had come upon me then, I'm sure they would have thought I was a fish god standing atop his kingdom and they wouldn't have stopped. Those were the good days. They were rare. Turtles were an easy catch indeed, as the survival manual said they were. Under the "hunting and gathering" heading, they would go under "gathering". Solid in build though they were, like tanks, they were neither fast nor powerful swimmers; with just one hand gripped around a back flipper, it was possible to hold on to a turtle. But the survival manual failed to mention that a turtle caught was not a turtle had. It still needed to be brought aboard. And hauling a struggling 130-pound turtle aboard a lifeboat was anything but easy. It was a labour that demanded feats of strength worthy of Hanuman. I did it by bringing the victim alongside the bow of the boat, carapace against hull, and tying a rope to its neck, a front flipper and a back flipper. Then I pulled until I thought my arms would come apart and my head would explode. I ran the ropes around the tarpaulin hooks on the opposite side of the bow; every time a rope yielded a little, I secured my gain before the rope slipped back. Inch by inch, a turtle was heaved out of the water. It took time. I remember one green sea turtle that hung from the side of the lifeboat for two days, the whole while thrashing about madly, free flippers beating in the air. Luckily, at the last stage, on the lip of the gunnel, it would often happen that a turtle would help me without meaning to. In an attempt to free its painfully twisted flippers, it would pull on them; if I pulled at the same moment, our conflicting efforts sometimes came together and suddenly it would happen, easily: in the most dramatic fashion imaginable, a turtle would surge over the gunnel and slide onto the tarpaulin. I would fall back, exhausted but jubilant. Green sea turtles gave more meat than hawksbills, and their belly shells were thinner. But they tended to be bigger than hawksbills, often too big to lift out of the water for the weakened castaway that I became. Lord, to think that I'm a strict vegetarian. To think that when I was a child I always shuddered when I snapped open a banana because it sounded to me like the breaking of an animal's neck. I descended to a level of savagery I never imagined possible. CHAPTER 67 The underside of the raft became host to a multitude of sea life, like the net but smaller in form. It started with a soft green algae that clung to the life jackets. Stiffer algae of a darker kind joined it. They did well and became thick. Animal life appeared. The first that I saw were tiny, translucent shrimp, hardly half an inch long. They were followed by fish no bigger that looked like they were permanently under X-ray; their internal organs showed through their transparent skins. After that I noticed the black worms with the white spines, the green gelatinous slugs with the primitive limbs, the inch-long, motley-coloured fish with the potbellies, and lastly the crabs, half to three-quarters of an inch across and brown in colour. I tried everything but the worms, including the algae. Only the crabs didn't have an unpalatably bitter or salty taste. Every time they appeared, I popped them one after another into my mouth like candy until there were none left. I couldn't control myself. It was always a long wait between fresh crops of crabs. The hull of the lifeboat invited life too, in the form of small gooseneck barnacles. I sucked their fluid. Their flesh made for good fishing bait. I became attached to these oceanic hitchhikers, though they weighed the raft down a little. They provided distraction, like Richard Parker. I spent many hours doing nothing but lying on my side, a life jacket pushed out of place a few inches, like a curtain from a window, so that I might have a clear view. What I saw was an upside-down town, small, quiet and peaceable, whose citizens went about with the sweet civility of angels. The sight was a welcome relief for my frayed nerves. CHAPTER 68 My sleep pattern changed. Though I rested all the time, I rarely slept longer than an hour or so at a stretch, even at night. It was not the ceaseless motion of the sea that disturbed me, nor the wind; you get used to those the way you get used to lumps in a mattress. It was apprehension and anxiety that roused me. It was remarkable how little sleep I got by on. Unlike Richard Parker. He became a champion napper. Most of the time he rested beneath the tarpaulin. But on calm days when the sun was not too harsh and on calm nights, he came out. One of his favourite positions in the open was lying on the stern bench on his side, stomach overhanging the edge of it, front and back legs extending down the side benches. It was a lot of tiger to squeeze onto a fairly narrow ledge, but he managed it by making his back very round. When he was truly sleeping, he laid his head on his front legs, but when his mood was slightly more active, when he might choose to open his eyes and look about, he turned his head and lay his chin on the gunnel. Another favourite position of his was sitting with his back to me, his rear half resting on the floor of the boat and his front half on the bench, his face buried into the stern, paws right next to his head, looking as if we were playing hide-and-seek and he were the one counting. In this position he tended to lie very still, with only the occasional twitching of his ears to indicate that he was not necessarily sleeping. CHAPTER 69 On many nights I was convinced I saw a light in the distance. Each time I set off a flare. When I had used up the rocket flares, I expended the hand flares. Were they ships that failed to see me? The light of rising or setting stars bouncing off the ocean? Breaking waves that moonlight and forlorn hope fashioned into illusion? Whatever the case, every time it was for nothing. Never a result. Always the bitter emotion of hope raised and dashed. In time I gave up entirely on being saved by a ship. If the horizon was two and a half miles away at an altitude of five feet, how far away was it when I was sitting against the mast of my raft, my eyes not even three feet above the water? What chance was there that a ship crossing the whole great big Pacific would cut into such a tiny circle? Not only that: that it would cut into such a tiny circle and see me—what chance was there of that? No, humanity and its unreliable ways could not be counted upon. It was land I had to reach, hard, firm, certain land. I remember the smell of the spent hand-flare shells. By some freak of chemistry they smelled exactly like cumin. It was intoxicating. I sniffed the plastic shells and immediately Pondicherry came to life in my mind, a marvellous relief from the disappointment of calling for help and not being heard. The experience was very strong, nearly a hallucination. From a single smell a whole town arose. (Now, when I smell cumin, I see the Pacific Ocean.) Richard Parker always froze when a hand flare hissed to life. His eyes, round pupils the size of pinpricks, fixed on the light steadily. It was too bright for me, a blinding white centre with a pinkish red aureole. I had to turn away. I held the flare in the air at arm's length and waved it slowly. For about a minute heat showered down upon my forearm and everything was weirdly lit. Water around the raft, until a moment before opaquely black, showed itself to be crowded with fish. CHAPTER 70 Butchering a turtle was hard work. My first one was a small hawksbill. It was its blood that tempted me, the "good, nutritious, salt-free drink" promised by the survival manual. My thirst was that bad. I took hold of the turtle's shell and grappled with one of its back flippers. When I had a good grip, I turned it over in the water and attempted to pull it onto the raft. The thing was thrashing violently. I would never be able to deal with it on the raft. Either I let it go—or I tried my luck on the lifeboat. I looked up. It was a hot and cloudless day. Richard Parker seemed to tolerate my presence at the bow on such days, when the air was like the inside of an oven and he did not move from under the tarpaulin until sunset. I held on to one of the turtle's back flippers with one hand and I pulled on the rope to the lifeboat with the other. It was not easy climbing aboard. When I had managed it, I jerked the turtle in the air and brought it onto its back on the tarpaulin. As I had hoped, Richard Parker did no more than growl once or twice. He was not up to exerting himself in such heat. My determination was grim and blind. I felt I had no time to waste. I turned to the survival manual as to a cookbook. It said to lay the turtle on its back. Done. It advised that a knife should be "inserted into the neck" to sever the arteries and veins running through it. I looked at the turtle. There was no neck. The turtle had retracted into its shell; all that showed of its head was its eyes and its beak, surrounded by circles of skin. It was looking at me upside down with a stern expression. I took hold of the knife and, hoping to goad it, poked a front flipper. It only shrank further into its shell. I decided on a more direct approach. As confidently as if I had done it a thousand times, I jammed the knife just to the right of the turtle's head, at an angle. I pushed the blade deep into the folds of skin and twisted it. The turtle retreated even further, favouring the side where the blade was, and suddenly shot its head forward, beak snapping at me viciously. I jumped back. All four flippers came out and the creature tried to make its getaway. It rocked on its back, flippers beating wildly and head shaking from side to side. I took hold of a hatchet and brought it down on the turtle's neck, gashing it. Bright red blood shot out. I grabbed the beaker and collected about three hundred millilitres, a pop can's worth. I might have got much more, a litre I would guess, but the turtle's beak was sharp and its front flippers were long and powerful, with two claws on each. The blood I managed to collect gave off no particular smell. I took a sip. It tasted warm and animal, if my memory is right. It's hard to remember first impressions. I drank the blood to the last drop. I thought I would use the hatchet to remove the tough belly shell, but it proved easier with the sawtoothed edge of the knife. I set one foot at the centre of the shell, the other clear of the flailing flippers. The leathery skin at the head end of the shell was easy cutting, except around the flippers. Sawing away at the rim, however, where shell met shell, was very hard work, especially as the turtle wouldn't stop moving. By the time I had gone all the way around I was bathed in sweat and exhausted. I pulled on the belly shell. It lifted reluctantly, with a wet sucking sound. Inner life was revealed, twitching and jerking?muscles, fat, blood, guts and bones. And still the turtle thrashed about. I slashed its neck to the vertebrae. It made no difference. Flippers continued to beat. With two blows of the hatchet I cut its head right off. The flippers did not stop. Worse, the separated head went on gulping for air and blinking its eyes. I pushed it into the sea. The living rest of the turtle I lifted and dropped into Richard Parkers territory. He was making noises and sounded as if he were about to stir. He had probably smelled the turtle's blood. I fled to the raft. I watched sullenly as he loudly appreciated my gift and made a joyous mess of himself. I was utterly spent. The effort of butchering the turtle had hardly seemed worth the cup of blood. I started thinking seriously about how I was going to deal with Richard Parker. This forbearance on his part on hot, cloudless days, if that is what it was and not simple laziness, was not good enough. I couldn't always be running away from him. I needed safe access to the locker and the top of the tarpaulin, no matter the time of day or the weather, no matter his mood. It was rights I needed, the sort of rights that come with might. It was time to impose myself and carve out my territory. CHAPTER 7I To those who should ever find themselves in a predicament such as I was in, I would recommend the following program: 1. Choose a day when the waves are small but regular. You want a sea that will put on a good show when your lifeboat is broadside to it, though without capsizing your boat. 2. Stream your sea anchor full out to make your lifeboat as stable and comfortable as possible. Prepare your safe haven from the lifeboat in case you should need it (you most likely will). If you can, devise some means of bodily protection. Almost anything can make a shield. Wrapping clothes or blankets around your limbs will make for a minimal form of armour. 3. Now comes the difficult part: you must provoke the animal that is afflicting you. Tiger, rhinoceros, ostrich, wild boar, brown bear—no matter the beast, you must get its goat. The best way to do this will most likely be to go to the edge of your territory and noisily intrude into the neutral zone. I did just that: I went to the edge of the tarpaulin and stamped upon the middle bench as I mildly blew into the whistle. It is important that you make a consistent, recognizable noise to signal your aggression. But you must be careful. You want to provoke your animal, but only so much. You don't want it to attack you outright. If it does, God be with you. You will be torn to pieces, trampled flat, disembowelled, very likely eaten. You don't want that. You want an animal that is piqued, peeved, vexed, bothered, irked, annoyed—but not homicidal. Under no circumstances should you step into your animal's territory. Contain your aggression to staring into its eyes and hurling toots and taunts. 4. When your animal has been roused, work in all bad faith to provoke a border intrusion. A good way of bringing this about in my experience is to back off slowly as you are making your noises. BE SURE NOT TO BREAK EYE CONTACT! As soon as the animal has laid a paw in your territory, or even made a determined advance into the neutral territory, you have achieved your goal. Don't be picky or legalistic as to where its paw actually landed. Be quick to be affronted. Don't wait to construe—misconstrue as fast as you can. The point here is to make your animal understand that its upstairs neighbour is exceptionally persnickety about territory. 5. Once your animal has trespassed upon your territory, be unflagging in your outrage. Whether you have fled to your safe haven off the lifeboat or retreated to the back of your territory on the lifeboat, START BLOWING YOUR WHISTLE AT FULL BLAST and IMMEDIATELY TRIP THE SEA ANCHOR. These two actions are of pivotal importance. You must not delay putting them into effect. If you can help your lifeboat get broadside to the waves by other means, with an oar for example, apply yourself right away. The faster your lifeboat broaches to the waves, the better. 6. Blowing a whistle continuously is exhausting for the weakened castaway, but you must not falter. Your alarmed animal must associate its increasing nausea with the shrill cries of the whistle. You can help things move along by standing at the end of your boat, feet on opposing gunnels, and swaying in rhythm to the motion imparted by the sea. However slight you are, however large your lifeboat, you will be amazed at the difference this will make. I assure you, in no time you'll have your lifeboat rocking and rolling like Elvis Presley. Just don't forget to be blowing your whistle all the while, and mind you don't make your lifeboat capsize. 7. You want to keep going until the animal that is your burden—your tiger, your rhinoceros, whatever—is properly green about the gills with seasickness. You want to hear it heaving and dry retching. You want to see it lying at the bottom of the lifeboat, limbs trembling, eyes rolled back, a deathly rattle coming from its gaping mouth. And all the while you must be shattering the animal's ears with the piercing blows of your whistle. If you become sick yourself, don't waste your vomit by sending it overboard. Vomit makes an excellent border guard. Puke on the edges of your territory. 8. When your animal appears good and sick, you can stop. Seasickness comes on quickly, but it takes a long while to go away. You don't want to overstate your case. No one dies of nausea, but it can seriously sap the will to live. When enough is enough, stream the sea anchor, try to give shade to your animal if it has collapsed in direct sunlight, and make sure it has water available when it recovers, with anti-seasickness tablets dissolved in it, if you have any. Dehydration is a serious danger at this point. Otherwise retreat to your territory and leave your animal in peace. Water, rest and relaxation, besides a stable lifeboat, will bring it back to life. The animal should be allowed to recover fully before going through steps 1 to 8 again. 9. Treatment should be repeated until the association in the animal's mind between the sound of the whistle and the feeling of intense, incapacitating nausea is fixed and totally unambiguous. Thereafter, the whistle alone will deal with trespassing or any other untoward behaviour. Just one shrill blow and you will see your animal shudder with malaise and repair at top speed to the safest, furthest part of its territory. Once this level of training is reached, use of the whistle should be sparing. |
第64章 由于太阳暴晒和盐分侵蚀，我的衣服都烂了。它们先是变得像纱布一样薄。然后破了，至剩下线缝。最后线缝也断了。有好几个月，除了脖子上有一根绳子挂着一只哨子，我完全是一丝不挂。 盐水疖——发红，肿痛，丑陋的疖子——是公海上的麻风病，是通过浸湿我的海水传染的。疖子胀破的地方，皮肤异常敏感；不小心碰到了裸露的疮会让我疼得倒吸一口气，大叫起来。自然，这些疖子都长在我身上最潮湿的、在小筏子上磨得最厉害的地方，也就是我的背上。有很多天，我几乎无法以任何姿势休息。时间和阳光让疮结了痂，但是这个过程很慢，而且如果我不保持身体干燥，新的疖子又会长出来。 第65章 我花了好几个小时试图弄明白求生指南上关于航海的那几行是什么意思。指南里有大量关于如何靠大海生活的简单明白的解释，但是指南作者却理所当然地认为没有必要解释基本的航海知识。在他心里，乘船失事的人是一个经验丰富的海员，手上有了指南针、海图和六分仪，就会知道自己是怎么陷人困境的，就算他不知道该如何走出困境。结果便是指南里只有一些建议，例如"记住，时间就是距离。别忘了给手表上发条"，或是"如果需要，可以用手指测量纬度"。我有一只手表，但它现在已经在太平洋底了。"齐姆楚姆"号沉没的时候我把它弄丢了。至于纬度和经度，我的海洋知识仅仅局限于生活在海里面的东西，而没有扩展到在海上面航行的东西。风和潮流对我都是谜。星星对我没有任何意义。我连一个星座的名字都叫不出来。我的家庭只在一颗星星下面生活，那就是太阳。我们睡得早起得早。我一生看过 许多美丽的星空，在那上面，大自然只用两种颜色和最简单的方式画出了最壮丽的图画；我和所有人一样，感到自然的神奇和自己的渺小，而且，毫无疑问，这景象给我指明了方向，但我是说精神上的方向，而不是地理方向。我一点儿都不清楚怎么能把夜空当做一张地图。尽管星星可能闪烁光芒，可是如果它们不停地运动，又怎么能帮助我找到路呢？ 我放弃了寻找答案的努力。我可能获得的任何知识都是没有用的。我无法控制自己往哪里去一我没有舵，没有帆，没有发动机，有几支船桨，但没有足够的臂力。设计一条路线有什么意义呢，如果我不能按照路线航行？即使能够按照路线航行，我怎么知道该往哪里去？向西，回到我们来的地方？向东，到美洲去？向北，到亚洲去？向南，到大洋航线上去？每一条路线似乎都很好，又都很糟。 于是我随波漂流。风和潮流决定了我往哪里去。对于我，就像对于所有凡人一样，时间的确成了距离。我沿着生命之路旅行，而且我也用手指做很多事情，除了测量纬度。后来我发现自己在沿着一条狭窄的道路走，沿着太平洋赤道逆流。 第66章 我用各种不同的鱼钩在深浅不同的水里钓过各种不同的鱼，在深水钓鱼用大鱼钩和许多坠子，在海面钓鱼用小鱼钩，只用一两只坠子。成功来得很慢，当成功终于到来的时候，我非常重视，但是我的努力似乎与回报不相称。钓鱼的时间很长，钓上来的鱼很小，理查德·帕克总是饿。 最后，鱼叉成了我最宝贵的捕鱼工具。鱼叉有三个部分，用螺钉拧在一起：两个管状部分组成了叉杆——末端有一只浇铸的塑料手柄和一只环，可以从环里穿一根绳子，系牢鱼叉，叉顶端有一只钩子，弯曲处大约有两英寸宽，尖端像针一样尖，有倒钩。每支鱼叉大约有五英尺长，像剑一样又轻又结实。 开始我在开阔水面捕鱼。我把鱼叉伸进大约四英尺深的水里，有时钩子上叉着一条鱼做鱼饵，然后便等着。我会等好几个小时,身体一直保持紧张，最后疼起来。如果一条鱼刚好咬钩了，我便用尽全身力气，以最快的速度把鱼叉提起来。必须在瞬间做出决定。经验教会我最好在感觉到有成功的机会时再刺，而不是乱刺一气，因为鱼也会吸取经验教训，很少第二次掉进同一个陷阱。 幸运的时候，鱼完全被钩住了，动弹不得，我可以充满信心地把它拉到船上来。但是如果我叉住了一条大鱼的肚子或尾巴，它通常会一扭身，突然加快速度，逃之夭夭。它受了伤，很容易成为另一条鱼的猎物，这不是我想送的礼物。因此，捕大鱼时，我会对准鳃和侧鳍下面的腹部，因为鱼在被刺中这个部位以后的本能反应就是向上游，朝着鱼钩相反的方向，也就是我拉的方向。因此会发生这样的事：有时候一条鱼只是被刺痛了，而没有被叉住，它却会从水中跃出，直朝着我的脸跳过来。我很快便没有了对碰触海洋生物的厌恶。不再有这种谨小慎微地用鱼毯子的事了。从水里跳出来的鱼迎面碰上的是一个亲身实践的不受任何制约的饥饿的小伙子，要来抓它。如果我感到鱼叉刺得不牢，就会把它丢下一我没有忘记用绳子把它系在小筏子上一用两只手去抓鱼。手指尽管没有鱼钩那么尖，却比鱼钩灵活多了。接着是一场迅速而激烈的搏斗。那些鱼滑溜溜的，拼死挣扎，而我也拼死搏斗。要是我能和杜尔加女神一样有那么多胳膊多好——两只胳膊抓鱼叉，四只胳膊抓鱼，两只胳膊挥舞斧子。我用手指抠进鱼眼睛，把手塞进鱼鳃，用膝盖压住鱼肚子，用牙齿咬住鱼尾巴——我用尽一切办法把鱼按住，然后去拿斧子，把它的头砍掉下来。 随着时间的流逝和经验的积累，我成了一个更好的猎手。我变得更加大胆，更加敏捷。我有了一种本能，一种感觉，知道该怎么做。 开始使用一部分货网之后，我的成功率大大提高了。作为鱼网，它毫无用处——太硬，太重，织得不够牢。但它却是非常理想的诱饵。它在水里自由地飘流着，对鱼有着不可抗拒的吸引力，尤其是当它上面开始长出海草的时候更是如此。生活在这一水域的鱼把网当成了邻近的居住区，那些敏捷的鱼，那些往往迅速游过的鱼，那些鯕鳅，都减慢了速度，来看这个新出现的东西。无论是生活在这里的鱼，还是经过这里的鱼，都没有想到网里会藏着鱼钩。有几天——不幸的是，这样的时候太少了——我想叉多少鱼就能叉多少鱼。这时，我抓的鱼大大超过了填饱肚子的需要，也大大超出了我的加工能力；救生艇上没有足够的空间，小筏子上也没有那么多绳子，来晒干这么多鯕鳅、飞鱼、狗鱼、石斑鱼和鲭鱼的肉条，我更没有那么大的肚子吃掉这么多鱼了。我尽量多留一些鱼，把剩下的都给理查德·帕克。鱼多的时候,我的手抓了太多的鱼，身上沾满了鱼鳞，开始闪闪发光。我身上一点点闪光的银色鳞片就像小红点，我们印度人点在额头上象征神圣的颜色标记。如果海员那时遇到我，我敢肯定他们一定认为我是鱼神，正站在自己的王国上，于是他们一定不会停下来的。那是些好日子。很少有那样的日子。 海龟的确很好抓，就像指南里说的一样。在"捕猎与搜集"这个标题下面，海龟属于"搜集"这一部分。尽管它们身体结实，像坦克，但却游得不快，也不那么有力；只要用一只手抓住一只后鳍，就可以抓住海龟。但是求生指南没有提到，被抓住的海龟并不一定是到手的海龟。还得把它拖到船上来。把一只130磅重的拼命挣扎的海龟拖到救生艇上来，这绝非易事。需要有神猴哈努曼那么大的力气才能完成这件费力的事。我先把抓住的海龟拖到船头旁边，龟壳靠着船壳，用绳子拴住它的脖子，一只前鳍和一只后鲔。然后我用力拖，直拖到胳膊都要断了，头都要裂开了。我把绳子绕在船头对面油布的钩子上；每次把绳子拉上来一点儿，我就得在绳子滑回去之前保住取得的进展。就这样，海龟被一英寸一英寸地慢慢拖了上来。这需要时间。我记得有一只绿纗（*虫字边）龟在救生艇舷侧挂了两天，两天来它一直在疯狂地扭动着身子，没有被捆住的鳍在空中拍打着。幸运的是，到了最后的阶段，在船舷的边缘，海龟往往会帮我的忙，尽管它并没有想那么做。为了让被痛苦地扭弯了的鳍从绳子里挣脱出来，海龟会拽自己的鳍；如果我也同时拉，我们的相反的力有时候会合成一股力，突然，这件事很简单地发生了：海龟以我所能想像的最富戏剧性的方式突然从船舷处升了上来，滑到了油布上。我会向后跌去，虽然筋疲力尽，却非常快乐。 绿纗龟比玳瑁的肉更多，腹部的壳也更薄。但它们往往比玳瑁大，常常太大了，我这样一个已经变得衰弱的失事者简直没有力气把它们拖上来。 上帝啊，想想吧，我是个严格的素食主义者。想想吧，我还是个孩子的时候，每次剥开香蕉皮都会颤抖，因为那声音听上去就像在弄断一只动物的脖子。我堕落成了一个野蛮人，我从未想过有这样的可能。 第67章 小筏子的底部成了许多海洋生物的宿主，就像货网一样，但比网要小一些。开始救生衣上长出了一种柔软的绿色海藻。后来又长出了一种颜色深一些、质地硬一些的海藻。这些藻类长得很好，变得密集起来。接着动物出现了。我看到的第一种动物是小小的半透明的虾，还不到半英寸长。然后鱼也来了。这些鱼和虾一样大，仿佛永远处在X光的照射之下；透过它们透明的皮肤能看见身体里面的器官。此后我还看见长着白刺的黑色虫子，长着原始足肢的绿色胶状蛞蝓，长着肥大的肚子、一英寸长的五彩斑斓的鱼，最后还有体宽半英寸到四分之三英寸的棕色的螃蟹。除了虫子，我尝了所有这些生物，包括海藻在内。只有螃蟹没有难吃的苦味和咸味。每次螃蟹一出现，我就把它们像糖果一样一只接一只地扔进嘴里，直到一只不剩为止。我无法控制自己。每次都要等很长时间才会再有一群螃蟹出现。 救生艇的船壳也引来了生物，那都是些茗荷儿。我吸出它们的汁液。它们的肉可以用做很好的鱼饵。 我开始喜欢上了这些海洋里免费搭便车的乘客，尽管它们的重量把小筏子往下拉了一点儿。它们分散了我的注意力，就像理查德·帕克一样。我长时间地侧身躺着，把救生衣扒开几英寸，好更清楚地看见它们。我看见的是一座倒置的城镇，小巧、安静、祥和，城里的居民像可爱的天使一样文明地来来往往。这样的景象让我紧张的神经得到了放松，我很喜欢。 第68章 我的睡眠模式发生了改变。虽然我一直在休息，但每次睡着的时间很少超过一个小时左右,甚至夜里也是如此。打断我的睡眠的不是不停起伏的大海，也不是风；你会渐渐习惯这些，就像习惯床垫里隆起的疙瘩。使我惊醒的是担忧和焦虑。我只靠这么少的睡眠活了下来，真令人惊奇。 和理查德·帕克不一样。他成了打瞌睡冠军。大多数时候他都待在油布下面。但是在阳光不那么强烈的风平浪静的白天和风平浪静的夜晚，他会出来。他在露天最喜欢的姿势是侧身躺在船尾坐板上，肚子悬在坐板边缘，前腿和后腿伸开放在舷边坐板上。老虎体积太大，很难挤进相当窄的横档，但他弓圆了背，硬是挤了进去。真正睡着的时候，他会把头枕在前腿上，但是当他的情绪稍微活跃一些的时候，当他也许想睁开眼睛四处看看的时候，他就会转过头来，把下巴放在舷边上。 他最喜欢的另一个姿势是背朝我坐着，后半身在船板上，前半身在坐板上，脸埋在船尾，爪子紧靠着头部两侧放着，看上去好像我们在玩捉迷藏，他正趴在那儿数数呢。他常常以这个姿势一动不动地躺着，只有耳朵偶尔抽动一下，表明他并不一定睡着了。 第69章 有许多夜晚，我确信自己看见了远处的灯光。每一次我都发射一枚照明弹。我用完了火箭式照明弹，又用完了手动式照明弹。那灯光是没有看见我的船只吗？是升起或降落的星星在海面上反射出的光吗？还是被月光和渺茫的希望变成了幻觉的碎浪？无论是什么，每次都什么也没有发生。从来没有结果。总是希望燃起又破灭的苦涩。最终，我完全放弃了被船只救起的希望。如果在海拔五英尺处看到的地平线就在两英尺半以外，那么当我背靠小筏子的桅杆坐着，眼睛离水面还不到三英尺的时候，地平线有多远？一艘横越整座浩瀚的太平洋的船驶人这样一个小圈子，这样的可能性有多大？不仅如此：这艘船要驶进小圈子，而且还要看见我？这样的可能性又有多大？不,不能指望人性及其种种不可靠的方面。我必须到达陆地，坚实、稳固、可靠的陆地。 我记得用过的手动照明弹弹壳的气味。由于某种怪异的化学反应，它们闻上去就像莳萝。那气味令人陶醉。我嗅着塑料弹壳,脑中立即出现了栩栩如生的本堆治里，在经历了求救却没有被听见的失望之后，这是一种奇妙的宽慰。这样的感受非常强烈，几乎是一种幻觉。一座城市在一种气味当中出现了。（现在，闻到莳萝时，我便看见了太平洋。） 每次当照明弹嘶嘶叫着燃烧起来时，理查德·帕克总是一动不动。他的眼睛，和针眼一样大的圆圆的瞳孔，目不转睛地盯着照明弹发出的光。光的中心是炫目的白色，周围有一圈略带粉红的光晕。光太强烈了，我不能盯着看。我必须转过身去。我伸直手臂,抓着照明弹，慢慢挥舞着。大约有一分钟的时间，热气洒落在我的前臂上，一切都奇怪地被照亮了。就在刚才，小筏子周围的水还是不透明的黑色，现在我却能看见水里挤满了鱼。 第70章 宰海龟不是件容易的事。我抓住的第一只海龟是只小歌瑁。诱惑我的是它的血,求生指南所保证的"美味、营养、不含盐的饮料"。我太渴了。我抓住海龟壳，和它的一只后鳍搏斗着，想要抓住它。抓牢后，我把它在水里翻过身来，试图把它拖到小筏子上来。这个东西拼命挣扎着。我在小筏子上肯定对付不了它。要不放掉它——要不就到救生艇上去试试运气。我抬头看了看。那是炎热的一天，天上没有一丝云彩。在这样的天气里，周围的空气仿佛让人置身蒸笼，理查德·帕克不到日落是不会从油布下面出来的,这时他似乎能容忍我出现在船头。 我一手抓住海龟的后鳍，一手拉住系在救生艇上的绳子。爬到船上很不容易。终于爬上去之后,我把海龟猛地提到空中，然后把它背朝下扔在油布上。正如我所希望的那样，理查德·帕克只吼了一两声。天太热了，他不想动。 我的决心是坚定的，也是盲目的。我感到自己没有时间可以浪费了。我开始翻求生指南，仿佛那是一本菜谱。上面说要让海龟背朝下躺着。已经这么做了。上面说应该用刀"插进脖子"，切断从那里经过的动脉和其他血管。我看了看海龟。没有脖子。它缩进了壳里，只露出眼睛和嘴，外面包着一圈圈的皮。它正用不屈的眼神倒着看我。我抓起刀，戳了戳它的一只前鳍，希望这样能剌激它。它却更往壳里缩了缩。我决定采取更加直接的方法。我把刀斜着捅进海龟头部右侧，动作充满自信，好像我已经这么干过一千次了。我把刀朝它的皮肤皱褶里捅，然后旋转刀刃。海龟更往里缩了缩，偏向刀刃一边，接着，它的头突然朝前伸出来，嘴猛地张开，恶狠狠地来咬我。我向后一跳。海龟的四只鳍都伸了出来，企图逃跑。它的背左右摇晃，鳍拼命拍打，头来回摆动。我拿起一把斧子，对准海龟的脖子砍下去，把脖子砍伤了。鲜红的血喷射出来。我拿起烧杯，接了大约300毫升的血，有一罐汽水那么多。我本来还可以多接一些，大概能接一升吧，但是海龟的嘴很尖，前鳍又长又有力，每只鳍上都长着两只尖爪。我接到的血没有特别的气味。我呷了一口。很温暖，有动物的味道，如果我没记错的话。第一印象很难记住。我喝光了最后一滴血。 我想我可以用斧子把海龟腹部坚硬的壳砍下来，但事实上用锯齿状的刀刃割更容易一些。我一只脚踩在壳中间，另一只脚远离不断抽打的鳍。除了鳍周围的部分，靠近头部的壳上的皮革般的皮很容易割下来。然而，锯下两块壳连接处的那圈皮却很难，特别是海龟还在不停地动。把一圈皮都割下来的时候，我已经大汗淋漓，筋疲力尽了。我开始拽腹部的壳。壳被勉强拽了起来,发出吮吸声。身体里面的东西抽搐着，扭动着，露了出来——肌肉，油，血，内脏和骨头。海龟还在猛烈挣扎。我猛砍它的脖子，一直砍到脊椎。根本没有用。鳍还在拍打。我两斧子把它的头砍掉了下来。鳍还没有停止拍打。更糟糕的是，掉下来的头还在大口大口地吸着气，眨着眼睛。我把头拨进了海里。我把还在动的海龟身体搬起来，扔到了理查德·帕克的地盘上。他正发出各种声音，听上去好像要起来了。也许他闻到了海龟血。我逃回了小筏子。 他大声地欣赏我的礼物，高兴得一塌糊涂，而我却郁郁寡欢地看着。在没有云彩的炎热的日子里他很有耐心，如果这确实是耐心而不仅仅是懒惰的话，但这还不够。我不能总是从他身边逃开。我需要安全地到锁柜边去，到油布上去，无论什么时候，无论天气如何，无论他心情怎样。我需要的是权利，是伴随力量而来的权利。 到了强行让他接受我，开辟出我自己地盘的时候了。 第71章 对那些可能和我一样身处困境的人，我推荐如下计划： 1. 选择浪不大但起伏很有规律的一天。当救生艇的舷侧对着海浪时，你想要大海表现出色，但又不会弄翻了你的船。 2. 全力抛出海锚，让救生艇尽可能平稳、舒适。准备一处离开救生艇以后可以去的避难所，万一需要时(你很可能会需要这样的地方)可以派上用场。如果可能，设计一种保护身体的方法。几乎任何东西都可以用来做盾牌。用衣服或毯子裹住四肢，这样可以做成一种最小的盔甲。 3. 现在最困难的部分开始了：你必须激怒使你苦恼的动物。老虎、犀牛、鸵鸟、野猪、棕熊——无论是哪一种野兽，你都必须惹恼它。最好的办法很可能就是走到你自己的地盘的边缘，闯入中立地带，同时弄出很大的声响。我就是这么做的：我走到油布边上,边轻轻地吹哨子边踏上中间的坐板。你要持续不断地发出容易分辨的声音，表明你在挑衅,这一点很重要。但你一定要小心。你想激怒动物，但仅此而已。你并不想让它立即对你发起攻击。如果它攻击你了，那么但愿上帝与你同在。你会被撕碎，踩扁，开膛破肚，很可能被吃掉。你可不想让这样的事发生。你想要动物生气、发怒、烦恼、不安、厌恨、恼怒——但不杀人。无论在什么样的情况下，你都不能踏进动物的地盘。盯着它的眼睛看，发? 出恶狠狠的嘟嘟声和嘲笑声，把你的挑衅就控制在这个范围内。 4. 当你的动物已经被激怒时，你要用尽一切欺诈的办法逗引它侵人你的地盘。根据我的经验，让这种情形发生的一个好办法是边发出声音边慢慢向后退。绝不要停止眼神接触！一旦动物的一只脚爪踏进了你的地盘，或者甚至坚决地走进了中立地带，你就达到了自己的目的。你不用去计较它的脚爪究竟踩到哪里才算入侵你的地盘，重要的是立刻反应。别花时间去分析它的意图，而应该尽快曲解它的意图。关键是让你的动物明白，它楼上的邻居对于地盘非常爱挑剔。 5. 一旦动物擅自闯入了你的地盘，你要持续不断地表示愤怒。无论你逃到了救生艇以外的安全避难所，还是退到了救生艇上自己地盘的后面，都要开始用尽全力吹响哨子，并且立即起锚。这两个动作非常重要。你必须立刻这么做，不能有丝毫耽搁。如果你能用其他方式，例如用一支桨，让救生艇以舷侧对着海浪，立即这么做。救生艇越快地突然横转过来越好。 对身体虚弱的失事者来说，不停地吹哨子很累，但你不能畏缩。受惊的动物必须把越来越严重的恶心与尖厉的哨声联系起来。你可以站在你这一端船上，双脚分别踏在两边船舷上，随着海浪运动的节奏摇晃，以此推动事情的进展。无论你多么小，无论救生艇多么大，你会惊奇地发现这样做会使情况多么不同。我向你保证，你马上就会让救生艇像猫王一样摇滚起来。只是别忘了要一直不停地吹哨子，而且别把救生艇弄翻了。 7. 你要继续这样，直到成为你的负担的动物——你的老虎，犀牛，无论什么——完全因为晕船而面露病容。你要听见它喘气，干呕。你要看见它躺在救生艇船底，四肢发抖，眼睛向后翻，张开的嘴里发出临死前的呼噜声。同时，你必须用尖厉的哨声震撼动物的耳朵。如果你自己也晕船,不要吐到船外，浪费了呕吐物。呕吐物能很好地守住地盘的边界。吐在你的地盘的边缘。 8. 当你的动物看上去很乖，很不舒服的时候，你就可以停止了。晕船的感觉来得快，去得却很慢。你不想过分夸大这一情况。没有人会因为恶心而死掉，但却可能因此而严重消磨求生的意志。当一切适可而止的时候，抛出海锚，如果你的动物倒在阳光直射下，那就尽量给它一片阴凉，并且确保它恢复过来时能有水喝，在水里放上几片治晕船的药，如果你有的话。这时脱水是非常严重的危险。另外,退回到你自己的地盘里，让动物安静。水、休息和放松，还有安稳的救生艇，会让它恢复生气的。要先让动物完全恢复,然后才能重复第一至第八步骤。 9. 重复这一疗程，直到在动物大脑里建立起哨声和剧烈的、令人丧失能力的恶心之间牢固的、明确的联系。从此以后，只要吹响哨子，就可以应付擅闯地盘和其他棘手的行为。只要吹响一声尖厉的哨音，你就会看到动物因为心神不宁而发抖，以最快的速度到自己地盘最安全、最远的地方去。一旦达到了这样的训练水平，就应该有节制地使用哨子。 |
CHAPTER 72 In my case, to protect myself from Richard Parker while I trained him, I made a shield with a turtle shell. I cut a notch on each side of the shell and connected them with a length of rope. The shield was heavier than I would have liked, but do soldiers ever get to choose their ordnance? The first time I tried, Richard Parker bared his teeth, rotated his ears full round, vomited a short guttural roar and charged. A great, full-clawed paw rose in the air and cuffed my shield. The blow sent me flying off the boat. I hit the water and instantly let go of the shield. It sank without a trace after hitting me in the shin. I was beside myself with terror—of Richard Parker, but also of being in the water. In my mind a shark was at that very second shooting up for me. I swam for the raft in frantic strokes, precisely the sort of wild thrashing that sharks find so deliciously inviting. Luckily there were no sharks. I reached the raft, let out all the rope and sat with my arms wrapped around my knees and my head down, trying to put out the fire of fear that was blazing within me. It was a long time before the trembling of my body stopped completely. I stayed on the raft for the rest of that day and the whole night. I did not eat or drink. I was at it again next time I caught a turtle. Its shell was smaller, lighter, and made for a better shield. Once more I advanced and started stamping on the middle bench with my foot. I wonder if those who hear this story will understand that my behaviour was not an act of insanity or a covert suicide attempt but a simple necessity. Either I tamed him, made him see who was Number One and who was Number Two-or I died the day I wanted to climb aboard the lifeboat during rough weather and he objected. If I survived my apprenticeship as a high seas animal trainer it was because Richard Parker did not really want to attack me. Tigers, indeed all animals, do not favour violence as a means of settling scores. When animals fight, it is with the intent to kill and with the understanding that they may be killed. A clash is costly. And so animals have a full system of cautionary signals designed to avoid a showdown, and they are quick to back down when they feel they can. Rarely will a tiger attack a fellow predator without warning. Typically a head-on rush for the adversary will be made, with much snarling and growling. But just before it is too late, the tiger will freeze, the menace rumbling deep in its throat. It will appraise the situation. If it decides that there is no threat, it will turn away, feeling that its point has been made. Richard Parker made his point with me four times. Four times he struck at me with his right paw and sent me overboard, and four times I lost my shield. I was terrified before, during and after each attack, and I spent a long time shivering with fear on the raft. Eventually I learned to read the signals he was sending me. I found that with his ears, his eyes, his whiskers, his teeth, his tail and his throat, he spoke a simple, forcefully punctuated language that told me what his next move might be. I learned to back down before he lifted his paw in the air. Then I made my point, feet on the gunnel, boat rolling, my single-note language blasting from the whistle, and Richard Parker moaning and gasping at the bottom of the boat. My fifth shield lasted me the rest of his training. CHAPTER 73 My greatest wish—other than salvation—was to have a book. A long book with a never-ending story. One I could read again and again, with new eyes and a fresh understanding each time. Alas, there was no scripture in the lifeboat. I was a disconsolate Arjuna in a battered chariot without the benefit of Krishna's words. The first time I came upon a Bible in the bedside table of a hotel room in Canada, I burst into tears. I sent a contribution to the Gideons the very next day, with a note urging them to spread the range of their activity to all places where worn and weary travellers might lay down their heads, not just to hotel rooms, and that they should leave not only Bibles, but other sacred writings as well. I cannot think of a better way to spread the faith. No thundering from a pulpit, no condemnation from bad churches, no peer pressure, just a book of scripture quietly waiting to say hello, as gentle and powerful as a little girl's kiss on your cheek. At the very least, if I had had a good novel! But there was only the survival manual, which I must have read ten thousand times over the course of my ordeal. I kept a diary. It's hard to read. I wrote as small as I could. I was afraid I would run out of paper. There's not much to it. Words scratched on a page trying to capture a reality that overwhelmed me. I started it a week or so after the sinking of the Tsimtsum. Before that I was too busy and scattered. The entries are not dated or numbered. What strikes me now is how time is captured. Several days, several weeks, all on one page. I talked about what you might expect: about things that happened and how I felt, about what I caught and what I didn't, about seas and weather, about problems and solutions, about Richard Parker. All very practical stuff. CHAPTER 74 I practised religious rituals that I adapted to the circumstances—solitary Masses without priests or consecrated Communion hosts, darshans without murtis, and pujas with turtle meat for prasad, acts of devotion to Allah not knowing where Mecca was and getting my Arabic wrong. They brought me comfort, that is certain. But it was hard, oh, it was hard. Faith in God is an opening up, a letting go, a deep trust, a free act of love—but sometimes it was so hard to love. Sometimes my heart was sinking so fast with anger, desolation and weariness, I was afraid it would sink to the very bottom of the Pacific and I would not be able to lift it back up. At such moments I tried to elevate myself. I would touch the turban I had made with the remnants of my shirt and I would say aloud, "THIS IS GOD'S HAT!" I would pat my pants and say aloud, "THIS IS GOD'S ATTIRE!" I would point to Richard Parker and say aloud, "THIS IS GOD'S CAT!" I would point to the lifeboat and say aloud, "THIS IS GOD'S ARK!" I would spread my hands wide and say aloud, "THESE ARE GOD'S WIDE ACRES!" I would point at the sky and say aloud, "THIS IS GOD'S EAR!" And in this way I would remind myself of creation and of my place in it. But God's hat was always unravelling. God's pants were falling apart. God's cat was a constant danger. God's ark was a jail. God's wide acres were slowly killing me. God's ear didn't seem to be listening. Despair was a heavy blackness that let no light in or out. It was a hell beyond expression. I thank God it always passed. A school of fish appeared around the net or a knot cried out to be reknotted. Or I thought of my family, of how they were spared this terrible agony. The blackness would stir and eventually go away, and God would remain, a shining point of light in my heart. I would go on loving. CHAPTER 75 On the day when I estimated it was Mother's birthday, I sang "Happy Birthday" to her out loud. CHAPTER 76 I got into the habit of cleaning up after Richard Parker. As soon as I became aware that he had had a bowel movement, I went about getting to it, a risky operation involving nudging his feces my way with the gaff and reaching for them from the tarpaulin. Feces can be infected with parasites. This does not matter with animals in the wild since they rarely spend any time next to their feces and mostly have a neutral relationship to them; tree dwellers hardly see them at all and land animals normally excrete and move on. In the compact territory of a zoo, however, the case is quite different, and to leave feces in an animal's enclosure is to invite reinfection by encouraging the animal to eat them, animals being gluttons for anything that remotely resembles food. That is why enclosures are cleaned, out of concern for the intestinal health of animals, not to spare the eyes and noses of visitors. But upholding the Patel family's reputation for high standards in zookeeping was not my concern in the case at hand. In a matter of weeks Richard Parker became constipated and his bowel movements came no more than once a month, so my dangerous janitoring was hardly worth it from a sanitary point of view. It was for another reason that I did it: it was because the first time Richard Parker relieved himself in the lifeboat, I noticed that he tried to hide the result. The significance of this was not lost on me. To display his feces openly, to flaunt the smell of them, would have been a sign of social dominance. Conversely, to hide them, or try to, was a sign of deference—of deference to me. I could tell that it made him nervous. He stayed low, his head cocked back and his ears flat to the sides, a quiet, sustained growl coming from him. I proceeded with exceptional alertness and deliberation, not only to preserve my life but also to give him the right signal. The right signal was that when I had his feces in my hand, I rolled them about for some seconds, brought them close to my nose and sniffed them loudly, and swung my gaze his way a few times in a showy manner, glaring at him wide-eyed (with fear, if only he knew) long enough to give him the willies, but not so long as to provoke him. And with each swing of my gaze, I blew in a low, menacing way in the whistle. By doing this, by badgering him with my eyes (for, of course, with all animals, including us, to stare is an aggressive act) and by sounding that whistle cry that had such ominous associations in his mind, I made clear to Richard Parker that it was my right, my lordly right, to fondle and sniff his feces if I wanted to. So you see, it was not good zookeeping I was up to, but psychological bullying. And it worked. Richard Parker never stared back; his gaze always floated in midair, neither on me nor off me. It was something I could feel as much as I felt his balls of excrement in my hand: mastery in the making. The exercise always left me utterly drained from the tension, yet exhilarated. Since we are on the subject, I became as constipated as Richard Parker. It was the result of our diet, too little water and too much protein. For me, relieving myself, also a monthly act, was hardly that. It was a long-drawn, arduous and painful event that left me bathing in sweat and helpless with exhaustion, a trial worse than a high fever. CHAPTER 77 As the cartons of survival rations diminished, I reduced my intake till I was following instructions exactly, holding myself to only two biscuits every eight hours. I was continuously hungry. I thought about food obsessively. The less I had to eat, the larger became the portions I dreamed of. My fantasy meals grew to be the size of India. A Ganges of dhal soup. Hot chapattis the size of Rajasthan. Bowls of rice as big as Uttar Pradesh. Sambars to flood all of Tamil Nadu. Ice cream heaped as high as the Himalayas. My dreaming became quite expert: all ingredients for my dishes were always in fresh and plentiful supply; the oven or frying pan was always at just the right temperature; the proportion of things was always bang on; nothing was ever burnt or undercooked, nothing too hot or too cold. Every meal was simply perfect—only just beyond the reach of my hands. By degrees the range of my appetite increased. Whereas at first I gutted fish and peeled their skin fastidiously, soon I no more than rinsed off their slimy slipperiness before biting into them, delighted to have such a treat between my teeth. I recall flying fish as being quite tasty, their flesh rosy white and tender. Dorado had a firmer texture and a stronger taste. I began to pick at fish heads rather than toss them to Richard Parker or use them as bait. It was a great discovery when I found that a fresh-tasting fluid could be sucked out not only from the eyes of larger fish but also from their vertebrae. Turtles—which previously I had roughly opened up with the knife and tossed onto the floor of the boat for Richard Parker, like a bowl of hot soup—became my favourite dish. It seems impossible to imagine that there was a time when I looked upon a live sea turtle as a ten-course meal of great delicacy, a blessed respite from fish. Yet so it was. In the veins of turtles coursed a sweet lassi that had to be drunk as soon as it spurted from their necks, because it coagulated in less than a minute. The best poriyals and kootus in the land could not rival turtle flesh, either cured brown or fresh deep red. No cardamom payasam I ever tasted was as sweet or as rich as creamy turtle eggs or cured turtle fat. A chopped-up mixture of heart, lungs, liver, flesh and cleaned-out intestines sprinkled with fish parts, the whole soaked in a yolk-and-serum gravy, made an unsurpassable, finger-licking thali. By the end of my journey I was eating everything a turtle had to offer. In the algae that covered the shells of some hawksbills I sometimes found small crabs and barnacles. Whatever I found in a turtle's stomach became my turn to eat. I whiled away many a pleasant hour gnawing at a flipper joint or splitting open bones and licking out their marrow. And my fingers were forever picking away at bits of dry fat and dry flesh that clung to the inner sides of shells, rummaging for food in the automatic way of monkeys. Turtle shells were very handy. I couldn't have done without them. They served not only as shields, but as cutting boards for fish and as bowls for mixing food. And when the elements had destroyed the blankets beyond repair, I used the shells to protect myself from the sun by propping them against each other and lying beneath them. It was frightening, the extent to which a full belly made for a good mood. The one would follow the other measure for measure: so much food and water, so much good mood. It was such a terribly fickle existence. I was at the mercy of turtle meat for smiles. By the time the last of the biscuits had disappeared, anything was good to eat, no matter the taste. I could put anything in my mouth, chew it and swallow it—delicious, foul or plain—so long as it wasn't salty. My body developed a revulsion for salt that I still experience to this day. I tried once to eat Richard Parker's feces. It happened early on, when my system hadn't learned yet to live with hunger and my imagination was still wildly searching for solutions. I had delivered fresh solar-still water to his bucket not long before. After draining it in one go, he had disappeared below the tarpaulin and I had returned to attending to some small matter in the locker. As I always did in those early days, I glanced below the tarpaulin every so often to make sure he wasn't up to something. Well, this one time, lo, he was. He was crouched, his back was rounded and his rear legs were spread. His tail was raised, pushing up against the tarpaulin. The position was tell-tale. Right away I had food in mind, not animal hygiene. I decided there was little danger. He was turned the other way and his head was out of sight. If I respected his peace and quiet, he might not even notice me. I grabbed a bailing cup and stretched my arm forward. My cup arrived in the nick of time. At the second it was in position at the base of his tail, Richard Parker's anus distended, and out of it, like a bubble-gum balloon, came a black sphere of excrement. It fell into my cup with a clink, and no doubt I will be considered to have abandoned the last vestiges of humanness by those who do not understand the degree of my suffering when I say that it sounded to my ears like the music of a five-rupee coin dropped into a beggar's cup. A smile cracked my lips and made them bleed. I felt deep gratitude towards Richard Parker. I pulled back the cup. I took the turd in my fingers. It was very warm, but the smell was not strong. In size it was like a big ball of gulab jamun, but with none of the softness. In fact, it was as hard as a rock. Load a musket with it and you could have shot a rhino. I returned the ball to the cup and added a little water. I covered it and set it aside. My mouth watered as I waited. When I couldn't stand the wait any longer, I popped the ball into my mouth. I couldn't eat it. The taste was acrid, but it wasn't that. It was rather my mouth's conclusion, immediate and obvious: there's nothing to be had here. It was truly waste matter, with no nutrients in it. I spat it out and was bitter at the loss of precious water. I took the gaff and went about collecting the rest of Richard Parker's feces. They went straight to the fish. After just a few weeks my body began to deteriorate. My feet and ankles started to swell and I was finding it very tiring to stand. CHAPTER 78 There were many skies. The sky was invaded by great white clouds, flat on the bottom but round and billowy on top. The sky was completely cloudless, of a blue quite shattering to the senses. The sky was a heavy, suffocating blanket of grey cloud, but without promise of rain. The sky was thinly overcast. The sky was dappled with small, white, fleecy clouds. The sky was streaked with high, thin clouds that looked like a cotton ball stretched apart. The sky was a featureless milky haze. The sky was a density of dark and blustery rain clouds that passed by without delivering rain. The sky was painted with a small number of flat clouds that looked like sandbars. The sky was a mere block to allow a visual effect on the horizon: sunlight flooding the ocean, the vertical edges between light and shadow perfectly distinct. The sky was a distant black curtain of falling rain. The sky was many clouds at many levels, some thick and opaque, others looking like smoke. The sky was black and spitting rain on my smiling face. The sky was nothing but falling water, a ceaseless deluge that wrinkled and bloated my skin and froze me stiff. There were many seas. The sea roared like a tiger. The sea whispered in your ear like a friend telling you secrets. The sea clinked like small change in a pocket. The sea thundered like avalanches. The sea hissed like sandpaper working on wood. The sea sounded like someone vomiting. The sea was dead silent. And in between the two, in between the sky and the sea, were all the winds. And there were all the nights and all the moons. To be a castaway is to be a point perpetually at the centre of a circle. However much things may appear to change—the sea may shift from whisper to rage, the sky might go from fresh blue to blinding white to darkest black—the geometry never changes. Your gaze is always a radius. The circumference is ever great. In fact, the circles multiply. To be a castaway is to be caught in a harrowing ballet of circles. You are at the centre of one circle, while above you two opposing circles spin about. The sun distresses you like a crowd, a noisy, invasive crowd that makes you cup your ears, that makes you close your eyes, that makes you want to hide. The moon distresses you by silently reminding you of your solitude; you open your eyes wide to escape your loneliness. When you look up, you sometimes wonder if at the centre of a solar storm, if in the middle of the Sea of Tranquillity, there isn't another one like you also looking up, also trapped by geometry, also struggling with fear, rage, madness, hopelessness, apathy. Otherwise, to be a castaway is to be caught up in grim and exhausting opposites. When it is light, the openness of the sea is blinding and frightening. When it is dark, the darkness is claustrophobic. When it is day, you are hot and wish to be cool and dream of ice cream and pour sea water on yourself. When it is night you are cold and wish to be warm and dream of hot curries; and wrap yourself in blankets. When it is hot, you are parched and wish to be wet. When it rains, you are nearly drowned and wish to be dry. When there is food, there is too much of it and you must feast. When there is none, there is truly none and you starve. When the sea is flat and motionless, you wish it would stir. When it rises up and the circle that imprisons you is broken by hills of water, you suffer that peculiarity of the high seas, suffocation in open spaces, and you wish the sea would be flat again. The opposites often take place at the same moment, so that when the sun is scorching you till you are stricken down, you are also aware that it is drying the strips of fish and meat that are hanging from your lines and that it is a blessing for your solar stills. Conversely, when a rain squall is replenishing your fresh water supplies, you also know that the humidity will affect your cured provisions and that some will probably go bad, turning pasty and green. When rough weather abates, and it becomes clear that you have survived the sky's attack and the sea's treachery, your jubilation is tempered by the rage that so much fresh water should fall directly into the sea and by the worry that it is the last rain you will ever see, that you will die of thirst before the next drops fall. The worst pair of opposites is boredom and terror. Sometimes your life is a pendulum swing from one to the other. The sea is without a wrinkle. There is not a whisper of wind. The hours last forever. You are so bored you sink into a state of apathy close to a coma. Then the sea becomes rough and your emotions are whipped into a frenzy. Yet even these two opposites do not remain distinct. In your boredom there are elements of terror: you break down into tears; you are filled with dread; you scream; you deliberately hurt yourself And in the grip of terror—the worst storm—you yet feel boredom, a deep weariness with it all. Only death consistently excites your emotions, whether contemplating it when life is safe and stale, or fleeing it when life is threatened and precious. Life on a lifeboat isn't much of a life. It is like an end game in chess, a game with few pieces. The elements couldn't be more simple, nor the stakes higher. Physically it is extraordinarily arduous, and morally it is killing. You must make adjustments if you want to survive. Much becomes expendable. You get your happiness where you can. You reach a point where you're at the bottom of hell, yet you have your arms crossed and a smile on your face, and you feel you're the luckiest person on earth. Why? Because at your feet you have a tiny dead fish. CHAPTER 79 There were sharks every day, mainly makos and blue sharks, but also oceanic whitetips, and once a tiger shark straight from the blackest of nightmares. Dawn and dusk were their favourite times. They never seriously troubled us. On occasion one knocked the hull of the lifeboat with its tail. I don't think it was accidental (other marine life did it too, turtles and even dorados). I believe it was part of a shark's way of determining the nature of the lifeboat. A good whack on the offender's nose with a hatchet sent it vanishing post-haste into the deep. The main nuisance of sharks was that they made being in the water risky, like trespassing on a property where there's a sign saying Beware of Dog. Otherwise, I grew quite fond of sharks. They were like curmudgeonly old friends who would never admit that they liked me yet came round to see me all the time. The blue sharks were smaller, usually no more than four or five feet long, and the most attractive, sleek and slender, with small mouths and discreet gill slits. Their backs were a rich ultramarine and their stomachs snow white, colours that vanished to grey or black when they were at any depth, but which close to the surface sparkled with surprising brilliance. The makos were larger and had mouths bursting with frightening teeth, but they too were nicely coloured, an indigo blue that shimmered beautifully in the sun. The oceanic whitetips were often shorter than the makos—some of which stretched to twelve feet—but they were much stockier and had enormous dorsal fins that they sailed high above the surface of the water, like a war banner, a rapidly moving sight that was always nerve-racking to behold. Besides, they were a dull colour, a sort of greyish brown, and the mottled white tips of their fins held no special attraction. I caught a number of small sharks, blue sharks for the most part, but some makos too. Each time it was just after sunset, in the dying light of the day, and I caught them with my bare hands as they came close to the lifeboat. The first one was my largest, a mako over four feet long. It had come and gone near the bow several times. As it was passing by yet again, I impulsively dropped my hand into the water and grabbed it just ahead of the tail, where its body was thinnest. Its harsh skin afforded such a marvellously good grip that without thinking about what I was doing, I pulled. As I pulled, it jumped, giving my arm a terrific shake. To my horror and delight the thing vaulted in the air in an explosion of water and spray. For the merest fraction of a second I didn't know what to do next. The thing was smaller than I—but wasn't I being a foolhardy Goliath here? Shouldn't I let go? I turned and swung, and falling on the tarpaulin, I threw the mako towards the stern. The fish fell from the sky into Richard Parker's territory. It landed with a crash and started thwacking about with such thunder that I was afraid it would demolish the boat. Richard Parker was startled. He attacked immediately. An epic battle began. Of interest to zoologists I can report the following: a tiger will not at first attack a shark out of water with its jaws but will rather strike at it with its forepaws. Richard Parker started clubbing the shark. I shuddered at every blow. They were simply terrible. Just one delivered to a human would break every bone, would turn any piece of furniture into splinters, would reduce an entire house into a pile of rubble. That the mako was not enjoying the treatment was evident from the way it was twisting and turning and beating its tail and reaching with its mouth. Perhaps it was because Richard Parker was not familiar with sharks, had never encountered a predatory fish—whatever the case, it happened: an accident, one of those few times when I was reminded that Richard Parker was not perfect, that despite his honed instincts he too could bumble. He put his left paw into the mako's mouth. The mako closed its jaws. Immediately Richard Parker reared onto his back legs. The shark was jerked up, but it wouldn't let go. Richard Parker fell back down, opened his mouth wide and full-out roared. I felt a blast of hot air against my body. The air visibly shook, like the heat coming off a road on a hot day. I can well imagine that somewhere far off, 150 miles away, a ship's watch looked up, startled, and later reported the oddest thing, that he thought he heard a cat's meow coming from three o'clock. Days later that roar was still ringing in my guts. But a shark is deaf, conventionally speaking. So while I, who wouldn't think of pinching a tiger's paw, let alone of trying to swallow one, received a volcanic roar full in the face and quaked and trembled and turned liquid with fear and collapsed, the shark perceived only a dull vibration. Richard Parker turned and started clawing the shark's head with his free front paw and biting it with his jaws, while his rear legs began tearing at its stomach and back. The shark held on to his paw, its only line of defence and attack, and thrashed its tail. Tiger and shark twisted and tumbled about. With great effort I managed to gain enough control of my body to get onto the raft and release it. The lifeboat drifted away. I saw flashes of orange and deep blue, of fur and skin, as the lifeboat rocked from side to side. Richard Parker's snarling was simply terrifying. At last the boat stopped moving. After several minutes Richard Parker sat up, licking his left paw. In the following days he spent much time tending his four paws. A shark's skin is covered with minute tubercles that make it as rough as sandpaper. He had no doubt cut himself while repeatedly raking the shark. His left paw was injured, but the damage did not seem permanent; no toes or claws were missing. As for the mako, except for the tips of the tail and the mouth area, incongruously untouched, it was a half-eaten, butchered mess. Chunks of reddish grey flesh and clumps of internal organs were strewn about. I managed to gaff some of the shark's remains, but to my disappointment the vertebrae of sharks do not hold fluid. At least the flesh was tasty and unfishy, and the crunchiness of cartilage was a welcome respite from so much soft food. Subsequently I went for smaller sharks, pups really, and I killed them myself. I found that stabbing them through the eyes with the knife was a faster, less tiresome way of killing them than hacking at the tops of their heads with the hatchet. |
第72章 我的情况是，为了在训练理查德·帕克的时候保护自己，我用海龟壳做了一只盾牌。我在龟壳两端各开了一个槽口，用一根绳子把两端连接起来。盾牌比我想像的要重，但是士兵又怎么能选择军械呢？ 第一次做这番尝试时，理查德·帕克露出牙齿，耳朵完全转到了前面，喉咙里发出短短的一声吼叫，朝我冲了过来。一只巨大的脚掌举了起来，爪尖完全伸了出来，朝盾牌猛击一掌。这一掌把我从船上打飞了出去。我一头撞进水里，立刻松开了盾牌。盾牌先是沉下水去，不见了踪迹，接着又打在我的胫骨上。我害怕得几乎神经错乱了——既怕理查德·帕克，也怕海水。我以为就在那一刻会有一条鲨鱼从水里蹿出来要吃我。我发疯一般朝小筏子游去，而疯狂的划水动作恰恰非常吸引鲨鱼。幸运的是，没有鲨鱼。我到了小筏子上,把缆绳放到最长，双臂抱膝,低头坐着，努力熄灭心中熊熊燃烧的恐惧之火。过了很长时间，我的身体才完全停止颤抖。那天后来的时间和那一整夜，我都待在小筏子上。我没有吃也没有喝。 第二次抓住一只海龟时，我又做了一只盾牌。这只龟壳小一些，轻一些，更适合做盾牌。我又一次向前进，在中间的坐板上跺着脚。 我不知道听故事的人是否明白，我的行为并非疯狂，也不是经过掩饰的自杀企图，而完全是出于必要。要不就驯服他，让他明白谁是老大谁是老二——要不就在恶劣的天气里爬到救生艇上时因为他反对而死去。 如果说我作为公海驯兽师的学徒期已满，而我还活着，那是因为理查德·帕克并不是真的想袭击我。老虎，其实是所有动物，并不喜欢用暴力来解决纠纷。动物互相搏斗的目的是杀死对方，同时它们也明白，自己也可能被杀死。冲突的代价是巨大的。因此，动物有一套完整的警告信号系统，以避免最后摊牌，而且，只要它们感到自己可以退缩，便立刻这么做。老虎很少不发出瞀告就袭击另一只食肉动物。典型的情况是，它们会迎面向对手冲去,一边发出咆哮声和吼叫声。但是在情况变得不可挽回之前，老虎会突然停住不动，喉咙里发出低沉的威胁的声音。它会估计一下形势。如果结论是威胁并不存在，它就会转身离去，感到自己的意图巳经表明了。 理查德·帕克四次向我表明了他的意图。他四次用右爪打我，把我打到海里去，四次都让我丢了盾牌。在他袭击之前，袭击的时候，和袭击之后，我都很害怕，因为害怕而在小筏子上颤抖很长时间。最后，我学会了理解他向我发出的信号。我发现他用耳朵、眼睛、胡须、牙齿、尾巴和喉咙在说一种简单的、十分清晰有力的语言，告诉我他下一步会做什么。我学会了在他举起爪子之前就退回去。 后来，我表明了我的意图。我站在舷边，小船摇晃着，我的单音节的语言从哨子里吹了出来，而理查德·帕克在船底呜咽着，喘息着。 第五只盾牌在后来训练理查德·帕克的过程中一直完好无损。 第73章 我最大的愿望——除了得救之外——就是能有一本书。一本厚厚的书，讲的是一个永远没有结束的故事。一本我可以一遍又一遍地读，每读一遍都有全新的见解和鲜活的感受的书。哎，可惜救生艇上没有经文。我是郁郁寡欢的阿朱那，坐在被毁坏的凯旋战车里，却没有克利须那出言相助①。第一次在加拿大一间旅馆房间里的床头柜上看见一本《圣经》的时候，我的眼泪夺眶而出。第二天我就给基甸国际寄去一笔捐款，同时附了一封短信，请求他们把活动范围扩大到所有地方，而不仅仅局限于旅馆房间，让那些身心疲惫的旅人能够入眠；也不仅仅留下《圣经》，还要留下其他神圣的作品。我想不出比这更好的传播虔诚信仰的办法。没有讲坛的威吓，没有恶教堂的谴责，没有同行的压力，只有一本经文静静地等着和你打招呼，温柔而有力，就像小姑娘在你颊上的一吻。 【①典出《摩呵婆罗多》的《福音之歌》部分。英雄阿朱那没有勇气面对一场重要的战斗；为他驾驶战车的正是克利须那,他向阿朱那传授了《福音之歌》中的智慧。】 至少让我有一本好小说吧?但是只有求生指南。在这苦难的历程中，我一定已经读过一万遍了。 我记日记。这本日记读起来很困难。我把字写得尽量小。我担心纸会用完。日记里没有华丽的词藻。潦草地涂写在纸上的字试图记录震撼我的事实。我是在"齐姆楚姆"号沉没大约一个星期以后开始记日记的。在那之前我太忙，注意力被太多的事情分散了。一天天的记录没有标日期，也没有标页码。几天，几个星期的事情，都写在一页纸上。我谈论的事情你们能够预料得到：关于发生的事情和我的感受，关于我抓住了什么和没有抓住什么，关于大海和天气，关于问题和解决问题的方法，关于理查德·帕克。全都是非常实际的东西。 第74章 我每天进行根据现在的情况而改变的宗教仪式——没有牧师也没有圣餐主持的一个人的弥撒，没有神像的得福仪式，用海龟肉做惠赐的礼拜，向安拉祈祷却不知道麦加在哪里，阿拉伯文也说错了。这些给了我安慰，这是肯定的。但是这很难，噢，真的很难。信仰上帝就是敞开心胸，就是不受拘束，就是深深的信任，就是爱的自由行动——但有时候要去爱太难了。有时候我的心因为愤怒、忧伤和疲惫迅速地沉下去，我真担心它会一直沉到太平洋底，我没有办法再把它提起来了。 在这样的时刻，我努力让自己高兴起来。我会摸着用衬衫碎片做的包头巾大声说：“这是上帝的帽子！” 我会拍着自己的裤子大声说："这是上帝的衣服！" 我会指着理查德·帕克大声说：“这是上帝的猫！” 我会指着救生艇大声说：“这是上帝的方舟！” 我会摊开双手大声说："这是上帝的宽广土地！" 我会指者天空大声说：“这是上帝的耳朵！” 就这样，我会提醒自己上帝的创造和自己在其中的位置。 但是上帝的帽子总是散开。上帝的衣服变得褴搂。上帝的猫是个时刻存在的危险。上帝的方舟是座囚牢。上帝的宽广土地正慢慢将我杀死。上帝的耳朵似乎并没有在听。 绝望是沉沉的黑暗,光进不来也出不去。那是一座无法形容的地狱。我感谢上帝，每一次这样的时刻都过去了。一群鱼在鱼网周围出现了，或是一只结松了，要重新系牢。或者我想起了自己的家人,想他们如何逃过了这场可怕的痛苦。黑暗会动起来，最终消散了，上帝会留下来，成为我心里一个闪光的点。我会继续去爱。 第75章 在我估计是母亲生日的那一天，我大声对她唱了“生日快乐”。 第76章 我养成了跟在理查德·帕克后面打扫卫生的习惯。一旦注意到他大了便，我就立刻开始打扫。这是个危险的动作。我得用鱼叉把他的粪便轻轻拨到我这边，然后从油布上伸手去拿。粪便里可能有寄生虫。对野生动物来说这没什么关系，因为它们很少待在自己的粪便旁边，而且通常并不在意自己的粪便；居住在树上的动物几乎看不见自己的粪便，生活在地上的动物排泄之后便走开了。然而，在动物集中的动物园里，情况便完全不一样了。把粪便留在圈养动物的围栏里，它们就会把自己的粪便吃了，因为动物贪吃任何和食物哪怕只有一点点相像的东西，这样就会造成二次感染。这就是清扫动物围栏的原因，是为了关心动物的肠胃健康，而不是为了让游客的眼睛和鼻子免遭污染。但是，在目前的情况下，我关心的并不是维护帕特尔家动物饲养水平高的声誉。大约几个星期前，理查德·帕克开始便秘，他一个月最多大便一次，因此从卫生的角度来看，我危险的清理工作几乎不值得。我这么做另有原因：因为理查德·帕克第一次在救生艇上排泄之后，我注意到他试图掩藏结果。这件事的重要性我不是不懂。如果公开显示自己的粪便，炫耀粪便的气味，那就是想要在社交中取得支配地位的标志。相反，将粪便藏起来，或者试图藏起来，是服从的标志——服从我。 我能看出这使他紧张。他一直精神不振，头向后竖，耳朵紧贴在头的两侧，不断地发出低声的吼叫。我非常小心地慢慢地干着，这不仅是为了保全自己的生命，也是为了向他发出一个正确的信号。正确的信号就是，我把他的粪便抓在手里时，会揉搓几秒钟，然后放到鼻子跟前，大声地闻，并且炫耀地朝他看几眼，睁大眼睛（眼神中带着恐惧，如果他知道的话)瞪着他，时间长得足以让他感到紧张不安，但又不至于激怒他。每看他一眼，我就吹一次哨子，发出低沉的威胁的声音。这样，通过用眼睛逗弄他（因为，当然，对于所有的动物，包括我们人类在内，瞪眼看是一种挑衅的行为）和吹响在他心里引起不祥联想的哨声，我让理查德·帕充明白，只要我愿意，我就可以玩弄和嗔闻他的粪便，这是我的权力，是我作为主人的权力。因此，你知道，我并不是在忙于做好动物饲养工作，而是在进行心理威吓。这很有用。理查德·帕克从来不回瞪我；他的目光总是在游移，既不看着我，也不从我身上移开。我能感觉到自己正在这一过程中取得控制权，就像我能感觉到手中的粪球。这样的训练让我因为紧张而筋疲力尽，但又很兴奋。 既然我们谈到了这个话题，那么我要告诉你，我也和理查德·帕克一样便秘了。是饮食的原因，我们喝的水太少，吃的蛋白质太多。我也每个月大便一次。对我来说，这简直不是大便，而是一件漫长、费力、痛苦的事,让我大汗淋漓，因为精疲力竭而备感无助，比发高烧还要痛苦。 第77章 随着维持生命的口粮的盒数渐渐减少，我也减少了自己的摄入量，最后完全按照求生指南的指示，每隔八小时才吃两块饼干。我总是饿。我着了迷似的想着食物。我吃的越少，梦里面食物的分量便越多。我想像中的饭菜变得像印度那么大。像恒河水那么多的木豆汤。像拉贾斯坦邦那么大的热的薄煎饼。像北方邦那么大的一碗碗米饭。能淹没整个泰米尔纳德的浓味小扁豆肉汤。堆得像喜马拉雅山一样高的冰淇淋。我的梦变得相当专业：所有菜的配料都是新鲜的，而且大量供应；蒸笼或煎锅的火候总是恰到好处；所有东西的比例总是完全正确；没有任何东西被烧糊了或是没烧熟，没有任何东西太烫或是太冷。每一顿饭都是完美的——只是我吃不到。 我的胃口越来越大。刚开始的时候，我挑剔地取出鱼的内脏，把鱼皮剥下来，但是很快我便只把鱼身上滑滑的黏液冲掉，就一口咬了下去，很高兴自己的两排牙齿之间能有如此美味。我记得飞鱼非常好吃，肉是白色的，透出玫瑰红，很嫩。鯕鳅的肉更紧，味道更浓。我开始吃一点儿鱼头，而不是把头扔给理查德·帕克，或是用做鱼饵。我发现不仅能从大鱼的眼睛里，而且能从脊椎里吸出新鲜的汁液，这真是个了不起的发现。以前我用刀粗粗地把海龟壳撬开，然后把海龟扔到船板上给理查德·帕克，就像给他一碗热汤。而现在，海龟成了我最喜欢的食品。 似乎很难想像，有一段时间，我把活海龟看成一桌有十道菜的美味佳肴，是吃了那么多鱼以后令人愉快的新鲜口味。但事实的确如此。海龟血管里流淌着的是仿佛酸乳酪一般甜甜的血，刚从脖子里喷出来时就得立刻喝掉，否则不到一分钟它就凝固了。陆地上最好的干咖喱和肉汁咖喱菜都不能与海龟肉相比，无论是经过加工的棕色还是新鲜的深红色。我尝过的任何一种豆蔻乳米糖都没有奶油般油滑的海龟蛋或经过加工的海龟油那么甜,味道那么香浓。把剁碎的心、肺、肝、肉和洗净的肠子放在一起，上面撒上碎鱼块，再浇上血清和蛋黄做成的汁，这就是一大浅盘无与伦比的吮指留香的美味。有时在覆盖玳瑁壳的海藻里，我能找到小螃蟹和甲壳动物。海龟胃里的东西都成了我的口中食。我啃鱼鳍关节，把骨头咬开，吸食里面的骨髄，就这样度过了许多快乐时光。我的手指不停地抓扯着附着在龟壳里面的干了的油和干了的肉，像猴子一样机械地仔细翻找着食物。 海龟壳用起来很方便。没有这些海龟壳可真不行。它们不仅可以做盾牌，还可以用做切鱼的砧板和搅拌食物的碗。当大自然把毯子毁坏得无法修补时，我就把两只海龟壳相对着支起来，然后躺在下面，保护自己不被太阳晒伤。 饱肚子和好心情之间的联系紧密得可怕。后者完全取决于前者：食物和水有多少，心情就有多好。好心情真是一种很难保持的状态。我是否微笑完全受海龟肉的支配。 最后一块饼干吃完的时候，任何东西都变得好吃，不管口味如何。我可以把任何东西放进嘴里，嚼一嚼，吞下去——无论它是鲜美、恶臭还是淡而无味——只要不是咸的就行。我的身体对盐产生了强烈的反感，直到今天仍然如此。 有一次，我试图吃理查德·帕克的粪便。那是在很早的时候，那时我的消化系统还没有学会忍受饥饿，我的想像力还在疯狂地寻找解决问题的办法。我刚把太阳能蒸馏器里的淡水倒进他的桶里。他一口气把水喝完以后，就消失在了油布下面。我继续料理锁柜里的一些小事。刚开始的那些日子，我总是过一会儿就朝油布下面看看，以确保他没在搞什么名堂。这一次，我又像往常一样看了看。嗨，瞧,他是在搞名堂。他正蹲在那儿，背部弓起，两条后腿分开，尾巴竖了起来，把油布往上推。这个姿势说明了问题。我立刻就想到了食物，而不是动物卫生。我认定这没什么危险。他正朝着另一个方向，他的头根本看不见。如果我不破坏他的平静，也许他甚至都不会注意到我。我抓起一只舀水的杯子，把胳膊向前伸过去。杯子在关键时刻伸到了地方。就在杯子伸到理查德·帕克的尾巴根部的那一刻，他的肛门张了开来，从里面掉出来一团黑色排泄物，像泡泡糖吹出的泡泡。这团东西当地一声掉进了我的杯子里。如果我说这声音在我听来就像一枚五卢比的硬币丢进乞丐的杯子里的声音一样悦耳，那么毫无疑问，那些不明白我所受折磨的人一定会认为我放弃了最后一点人性。微笑在我的双唇绽开，裂口流出了血。我对理查德·帕克深为感激。我把杯子拿回来，用手指把粪球拿起来。粪球很温暖，但气味并不强烈。大小就像一只牛奶球，但没那么软。实际上，它硬得像块石头。如果你把它装进火熗里，能打死一头犀牛。 我把粪球放回杯子里，在杯里加了一点儿水，然后盖上，放在一边。我边等边流口水。当我无法再等下去的时候，我把球扔进了嘴里。我没法吃下去。有股辛辣味，但这不是原因。我的嘴立刻得出了一个显而易见的结论：没什么可吃的。那的确是废渣，没有任何营养。我把它吐了出来，因为浪费了宝贵的水而感到悔恨。我拿起鱼叉，开始搜集理查德·帕克的其余的粪便。这些粪便直接喂了鱼。 第78章 天空有很多种。天空被大片的白云占据了。云的底部是平的，顶部却是圆的，仿佛巨浪一般。天空万里无云，蓝得令人的感官都感到震惊。天空是一块灰色云层组成的令人窒息的厚重的毯子,却不像要下雨。天空有一层薄薄的云。天空被细小的羊毛般的白云点缀得斑斑驳驳。天空有一条条高高的薄薄的云，仿佛棉花球向远方延伸。天空是没有轮廓的乳白色的一片混沌。天空密布着黑色的汹涌翻卷的雨云，云过去了，却没有下雨。天空上涂画着几片像是沙洲的扁平的云。天空只是地平线上表现视觉效果的一大块屏幕：阳光倾泻在洋面上，光与影之间垂直的边缘异常清晰。天空是远处黑色的雨帘。天空是不同层面的不同云朵，有些又厚又不透明，另一些却仿佛轻烟。天空是黑色的，在把雨啐到我微笑的脸上。天空就是落下的水，是无休无止的汹涌的洪水,让我的皮肤变皱肿起，将我的身体冻僵。 大海有很多种。大海像老虎一样咆哮。大海在你耳边轻声低语，像一个朋友在告诉你秘密。大海像口袋里的硬币一样丁当作响。大海发出雪崩一般的轰隆声。大海发出像砂纸打磨木头一般的沙沙声。大海的声音仿佛有人在呕吐。大海死一般沉寂。 在两者之间，在天空与大海之间，是所有的风。 还有所有的夜晚和所有的月亮。 做一个失事的人，就是在圆圈的中心永远做一个点。无论事物似乎发生了多么大的变化——大海可能从耳语变得狂怒，天空可能从清新的蓝色变成炫目的白色再变成最黑暗的黑色——但几何图形永远不变。半径永远是你注视的目光。周长永远都那么长。实际上，圆圈在增多。做一个失事的人，就是被困在令人苦恼的旋舞的圆圈当中。你在一个圆圈的中心，而在你头顶上，有两只相对的圆圈在旋转。太阳像一群人，一群吵吵闹阑的爱干扰的人一样折磨你，让你堵上耳朵，让你闭起眼睛，让你想要躲起来。月亮默默地提醒你，你的孤独，用这种方式来折磨你；为了逃离孤独，你睁大了眼睛。当你抬起头来的时候，有时候你想知道在太阳风暴的中心，在平静之海的中央，是不是还有一个人也像你一样在抬头看，也像你一样被几何图形所困，也像你一样挣扎着与恐惧、愤怒、疯狂、无助和冷漠做斗争。 此外，做一个失事的人就是被困在阴森可怖和令人精疲力竭的对立物之间。天亮的时候，浩瀚无垠的大海使人炫目，使人恐惧。天黑的时候，一片黑暗能让人患上幽闭恐怖症。白天，你太热了，你渴望清凉，梦想着冰淇淋，把海水泼在身上。夜晚，你太冷了，你渴望温暖，梦想着热咖喱，把自己裹在毯子里。热的时候，你被太阳烘烤，希望能下雨。下雨的时候，你差点儿被淹死，希望天气干燥。有食物的时候，食物太多了，你必须大吃一顿。没有食物的时候，那是真的什么也没有，你只能挨饿。当大海风平浪静，毫无生气的时候,你希望它能动一动。当大海卷起波涛，囚禁你的圆圈被小山一般的海浪打破的时候，你得忍受波涛汹涌的大海的怪癖，忍受在开阔的空间的窒息，你希望它能够平静下来。对立的事物常常同时发生，因此，当太阳灼烤着你,把你击倒的时候，你明白太阳同时也在烤着挂在你的绳子上的一条条鱼和肉，而且这对太阳能蒸馏器有好处。相反，当一场雨飑在补足你的淡水储备的时候，同时你知道湿气会影响你贮藏的食品，有些食品也许会坏掉，会变得像面糊一样，颜色发绿。暴风雨停息，天空变得晴朗，你经历了天空的袭击和大海的背叛而活了下来， 这时你欢快的心情会被愤怒冲淡，你生气地看到这么多的淡水直接落进了海里，你担心这是你见到的最后一场雨，在下一次下雨之前你就会渴死了。 最糟糕的一对对立物是乏味和恐惧。有时候你的生活就是从一边荡到另一边的钟摆。大海平滑如镜。没有一丝风。时间永无尽头。你感到太乏味了，陷入了类似昏迷的漠然的状态之中。接着，大海变得狂暴，汹涌的波涛把你的感情抽打得发狂。然而，即使是这两种对立物之间的界限也并不总是那么明显。乏味之中也有恐惧的成分：你精神崩溃，眼泪夺眶而出；你心里充满了畏惧；你尖叫；你故意伤害自己。在恐惧——最糟糕的暴风雨——攫住你的时候，你仍感到乏味，对一切都感到厌烦。 只有死亡不断地激起你的情感，无论是在生活安全而显得陈腐的时候考虑它，还是在生活受到威胁而显得珍贵的时候逃避它。 救生艇上的生活不是什么了不起的生活。它就像象棋残局，没有几个棋子。自然环境不能再简单了，输贏也不能再多了。它给你带来极度的艰苦，它让你感到心力交瘁。要想活下来，你必须做一些调整。很多东西都能变得有用。你尽可能获取快乐。你到了地狱底层，却交叉双臂，面带微笑，感到自己是世界上最幸运的人。为什么？因为在你脚下有一条小小的死鱼。 第79章 每天都有鲨鱼出现，主要是灰鲭鲨和蓝鲨，但也有长基真鲨，有一次一条虎鲨径直从最黑暗的噩梦中游了出来。它们最喜欢在黎明和黄昏时出现。它们从来没有给我们带来真正的麻烦。有时，一条鲨鱼会用尾巴甩打救生艇的船壳。我想这不是偶然的（其他海洋动物，包括海龟，甚至鯕鳅，也这么做）。我想这是鲨鱼判断救生艇究竟是什么东西的方式之一。用斧子在冒犯者的鼻子上猛击一下，它就会急忙消失在深深的海里。鲨鱼最讨厌的一点就是它们使得待在海上成为一件冒险的事，就像擅自闯入竖着一块写着"小心有狗"的牌子的私人领地。除了这一点，我倒渐渐喜欢上鲨鱼了。它们就像坏脾气的老朋友，从来不愿承认喜欢我，却总是来看我。蓝鲨小一些，通常只有四五英尺长，是最迷人、最苗条、线条最优美的一种，长着小小的嘴和不起眼的鳃腔外口。它们的背部是鲜艳的佛青色，肚子雪白，只要在深水里，身上的颜色就变成了灰色或黑色，而在靠近水面时则闪着令人惊讶的光亮。灰鲭鱼的体型大一些，满嘴吓人的牙齿，但是颜色也很好看，是一种靛蓝色，在阳光下闪着美丽的光。长基真鲨通常比灰鲭鲨短一些——有些能达到十二英尺长,但要壮实得多，长着巨大的背鳍，游动时高高地竖在水面上，像一面战旗，每次看到那高速前进的景象，人的神经都会受到刺激。但是它们的颜色不鲜艳，是一种发灰的棕色，有花纹的白色鳍尖毫无吸引人之处。 我抓到过不少小鲨鱼，其中大多数是蓝鲨，但也有一些灰鲭鲨。每次都在太阳刚刚落山，天光渐渐暗淡的时候，它们游到救生艇边上，我便空手抓住了它们。 第一次抓的那条是我抓过的最大一条，那是一条四英尺多长的灰鲭鲨。它在靠近船头的地方游过来又游过去。就在它再一次游过来的时候，我冲动地把手伸进水里，一下抓住了尾巴前面的地方，那是鱼身体最细的地方。它粗糙的皮让我抓得非常牢，我想都没想自己在做什么，就把它往船上拖。就在我拖的时候，它跳了起来，狠狠地摇晃着我的胳膊。让我又害怕又高兴的是，这个东西在溅起的一阵浪花和飞沫中跃到了空中。就在那一瞬间，我不知道下面该怎么办了。这个东西比我小？但是难道我不是一个有勇无谋的歌利亚吗？难道我不该放手吗——我转过身，挥动着胳膊，摔倒在油布上，把那条灰鲭鲨朝船尾扔过去。鱼从空中落到了理查德·帕克的地盘上。它啪地一声重重地摔下来，开始使劲拍打着身体，雷霆般的力量让我担心船会不会被毁了。理查德·帕克吃了一惊。他立刻发起了攻击。 一场规模宏大的战斗开始了。为了动物学家的好奇心，我可以汇报如下：老虎袭击水里的鲨鱼时，首先不会用嘴咬，而是用前爪打。理查德·帕克开始打鲨鱼。它每打一下，我都颤抖一次。简直太可怕了。只那么一下子，就能让人身上的每一根骨头都断掉，让任何一件家具变成木头片，让整座房屋变成一堆瓦砾。灰鲭鲨显然不喜欢被如此对待，因为它扭来扭去，翻动着身子，用尾巴甩打，又用嘴去咬。 也许因为理查德·帕克对鲨鱼不熟悉，从来没有遇到过食肉鱼——不管是什么情况，这件事情发生了：这是一次偶然事件,极少几次这样的事件提醒我，尽管理查德·帕克有经过磨练的本能，但他仍不完美。他把左前爪伸进了灰鲭鲨的嘴里。灰鲭鲨闭上了嘴。理查德·帕克立刻用后腿站了起来。鲨鱼被猛地提到了空中，但它不肯松口。理查德·帕克向后倒了下去，用尽全身的力气发出一声吼叫。我感到一股热气流冲到了身上。我能看到空气在震动，就像炎热的天气里热气从马路上蒸腾起来。我完全能够想像，在离我们很远的地方，在150英里以外，一艘船的值班船员抬头一看，大吃一惊，后来报告了一件最奇怪的事情，他以为自己听见从右边与船只垂直的方向传来了猫叫。很多天以后，那声吼叫还在我内心回响。但是，传统的看法是，鲨鱼是聋子。我从来没有想过去夹老虎的爪子，更不用说试图吞下一只了，因此当我听见一声猛吼迎面传来，浑身哆嗦，吓瘫在地时，鲨鱼却只感到一阵不明显的震动。 理查德·帕克转过身来，开始用没被咬住的右前爪抓鲨鱼的头，又用嘴去咬，同时用两条后腿撕扯着鲨鱼的肚子和背。鲨鱼紧紧咬住他的爪子不放，这是它惟一的防线，也是惟一的攻击方式，同时摔打着尾巴。老虎和鲨鱼扭在一起，滚来滚去。我费了好大的劲，才控制住自己，让身体不再发抖，然后爬到小筏子上，解开了绳子。救生艇漂走了。我看见橘黄色和深蓝色不时闪现，那是虎毛和鱼皮的颜色，同时救生艇在左右摇晃。理查德·帕克的咆哮声简直可怕极了。 最后，船停止了晃动。几分钟后，理查德·帕克坐了起来，舔着自己的左爪。 在接下来的几天里，他花了很多时间护理自己的四只爪子。鲨鱼的皮上布满了细小的瘤，这使得鱼皮像砂纸一样粗糙。他一定是在不停地抓鲨鱼时划伤了自己。他的左爪受伤了，但似乎并不是好不了的伤；脚趾和爪子都完好无损。至于那条灰鲭鲨，它已经成了被吃了一半的乱糟糟的一堆，只有尾巴尖和嘴周围还是完好的，与其他地方极不协调。 我用鱼叉叉过来一些剩下的鲨鱼肉，但是，让人失望的是，鲨鱼的脊椎没有汁水。至少肉的味道鲜美，不像鱼肉，而且软骨很松脆，在吃了那么多软烂的食物之后，我很愿意换换口味。 在那之后我开始抓小鲨鱼，其实是幼鱼，并且亲自杀鱼。我发现，用刀捅鱼眼睛比用斧子砍头顶能更快、更省力地将鱼杀死。 |
