CHAPTER IOO Mr. Okamoto, in his letter to me, recalled the interrogation as having been "difficult and memorable." He remembered Piscine Molitor Patel as being "very thin, very tough, very bright." His report, in its essential part, ran as follows: Sole survivor could shed no light on reasons for sinking of Tsimtsum. Ship appears to have sunk very quickly, which would indicate a major hull breach. Important quantity of debris would support this theory. But precise reason of breach impossible to determine. No major weather disturbance reported that day in quadrant. Survivor's assessment of weather impressionistic and unreliable. At most, weather a contributing factor. Cause was perhaps internal to ship. Survivor believes he heard an explosion, hinting at a major engine problem, possibly the explosion of a boiler, but this is speculation. Ship twenty-nine years old (Erlandson and Skank Shipyards, Malmo, 1948), refitted in 1970. Stress of weather combined with structural fatigue a possibility, but conjecture. No other ship mishap reported in area on that day, so ship-ship collision unlikely. Collision with debris a possibility, but unverifiable. Collision with a floating mine might explain explosion, but seems fanciful, besides highly unlikely as sinking started at stern, which in all likelihood would mean that hull breach was at stern too. Survivor cast doubts on fitness of crew but had nothing to say about officers. Oika Shipping Company claims all cargo absolutely licit and not aware of any officer or crew problems. Cause of sinking impossible to determine from available evidence. Standard insurance claim procedure for Oika. No further action required. Recommend that case be closed. As an aside, story of sole survivor, Mr. Piscine Molitor Patel, Indian citizen, is an astounding story of courage and endurance in the face of extraordinarily difficult and tragic circumstances. In the experience of this investigator, his story is unparalleled in the history of shipwrecks. Very few castaways can claim to have survived so long at sea as Mr. Patel, and none in the company of an adult Bengal tiger. End 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. Acclaim for Yann Martel's Life of Pi "Life of Pi is not just a readable and engaging novel, it's a finely twisted length of yarn—yarn implying a far-fetched story you can't quite swallow whole, but can't dismiss outright. Life of Pi is in this tradition—a story of uncertain veracity, made credible by the art of the yarn-spinner. Like its noteworthy ancestors, among which I take to be Robinson Crusoe, Gulliver's Travels, the Ancient Mariner, Moby Dick and Pincher Martin, it's a tale of disaster at sea coupled with miraculous survival—a boys' adventure for grownups." —Margaret Atwood, The Sunday Times (London) "A fabulous romp through an imagination by turns ecstatic, cunning, despairing and resilient, this novel is an impressive achievement. . . . Martel displays the clever voice and tremendous storytelling skills of an emerging master." —Publisher's Weekly (starred review) "[Life of Pi] has a buoyant, exotic, insistence reminiscent of Edgar Allen Poe's most Gothic fiction. . . . Oddities abound and the storytelling is first-rate. Yann Martel has written a novel full of grisly reality, outlandish plot, inventive setting and thought-provoking questions about the value and purpose of fiction." —The Edmonton journal "Martel's ceaselessly clever writing . . . [and] artful, occasionally hilarious, internal dialogue . . . make a fine argument for the divinity of good art." —The Gazette "Astounding and beautiful. . . . The book is a pleasure not only for the subtleties of its philosophy but also for its ingenious and surprising story. Martel is a confident, heartfelt artist, and his imagination is cared for in a writing style that is both unmistakable and marvelously reserved. The ending of Life of Pi... is a show of such sophisticated genius that I could scarcely keep my eyes in my head as I read it." —The Vancouver Sun "I guarantee that you will not be able to put this book down. It is a realistic, gripping story of survival at sea. [Martel's] imagination is powerful, his range enormous, his capacity for persuasion almost limitless. I predict that Yann Martel will develop into one of Canada's great writers." —The Hamilton Spectator "Life of Pi is a marvelous feat of imagination and inquiry. Yann Martel has earned his stripes as a novelist of grand ideas and sports them here as surely as Richard Parker, the majestic Bengal tiger, wears his own black and orange skin." —The Ottawa X Press YANN MARTEL was born in Spain in 1963. After studying philosophy at Trent University and doing various odd jobs, he began to write. He is the prize-winning author of The Facts behind the Helsinki Roccamatios, a collection of short stories, and of Self, a novel, both of them published internationally. He lives in Montreal. |
第100章 冈本先生在给我的信里回忆说，那次讯问"困难重重又难以忘记"。他记得派西尼·莫利托?帕特尔·非常瘦，非常固执，非常聪明"。他的报告的主要部分如下： 惟一幸存者无法使我们了解"齐姆楚姆"号沉没的原因。船只的下沉速度似乎非常快，这表明船体严重开裂。大量残骸可以支持这一理论。但是无法确定开裂的具体原因。那天无线电导航信号区内没有报告有急剧天气变化。幸存者凭借印象对天气所做的估计是不可靠的。天气至多是导致沉船的因素之一。原因可能在船只内部。幸存者相信自己听到了爆炸声，这说明有严重的机械问题，也许是锅炉爆炸，但这只是推测。船只寿命已有二十九年（马尔摩的厄兰森和斯坎克造船厂1948年制造），1970年整修。天气不好加上船只结构疲劳可能共同造成了这次事故，但这只是猜测。那天在那一海域没有关于其他船只发生事故的报告，因此没有与其他船只相撞的可能性。有可能与残骸相撞，但这一点无法证实。可能与漂浮的水雷相撞，这可以解释爆炸，但这只是设想，而且极不可能，因为船是从尾部开始下沉的，这只能说明船体开裂也发生在尾部。幸存者对普通船员的健康有所疑问，但对高级船员没有说什么。小井科船运公司声称所有货物都完全合法，并且没有注意到任何高级或普通船员有什么问题。 根据现有证据无法确定沉船原因。小井科公司可以通过标准程序要求保险赔偿。不需要进一步调查。建议结案。 说句题外话，惟一幸存者，印度公民派西尼·莫利托·帕特尔先生的故事令人惊奇，表现了在极端困难和悲惨境遇面前的勇气和忍耐力。根据本调查员的经验，他的故事在沉船历史上是独一无二的。很少有乘船失事的人能够像帕特尔先生那样生存那么长时间，没有人能够在与一只成年孟加拉虎为伴的情况下做到这一点。 虚虚实实，亦真亦假 ——代译序 恺蒂 2002年布克奖（Booker Prize）得主扬·马特尔（Yann Martel）名不见经传，但是，他的书《少年Pi的奇幻漂流》（Life of Pi）一出来，去书店看到，没有犹豫就买了两本作为给亲戚朋友的圣诞节礼物，原因有三：一是此书出版的就是大方漂亮的平装本，加上南非书税和兰盾贬值仍能让人消费得起；二是它的封面设计讨人喜欢，蓝色的大海，一条小船，船上懒洋洋躺着一只金光灿灿的老虎，船头是一个黑黑的男孩的影子，顺流而上的是一群鲨鱼、海龟；三是听到不少关于此书的介绍，实在是很想知道一个16岁的印度少年和一个重达450磅的孟加拉虎如何在一只救生艇上共同生活七个多月。所以虽说是买给别人的礼物，但是还是忍不住要先睹为快，我与F人手一册，比赛看谁进展快。当然，读时要格外小心，不能有任何皱褶，但是做到这一点并不困难，因为看过最初的一百页后，整个故事就飞了起来，让你放不下手，两天的工夫，还没有来得及在白白的书叶上打上灰色的手指印，整本书巳经读完。得布克奖的小说如此流畅好读，这很少见。 其实，我不能说这部小说是一部伟大的文学作品，马特尔也称不上是一位伟大的作家，但是他确是一个讲故事的高手。小说的开篇序言亦真亦假，以第一人称叙述，讲述的基本上是马特尔自己的经历：第一本小说出版后如石牛入水，只卖出几百本后就无人问津；第二部小说刚刚开头就文思枯竭，于是，作者离开加拿大前往印度寻找灵感，然而，每天坐在咖啡馆中看着热闹的世界过往，灵感却总如长长的细线那一头的风筝，刚刚要抓到手，游丝断了，风筝飞了，头脑中又是一片干枯，于是，正打算要收拾行囊打道回加拿大，他在喜马拉雅山下的咖啡馆中遇到一人。当然，此时，小说的虚构就出来了，此位印度智者说："我有一个故事，这个故事可以让你相信上帝。"接着此人介绍了一位他们家的世交，现住加拿大的帕特尔。作者回到加拿大，找到帕特尔，听帕特尔讲述他一生的故事，于是，形成此书。 小说分三部分。第一部分，总共930页①，写的是"作者"在加拿大采访帕特尔，帕特尔对于他少年时代在印度生活的回忆，他的父母、哥哥以及叔伯亲戚，他的学校老师以及家庭的朋友，他们家的动物园中的各种动物，最重要的，是出身印度教的他如何发现基督教与回教都很有道理，如何在教堂中接受了洗礼，在清真寺中皈依回教，如何同时信仰这三种宗教。这一部分中，有一些至关重要的细节，例如帕特尔对于三教的皈依，别人对他不解，他说："我只想热爱上帝！"还有在加拿大，每次书中的"我"去采访他，总是逐渐发现帕特尔的一些私人生活，先是发现他并不是孤身一人，他有一位妻子；然后又发现他还有一个十来岁的儿子，采访将近结束时，人们意识到帕特尔还有一位可爱的四岁的女儿。"我"颇为感慨至少，这个故事有一个幸福的结局。"但是这第一部分中很大一部分文字，都让人觉得冗长乏味，描写一些无关紧要的在印度的生活，而这种描绘，没有作者的切入骨髓的生活体验，也就如隔靴搔痒，可有可无。于是边读边想：如果我是编辑，肯定要把这九十多页删成30页。值得一提的还有帕特尔的名宇，他大号派西尼·莫利托·帕特尔（Piscine Molitor Patel）是取法国巴黎一家游泳池之名，但是Piscine与英文小便同音，于是帕特尔从小在学校中就常常遭到同学取笑，于是，他决定把自己的名字简化成Pi，意味圆周率，自以为是酷名字。上海好友曾来电子信称此书为《屁的一生》，这是汉语无意中的巧合，虽然是"尿"不是"底"，但仍有异曲同工之妙。 【①此处及本文中提及的其他页码均为英文版的页码。特此说明。】 阅读这部小说的最好忠告，是耐心，等到小说的第一部分收了尾，帕特尔的父亲决定全家带着动物移民加拿大，他们所乘坐的日本货船漂荡在太平洋上时，马特尔的叙述就充满了你无法拒绝不能释手的魅力。于是，这将近二百页的第二部分"太平洋"，就成了海上生存和驯虎记的精彩手册，由帕特尔第一人称叙述，没有"作者"的注解和观察，一气呵成，波澜起伏，又十分熨帖。 日本货轮失事，帕特尔被两名水手当做诱饵扔到救生艇中去喂鬣狗，他侥幸落在救生艇的舱盖布上得以生存，于是，他开始了在海上漂泊227天的历程，与他同时处在救生艇中的，除了那只鬣狗外，还有一只断了一条腿的斑马、一只猩猩以及一只成年孟加拉虎，由于海关官员的失误，这只孟加拉虎注册了一个正儿八经的绅士的名字：理查德·帕克。在救生艇上的最初三天，鬣狗咬死了猩猩，活吃了斑马，理查德·帕克咬死了鬣狗。接着，16岁的少年帕特尔海上生存的故事，就是如何对付理查德·帕克的故事。 一开始，帕特尔满脑子想的是如何把老虎置于死地，夺回他在救生艇上的生存空间，他想了六种对付老虎的计策，第一，把他推下救生艇；第二，用救生艇储藏室中的六针吗啡因把他置于死地；第三,用所有能弄到手的武器来攻击他；第四，用东西把他噎死；第五，给他下毒，在他身上放火，电死他；第六，与他打消耗战。然而，仔细考虑后，这六点都没有用。帕特尔意识到，如果和理查德·帕克斗争，输的只是他自己；他注意到，老虎在海浪平静吃饱了救生艇上的动物残骸之后，竟然如同一只可爱的大猫一样向他表示友善。最后，帕特尔得出结论，他的生路只有一条，那就是要保证理查德·帕克的食物和饮水，只要老虎不饿，他就没有危险。帕特尔从救生艇储藏室中找出钓竿，取出海水淡化器，这位生来素食长大的少年开始成为海上垂钓解刨海龟和大小鱼类的能手。此外，帕特尔还根据他从小在动物园中长大所积累的经验，开始了驯虎的过程，他一是利用老虎晕船的短处，二是让老虎明白，他是食物和水的来源，他甚至通过把玩理查德·帕克的粪便来打败老虎耀武扬威的士气，逐渐，理查德·帕克终于明白了在救生艇中帕特尔是老大，他是老二。马特尔关于驯虎的描绘经过最细致的调查研究，读后让你油然而生想当马戏团驯兽员的欲望。更重要的，这驯虎的过程也是少年帕特尔演变成成年男人的过程。 当然，这二百多面的描述，也充满了海上生存所能碰到的所有危险和障碍：雷电交加的暴风雨的夜晚，鲨鱼和鲸鱼试图把救生艇撞翻，经过的巨轮不仅错过救生艇而且掀起的海浪差点把救生艇给淹没等等，这些都很准确，也很可信。在整个漂流的过程中，帕特尔的经历有两件让人不解的奇事：一是他因营养不良突然失明两天，正在这两天中，他的救生艇碰上另一个救生艇，上面有一个法国口音的厨师试图掠夺他艇上所剩无几的饼干和饮用水，结果被理查德·帕克给咬死，等到帕特尔眼晴复明时，法国厨师已经只剩下头盖骨。第二件奇事是他在茫茫太平洋中遇到一个布满了沼狸的海岛，海岛上的植物可以填饱他的肚子，沼狸则是理查德·帕克的佳肴，但是每晚理查德·帕克都要回到救生艇上，这让他奇怪，终于帕特尔发现了被树叶子卷包着的一副32颗成年人的牙齿，意识到这是一个食人岛，每到夜晚，岛上的湖水就通过某种化学变化而变成盐酸浓浆，消化所有靠近的动物，于是，帕特尔决定这个岛虽如天堂，却不是久留之地，离开海岛前他当然没有忘记带上他危险的"伴侣"理查德·帕克。 在整个第二部分中，马特尔不乏神来之笔，描述大海，天空，云朵，海底世界，那些充满了各种生物的倒过来的城市，都在他的笔下活灵活现。请看下面一段关于大海的描述①： 【①此处及本文中的其他引文系本文作者自译，考虑到行文风格未据正文进行统一。特此说明。】 大海有许多种，有时大海是老虎的吼叫，有时大海是一个朋友在你的耳边轻声诉说一个秘密；有时大海是口袋里的一把硬币玎玲作响，有时大海是雪崩发出雷鸣，大海是砂纸打磨在木头上，大海是有人在呕吐；大海是死一般的沉静。 还有对于救生艇上的生活，马特尔也深有体会： 救生艇上的生活其实算不上是生活，那就像是棋盘上的最后几招棋，剩下的棋子没有几个。要素很简单，赌注也不高。从体力上来说极度艰苦，从士气上说令人沮丧。为了生存你必须调整你自已，什么都可以牺牲，你尽所有可能自寻乐子。你已经到了地狱的底层，然而，你还是可以交叉着双手脸上露出一丝笑容，觉得你自己是世界上最幸运的人。为什么？因为在你的脚下，躺着一条小小的死鱼。 帕特尔这二百多天生活的中心是理查德·帕克那个"威猛的食肉动物，每一个爪子都锋利如刀子"，那个让他害怕让他长大成人又逼着他生存的老虎，然而，最后他漂到墨西哥海岸登陆时，理查德·帕克竟然是不告而别，消失在墨西哥的丛林之中，一去不复返，帕特尔这样诉说理查德·帕克和他的最后分别： 我从船边上爬下来，我不敢就这样放手，自己离被解救这么近，但是我害怕我会在这两英尺深的水中淹死。我抬头看看究竞还有多远，这一抬头让我看到了理查德·帕克的最后一面，因为就是在那一瞬间他从我身上跳过，我看到他充满生命活力的身体在我头上的空中伸展，像掠过一道毛绒绒的彩虹。他落在水面上，他的后腿伸开，他的尾巴高翘，只几步，他已经到了海滩上。他往左走，他的爪子抓凿着湖湿的沙子，忽然他改变了主意，急转一个身，从我面前跨过，向右边奔去。他连瞅都没有向我瞅一眼，他沿着海滩跑了将近一百码，然后转向丛林。他的步子笨拙不够协调，他摔倒好几次。到了丛林边上，他停下来，那一刻，我确信他会回头看我，他会顺下耳朵，他会吼叫，这样，他会为我们的关系画一个句号。但是他根本没有如此行为，他的眼睛直盯着丛林，然后，理查德·帕克，这位我备受折磨时的伴侣，让我生存的令人畏惧的凶猛的东西，他一越向前，就这样永远从我的生 活里消失了。 （2） 小说的第三部分，总共20页，是一份调查录音带的文字记录。帕特尔得救后不久，日本轮船保险公司冈本先生和千叶先生前往墨西哥的一家医院看望这位货轮惟一的幸存者，这份报告是他们对他的采访以及最后他们得出的结论。在我们讨论这一部分之前，让我先说说圣诞礼物的经历。 圣诞礼物中的一本书是送给我的大姑子斯黛芬尼，我们圣诞节去开普敦度假，就住在她家。她和她先生刚刚在普岭沟海湾边买了一座简单的度假小木屋，普岭沟离开普敦城里开车一个小时，白色长长的沙滩风景很秀丽。圣诞日刚过他们就早早开车去了度假屋，当然没有忘记他们的圣诞礼物。第二天一大早斯黛芬尼打电话回开普敦的家，说那里的海湾风平浪静，如同一面镜子，我们何不带着小豆子去度假屋过一天，（应该说明一下，开普敦天天有风，但很少处处有风，风刮起来时海滩的沙子可以刺得皮肤生疼，没有风时沙滩海水是最迷人的；所以，去东边还是西边的海滩，全靠风向决定！）于是，等我们早上11点到达度假屋时，我注意到斯黛芬尼手中的《少年Pi的奇幻漂流》巳经快读完了。刚刚泡了咖啡坐下，斯黛芬尼就迫不及待地要与我们讨论此书，说这《少年Pi的奇幻漂流》真是让人惊叹，说那驯虎记真是精彩得让人透不过气来！还有那捕捉解刨生吃大海龟的过程！我问她还剩多少页，她说大概还有15页吧，我说你先把这15页看完，我们再讨论如何？带着小豆子去海边转了一小圈，回到度假屋时，斯黛芬尼刚好巳经读完最后一页，她坐在太阳下面，遥望着蓝色的大海和遥远的只有一些影子的桌子山，书被合着放在她的膝盖上，她的眼晴有些红有些湿润，我说你读完了么？她点点头，又摇摇头，轻声说太让人伤心了！"就不愿再多说一句！ 这是《少年Pi的奇幻漂流》最后短短20页的效果！我虽然没有流泪，但也沉默了许久，因为在最后这部分，面对日本调查员的怀疑和审问，帕特尔又用最简单的语调讲了另一个沉船的故事：没有鬣狗和猩猩，没有斑马和老虎，货轮刚刚沉下去时，救生艇上有四个人：一个断了一条腿的华人水手，一个货轮上烧饭的法国厨子，帕特尔，还有帕特尔的母亲。法国厨子当着帕特尔的面杀死了华人水手和帕特尔的母亲，至于厨子的下场呢？帕特尔没有说，但是我们都知道，最后在海上漂流生存下来的到底是谁。于是，读者和日本调查员都意识到：鬣狗咬死了斑马和猩猩，老虎咬死了謖狗，同时，老虎也咬死了那个帕特尔没有看到的另一个救生艇上的法国厨师，那么究竟谁是老虎？难道理查德·帕克从来就没有存在过？难道这个孟加拉虎竟是帕特尔的另一个自我？ 那么你究竟相信哪个故事是真的呢？请看以下帕特尔与两位日本调查员之间的对话： "对你来说在事实上这两个故事没有区别？" "你不能证明哪一个是真的，哪一个是假的。我说什么你都只能听着。" "我想是这样吧。" "在两个故事中，船沉了，我的家人都死了，而我在受罪。" "这是真的。" "那么告诉我，因为在事实上没有区别，两边你都不能证明，那么，你更喜欢哪个故事呢？哪个故事更有意思，有动物的还是没有动物的？" 冈本先生："这个问题很有意思。" 千叶先生："当然是有动物的故事。" 冈本先生：“对，有动物的故事是更有意思的故事。" 帕特尔先生：“谢谢，上帝也是这个道理。" 日本调查员们知道他们对于故事的选择，冈本先生在最后的调查报告中写道沉船的惟一幸存者，印度公民帕特尔先生的故事，是一个充满勇气和耐性的让人震惊的故事，他面对的是不同寻常的艰难和悲惨的环境。作为一位专业调查员，在沉船历史上，他的故事是前所未有的。很少有乘船遇难者能在海上生存那么久，更不用说是在一只孟加拉虎的陪伴之下。" 那么读者呢？如果你相信老虎的存在，那么这是一个探险的故事，是一个成长的故事，是一个传奇的故事；如果你否认老虎，那这就是一个人生最极端的悲剧，是什么样的悲哀，使这个少年必须编造出一只孟加拉虎才能忘却？于是，你禁不住要回头再看他驯虎的章节，你的眼睛就盯住了这样的段落： 让我告诉你一个秘密：有时我因为理查德·帕克的存在而高兴，我心中的一部分不想让理查德·帕克死去，因为如果他死了，那么我就会独自在绝望中生存，而绝望是比老虎更可怕的敌人。如果我还有一丝生存的愿望，那么我要感谢理查德·帕克，是他让我没有时间多想我的家人和我悲惨的境遇，是他钱迫我继续生存，我因此而憎恨他，但是同时，我也因此而感谢他。我至今仍然感激他。事实很简单：如果没有理查德·帕克，那么我今天也就不会活着给你讲我的故事。 你是否还觉得自己受了作者的欺骗，是否还觉得自己如此享受太平洋上那二百多页让你透不过气了来的描写实在是很委屈？你想到老庄的"大象无形，大音稀声"的哲学，你如果觉得帕特尔与老虎共处七个月的生活充满危险，那么目睹母亲被害，手上又沾上法国厨子鲜血的孤独的生活呢？这个世界上有什么语言能够描绘那种生活呢？想到这里，你也只能如斯黛芬尼坐在如镜的大海边默默流泪了。惟一能让你宽慰的是小说第一部分中，"我"逐渐发现帕特尔有妻子有儿女，你终于明白了为什么当时"我"看到帕特尔亲吻女儿时，要赞叹："这个故事有一个幸福的结局！"说到底，《少年Pi的奇幻漂流》还是一部让你"觉得舒服"的小说，否则，送此书作为圣诞节礼物就太不合适了！ （3） 有着"幸福结局"的让人"觉得舒服"（feel good）的小说往往被严肃的评论家们视为浅薄，这向来是喜欢自我标榜纯文学的布克奖的大忌。畅销书作家纵然也有好作家，但却很少得布克奖的提名。所以，今年马特尔得奖，就有些出人意料。 今年的提名作品中，有评论界最中意的最出名最有成就的爱尔兰小说家William Trevor,他的中篇小说《露西高特的故事》（The Story of Lucy Gault）；也有赌行最看好的印度裔加拿大作家Rohinton Mistry，他的提名作品是关于孟买的家史小说《家事》（Family Matters），但最后，评委还是以四比一的大多数票选中了马特尔的《少年Pi的奇幻漂流》。我刚刚读完砖头一般厚的《平衡》（A Fine Balance），此书是1996年布克奖的提名作品（Mistry至只出版过三部小说，但是每部都得布克奖提名，但是从来没有获奖），说句公道话，马特尔和Mistry是属于两个重量级的作家，马特尔的作品是聪明机智的产物，Mistry则是用激情和扎实的功力进行创作，为什么今年马特尔战胜Mistry而夺魁，对我来说也是个谜，可能真如传媒所说，要归功于今年布克奖评委会主席佳定教授（Lisa Jardine）。 布克奖是英国最高的文学奖项，面对的是英联邦的所有用英文写作的作家，每家出版社每年提交当年出版的两本小说给评委会，五位评委们第一轮要阅读一百三十多部作品，从其中选出六部最后的提名作品出来。所以，评委生杀大权在握，个人好恶决定一切。每一年，布克奖都是出版商之间的内战，充满了在背后互捅刀子的阴谋计划，传媒总是要抓住刀光斧影做文章，因为奖金虽少，但是能上最后六本的名单，也就保证了这部作品的畅销性，那会给出版社带来上百万的利润，因为这个世界上充满了像我这样喜欢买布克奖提名或得奖作品做圣诞节礼物的人！人们都说今年的布克奖应该是新纪元，因为布克奖有了新的赞助商，奖金从三万英镑上升到五万英镑，所以，今年的布克奖应该是更有透明度，更有现代感，更与读者亲善，更追求公关效果和市场效应，今年的布克奖将没有阴谋诡计！为了证明这一点，佳定教授答应让摄像机进入到最后一轮的裁决讨论以及投票中，过去许多年中，这最后起的评判阶段向来是最为机密的，然而，2002年，这最后起决定作用的七十分钟却成了文学爱好者的现实电视，评委们成了"大哥屋"中的选手，人们惊讶（也有些失望）地发现，评委们并不是疯狂的恶人猛兽，也许因为有摄像机的注视，他们虽有激烈的争执，但是并没有传说中的往对方脸上吐唾沫撕扯头发往胯部踹一脚的大打出手的举动。 许多人觉得《少年Pi的奇幻漂流》得奖，一是因为它是所有评委的第二选择，二是因为此书符合佳定教授试图创造的布克奖的新形象。《少年Pi的奇幻漂流》与任何一家伦敦大出版社都没有关系，此书由苏格兰爱丁堡一家很小的出版社Canongate出版，33岁的总编辑Jamie Byng当时慧眼识珠，现在当然是共享胜利果实。马特尔的经纪人透露说，《少年Pi的奇幻漂流》曾遭五家伦敦大出版社拒绝，错过一位布克奖得主，这也许是出版商最糟糕的噩梦，现在他们肯定是在捶胸顿足后悔不已。经纪人不愿指名道姓，但还是有两家出版社出来举双手投降，一家是企鹅出版社，另二家是Chatto & Windus。另外三家没有承认，可能是因为不好意思，但也可能是因为编辑根本就没有注意到这本书曾经经过自己的手便写了退稿信，Jonathan Cape的编辑Dan Flanklin说他百分之九十九确信此书手稿没有碰过自己的桌面，同时，他也说：如果此书是由大出版杜出版，也可能根本不会被推荐去竞争布克奖，Jonathan Cape的作家有Martin Amis，Salman Rushdie和Ian McEwan这样的大师，马特尔这样的无名小辈在大出版社中怎么会挤得进两本书的限额之中呢？ ， 马特尔遭伦敦出版商拒绝，自己并不抱怨，照他自己的话来说，他"曾经写了两出不怎么样的戏，发表了几篇不怎么好的短篇小说，出版了一本同祥没有出息的长篇小说"。他的第一部小说《自我》（Self），写的是一个男孩18岁时做变性手术成为女人，7年之后，25岁时又变成男人，此书很不成功，一共只卖掉了几百本。他的第二本书是一册短篇小说集，也同样搁在书店的书架上收集灰尘；7年前，他开始写第二部长篇，开篇不顺，他前往印度寻找灵感，但是小说还是写不下去，于是，他决定放弃创作打道回府，就在这时，许久以前读到的一篇书评浮上他的脑海。那是一篇发表在《纽约时报》上的对于巴西作家Moacyr Scliar的小说《麦克斯和他的大猫》（Max and His Cats）的评价，当年马特尔读了书评后，就想找那本书来读，但是找遍了蒙特利尔没有找到，也就把这事给忘记了。当他在印度寻找灵感这篇书评浮上脑海时，他不记得书评作者，也不记得被评论的作家以及作品的题目，刻进他的头脑的是被评作品的主要因素：男孩，野兽，救生艇。于是，新作就在头脑中成了型，马特尔最先想到的在救生艇上的动物是印度象，然后又想到印度犀牛，最后定下来是孟加拉虎。许多人称《少年Pi的奇幻漂流》是"魔幻现实主义"的作品，我觉得此书虽然有亦真亦假的结构，但是却称不上有"魔幻"的那种"魔力"和那种"幻觉"，此书更强调的，是如何在失去所有家人漂流海上的悲惨境遇中生存，这种生存很残酷，也很现实。 马特尔1963年出生于西班牙，他的父母亲是加拿大的外交官，他曾经在许多国家居住过，西班牙，阿拉斯加，哥斯达黎加，法国，伊朗，秘鲁，厄瓜多尔，土耳其，当然还有印度。现在他居住在柏林，他父母所居住的蒙特利尔，仍被他视为家，内心深处，他仍是加拿大人。当作家并不是马特尔从小的心愿，马特尔最早的愿望是想成为政治家，也想过成为人类学家或是哲学家。但是也许因为创作基因的存在，所以最终还是走上了这条路。马特尔的父亲以外交官为生，但同时也是一位诗人，现在，他的父母早已退休，翻译文学作品，他们俩正联手把自己儿子的得奖之作翻译成法文。 不能说马特尔是有经验的作家，也不能说他是伟大的作家，但是他确实是一位很有趣的作家。他现在正在创作的新书的主题是纳粹集中营中的故事，他透露说里面将有一件衬衫一条狗，这又将是一本怎祥的书呢？ 2003年1月30日于约翰内斯堡 |
CHAPTER 99 Mr. Okamoto: "Mr. Patel, we don't believe your story." "Sorry—these cookies are good but they tend to crumble. I'm amazed. Why not?" "It doesn't hold up." "What do you mean?" "Bananas don't float." "I'm sorry?" "You said the orang-utan came floating on an island of bananas." "That's right." "Bananas don't float." "Yes, they do." "They're too heavy." "No, they're not. Here, try for yourself. I have two bananas right here." Mr. Chiba: <translation>"Where did those come from? What else does he have under his bedsheet?" Mr. Okamoto: "Damn it.</translation> No, that's all right." "There's a sink over there." "That's fine." "I insist. Fill that sink with water, drop these bananas in, and we'll see who's right." "We'd like to move on." "I absolutely insist." [Silence] Mr. Chiba: <translation>"What do we do?" Mr. Okamoto: "I feel this is going to be another very long day."</translation> [Sound of a chair being pushed back. Distant sound of water gushing out of a tap] Pi Patel: "What's happening? I can't see from here." Mr. Okamoto [distantly]: "I'm filling the sink." "Have you put the bananas in yet?" [Distantly] "No." "And now?" [Distantly] "They're in." "And?" [Silence] Mr. Chiba: <translation>"Are they floating?" [Distantly] "Tkey're floating."</translation> "So, are they floating?" [Distantly] "They're floating." "What did I tell you?" Mr. Okamoto: "Yes, yes. But it would take a lot of bananas to hold up an orang-utan." "It did. There was close to a ton. It still makes me sick when I think of all those bananas floating away and going to waste when they were mine for the picking." "It's a pity. Now, about? "Could I have my bananas back, please?" Mr. Chiba: <translation>"I'll get them." [Sound of a chair being pushed back] [Distantly] "Look at that. They really do float."</translation> Mr. Okamoto: "What about this algae island you say you came upon?" Mr. Chiba: "Here are your bananas." Pi Patel: "Thank you. Yes?" "I'm sorry to say it so bluntly, we don't mean to hurt your feelings, but you don't really expect us to believe you, do you? Carnivorous trees? A fish-eating algae that produces fresh water? Tree-dwelling aquatic rodents? These things don't exist." "Only because you've never seen them." "That's right. We believe what we see." "So did Columbus. What do you do when you're in the dark?" "Your island is botanically impossible." "Said the fly just before landing in the Venus flytrap." "Why has no one else come upon it?" "It's a big ocean crossed by busy ships. I went slowly, observing much." "No scientist would believe you." "These would be the same who dismissed Copernicus and Darwin. Have scientists finished coming upon new plants? In the Amazon basin, for example?" "Not plants that contradict the laws of nature." "Which you know through and through?" "Well enough to know the possible from the impossible." Mr. Chiba: "I have an uncle who knows a lot about botany. He lives in the country near Hita-Gun. He's a bonsai master." Pi Patel: "A what?" "A bonsai master. You know, bonsai are little trees." "You mean shrubs." "No, I mean trees. Bonsai are little trees. They are less than two feet tall. You can carry them in your arms. They can be very old. My uncle has one that is over three hundred years old." "Three-hundred-year-old trees that are two feet tall that you can carry in your arms?" "Yes. They're very delicate. They need a lot of attention." "Whoever heard of such trees? They're botanically impossible." "But I assure you they exist, Mr. Patel. My uncle? "I believe what I see." Mr. Okamoto: "Just a moment, please. <translation>Atsuro, with all due respect for your uncle who lives in the country near Hita-Gun, we're not here to talk idly about botany." "I'm just trying to help." "Do your uncle's bonsai eat meat?" "I don't think so." "Have you ever been bitten by one of his bonsai?" "No." "In that case, your uncle's bonsai are not helping us.</translation> Where were we?" Pi Patel: "With the tall, full-sized trees firmly rooted to the ground I was telling you about." "Let us put them aside for now." "It might be hard. I never tried pulling them out and carrying them." "You're a funny man, Mr. Patel. Ha! Ha! Ha!" Pi Patel: "Ha! Ha! Ha!" Mr. Chiba: "Ha! Ha! Ha! <translation>It wasn't that funny." Mr. Okamoto: "Just keep laughing.</translation> Ha! Ha! Ha!" Mr. Chiba: "Ha! Ha! Ha!" Mr. Okamoto: "Now about the tiger, we're not sure about it either." "What do you mean?" "We have difficulty believing it." "It's an incredible story." "Precisely." "I don't know how I survived." "Clearly it was a strain." "I'll have another cookie." "There are none left." "What's in that bag?" "Nothing." "Can I see?" Mr. Chiba: <translation>"There goes our lunch."</translation> Mr. Okamoto: "Getting back to the tiger..." Pi Patel: "Terrible business. Delicious sandwiches." Mr. Okamoto: "Yes, they look good." Mr. Chiba: <translation>"I'm hungry."</translation> "Not a trace of it has been found. That's a bit hard to believe, isn't it? There are no tigers in the Americas. If there were a wild tiger out there, don't you think the police would have heard about it by now?" "I should tell you about the black panther that escaped from the Zurich Zoo in the middle of winter." "Mr. Patel, a tiger is an incredibly dangerous wild animal. How could you survive in a lifeboat with one? It's? "What you don't realize is that we are a strange and forbidding species to wild animals. We fill them with fear. They avoid us as much as possible. It took centuries to still the fear in some pliable animals—domestication it's called—but most cannot get over their fear, and I doubt they ever will. When wild animals fight us, it is out of sheer desperation. They fight when they feel they have no other way out. It's a very last resort." "In a lifeboat? Come on, Mr. Patel, it's just too hard to believe!" "Hard to believe? What do you know about hard to believe? You want hard to believe? I'll give you hard to believe. It's a closely held secret among Indian zookeepers that in 1971 Bara the polar bear escaped from the Calcutta Zoo. She was never heard from again, not by police or hunters or poachers or anyone else. We suspect she's living freely on the banks of the Hugli River. Beware if you go to Calcutta, my good sirs: if you have sushi on the breath you may pay a high price! If you took the city of Tokyo and turned it upside down and shook it, you'd be amazed at all the animals that would fall out: badgers, wolves, boa constrictors, Komodo dragons, crocodiles, ostriches, baboons, capybaras, wild boars, leopards, manatees, ruminants in untold numbers. There is no doubt in my mind that feral giraffes and feral hippos have been living in Tokyo for generations without being seen by a soul. You should compare one day the things that stick to the soles of your shoes as you walk down the street with what you see lying at the bottom of the cages in the Tokyo Zoo—then look up! And you expect to find a tiger in a Mexican jungle! It's laughable, just plain laughable. Ha! Ha! Ha!" "There may very well be feral giraffes and feral hippos living in Tokyo and a polar bear living freely in Calcutta. We just don't believe there was a tiger living in your lifeboat." "The arrogance of big-city folk! You grant your metropolises all the animals of Eden, but you deny my hamlet the merest Bengal tiger!" "Mr. Patel, please calm down." "If you stumble at mere believability, what are you living for? Isn't love hard to believe?" "Mr. Patel? "Don't you bully me with your politeness! Love is hard to believe, ask any lover. Life is hard to believe, ask any scientist. God is hard to believe, ask any believer. What is your problem with hard to believe?" "We're just being reasonable." "So am I! I applied my reason at every moment. Reason is excellent for getting food, clothing and shelter. Reason is the very best tool kit. Nothing beats reason for keeping tigers away. But be excessively reasonable and you risk throwing out the universe with the bathwater." "Calm down, Mr. Patel, calm down." Mr. Chiba: <translation>"The bathwater? Why is he talking about bathwater?"</translation> "How can I be calm? You should have seen Richard Parker!" "Yes, yes." "Huge. Teeth like this! Claws like scimitars!" Mr. Chiba: <translation>"What are scimitars?" Mr. Okamoto: "Chiba-san,, instead of asking stupid vocabulary questions, why don't you make yourself useful? This boy is a tough nut to crack. Do something!"</translation> Mr. Chiba: "Look! A chocolate bar!" Pi Patel: "Wonderful!" [Long silence] Mr. Okamoto: <translation>"Like he hasn't already stolen our whole lunch. Soon he'll be demanding tempura."</translation> [Long silence] Mr. Okamoto: "We are losing sight of the point of this investigation. We are here because of the sinking of a cargo ship. You are the sole survivor. And you were only a passenger. You bear no responsibility for what happened. We? "Chocolate is so good!" "We are not seeking to lay criminal charges. You are an innocent victim of a tragedy at sea. We are only trying to determine why and how the Tsimtsum sank. We thought you might help us, Mr. Patel." [Silence] "Mr. Patel?" [Silence] Pi Patel: "Tigers exist, lifeboats exist, oceans exist. Because the three have never come together in your narrow, limited experience, you refuse to believe that they might. Yet the plain fact is that the Tsimtsum brought them together and then sank." [Silence] Mr. Okamoto: "What about this Frenchman?" "What about him?" "Two blind people in two separate lifeboats meeting up in the Pacific—the coincidence seems a little far-fetched, no?" "It certainly does." "We find it very unlikely." "So is winning the lottery, yet someone always wins." "We find it extremely hard to believe." "So did I." <translation>"I knew we should have taken the day off.</translation> You talked about food?" "We did." "He knew a lot about food." "If you can call it food." "The cook on the Tsimtsum was a Frenchman." "There are Frenchmen all over the world." "Maybe the Frenchman you met was the cook." "Maybe. How should I know? I never saw him. I was blind. Then Richard Parker ate him alive." "How convenient." "Not at all. It was horrific and it stank. By the way, how do you explain the meerkat bones in the lifeboat?" "Yes, the bones of a small animal were? "More than one!" "—of some small animals were found in the lifeboat. They must have come from the ship." "We had no meerkats at the zoo." "We have no proof they were meerkat bones." Mr. Chiba: "Maybe they were banana bones! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!" <translation>"Atsuro, shut up!" "I'm very sorry, Okamoto-san. It's the fatigue." "You're bringing our service into disrepute!" "Very sorry, Okamoto-san."</translation> Mr. Okamoto: "They could be bones from another small animal." "They were meerkats." "They could be mongooses." "The mongooses at the zoo didn't sell. They stayed in India." "They could be shipboard pests, like rats. Mongooses are common in India." "Mongooses as shipboard pests?" "Why not?" "Who swam in the stormy Pacific, several of them, to the lifeboat? That's a little hard to believe, wouldn't you say?" "Less hard to believe than some of the things we've heard in the last two hours. Perhaps the mongooses were already aboard the lifeboat, like the rat you mentioned." "Simply amazing the number of animals in that lifeboat." "Simply amazing." "A real jungle." "Yes." "Those bones are meerkat bones. Have them checked by an expert." "There weren't that many left. And there were no heads." "I used them as bait." "It's doubtful an expert could tell whether they were meerkat bones or mongoose bones." "Find yourself a forensic zoologist." "All right, Mr. Patel! You win. We cannot explain the presence of meerkat bones, if that is what they are, in the lifeboat. But that is not our concern here. We are here because a Japanese cargo ship owned by Oika Shipping Company, flying the Panamanian flag, sank in the Pacific." "Something I never forget, not for a minute. I lost my whole family." "We're sorry aboutt that." "Not as much as I am." [Long silence] Mr. Chiba: <translation>"What do we do now?" Mr. Okamoto: "I don't know."</translation> [Long silence] Pi Patel: "Would you like a cookie?" Mr. Okamoto: "Yes, that would be nice. Thank you." Mr. Chiba: "Thank you." [Long silence] Mr. Okamoto: "It's a nice day." Pi Patel: "Yes. Smnny." [Long silence] Pi Patel: "Is this your first visit to Mexico?" Mr. Okamoto: "Yes, it is." "Mine too." [Long silence] Pi Patel: "So, you didn't like my story?" Mr. Okamoto: "No, we liked it very much. Didn't we, Atsuro? We will remember it for a long, long time." Mr. Chiba: "We will." [Silence] Mr. Okamoto: "But for the purposes of our investigation, we would like to know what really happened." "What really happened?" "Yes." "So you want another story?" "Uhh...no. We would like to know what really happened." "Doesn't the telling of something always become a story?" "Uhh...perhaps in English. In Japanese a story would have an element of invention in it. We don't want any invention. We want the 'straight facts', as you say in English." "Isn't telling about something—using words, English or Japanese—already something of an invention? Isn't just looking upon this world already something of an invention?" "Uhh..." "The world isn't just the way it is. It is how we understand it, no? And in understanding something, we bring something to it, no? Doesn't that make life a story?" "Ha! Ha! Ha! You are very intelligent, Mr. Patel." Mr. Chiba: <translation>"What is he talking about?" "I have no idea."</translation> Pi Patel: "You want words that reflect reality?" "Yes." "Words that do not contradict reality?" "Exactly." "But tigers don't contradict reality." "Oh please, no more tigers." "I know what you want. You want a story that won't surprise you. That will confirm what you already know. That won't make you see higher or further or differently. You want a flat story. An immobile story. You want dry, yeastless factuality." "Uhh..." "You want a story without animals." "Yes!" "Without tigers or orang-utans." "That's right." "Without hyenas or zebras." "Without them." "Without meerkats or mongooses." "We don't want them." "Without giraffes or hippopotamuses." "We will plug our ears with our fingers!" "So I'm right. You want a story without animals." "We want a story without animals that will explain the sinking of the Tsimtsum." "Give me a minute, please." "Of course. <translation>I think we're finally getting somewhere. Let's hope he speaks some sense."</translation> [Long silence] "Here's another story." "Good." "The ship sank. It made a sound like a monstrous metallic burp. Things bubbled at the surface and then vanished. I found myself kicking water in the Pacific Ocean. I swam for the lifeboat. It was the hardest swim of my life. I didn't seem to be moving. I kept swallowing water. I was very cold. I was rapidly losing strength. I wouldn't have made it if the cook hadn't thrown me a lifebuoy and pulled me in. I climbed aboard and collapsed. "Four of us survived. Mother held on to some bananas and made it to the lifeboat. The cook was already aboard, as was the sailor. "He ate the flies. The cook, that is. We hadn't been in the lifeboat a full day; we had food and water to last us for weeks; we had fishing gear and solar stills; we had no reason to believe that we wouldn't be rescued soon. Yet there he was, swinging his arms and catching flies and eating them greedily. Right away he was in a holy terror of hunger. He was calling us idiots and fools for not joining him in the feast. We were offended and disgusted, but we didn't show it. We were very polite about it. He was a stranger and a foreigner. Mother smiled and shook her head and raised her hand in refusal. He was a disgusting man. His mouth had the discrimination of a garbage heap. He also ate the rat. He cut it up and dried it in the sun. I—I'll be honest—I had a small piece, very small, behind Mother's back. I was so hungry. He was such a brute, that cook, ill-tempered and hypocritical. "The sailor was young. Actually, he was older than me, probably in his early twenties, but he broke his leg jumping from the ship and his suffering made him a child. He was beautiful. He had no facial hair at all and a clear, shining complexion. His features—the broad face, the flattened nose, the narrow, pleated eyes—looked so elegant. I thought he looked like a Chinese emperor. His suffering was terrible. He spoke no English, not a single word, not yes or no, hello or thank you. He spoke only Chinese. We couldn't understand a word he said. He must have felt very lonely. When he wept, Mother held his head in her lap and I held his hand. It was very, very sad. He suffered and we couldn't do anything about it. "His right leg was badly broken at the thigh. The bone stuck out of his flesh. He screamed with pain. We set his leg as best we could and we made sure he was eating and drinking. But his leg became infected. Though we drained it of pus every day, it got worse. His foot became black and bloated. "It was the cook's idea. He was a brute. He dominated us. He whispered that the blackness would spread and that he would survive only if his leg were amputated. Since the bone was broken at the thigh, it would involve no more than cutting through flesh and setting a tourniquet. I can still hear his evil whisper. He would do the job to save the sailor's life, he said, but we would have to hold him. Surprise would be the only anaesthetic. We fell upon him. Mother and I held his arms while the cook sat on his good leg. The sailor writhed and screamed. His chest rose and fell. The cook worked the knife quickly. The leg fell off. Immediately Mother and I let go and moved away. We thought that if the restraint was ended, so would his struggling. We thought he would lie calmly. He didn't. He sat up instantly. His screams were all the worse for being unintelligible. He screamed and we stared, transfixed. There was blood everywhere. Worse, there was the contrast between the frantic activity of the poor sailor and the gentle repose of his leg at the bottom of the boat. He kept looking at the limb, as if imploring it to return. At last he fell back. We hurried into action. The cook folded some skin over the bone. We wrapped the stump in a piece of cloth and we tied a rope above the wound to stop the bleeding. We laid him as comfortably as we could on a mattress of life jackets and kept him warm. I thought it was all for nothing. I couldn't believe a human being could survive so much pain, so much butchery. Throughout the evening and night he moaned, and his breathing was harsh and uneven. He had fits of agitated delirium. I expected him to die during the night. "He clung to life. At dawn he was still alive. He went in and out of consciousness. Mother gave him water. I caught sight of the amputated leg. It cut my breath short. In the commotion it had been shoved aside and forgotten in the dark. It had seeped a liquid and looked thinner. I took a life jacket and used it as a glove. I picked the leg up. "'What are you doing?' asked the cook. "'I'm going to throw it overboard,' I replied. "'Don't be an idiot. We'll use it as bait. That was the whole point.' "He seemed to regret his last words even as they were coming out, for his voice faded quickly. He turned away. "'The whole point?' Mother asked. 'What do you mean by that?' "He pretended to be busy. "Mother's voice rose. 'Are you telling us that we cut this poor boy's leg off not to save his life but to get fishing bait?' "Silence from the brute. "'Answer me!' shouted Mother. "Like a cornered beast he lifted his eyes and glared at her. 'Our supplies are running out,' he snarled. 'We need more food or we'll die.' "Mother returned his glare. 'Our supplies are not running out! We have plenty of food and water. We have package upon package of biscuits to tide us over till our rescue.' She took hold of the plastic container in which we put the open rations of biscuits. It was unexpectedly light in her hands. The few crumbs in it rattled. 'What!' She opened it. 'Where are the biscuits? The container was full last night!' "The cook looked away. As did I. "'You selfish monster!' screamed Mother. 'The only reason we're running out of food is because you're gorging yourself on it!' "'He had some too,' he said, nodding my way. "Mother's eyes turned to me. My heart sank. "'Piscine, is that true?' "'It was night, Mother. I was half asleep and I was so hungry. He gave me a biscuit. I ate it without thinking...' "'Only one, was it?' sneered the cook. "It was Mother's turn to look away. The anger seemed to go out of her. Without saying another word she went back to nursing the sailor. "I wished for her anger. I wished for her to punish me. Only not this silence. I made to arrange some life jackets for the sailor's comfort so that I could be next to her. I whispered, 'I'm sorry, Mother, I'm sorry.' My eyes were brimming with tears. When I brought them up, I saw that hers were too. But she didn't look at me. Her eyes were gazing upon some memory in mid-air. "'We're all alone, Piscine, all alone,' she said, in a tone that broke every hope in my body. I never felt so lonely in all my life as I did at that moment. We had been in the lifeboat two weeks already and it was taking its toll on us. It was getting harder to believe that Father and Ravi had survived. "When we turned around, the cook was holding the leg by the ankle over the water to drain it. Mother brought her hand over the sailor's eyes. "He died quietly, the life drained out of him like the liquid from his leg. The cook promptly butchered him. The leg had made for poor bait. The dead flesh was too decayed to hold on to the fishing hook; it simply dissolved in the water. Nothing went to waste with this monster. He cut up everything, including the sailor's skin and every inch of his intestines. He even prepared his genitals. When he had finished with his torso, he moved on to his arms and shoulders and to his legs. Mother and I rocked with pain and horror. Mother shrieked at the cook, 'How can you do this, you monster? Where is your humanity? Have you no decency? What did the poor boy do to you? You monster! You monster!' The cook replied with unbelievable vulgarity. "'At least cover his face, for God's sake!' cried my mother. It was unbearable to have that beautiful face, so noble and serene, connected to such a sight below. The cook threw himself upon the sailor's head and before our very eyes scalped him and pulled off his face. Mother and I vomited. "When he had finished, he threw the butchered carcass overboard. Shortly after, strips of flesh and pieces of organs were lying to dry in the sun all over the boat. We recoiled in horror. We tried not to look at them. The smell would not go away. "The next time the cook was close by, Mother slapped him in the face, a full hard slap that punctuated the air with a sharp crack. It was something shocking coming from my mother. And it was heroic. It was an act of outrage and pity and grief and bravery. It was done in memory of that poor sailor. It was to salvage his dignity. "I was stunned. So was the cook. He stood without moving or saying a word as Mother looked him straight in the face. I noticed how he did not meet her eyes. "We retreated to our private spaces. I stayed close to her. I was filled with a mix of rapt admiration and abject fear. "Mother kept an eye on him. Two days later she saw him do it. He tried to be discreet, but she saw him bring his hand to his mouth. She shouted, 'I saw you! You just ate a piece! You said it was for bait! I knew it. You monster! You animal! How could you? He's human! He's your own kind!' If she had expected him to be mortified, to spit it out and break down and apologize, she was wrong. He kept chewing. In fact, he lifted his head up and quite openly put the rest of the strip in his mouth. 'Tastes like pork,' he muttered. Mother expressed her indignation and disgust by violently turning away. He ate another strip. 'I feel stronger already,' he muttered. He concentrated on his fishing. "We each had our end of the lifeboat. It's amazing how willpower can build walls. Whole days went by as if he weren't there. "But we couldn't ignore him entirely. He was a brute, but a practical brute. He was good with his hands and he knew the sea. He was full of good ideas. He was the one who thought of building a raft to help with the fishing. If we survived any time at all, it was thanks to him. I helped him as best I could. He was very short-tempered, always shouting at me and insulting me. "Mother and I didn't eat any of the sailor's body, not the smallest morsel, despite the cost in weakness to us, but we did start to eat what the cook caught from the sea. My mother, a lifelong vegetarian, brought herself to eat raw fish and raw turtle. She had a very hard time of it. She never got over her revulsion. It came easier to me. I found hunger improved the taste of everything. "When your life has been given a reprieve, it's impossible not to feel some warmth for the one to whom you owe that reprieve. It was very exciting when the cook hauled aboard a turtle or caught a great big dorado. It made us smile broadly and there was a glow in our chests that lasted for hours. Mother and the cook talked in a civil way, even joked. During some spectacular sunsets, life on the boat was nearly good. At such times I looked at him with—yes—with tenderness. With love. I imagined that we were fast friends. He was a coarse man even when he was in a good mood, but we pretended not to notice it, even to ourselves. He said that we would come upon an island. That was our main hope. We exhausted our eyes scanning the horizon for an island that never came. That's when he stole food and water. "The flat and endless Pacific rose like a great wall around us. I never thought we would get around it. "He killed her. The cook killed my mother. We were starving. I was weak. I couldn't hold on to a turtle. Because of me we lost it. He hit me. Mother hit him. He hit her back. She turned to me and said, 'Go!' pushing me towards the raft. I jumped for it. I thought she was coming with me. I landed in the water. I scrambled aboard the raft. They were fighting. I did nothing but watch. My mother was fighting an adult man. He was mean and muscular. He caught her by the wrist and twisted it. She shrieked and fell. He moved over her. The knife appeared. He raised it in the air. It came down. Next it was up—it was red. It went up and down repeatedly. I couldn't see her. She was at the bottom of the boat. I saw only him. He stopped. He raised his head and looked at me. He hurled something my way. A line of blood struck me across the face. No whip could have inflicted a more painful lash. I held my mother's head in my hands. I let it go. It sank in a cloud of blood, her tress trailing like a tail. Fish spiralled down towards it until a shark's long grey shadow cut across its path and it vanished. I looked up. I couldn't see him. He was hiding at the bottom of the boat. He appeared when he threw my mother's body overboard. His mouth was red. The water boiled with fish. "I spent the rest of that day and the night on the raft, looking at him. We didn't speak a word. He could have cut the raft loose. But he didn't. He kept me around, like a bad conscience. "In the morning, in plain sight of him, I pulled on the rope and boarded the lifeboat. I was very weak. He said nothing. I kept my peace. He caught a turtle. He gave me its blood. He butchered it and laid its best parts for me on the middle bench. I ate. "Then we fought and I killed him. He had no expression on his face, neither of despair nor of anger, neither of fear nor of pain. He gave up. He let himself be killed, though it was still a struggle. He knew he had gone too far, even by his bestial standards. He had gone too far and now he didn't want to go on living any more. But he never said 'I'm sorry.' Why do we cling to our evil ways? "The knife was all along in plain view on the bench. We both knew it. He could have had it in his hands from the start. He was the one who put it there. I picked it up. I stabbed him in the stomach. He grimaced but remained standing. I pulled the knife out and stabbed him again. Blood was pouring out. Still he didn't fall over. Looking me in the eyes, he lifted his head ever so slightly. Did he mean something by this? I took it that he did. I stabbed him in the throat, next to the Adam's apple. He dropped like a stone. And died. He didn't say anything. He had no last words. He only coughed up blood. A knife has a horrible dynamic power; once in motion, it's hard to stop. I stabbed him repeatedly. His blood soothed my chapped hands. His heart was a struggle—all those tubes that connected it. I managed to get it out. It tasted delicious, far better than turtle. I ate his liver. I cut off great pieces of his flesh. "He was such an evil man. Worse still, he met evil in me—selfishness, anger, ruthlessness. I must live with that. "Solitude began. I turned to God. I survived." [Long silence] "Is that better? Are there any parts you find hard to believe? Anything you'd like me to change?" Mr. Chiba: <translation>"What a korrible story." [Long silence] Mr. Okamoto: "Both the zebra and the Taiwanese sailor broke a leg, did you notice that?" "No, I didn't." "And the hyena bit off the zebra's leg just as the cook cut off the sailor's." "Ohhh, Okamoto-san, you see a lot." "Tke blind Frenchman they met in the other lifeboat—didn't he admit to killing a man and a woman?" "Yes, he did." "The cook killed the sailor and his mother" "Very impressive." "His stories match." "So the Taiwanese sailor is the zebra, his mother is the orang-utan, the cook is ... the hyena ?which means he is the tiger!" "Yes. The tiger killed the hyena-and the blind Frenchman—just as he killed the cook."</translation> Pi Patel: "Do you have another chocolate bar?" Mr. Chiba: "Right away!" "Thank you." Mr. Chiba: <translation>"But what does it mean, Okamoto-san?" "I have no idea." "And what about those teeth? Whose teeth were those in the tree?" "I don't know. I'm not inside this boy's head."</translation> [Long silence] Mr. Okamoto: "Please excuse me for asking, but did the cook say anything about the sinking of the Tsimtsum?" "In this other story?" "Yes." "He didn't." "He made no mention of anything leading up to the early morning of July 2nd that might explain what happened?" "No." "Nothing of a nature mechanical or structural?" "No." "Nothing about other ships or objects at sea?" "No." "He could not explain the sinking of the Tsimtsum at all?" "No" "Could he say why it didn't send out a distress signal?" "And if it had? In my experience, when a dingy, third-rate rust-bucket sinks, unless it has the luck of carrying oil, lots of it, enough to kill entire ecosystems, no one cares and no one hears about it. You're on your own." "When Oika realized that something was wrong, it was too late. You were too far out for air rescue. Ships in the area were told to be on the lookout. They reported seeing nothing." "And while we're on the subject, the ship wasn't the only thing that was third-rate. The crew were a sullen, unfriendly lot, hard at work when officers were around but doing nothing when they weren't. They didn't speak a word of English and they were of no help to us. Some of them stank of alcohol by mid-afternoon. Who's to say what those idiots did? The officers? "What do you mean by that?" "By what?" "'Who's to say what those idiots did?'" "I mean that maybe in a fit of drunken insanity some of them released the animals." Mr. Chiba: "Who had the keys to the cages?" "Father did." Mr. Chiba: "So how could the crew open the cages if they didn't have the keys?" "I don't know. They probably used crowbars." Mr. Chiba: "Why would they do that? Why would anyone want to release a dangerous wild animal from its cage?" "I don't know. Can anyone fathom the workings of a drunken man's mind? All I can tell you is what happened. The animals were out of their cages." Mr. Okamoto: "Excuse me. You have doubts about the fitness of the crew?" "Grave doubts." "Did you witness any of the officers being under the influence of alcohol?" "No." "But you saw some of the crew being under the influence of alcohol?" "Yes." "Did the officers act in what seemed to you a competent and professional manner?" "They had little to do with us. They never came close to the animals." "I mean in terms of running the ship." "How should I know? Do you think we had tea with them every day? They spoke English, but they were no better than the crew. They made us feel unwelcome in the common room and hardly said a word to us during meals. They went on in Japanese, as if we weren't there. We were just a lowly Indian family with a bothersome cargo. We ended up eating on our own in Father and Mother's cabin. 'Adventure beckons!' said Ravi. That's what made it tolerable, our sense of adventure. We spent most of our time shovelling excrement and rinsing cages and giving feed while Father played the vet. So long as the animals were all right, we were all right. I don't know if the officers were competent." "You said the ship was listing to port?" "Yes." "And that there was an incline from bow to stern?" "Yes." "So the ship sank stern first?" "Yes." "Not bow first?" "No." "You are sure? There was a slope from the front of the ship to the back?" "Yes." "Did the ship hit another ship?" "I didn't see another ship." "Did it hit any other object?" "Not that I saw." "Did it run aground?" "No, it sank out of sight." "You were not aware of mechanical problems after leaving Manila?" "No." "Did it appear to you that the ship was properly loaded?" "It was my first time on a ship. I don't know what a properly loaded ship should look like." "You believe you heard an explosion?" "Yes." "Any other noises?" "A thousand." "I mean that might explain the sinking." "No." "You said the ship sank quickly." "Yes." "Can you estimate how long it took?" "It's hard to say. Very quickly. I would think less than twenty minutes." "And there was a lot of debris?" "Yes." "Was the ship struck by a freak wave?" "I don't think so." "But there was a storm?" "The sea looked rough to me. There was wind and rain." "How high were the waves?" "High. Twenty-five, thirty feet." "That's quite modest, actually." "Not when you're in a lifeboat." "Yes, of course. But for a cargo ship." "Maybe they were higher. I don't know. The weather was bad enough to scare me witless, that's all I know for sure." "You said the weather improved quickly. The ship sank and right after it was a beautiful day, isn't that what you said?" "Yes." "Sounds like no more than a passing squall." "It sank the ship." "That's what we're wondering." "My whole family died." "We're sorry about that." "Not as much as I am." "So what happened, Mr. Patel? We're puzzled.. Everything was normal and then...?" "Then normal sank." "Why?" "I don't know. You should be telling me. You're the experts. Apply your science." "We don't understand." [Long silence] Mr. Chiba: <translation>"Now what?" Mr. Okamoto: "We give up. The explanation for the sinking of the Tsimtsum is at the bottom of the Pacific." [Long silence] Mr. Okamoto: "Yes, that's it. Let's go.</translation> Well, Mr. Patel, I think we have all we need. We thank you very much for your cooperaticon. You've been very, very helpful." "You're welcome. But before you go, I'd like to ask you something." "Yes?" "The Tsimtsum sank on July 2nd, 1977." "Yes." "And I arrived on the coast of Mexico, the sole human surviwor of the Tsimtsum, on February 14th, 1978." "That's right." "I told you two stories that account for the 227 days in between." "Yes, you did." "Neither explains the sinking of the Tsimtsum." "That's right." "Neither makes a factual difference to you." "That's true." "You can't prove which story is true and which is not. You must take my word for it." "I guess so." "In both stories the ship sinks, my entire family dies, and I suffer." "Yes, that's true." "So tell me, since it makes no factual difference to you and you can't prove the question either way, which story do you prefer? Which is the better story, the story with animals or the story without animals?" Mr. Okamoto: "That's an interesting question..." Mr. Chiba: "The story with animals." Mr. Okamoto: <translation>"Yes.</translation> The story with animals is the better story." Pi Patel: "Thank you. And so it goes with God." [Silence] Mr. Chiba: <translation>"What did he just say?" Mr. Okamoto: "I don't know." Mr. Chiba: "Oh look—he's crying."</translation> [Long silence] Mr. Okamoto: "We'll be careful when we drive away. We don't want to run into Richard Parker." Pi Patel: "Don't worry, you won't. He's hiding somewhere you'll never find him." Mr. Okamoto: "Thank you for taking the time to talk to us, Mr. Patel. We're grateful. And we're really very sorry about what happened to you." "Thank you." "What will you be doing now?" "I guess I'll go to Canada." "Not back to India?" "No. There's nothing there for me now. Only sad memories." "Of course, you know you will be getting insurance money." "Oh." "Yes. Oika will be in touch with you." [Silence] Mr. Okamoto: "We should be going. We wish you all the best, Mr. Patel." Mr. Chiba: "Yes, all the best." "Thank you." Mr. Okamoto: "Goodbye." Mr. Chiba: "Goodbye." Pi Patel: "Would you like some cookies for the road?" Mr. Okamoto: "That would be nice." "Here, have three each." "Thank you." Mr. Chiba: "Thank you." "You're welcome. Goodbye. God be with you, my brothers." "Thank you. And with you too, Mr. Patel." Mr. Chiba: "Goodbye." |
第99章 冈本先生："帕特尔先生,我们不相信你的故事。" "真遗憾,小甜饼很好吃，但是太容易碎了。我很吃惊。为什么呢？" "这个故事经不起推敲。" "你是什么意思？" "香蕉不能浮在水上。" "对不起我不懂？" "你刚才说猩猩是在由香蕉堆成的小岛上漂来的。" "香蕉不能浮在水上。" "不,香蕉可以浮在水上。" "香蕉太重了。" "不，不重。喏，你自己试试看。我这儿就有两根香蒸。" 千叶先生：“那两根香蕉是哪儿来的？他床单下还有什么？” 冈本先生：“见鬼。不,不用了。” "那儿有个水池。" "不用了。" "我坚持试一试。把水池注满水，把香蕉丢进去，我们就会看到谁是对的。" "我们想继续听下去。" "我一定要坚持。" [沉默] 千叶先生：“我们怎么办？” 冈本先生：“我感到今天又会是漫长的一天。” [椅子被向后拖的声音。远处水从龙头里哗哗流出的声音。] 派·帕特尔：“怎么回事？我在这儿看不见。” 冈本先生[从远处]：“我在往水池里注水。” "你把香蕉放进去了吗？" [远处]"还没有。" ， "现在呢？" [远处]"放进去了。" "怎么样？" [沉默] 千叶先生香蕉浮起来了吗？" [远处浮起来了。" "怎么样，浮起来了吗？" [远处]"浮起来了。" "我说什么来着？" 冈本先生对，对。但是要托住一只猩猩，得有很多香蕉才行啊。" "是有很多。那些香蕉本来是给我摘的,却漂走了，浪费了，现在我想到这个还感到懊丧呢。" "真遗憾。那么，关于……" "能把香蕉还给我吗？" 千叶先生：“我去拿。” [椅子被向后拖的声音。] [远处]"看哪。香蕉真的浮在水上。" 冈本先生：“关于你说你偶然发现的海藻岛，如何解释？” 千叶先生：“你的香蕉。” 派·帕特尔："谢谢。什么？" "很抱歉我说话直言不讳，我们并不想伤害你的感情，但其实你并不希望我们相信你，是不是？食肉树？能制造淡水的以鱼为食的海藻？住在树上的水栖啮齿动物？这些东西根本不存在。" "这只是因为你从来没有见过它们。" "是的。我们只相信亲眼所见。" "哥伦布也是一样。当你在黑暗中的时候，你怎么办？" "从植物学来看，你的小岛是不可能存在的。" "落进捕蝇草之前苍蝇也这么说。" "为什么其他人没有偶然发现这座小岛？" "海洋很大，来来往往的船只都很繁忙。我走得很慢，观察得很多。" "没有科学家会相信你的。" "那么他们就会像不愿接受哥白尼和达尔文的观点的人一样。科学家不是还在不断发现新的植物品种吗？比如说，在亚马逊盆地？" "他们发现的不是违背自然规律的植物品种。" "你对自然规律的了解已经很透彻了？" "足以让我能够区分什么是可能的什么是不可能的。" 千叶先生：“我有一个叔叔，他对植物学非常了解。他住在日田市附近的乡村里。他是个盆景艺术家。” 派一帕特尔："他是个什么？" "盆景艺术家。你知道，盆景就是小树。" "你是说灌木。" "不，我是说树。盆景就是小树。这些树不到两英尺高。你可以把它们夹在胳膊下面。树龄可能很长。我叔叔有一株树，已经有三百多年的树龄了。" "有三百多年树龄的树，只有两英尺高，可以夹在胳膊下面？" "是的。它们非常精巧。需要精心呵护。" "谁听说过这样的树？从植物学来看，这些树是不可能存在的。" "但是我向你保证这些树是存在的，帕特尔先生。我叔叔……" "我只相信我亲眼所见。" 冈本先生请等一下。笃郎，你那位住在日田市附近乡村里的叔叔值得尊敬，但我们不是到这儿来闲谈植物学的。" "我只是在帮忙。" "你叔叔的盆景吃肉吗？" "我想不吃。" "你被他的盆景咬过吗？" "没有。" "那么，你叔叔的盆景就没有在帮忙。我们刚才说到哪儿了?" 派·帕特尔："说到牢牢扎根地下、完全长成的高大的树木。" "现在我们暂时把它们放在一边吧。" "这可能很难。我从来没试过把它们拔出来拿走。" "你是个有趣的人，帕特尔先生。哈！哈！哈！" 派·帕特尔：“哈！哈！哈！” 千叶先生：“哈！哈！哈！没那么有趣。” 冈本先生：“你就笑吧！哈！哈！哈！” 千叶先生：“哈！哈！哈！” 冈本先生：“关于老虎，我们也不能肯定。" "你是什么意思？" "我们很难相信。" "这是个令人难以置信的故事。" "的确如此。" "我不知道自己是怎么活下来的。" "显然这很费力。" "我要再来一块小甜饼。" "甜饼已经没有了。" "那只包里是什么？" "没什么。" "我能看看吗？" 千叶先生：“我们的午饭完了。” 冈本先生：“回到老虎……" 派·帕特尔：“可怕的事情。可口的三明治。" 冈本先生：“是的，看上去不错。" 千叶先生：“我饿了。" "根本没有发现老虎的踪影。这有点儿令人难以相信，不是吗？美洲没有老虎。如果外面有一只野生的老虎，你不认为警察现在已经听说这件事了吗？" "我应该告诉你隆冬季节从苏黎世动物园逃跑的那只黑豹的事。" "帕特尔先生，老虎是一种非常危险的野生动物。你怎么可能和一只老虎共处一只救生艇还能活下来呢？这？" "你没有意识到，在野生动物眼里，我们人类是一个奇怪的绝不能接近的物种。它们对我们充满了恐惧。它们尽量躲开我们。消除一些柔顺的动物的恐惧花了好几个世纪的时间——这个过程叫做驯养——但是大多数动物无法克服恐惧，而且我怀疑它们将来是否可能做到这一点。野生动物与我们搏斗完全是出于绝望。当它们感到没有其他办法的时候才搏斗。这是最后的办法。" "在救生艇里？得了，帕特尔先生，这真是太难以置信了！" "难以置信？你知道什么叫难以置信？你想要难以置信吗？我就让你难以置信。这是印度动物园饲养员守口如瓶的一件事。1971年，一只叫芭拉的北极熊从加尔各答动物园里逃了出来。那以后再也没有人听说过关于她的消息，警察，猎人，偷猎者，任何人都没有听说过。我们怀疑她正在胡格利河岸过着自由自在的日子呢。我的好先生们，如果你们到加尔各答去，可要当心啊：如果你们呼出的气里有寿司味儿，你们可能会付出昂贵的代价！如果你抓住东京这座城市，把它倒过来抖一抖，掉出来的动物会让你大吃一惊的：獾,狼，王蛇，巨蜥，鳄鱼，鸵鸟，狒狒，水豚，野猪，豹子，海牛，数不清的反刍动物。毫无疑问，在我心里，野长颈鹿和野河马祖祖辈辈在东京生活，却没有一个人看见过它们。有一天，你应该比较一下当你在大街上走路时沾在你鞋底的东西和你在东京动物园看见的躺在笼子里的动物——然后抬头看！你会在墨西哥丛林里发现一只老虎！这很可笑，简直是可笑。哈！哈！哈！" "野长颈鹿和野河马可能生活在东京，北极熊也可能自由自在地生活在加尔各答。我们就是不能相信你的救生艇里生活着一只老虎。" "这就是大城市人的傲慢！你们让自己的大都市里住着伊甸园里的各种动物，却不让我的小村庄里有一只孟加拉虎！" "帕特尔先生，请安静。" "如果仅仅一个可信性问题就让你们迟疑不决，那你们还活着干什么？难道爱情不令人难以置信吗？" "帕特尔先生……" "不要拿礼貌来吓我！爱情令人难以置信，随便去问哪一个情人都行。生命令人难以置信,随便去问哪一个科学家都行。上帝令人难以置信，随便去问哪一个信仰上帝的人都行。关于难以置信，你的问题是什么？" "我们只是想要合乎情理。" "我也是！我每一刻都在讲情理。用情理来获取食物、衣服和住所,真是好极了。情理是最好的工具箱。要让老虎走开，没有什么比情理更有用了。但是过分讲究情理，你就有把整个宇宙和洗澡水一起倒出去的危险。" "安静，帕特尔先生，安静。" 千叶先生：“洗澡水？他为什么说洗澡水？” "我怎么能安静？你应该看看理查德·帕克！" "是的，是的。" "巨大。牙齿像这样！爪子像短弯刀！" 千叶先生：“什么是短弯刀？” 冈本先生：“千叶君，别问关于词汇的愚蠢问题，你为什么不能让自己有用一些呢？这个小伙子很难对付。做点儿什么！” 千叶先生：“看！一块巧克力！” 派·帕特尔：“太好了！” [长时间的沉默] 冈本先生：“好像他没把我们的午饭全都偷走了似的。很快他就会要天妇罗了。” [长时间的沉默] 冈本先生：“我们忘记了这次调查的要点。我们到这儿来是为了货船沉没的事。你是惟一的幸存者。你只是一名乘客。你对发生的事不负有任何责任。我们……” "巧克力很好！" "我们不是在确定刑事责任。你是海上悲剧的无辜受害者。我们只是想要弄清楚‘齐姆楚姆’号为什么会沉没，是怎么沉没的。我们以为你可以帮助我们,帕特尔先生。 [沉默] "帕特尔先生？" [沉默] 派·帕特尔：“老虎存在，救生艇存在，海洋存在。因为在你们狭隘的有限的经验中这三者从来没有在一起过，所以你们就拒绝相信它们可能在一起。但是，明明白白的事实是，‘齐姆楚姆’号把它们带到了一起，然后就沉了。” [沉默] 冈本先生：“这个法国人怎么解释？” "他怎么了？" "两个盲人分别乘两只救生艇在太平洋上相遇了——这个巧合似乎有点儿靠不住,不是吗？" "的确如此。" "我们认为可能性极小。" "买彩票中奖的可能性也极小，但是有人中了。" "我们认为这非常难以置信。" "我也这么认为。" "我知道我们今天应该休息。你们谈到食物了吗？" "我们谈到了。" "他对食物知道得很多。" "如果你可以称之为食物的话。" "‘齐姆楚姆’号上的厨师是个法国人。" "全世界都有法国人。" "也许你遇到的那个法国人就是那个厨师。" "也许吧。我怎么知道？我从没见过他。我是个瞎子。后来理查德·帕克把他生吃了。" "真方便啊。" "一点儿也不。可怕极了，还有股恶臭。顺便问一下，你们怎么解释救生艇上的沼狸骨头？" "对,救生艇上找到了一只小动物……" "不止一只！" "——几只小动物的骨头。一定是从大船上带下来的。" "动物园里没有沼狸。" "我们没有证据证明那些就是沼狸的骨头。" 千叶先生：“也许是香蕉骨头！哈！哈！哈！哈！哈！” "笃郎，闭嘴!" "对不起，冈本先生。太疲劳了。" "你让我们的服务丢脸。" "非常抱歉，冈本先生。" 冈本先生：“那些骨头可能是另一种小动物身上的。” "就是沼狸。" "可能是沼狸。" "动物园里的沼狸卖不出去。它们留在了印度。" "可能是船上的害虫，比如老鼠。沼狸在印度很常见。" "沼狸是船上的害虫？" "为什么不可以呢？" "几只沼狸在暴风雨中的太平洋里游到救生艇上去？那有点儿令人难以置信，你不这么认为吗？" "没有我们在前面两小时里所听到的某些事情那么难以置信。也许沼狸已经在救生艇上了，就像你说过的老鼠那样。" "救生艇上的动物数量之多，真令人惊讶。" "真令人惊讶。" "一座真正的丛林。" "是的。" "那些骨头是沼狸的骨头。请专家检验一下。" "剩的骨头不多了。而且没有头。" "我把头用做钓饵了。" "我很怀疑专家能不能分辨出那是沼狸的骨头还是獴的骨头。" "找一位动物法医。" "好吧，帕特尔先生！你贏了。我们无法解释沼狸骨头，如果那是沼狸骨头的话，为什么出现在救生艇里。但这不是我们现在所要关心的事。我们到这儿来，是因为小井科船运公司一艘飘巴拿马旗的日本货船在太平洋沉没了。" "这件事我一直没忘。一分钟也没忘。我失去了全家。” "我们很难过。" "没有我那么难过。" [长时间的沉默] 千叶先生：“我们现在做什么？" 冈本先生：“我不知道。" [长时间的沉畎] 派·帕特尔：“你们要小甜饼吗？" 冈本先生：“好的，那太好了。谢谢。" 千叶先生："谢谢。" [长时间的沉默] 冈本先生：“今天天气不错。" 派·帕特尔：“是的。阳光灿烂。" [长时间的沉默] 派·帕特尔：“你们这是第一次到墨西哥来吗？" 冈本先生：“对，是的。" "我也是。" [长时间的沉默] 派·帕特尔：“那么，你们不喜欢我的故事？" 冈本先生：“不，我们非常喜欢。不是吗，笃郎？我们会记住它很长很长时间。" 千叶先生：“我们会的。" [沉默] 冈本先生：“但是为了调查的目的，我们想知道究竟发生了什么事。” "究竟发生了什么事？" "是的。” "那么你们还想听一个故事？" "嗯……不。我们想知道究竟发生了什么事。" "难道对某件事情的叙述不总是变成一个故事吗？" "嗯……在英语里也许是这样。在日语里，故事包括了创造的因素。我们不想要任何创造。我们想要?准确无误的事实?，就像你们在英语里所说的那样。" "叙述某件事情——用语言来叙述，无论是英语还是日语——难道不已经是某种创造了吗？看这个世界难道不已经是某种创造了吗？" “嗯……” "这个世界并不是它本来的样子。它是我们所理解的样子不是吗？在理解某件事情的过程中，我们加进了一些东西，不是吗？难道这不使得生活成为了一个故事吗？" "哈！哈！哈！你非常聪明，帕特尔先生。" 千叶先生：“他在说什么？" "我不知道。" 派·帕特尔：“你想要反映真实的话？” "是的。" "不与事实相违背的话？" "正是。" "但是老虎并不违背事实。" "噢，求你了，别再说老虎了。" "我知道你想要什么。你想要一个不会让你吃惊的故事。将会证实你已经知道的东西。不会让你看得更高更远或者从不同的角度来看问题的东西。你想要一个平淡无奇的故事。一个静止的故事。你想要干巴巴的,不令人兴奋的真实。” "嗯……" "你想要一个没有动物的故事。" "是的。" "没有老虎也没有猩猩。" "没有鬣狗也没有斑马。" "没有。" "没有沼狸也没有獴。" "我们不想要它们。" "没有长颈鹿也没有河马。" "我们要用手指把耳朵堵上了！" "那么我说对了。你们想要一个没有动物的故事。" "我们想要一个能够解释齐姆楚姆号为什么沉没的没有动物的故事。" "请给我一分钟。" "当然。我想我们终于有一些进展了。希望他的话有些道理。" [长时间的沉默] "这是另一个故事。" "船沉了。它发出一声仿佛金属打嗝般的巨大声响。船上的东西在海面上冒了几个泡泡，然后就消失了。我发现自己在太平洋里踢着水。我朝救生艇游去。那是我一生中游得最艰难的一次。我似乎没在动。我不停地吞进水。我很冷。我在迅速丧失体力。要不是厨师扔给我一只救生圈，把我拉进船里，我肯定游不到救生艇那里。我爬到船上就瘫了下来。 "我们四个人活了下来。母亲抓住一些香蕉，游到了救生艇上。厨师已经在船上了，水手也是。" "他吃苍蝇。我是说厨师。我们在救生艇里还不到一天；我们有足够维持好几个星期的食物和水；我们有钓鱼工具和太阳能蒸馏器；我们没有理由相信自己不会很快获救。而他却挥舞着胳膊抓苍蝇，然后贪婪地吃掉。他立即就陷人了对饥饿的可怕恐惧之中。因为我们不和他一起享受这盛宴，他就叫我们白痴、傻瓜。我们感到生气，也感到恶心，但并没有表现出来。我们很有礼貌。他是个陌生人，是个外国人。母亲微笑着，摇摇头，举起手来表示拒绝。他是个让人恶心的人。他的嘴就像一个垃圾堆，什么都能吃进去。他还吃老鼠。他把老鼠切开，放在太阳底下晒干。我——我得老实说——我吃了一小块，很小的一块，背着母亲。我太饿了。他真是个畜牲，那个厨师，脾气坏，虚伪。 "水手很年轻。实际上，他比我大，大概二十出头，但是他从大船上跳下来时摔断了腿，疼痛使他变得像个孩子。他长得很俊。脸上没有一根绒毛，脸色白净而有光泽。他的脸——宽宽的脸庞，扁平的鼻子，细长的、眯缝的双眼——看上去如此优雅。我认为他看上去像一个中国皇帝。他疼得厉害。他不会说英语，一个字也不会,连是或不，你好或谢谢都不会。他只会说中文。他说的话我们一个字也听不懂。他一定感到非常孤独。当他哭泣的时候，母亲就让他把头枕在她腿上，并且握住他的手。那情景非常非常伤感。他在忍受折磨，而我们却无能为力。 "他的右腿大腿骨断了。骨头从肉里伸了出来。他疼得大喊大叫。我们尽量把他的腿固定好，设法让他吃点儿东西，喝点儿水。但他的腿感染了。虽然我们每天都给他的腿排脓，情况还是越来越糟。他的脚变黑了，肿了起来。 "是厨师出的主意。他是个畜牲。他控制了我们。他低声说黑色会扩散开来，除非把腿锯掉，否则他活不了。因为断的是大腿骨，所以只要把肌肉切开，再绑上止血带就行了。直到现在我都能听见他那恶毒的低语声。他可以做这件事，来挽救水手的生命，他说，但我们得按住他。惊讶是惟一的麻醉剂。我们扑到他身上。母亲和我抓住他的两只胳膊，厨师则坐在他那条好腿上。水手痛苦地扭动着身体，尖声喊叫。他的胸脯不停地起伏。厨师迅速用刀割着。腿掉了下来。母亲和我立刻松手走开。我们以为束缚没有了，挣扎就会停止。我们以为他会安安静静地躺着。但他没有。他立刻坐了起来。因为不明白发生了什么事，他叫得更厉害了。他叫着,我们瞪眼看着，束手无策。到处都是血。更糟的是，可怜的水手发狂般的剧烈动作和他那条静静躺在船底的腿形成了鲜明的对比。他不停地看着那条腿，仿佛在乞求它回来。最后他倒了下去。我们急忙行动起来。厨师把皮肤盖在骨头上，我们用一块布把残肢包扎起来，在伤口上方扎上绳子止血。我们把他尽可能舒服地放在救生衣铺成的垫子上，让他保持温暖。我想这都没有用。我无法相信一个人在经历了如此疼痛，被如此残忍地屠宰之后还能活下来。整个傍晚和夜里他一直在呻吟，他的呼吸很粗，而且不均匀。他一阵阵狂燥不安地说胡话。我以为他夜里会死去。 "他对生命依依不舍。黎明时他仍然活着。他晕了过去，又醒了过来。母亲给了他一点儿水。我看见了他被锯断的腿。我的呼吸都停止了。混乱中他的腿被挪到一边，在黑暗中被遗忘了。液体渗了出来，腿看上去细了一些。我拿起一件救生衣，当做手套裹在手上。我把腿拿了起来。 “你在干什么？厨师问。 “我要把它扔出去。”我回答说。 “别傻了。我们要把它当做鱼饵。这才是整件事的关键。 "就在他说出最后几个字的时候，他似乎后悔了，因为他的声音迅速变小了。他转过身去。 “‘整件事的关键’母亲问。‘你这句话是什么意思?’ "他假装在忙。 "母亲提高了声音。‘你是不是在说我们把这个可怜的小伙子的腿割下来不是为了挽救他的生命,而是为了得到鱼饵？’ "畜牲不说话。 “回答我！?母亲叫道。 "他像困兽一般抬起眼睛，瞪着她。?我们的食物储备就要用完了，?他吼道，?我们需要更多的食物，否则我们会死的。? "母亲也瞪着他。我们的食物储备没有用完！我们有很多食物和水。我们有整包整包的饼干，完全可以让我们渡过难关，直到获救。?她拿起我们放开了包的饼干的塑料罐子。出乎意料的是，罐子在她手里显得很轻。几块饼干屑在里面发出当当的声响。‘什么！’她打开罐子。‘饼干到哪里去了？昨天晚上罐子还是满的！’ "厨师移开了目光。我也一样。 “‘你这个自私的怪物！’母亲尖叫道。‘我们没有食物的惟一原因就是你在拼命吃！’ “‘他也吃了。’他说，一边朝我的方向点点头。 "母亲将目光转向我。我的心沉了下去。 “‘派西尼，是真的吗？’ “是在夜里，母亲。我睡得迷迷糊糊的，我太饿了。他给了我一块饼午。我想都没想就吃了…… “‘只有一块，是吗？’厨师讥笑道。 "现在是母亲将目光移开了。她似乎已经不生气了。她没再说一个字,继续照料水手去了。 "我希望她生气。我希望她惩罚我。只是不要像这样不说话。我过去整理救生衣，好让水手躺得舒服一些,这样我就能靠近她了。我低声说：‘对不起，母亲，对不起。’我的眼泪就要掉下来了。当我抬起眼睛时，我看见她的眼里也充满了泪水。但是她没有看我。她在盯着空中某件记忆。 “‘我们是完全孤独的，派西尼，完全孤独。’她说，她的语气让我身体里的每一线希望都破灭了。我这一生从没有像在那一刻那样感觉如此孤独。我们已经在救生艇上待了两个星期，这已经对我们造成了危害。我们更加难以相信父亲和拉维还活着。 "我们转过身来，看见厨师正抓住那条腿的脚踝处，把它悬在水面上排掉血水。母亲用手捂住了水手的眼睛。 "他安静地死了。生命从他的身体里流走，就像液体从他的腿里流走。厨师及时把他屠宰了。腿被制成了不顶用的鱼饵。死肉腐烂得太厉害了，鱼钩根本钩不住；肉就在水里散掉了。这个怪物什么都不浪费。他把什么都切碎了，包括水手的皮肤和每一十肠子。他甚至割下了他的生殖器。处理完躯干之后，他开始处理胳膊、肩膀和腿。母亲和我因为痛苦和恐惧而发抖。母亲对厨师尖叫道：‘你怎么能这么做，你这个怪物？你的人性到哪儿去了？难道你没有尊严吗？这个可怜的小伙子对你做了什么？你这个怪物！你这个怪物！’厨师用令人难以置信的粗俗来回答。 “‘至少把他的脸盖上吧，看在上帝的分上！’母亲叫道。把那张如此高贵、如此平静的英俊脸庞和下面如此一幅景象联系在一起，这真让人受不了。厨师猛扑到水手的脑袋上，就当着我们的面把他的头皮剥了下来，把脸扯了下来。母亲和我呕吐起来。 "他做完之后，把屠宰过的尸体扔到了海里。很快，船上就放满了一条条的肉和一块块器官，在太阳底下晒干。我们害怕得蜷缩起来。我们尽童不朝这些东西看。气味很久都散不去。 "下一次厨师走近的时候，母亲打了他一个耳光，一个重重的耳光，在空气中发出啪的一声尖厉的声响。母亲的这个动作十分令人震惊。这是一个英勇的行为。它显示了勇气、怜悯、悲伤和勇敢。这是为了纪念那个可怜的水手。这是为了挽回他的尊严。 "我惊呆了。厨师也惊呆了。母亲直视着他，他站在那里一动不动，一句话也没说。我注意到他故意不去看她的眼睛。 "我们退回到自己的地方。我一直在她身边。我心里既充满了对她的狂热钦佩，也充满了极度的恐惧。 "母亲一直在注意观察他。两天后她看见他那么做了。他尽量小心翼翼，但她还是看见他把手放到嘴边。她叫了起来：‘我看见你了！刚才你吃了一块！你说过那是做鱼饵用的！我知道。你这个怪物！你这头动物！你怎么能这么做？他是个人啊！他是你的同类！’如果她指望他会感到羞愧，会把它吐出来，然后崩溃，道歉，那她就错了。他一直在嚼。事实上，他抬起头来，很公开地把剩下的一条肉放进了嘴里。‘味道像猪肉。’他咕哝道。母亲猛地转过身去，以此来表示愤慨和厌恶。他又吃了一条。‘我已经感到强壮多了。’他咕哝道。他专心钓鱼。 "我们各自占据着救生艇的一端。意志力能够筑起高墙，这真有意思。一天天过去了，好像他并不存在。 "但我们不能完全忽略他。他是个畜牲，但是个实用的畜牲。他双手灵巧，而且了解大海。他脑子里尽是好主意。就是他想起来造一条筏子捕鱼。我们活了下来，这全得感谢他。我尽力帮助他。他脾气很急躁，老是对我吼，侮辱我。 "母亲和我没有吃水手的尸体，一口也没吃，尽管我们因为没有吃的而变得虚弱，但我们开始吃厨师从海里抓到的东西。母亲一辈子是个素食主义者，却开始吃生鱼和生海龟。那段日子对她来说非常艰难。她一直没有从强烈反应中恢复过来。这对我来说容易得多。我发现饥饿让什么东西都变好吃了。 "当你的生命获得暂时解救的时候，你不可能不对那个解救你的人感到一些友好之情。当厨师拽上来一只海龟或是一条大鯕鳅时，那真是令人兴奋的时刻。我们咧开嘴笑起来，有好几个小时胸中都感到热乎乎的。母亲和厨师文明地交谈，甚至开起了玩笑。在这样的时候，我带着——是的——带着温柔的感情看着他。带着爱。我想像我们是可靠的朋友。即使在脾气好的时候，他也是个粗俗的人，但是我们假装没注意到，甚至对自己也这么假装。他说我们会来到一座小岛上。那是我们最大的希望。我们费尽眼神，在地平线上搜寻小岛，而小岛却一直没有出现。那是他偷食物和水的时候。 "了无生气的无边无际的太平洋像一座高墙竖在我们周围。我从来不认为我们能绕出去。 "他杀死了她。厨师杀死了我母亲。我们在挨饿。我很虚弱。我抓不住海龟。就因为我，我们没抓住海龟。他打了我。母亲打了他。他回手打了她。她转身对我说：‘走！’一边把我朝小筏子，推过去。我朝小筏子跳去。我以为她要和我一起去。我落到了水里。我匆忙爬到了筏子上。他们在搏斗。我什么也没做，只是看着。我母亲在和一个成年男人搏斗。他很灵巧,肌肉发达。他抓住她的手腕，拧了过来。她尖叫一声，倒了下去。他过去骑到她身上。刀拿出来了。他把刀举了起来。刀落了下来。再举起来的时候——刀是红的。刀不断地举起又落下。我看不见她。她在船底。我只看见他。他停了下来。他抬起头来看着我。他朝我扔了一个什么东西。一道血打在了我脸上。没有一条鞭子能比这打得更疼了。我手上捧着母亲的头颅。我松开手。它掉进水里，周围腾起一团血雾，她的一绺头发像一条尾巴拖在后面。鱼绕着圈向头颅俯冲过去，直到一条鲨鱼的长长的灰色影子挡住了它的去路，它不见了。我抬起头来。我看不见他。他正躲在船底。他在把我母亲的身体扔到船外面的时候出现了。他的嘴是红的。水里乱糟糟地挤满了鱼。 "那天剩下的时间和那个夜晚我是在小筏子上度过的，我一直在看着他。我们没有说一个字。他可以把系住小筏子的绳子割断，但是他没有这么做。他留着我，就像留着内疚的良心。 "早晨，在看他看得很清楚的情况下，我拉住缆绳，上了救生艇。我非常虚弱。他什么也没说。我也没说话。他抓住了一只海龟。他把海龟血给了我。他把海龟宰了，把最好的部分放在中间凳子上给我。我吃了。 "后来我们打了起来，我杀了他。他脸上毫无表情，既没有绝望也没有愤慨，既没有恐惧也没有痛苦。他放弃了。他让自己被杀死，尽管我们仍然搏斗了。他知道自己太过分了，哪怕是用他那兽性的标准来衡量。他太过分了，现在他不想再继续活下去。但是他从来没有说过?对不起?。为什么我们改变不了自己的邪恶呢？ "刀一直放在凳子上，就在我们眼皮底下。我们都知道。他一开始就可以把刀拿在手里。是他把刀放在那儿的。我把刀拿了起来。刺进了他腹部。他露出一副怪相，但是还站着。我把刀抽出来，又刺了进去。血涌了出来。他还没有倒下去。他看着我的眼 睛，非常非常慢地抬起头来。他这么做有什么含义吗？我认为那是有含义的。我把刀刺进了他的喉咙，就在靠近喉结的地方。他像一块石头一样倒了下去。死了。他一句话也没说。他没有遗言。他只是把血咳了出来。刀有一种强大的力量；一旦动起来，就很难停下来。我不断地捅他。他的血使我龟裂的手不再那么疼痛。他的心脏很难弄一连着那么多管子。我还是把它挖出来了。味道很好，比海龟好吃多了。我吃了他的肝脏。我把他的肉一片片割了下来。 "他是一个那么邪恶的人。更糟的是，他与我心里的邪恶一自私，愤怒，冷酷一相碰撞。我必须与之妥协。 "孤独开始了。我求助于上帝。我活了下来。" [长时间的沉默] "这个故事好些吗？有没有你们认为难以置信的部分？" 千叶先生：“真是个可怕的故事。” [长时间的沉默] 冈本先生："斑马和台湾水手都断了一条腿，你注意到了吗？" "不，我没有注意到。" "鬣狗把斑马的腿咬掉了，厨师把水手的腿割掉了。" "噢，冈本先生，你明白了很多事情。" "他们在另一艘救生艇里遇到的那个瞎眼法国人——他不是承认杀了一个男人和一个女人吗？" "是的，他是承认了。" "厨师杀了水手和他母亲。" "非常令人难忘。" "他的故事是相互配合的。” "那么台湾水手就是斑马，他母亲就是猩猩，厨师就是……鬣狗——这意味着他就是老虎！" "对啊。老虎杀死了鬣狗——和那个瞎眼法国人——就像他杀死了厨师。" 派·帕特尔：“你们还有巧克力吗？” 千叶先生：“马上就给你！" "谢谢" 千叶先生：“但这是什么意思呢，冈本先生？" "我不知道。" "小岛怎么解释？谁是沼狸？" "我不知道。" "还有那些牙齿？树上的牙齿是谁的？" "我不知道。我不明白这个小伙子的脑袋瓜里在想什么。" [长时间的沉默] 冈本先生："请原谅我这么问，但是厨师有没有说过关于‘齐姆楚姆’号沉没的事情？" "在这个故事里面？" "是的。" "他没说。" "他没有提到任何可以引向7月2日清晨的话，任何可能解释发生了什么事的话？" "没有。" "没有提到任何机械方面或结构方面的话？" "没有。" "没有提到任何关于其他船只或海上其他物体的话？" "没有。” "他完全不能解释‘齐姆楚姆’号为什么会沉没？" "不能。" "他能说出为什么船没有发出遇难信号吗？" "发出了又怎么样？根据我的经验，如果一艘退了色的三流的生了锈的破船沉了，除非它很幸运，上面装着油，很多油，足以破坏整个生态系统，否则没有人会在意，没有人能听到。你得完全靠自己。" "当小井科意识到出了问题时，已经太迟了。你们已经出海太远,无法进行空中救援。这一海域的船只接到通知，要留心观察。他们报告说什么也没看见。" "既然我们谈到了这个话题，船并不是惟一三流的东西。船员是一群郁郁寡欢的不友好的人，高级船员在的时候就拼命干活，高级船员不在的时候什么也不干。他们一个英语单词也不会说，对我们毫无帮助。有些人到了下午就浑身散发出酒臭。谁能说出那群白痴干了些什么？那些高级船员？" "你这句话是什么意思？" "哪句话？" "谁能说出那群白痴干了些什么？" "我的意思是也许酒疯发作的时候有些人会把动物放出来。" 千叶先生：“谁有笼子的钥匙？" "父亲有。" 千叶先生：“如果船员们没有钥匙，他们怎么能把笼子打开呢？" "我不知道。也许他们用的是撬棍。" 千叶先生他们为什么会那么做？为什么有人想要把一只危险的野生动物从笼子里放出来？" "我不知道。谁能猜透醉汉的脑子是怎么想的呢？我能告诉你的就是发生的事情。动物从笼子里出来了。" 冈本先生对不起。你对船员的健康有怀疑？" "非常怀疑。" "你曾经目睹任何一位高级船员喝醉了酒吗？" "没有。" "但是你见过一些普通船员喝醉了酒？" "是的。" "在你看来，高级船员们的行为是否说明他们能够胜任并且擅长自己的工作？" "他们和我们没什么关系。他们从来不靠近动物。" "我是说在操纵船只方面。" "我怎么知道？你以为我们每天都和他们一起喝茶吗？他们会说英语，但是比普通船员好不了多少。他们让我们感到自己在公共休息室里不受欢迎，而且吃饭的时候他们几乎不跟我们说一句话。他们一直用日语对话，仿佛我们并不存在。我们只是一家地位低下的印度人，带着一批麻烦的货物。最后我们就在父亲和母亲的船舱里自己吃饭了。‘冒险经历在召唤！’拉维说。这使得这一切变得可以忍受，我是说我们的冒险意识。我们把大部分时间都用来铲粪便，冲洗笼子和喂食，父亲就充当兽医。只要动物们没事，我们就没事。我不知道高级船员们是否胜任工作。" "你说船是向左侧倾斜？" "是的。" "因此是船尾先沉的？" "是的。" "不是船头先沉？" "不是。" "你能肯定吗？从船的前部到后部有一个斜坡？" "是的。" "船有没有撞上另一只船？" "我没有见到另一只船。" "船有没有撞上其他物体？" "我没看见。" "船有没有搁浅？" "没有，它沉下去不见了。" "离开马尼拉以后你没有注意到机械故障吗？" "没有。" "在你看来船的载重是否正常？" "那是我第一次乘船。我不知道载重正常的船看上去应该是什么样。" "你相信自己听到了爆炸声？" "是的。" "还有其他的声音吗？" "很多声音。" "我是说能够解释船只沉没的声音。" "没有。?" "你说船迅速沉没了。" "是的。" "你能估计出有多长时间吗？” "很难说。非常快。我想不超过二十分，。" "有很多残骸？" "是的。" "船只有没有受到突如其来的海浪的袭击？" "我想没有。" "但是有暴风雨？" "大海在我看来波涛汹涌。又是风又是雨。" "浪有多高？" "很高。有二十五英尺，三十英尺。" "事实上，这是很小的风浪。" "如果你在救生艇里，这浪就不小了。" "是的，那当然。但是对于一只货船来说，这算是小风浪。" "也许还要高一些。我不知道。天气太糟糕，把我吓疯了，我能肯定的就是这些。" "你说天气迅速转好了。船沉了，天立刻好了起来，你不是那么说的吗？" "是的。" "听上去只是一场转瞬即逝的飑。" "它把船给弄沉了。" "那正是我们感到奇怪的事。" "我们全家人都死了。" "我们感到很难过。" "没有我那么难过。" "那么发生了什么事呢，帕特尔先生？我们感到困惑。一切都很正常，然后……？" "然后正常沉没。” "为什么？" "我不知道。你们应该告诉我。你们是专家。运用你们的科学。" "我们不明白。" [长时间的沉默] 千叶先生：“现在做什么？" 冈本先生：“我们放弃。对‘齐姆楚姆’号沉没的解释被埋在了太平洋底。" [长时间的沉默] 冈本先生好了，就这样。我们走吧。好,帕特尔先生，我想我们得到了所需要的一切。我们非常感谢你的合作。你帮了我们一个很大很大的忙。" "不客气。但是在你们走之前，我想问你们一件事情。" "什么？" “‘齐姆楚姆‘号是1977年7月2日沉没的。" "是的。" "而我，‘齐姆楚姆’号惟一的人类幸存者，是1978年2月14日到达墨西哥海岸的。" “对” "我对你们说了两个故事，解释这其间227天所发生的事情。" "是的，你是说了两个故事。" "没有一个故事能够解释‘齐姆楚姆’号为什么沉没。" "没有一个故事在你们看来在事实上有什么不同。" "的确如此。” "你们无法证实哪一不故事是真的，哪一个故事不是真的。你们必须相信我的话。" "我想是这样。" “在两个故事里船都沉了，我的家人都死了，而我在忍受痛苦折磨。” "是的，是这样。" "那么告诉我，既然在你们看来这两个故事没有什么事实上的不同，而你们又无法证实这个问题，你们更喜欢哪一个故事？哪一个故事更好，有动物的故事还是没有动物的故事？" 冈本先生：“这是个有意思的问题……” 千叶先生：“有动物的故事。” 冈本先生：“是的。有动物的故事更好。” 派·帕特尔先生：“谢谢。和上帝的意见一致。” [沉默] 千叶先生：“他刚才说什么？” 冈本先生：“我不知道。” 千叶先生：“噢，看哪一一他在哭。” [长时间的沉默] 冈本先生："我们开车走时会小心的。我们不想碰上理查德·帕克。" 派·帕特尔：“别担心，不会的。他躲在一个你们永远找不到的地方。” 冈本先生：“谢谢你花时间和我们谈话，帕特尔先生。我们很感激。我们对你的事情感到很难过。" "谢谢。" "现在你要做什么？" "我想我要去加拿大。" "不回印度？" "不。那儿没有我的任何东西了。只有伤心的回忆。" "当然，你知道你会得到保险赔偿金的。" "噢。" "是的。小井科会和你联系的。" [沉默] 冈本先生：“我们该走了。我们祝你好运，帕特尔先生。" 千叶先生：“是的，祝你好运。" "谢谢。" 冈本先生：“再见。" 千叶先生：“再见。" 派·帕特尔：“你们要带些小甜饼在路上吃吗？" 冈本先生：“好啊。" "给你们，每人三块。" "谢谢。" 千叶先生：“谢谢。" "不客气。再见。上帝保佑你，我的兄弟。" "谢谢。上帝也保佑你，帕特尔先生。" 千叶先生：“再见。" 冈本先生：“我饿坏了。我们去吃饭吧。你可以把那个关了。" |
PART THREE Benito Juarez Infirmary, Tomatlan, Mexico CHAPTER 95 Mr. Tomohiro Okamoto, of the Maritime Department in the Japanese Ministry of Transport, now retired, told me that he and his junior colleague at the time, Mr. Atsuro Chiba, were in Long Beach, California—the American western seaboard's main container port, near L.A.—on unrelated business when they were advised that a lone survivor of the Japanese ship Tsimtsum, which had vanished without a trace in Pacific international waters several months before, was reported to have landed near the small town of Tomatlan, on the coast of Mexico. They were instructed by their department to go down to contact the survivor and see if any light could be shed on the fate of the ship. They bought a map of Mexico and looked to see where Tomatlan was. Unfortunately for them, a fold of the map crossed Baja California over a small coastal town named Tomatan, printed in small letters. Mr. Okamoto was convinced he read Tomatlan. Since it was less than halfway down Baja California, he decided the fastest way to get there would be to drive. They set off in their rented car. When they got to Tomatan, eight hundred kilometres south of Long Beach, and saw that it was not Tomatlan, Mr. Okamoto decided that they would continue to Santa Rosalia, two hundred kilometres further south, and catch the ferry across the Gulf of California to Guaymas. The ferry was late and slow. And from Guaymas it was another thirteen hundred kilometres to Tomatlan. The roads were bad. They had a flat tire. Their car broke down and the mechanic who fixed it surreptitiously cannibalized the motor of parts, putting in used parts instead, for the replacement of which they had to pay the rental company and which resulted in the car breaking down a second time, on their way back. The second mechanic overcharged them. Mr. Okamoto admitted to me that they were very tired when they arrived at the Benito Juarez Infirmary in Tomatlan, which is not at all in Baja California but a hundred kilometres south of Puerto Vallarta, in the state of Jalisco, nearly level with Mexico City. They had been travelling non-stop for forty-one hours. "We work hard," Mr. Okamoto wrote. He and Mr. Chiba spoke with Piscine Molitor Patel, in English, for close to three hours, taping the conversation. What follows are excerpts from the verbatim transcript. I am grateful to Mr. Okamoto for having made available to me a copy of the tape and of his final report. For the sake of clarity I have indicated who is speaking when it is not immediately apparent. Portions printed in a different font were spoken in Japanese, which I had translated. CHAPTER 96 "Hello, Mr. Patel. My name is Tomohiro Okamoto. I am from the Maritime Department in the Japanese Ministry of Transport. This is my assistant, Atsuro Chiba. We have come to see you about the sinking of the ship Tsimtsum, of which you were a passenger. Would it be possible to talk to you now?" "Yes, of course." "Thank you. It is very kind of you. <translation>Now, Atsuro-kun, you're new at this, so pay attention and see to learn." "Yes, Okamoto-san." "Is the tape recorder on?" "Yes it is." "Good. Oh I'm so tired! For the record, today is February 19th, 1978. Case file number 250663, concerning the disappearance of the cargo ship Tsimtsum.</translation> Are you comfortable, Mr. Patel?" "Yes, I am. Thank you. And you?" "We are very comfortable." "You've come all the way from Tokyo?" "We were in Long Beach, California. We drove down." "Did you have a good trip?" "We had a wonderful trip. It was a beautiful drive." "I had a terrible trip." "Yes, we spoke to the police before coming here and we saw the lifeboat." "I'm a little hungry." "Would you like a cookie?" "Oh, yes!" "Here you go." "Thank you!" "You're welcome. It's only a cookie. Now, Mr. Patel, we were wondering if you could tell us what happened to you, with as much detail as possible." "Yes. I'd be happy to." CHAPTER 97 The story. CHAPTER 98 Mr. Okamoto: "Very interesting." Mr. Chiba: "What a story." <translation>"He thinks we're fools.</translation> Mr. Patel, we'll take a little break and then we'll come back, yes?" "That's fine. I'd like another cookie." "Yes, of course." Mr. Chiba: <translation>"He's already had plenty and most he hasn't even eaten. They're right there beneath his bedsheet." "Just give him another one. We kave to humour him.</translation> We'll be back in a few minutes." |
第三部 墨西哥托马坦镇贝尼托华雷斯医院 第95章 日本运输部海运科的冈本友广先生现已退休，他告诉我，他和他当时的年轻助手千叶笃郎先生正在加利福尼亚的长滩——美国西部海岸主要集装箱港口，靠近洛杉矶——一处理不相关的事情，这时他们得到消息，有报道说几个月前在太平洋公海消失得无影无踪的日本船"齐姆楚姆"号的惟一幸存者在墨西哥海岸一个叫托马坦的小镇上了岸。科里指示他们与幸存者取得联系，看看是否能够了解到船的命运如何。他们买了一张墨西哥地图，查找托马坦在哪里。不幸的是，地图的一道折痕穿过下加利福尼亚，从一个叫托马·坦的沿海小缜越过，小镇的名字是用小写字母印刷的。冈本先生以为自己读到的是托马坦。因为这座小镇就在下加利福尼亚往南不到一半路程的地方，所以他决定到那里去最快的方式是开车。 他们开着租来的车出发了。当他们到达长滩以南800公里处的托马·坦，发现那里并不是托马坦的时候，冈本决定继续向南开200公里到圣罗莎利亚，然后乘轮渡越过加利福尼亚湾到瓜伊马斯。渡船晚点了，而且开得很慢。从瓜伊马斯到托马坦还有1300公里。路很难走。轮胎瘪了，车坏了，修车的机修工偷偷拆下发动机零件，把旧零件放进去。因为零件被更换，他们得赔偿汽车租赁公司，而且车在他们回去的路上又坏了一次。第二位机修工多收了他们钱。冈本先生向我承认，他们到达托马坦的见尼托华雷斯医院时已经非常疲劳了。这家医院根本不是在下加利福尼亚，而是在巴亚尔塔港，在哈利斯科，几乎与墨西哥城在一个纬度上。他们一口气赶了四十一小时的路。"我们拼命干活。"冈 本先生写道。 他和千叶先生用英语与帕特尔先生交谈了将近三个小时，并将谈话做了录音。下面是一字不差的录音文字记录节选。我感谢冈本先生向我提供了一份复制录音带和他的最终报告。为清楚起见，我在说话人不很明确之处做了提示。用不同字体印刷的部分的原文是日语，是我翻译过来的。 第96章 “你好，帕特尔先生。我叫冈本友广。我是日本交通运输部海运科的。这是我的助手千叶笃郎。我们是为‘齐姆楚姆’号沉没一事而来，你是船上的一名乘客。现在可以和你谈谈吗？” "可以，当然可以。" "谢谢。你太好了。现在，笃郎君，你对这项工作不了解，注意听，好好学。" "是，冈本先生。" "录音机打开了吗？" "是的，打开了。" "好。噢，我太累了！记下，今天是1978年2月19日。案卷号250663，关于‘齐姆楚姆’号货船失踪一事。你感觉舒服吗，帕特尔先生？" "是的，谢谢。你们呢？" "我们感觉很舒服。" "你们大老远的从东京来？" "我们在加利福尼亚的长滩。我们是开车来的。” "旅途愉快吗？" "旅途很愉快。开车很愉快。" "我的旅途糟糕透了。； "是的，我们来之前和警察谈过了，我们还看见了救生艇。" "我有点儿饿了。" "你想要一块小甜饼吗？" "噢，好的!" "给你。" "谢谢！" "不客气。只是一块小甜饼。现在，帕特尔先生，我们想知道你能否告诉我们发生了什么事，尽量详细一些。" "好的。我很高兴这么做。" 第97章 故事。 第98章 冈本先生：“很有意思。” 千叶先生：“真是个有趣的故事。” “他以为我们是傻瓜。帕特尔先生，我们休息一会儿，然后再回来，行吗？” "可以。我想再要一块小甜饼。" "当然可以。" 千叶先生他已经要了很多，大多数都没吃。那些小甜饼就在那儿，在他的床单下面。" "再给他一块吧。我们得顺着他。我们几分钟就回来。" |
CHAPTER 93 I grew weary of my situation, as pointless as the weather. But life would not leave me. The rest of this story is nothing but grief, ache and endurance. High calls low and low calls high. I tell you, if you were in such dire straits as I was, you too would elevate your thoughts. The lower you are, the higher your mind will want to soar. It was natural that, bereft and desperate as I was, in the throes of unremitting suffering, I should turn to God. CHAPTER 94 When we reached land, Mexico to be exact, I was so weak I barely had the strength to be happy about it. We had great difficulty landing. The lifeboat nearly capsized in the surf. I streamed the sea anchors—what was left of them—full open to keep us perpendicular to the waves, and I tripped them as soon as we began riding a crest. In this way, streaming and tripping the anchors, we surfed in to shore. It was dangerous. But we caught one wave at just the right point and it carried us a great distance, past the high, collapsing walls of water. I tripped the anchors a last time and we were pushed in the rest of the way. The boat hissed to a halt against the sand. I let myself down the side. I was afraid to let go, afraid that so close to deliverance, in two feet of water, I would drown. I looked ahead to see how far I had to go. The glance gave me one of my last images of Richard Parker, for at that precise moment he jumped over me. I saw his body, so immeasurably vital, stretched in the air above me, a fleeting, furred rainbow. He landed in the water, his back legs splayed, his tail high, and from there, in a few hops, he reached the beach. He went to the left, his paws gouging the wet sand, but changed his mind and spun around. He passed directly in front of me on his way to the right. He didn't look at me. He ran a hundred yards or so along the shore before turning in. His gait was clumsy and uncoordinated. He fell several times. At the edge of the jungle, he stopped. I was certain he would turn my way. He would look at me. He would flatten his ears. He would growl. In some such way, he would conclude our relationship. He did nothing of the sort. He only looked fixedly into the jungle. Then Richard Parker, companion of my torment, awful, fierce thing that kept me alive, moved forward and disappeared forever from my life. I struggled to shore and fell upon the sand. I looked about. I was truly alone, orphaned not only of my family, but now of Richard Parker, and nearly, I thought, of God. Of course, I wasn't. This beach, so soft, firm and vast, was like the cheek of God, and somewhere two eyes were glittering with pleasure and a mouth was smiling at having me there. After some hours a member of my own species found me. He left and returned with a group. They were six or seven. They came up to me with their hands covering their noses and mouths. I wondered what was wrong with them. They spoke to me in a strange tongue. They pulled the lifeboat onto the sand. They carried me away. The one piece of turtle meat I had brought from the boat they wrenched from my hand and threw away. I wept like a child. It was not because I was overcome at having survived my ordeal, though I was. Nor was it the presence of my brothers and sisters, though that too was very moving. I was weeping because Richard Parker had left me so unceremoniously. What a terrible thing it is to botch a farewell. I am a person who believes in form, in the harmony of order. Where we can, we must give things a meaningful shape. For example—I wonder—could you tell my jumbled story in exactly one hundred chapters, not one more, not one less? I'll tell you, that's one thing I hate about my nickname, the way that number runs on forever. It's important in life to conclude things properly. Only then can you let go. Otherwise you are left with words you should have said but never did, and your heart is heavy with remorse. That bungled goodbye hurts me to this day. I wish so much that I'd had one last look at him in the lifeboat, that I'd provoked him a little, so that I was on his mind. I wish I had said to him then—yes, I know, to a tiger, but still—I wish I had said, "Richard Parker, it's over. We have survived. Can you believe it? I owe you more gratitude than I can express. I couldn't have done it without you. I would like to say it formally: Richard Parker, thank you. Thank you for saving my life. And now go where you must. You have known the confined freedom of a zoo most of your life; now you will know the free confinement of a jungle. I wish you all the best with it. Watch out for Man. He is not your friend. But I hope you will remember me as a friend. I will never forget you, that is certain. You will always be with me, in my heart. What is that hiss? Ah, our boat has touched sand. So farewell, Richard Parker, farewell. God be with you." The people who found me took me to their village, and there some women gave me a bath and scrubbed me so hard that I wondered if they realized I was naturally brown-skinned and not a very dirty white boy. I tried to explain. They nodded and smiled and kept on scrubbing me as if I were the deck of a ship. I thought they were going to skin me alive. But they gave me food. Delicious food. Once I started eating, I couldn't stop. I thought I would never stop being hungry. The next day a police car came and brought me to a hospital, and there my story ends. I was overwhelmed by the generosity of those who rescued me. Poor people gave me clothes and food. Doctors and nurses cared for me as if I were a premature baby. Mexican and Canadian officials opened all doors for me so that from the beach in Mexico to the home of my foster mother to the classrooms of the University of Toronto, there was only one long, easy corridor I had to walk down. To all these people I would like to extend my heartfelt thanks. |
第93章 对自己的处境感到厌烦了，这就像天气一样毫无意义。但是生命却不愿离开我。这个故事的其余部分只有悲伤、疼痛和忍耐。 一种极端会引起另一种极端。我告诉你,如果你像我一样处在如此悲惨的困境之中，你也会让自己的思想变得崇高。你的处境越是低下，你的思想越想高高飞翔。我如此凄凉绝望，处在永无休止的痛苦的挣扎之中，很自然地，我会求助于上帝。 第94章 我们到达陆地的时候，具体地说，是到达墨西哥的时候，我太虚弱了，简直连高兴的力气都没有了。靠岸非常困难。救生艇差点儿被海浪掀翻。我让海锚——剩下的那些——完全张开，让我们与海浪保持垂直，一开始往浪峰上冲，我就起锚。我们就这样不断地下锚和起锚，冲浪来到岸边。这很危险。但是我们正巧抓住了一个浪头，这个浪头将我们带了很远一段距离带过了高高的、墙一般坍塌的海水。我最后一次起锚，剩下的路程我们是被海浪推着前进的。小船发出嘶嘶声，冲着海滩停了下来。 我从船舷爬了下来。我害怕松手，害怕在就要被解救的时候，自己会淹死在两英尺深的水里。我向前看看自己得走多远。那一瞥在我心里留下了对理查德·帕克的最后几个印象之一，因为就在那一刻他朝我扑了过来。我看见他的身体，充满了无限活力，在我身体上方的空中伸展开来，仿佛一道飞逝的毛绒绒的彩虹。他落进了水里，后腿展开，尾巴翘得高高的，只跳了几下，他就从那儿跳到了海滩上。他向左走去，爪子挖开了潮湿的沙滩，但是又改变了主意，转过身来。他向右走去时径直从我面前走过。他没有看我。他沿着海岸跑了大约一百码远，然后才掉转过来。他步态笨拙又不协调。他摔倒了好几次。在丛林边上，他停了下来。我肯定他会转身对着我。他会看我。他会耷拉下耳朵。他会咆哮。他会以某种诸如此类的方式为我们之间的关系做一个总结。他没有这么做。他只是目不转睛地看着丛林。然后，理查德·帕克，我忍受折磨时的伴侣，激起我求生意志的可怕猛兽，向前走去，永远从我的生活中消失了。 我挣扎着向岸边走去，倒在了海滩上。我四处张望。我真的是孤独一人,不仅被家人遗弃，并且现在被理查德·帕克遗弃，而且，我想，也被上帝遗弃了。当然，我并没有被遗弃。这座海滩如此柔软，坚实，广阔，就像上帝的胸膛，而且，在某个地方，有两只眼睛正闪着快乐的光，有一张嘴正因为有我在那儿而微笑着。 几个小时以后，我的一个同类发现了我。他离开了，又带了一群人回来。大约有六七个人。他们用手捂着鼻子和嘴朝我走过来。我不知道他们怎么了。他们用一种奇怪的语言对我说话。他们把救生艇拖到了沙滩上。他们把我抬走了。我手里抓着一块从船上带下来的海龟肉，他们把肉抠出来扔了。 我像个孩子一样哭起来。不是因为我对自己历尽磨难却生存下来而感到激动，虽然我的确感到激动。也不是因为我的兄弟姐妹就在我面前，虽然这也令我非常感动。我哭是因为理查德·帕克如此随便地离开了我。不能免啊。我是一个相信形式、相信秩序和谐的人。只要可能，我们就应该赋予事物一个有意义的形式。比如说——我想知道——你能一章不多、一章不少，用正好一百章把我的杂乱的故事说出来吗？我告诉你，我讨厌自己外号的原因之一就是，那个数字会一直循环下去。事物应当恰当地结束，这在生活中很重要。只有在这时你才能放手。否则你的心里就会装满应该说却从不曾说的话，你的心就会因悔恨而沉重。那个没有说出的再见直到今天都让我伤心。我真希望自己在救生艇里看了他最后一眼，希望我稍稍激怒了他，这样他就会牵挂我。我希望自己当时对他说一是的，我知道，对一只老虎，但我还是要说一我希望自己说理查德·帕克，一切都过去了。我们活了下来。你能相信吗？我对你的感谢无法用语言表达。如果没有你，我做不到这一点。我要正式地对你说：“理查德·帕克，谢谢你。谢谢你救了我的命。现在到你要去的地方去吧。这大半辈子你巳经了解了什么是动物园里有限的自由；现在你将会了解什么是丛林里有限的自由。我祝你好运。当心人类。他们不是你的朋友。但我希望你记住我是一个朋友。我不会忘记你的，这是肯定的。你会永远和我在一起，在我心里。那嘶嘶声是什么？啊，我们的小船触到沙滩了。那么，再见了，理查德·帕克，再见。上帝与你同在。” 发现我的人把我带到了他们村里，在那里，几个女人给我洗了个澡。她们擦洗得太用力了，我不知道她们是否意识到我是天生的棕色皮肤，而不是个非常脏的白人小伙子。我试图解释。她们点点头，笑了笑，然后继续擦洗，仿佛我是船甲板。我以为她们要把我活剥了。但是她们给了我食物。可口的食物。我一开始吃，就没办法停下来了。我想我永远也不会停止感到饥饿。 第二天，来了一辆警车，把我送进了医院。我的故事到此结束了。 救我的人慷慨大方，让我深受感动。穷人送给我衣服和食物。医生和护士照顾我，仿佛我是个早产的婴儿。墨西哥和加拿大官员为我敞开了所有大门，因此从墨西哥海滩到我养母家再到多伦多大学的课堂，我只须走过一道长长的通行方便的走廊。我要对所有这些人表示衷心的感谢。 |
CHAPTER 91 I climbed aboard my brother's boat. With my hands I explored it. I found he had lied to me. He had a little turtle meat, a dorado head, and even—a supreme treat—some biscuit crumbs. And he had water. It all went into my mouth. I returned to my boat and released his. Crying as I had done did my eyes some good. The small window at the top left of my vision opened a crack. I rinsed my eyes with sea water. With every rinsing, the window opened further. My vision came back within two days. I saw such a vision that I nearly wished I had remained blind. His butchered, dismembered body lay on the floor of the boat. Richard Parker had amply supped on him, including on his face, so that I never saw who my brother was. His eviscerated torso, with its broken ribs curving up like the frame of a ship, looked like a miniature version of the lifeboat, such was its blood-drenched and horrifying state. I will confess that I caught one of his arms with the gaff and used his flesh as bait. I will further confess that, driven by the extremity of my need and the madness to which it pushed me, I ate some of his flesh. I mean small pieces, little strips that I meant for the gaff's hook that, when dried by the sun, looked like ordinary animal flesh. They slipped into my mouth nearly unnoticed. You must understand, my suffering was unremitting and he was already dead. I stopped as soon as I caught a fish. I pray for his soul every day. CHAPTER 92 I made an exceptional botanical discovery. But there will be many who disbelieve the following episode. Still, I give it to you now because it's part of the story and it happened to me. I was on my side. It was an hour or two past noon on a day of quiet sunshine and gentle breeze. I had slept a short while, a diluted sleep that had brought no rest and no dreams. I turned over to my other side, expending as little energy as possible in doing so. I opened my eyes. In the near distance I saw trees. I did not react. I was certain it was an illusion that a few blinks would make disappear. The trees remained. In fact, they grew to be a forest. They were part of a low-lying island. I pushed myself up. I continued to disbelieve my eyes. But it was a thrill to be deluded in such a high-quality way. The trees were beautiful. They were like none I had ever seen before. They had a pale bark, and equally distributed branches that carried an amazing profusion of leaves. These leaves were brilliantly green, a green so bright and emerald that, next to it, vegetation during the monsoons was drab olive. I blinked deliberately, expecting my eyelids to act like lumberjacks. But the trees would not fall. I looked down. I was both satisfied and disappointed with what I saw. The island had no soil. Not that the trees stood in water. Rather, they stood in what appeared to be a dense mass of vegetation, as sparkling green as the leaves. Who had ever heard of land with no soil? With trees growing out of pure vegetation? I felt satisfaction because such a geology confirmed that I was right, that this island was a chimera, a play of the mind. By the same token I felt disappointment because an island, any island, however strange, would have been very good to come upon. Since the trees continued to stand, I continued to look. To take in green, after so much blue, was like music to my eyes. Green is a lovely colour. It is the colour of Islam. It is my favourite colour. The current gently pushed the lifeboat closer to the illusion. Its shore could not be called a beach, there being neither sand nor pebbles, and there was no pounding of surf either, since the waves that fell upon the island simply vanished into its porosity. From a ridge some three hundred yards inland, the island sloped to the sea and, forty or so yards into it, fell off precipitously, disappearing from sight into the depths of the Pacific, surely the smallest continental shelf on record. I was getting used to the mental delusion. To make it last I refrained from putting a strain on it; when the lifeboat nudged the island, I did not move, only continued to dream. The fabric of the island seemed to be an intricate, tightly webbed mass of tube-shaped seaweed, in diameter a little thicker than two fingers. What a fanciful island, I thought. After some minutes I crept up to the side of the boat. "Look for green," said the survival manual. Well, this was green. In fact, it was chlorophyll heaven. A green to outshine food colouring and flashing neon lights. A green to get drunk on. "Ultimately, a foot is the only good judge of land," pursued the manual. The island was within reach of a foot. To judge—and be disappointed—or not to judge, that was the question. I decided to judge. I looked about to see if there were sharks. There were none. I turned on my stomach, and holding on to the tarpaulin, I slowly brought a leg down. My foot entered the sea. It was pleasingly cool. The island lay just a little further down, shimmering in the water. I stretched. I expected the bubble of illusion to burst at any second. It did not. My foot sank into clear water and met the rubbery resistance of something flexible but solid. I put more weight down. The illusion would not give. I put my full weight on my foot. Still I did not sink. Still I did not believe. Finally, it was my nose that was the judge of land. It came to my olfactory sense, full and fresh, overwhelming: the smell of vegetation. I gasped. After months of nothing but salt-water-bleached smells, this reek of vegetable organic matter was intoxicating. It was then that I believed, and the only thing that sank was my mind; my thought process became disjointed. My leg began to shake. "My God! My God!" I whimpered. I fell overboard. The combined shock of solid land and cool water gave me the strength to pull myself forward onto the island. I babbled incoherent thanks to God and collapsed. But I could not stay still. I was too excited. I attempted to get to my feet. Blood rushed away from my head. The ground shook violently. A dizzying blindness overcame me. I thought I would faint. I steadied myself. All I seemed able to do was pant. I managed to sit up. "Richard Parker! Land! Land! We are saved!" I shouted. The smell of vegetation was extraordinarily strong. As for the greenness, it was so fresh and soothing that strength and comfort seemed to be physically pouring into my system through my eyes. What was this strange, tubular seaweed, so intricately entangled? Was it edible? It seemed to be a variety of marine algae, but quite rigid, far more so than normal algae. The feel of it in the hand was wet and as of something crunchy. I pulled at it. Strands of it broke off without too much effort. In cross-section it consisted of two concentric walls: the wet, slightly rough outer wall, so vibrantly green, and an inner wall midway between the outer wall and the core of the algae. The division in the two tubes that resulted was very plain: the centre tube was white in colour, while the tube that surrounded it was decreasingly green as it approached the inner wall. I brought a piece of the algae to my nose. Beyond the agreeable fragrance of the vegetable, it had a neutral smell. I licked it. My pulse quickened. The algae was wet with fresh water. I bit into it. My chops were in for a shock. The inner tube was bitterly salty—but the outer was not only edible, it was delicious. My tongue began to tremble as if it were a finger flipping through a dictionary, trying to find a long-forgotten word. It found it, and my eyes closed with pleasure at hearing it: sweet. Not as in good, but as in sugary. Turtles and fish are many things, but they are never, ever sugary. The algae had a light sweetness that outdid in delight even the sap of our maple trees here in Canada. In consistency, the closest I can compare it to is water chestnuts. Saliva forcefully oozed through the dry pastiness of my mouth. Making loud noises of pleasure, I tore at the algae around me. The inner and outer tubes separated cleanly and easily. I began stuffing the sweet outer into my mouth. I went at it with both hands, force-feeding my mouth and setting it to work harder and faster than it had in a very long time. I ate till there was a regular moat around me. A solitary tree stood about two hundred feet away. It was the only tree downhill from the ridge, which seemed a very long way off. I say ridge; the word perhaps gives an incorrect impression of how steep the rise from the shore was. The island was low-lying, as I've said. The rise was gentle, to a height of perhaps fifty or sixty feet. But in the state I was in, that height loomed like a mountain. The tree was more inviting. I noticed its patch of shade. I tried to stand again. I managed to get to a squatting position but as soon as I made to rise, my head spun and I couldn't keep my balance. And even if I hadn't fallen over, my legs had no strength left in them. But my will was strong. I was determined to move forward. I crawled, dragged myself, weakly leapfrogged to the tree. I know I will never know a joy so vast as I experienced when I entered that tree's dappled, shimmering shade and heard the dry, crisp sound of the wind rustling its leaves. The tree was not as large or as tall as the ones inland, and for being on the wrong side of the ridge, more exposed to the elements, it was a little scraggly and not so uniformly developed as its mates. But it was a tree, and a tree is a blessedly good thing to behold when you've been lost at sea for a long, long time. I sang that tree's glory, its solid, unhurried purity, its slow beauty. Oh, that I could be like it, rooted to the ground but with my every hand raised up to God in praise! I wept. As my heart exalted Allah, my mind began to take in information about Allah's works. The tree did indeed grow right out of the algae, as I had seen from the lifeboat. There was not the least trace of soil. Either there was soil deeper down, or this species of tree was a remarkable instance of a commensal or a parasite. The trunk was about the width of a man's chest. The bark was greyish green in colour, thin and smooth, and soft enough that I could mark it with my fingernail. The cordate leaves were large and broad, and ended in a single point. The head of the tree had the lovely full roundness of a mango tree, but it was not a mango. I thought it smelled somewhat like a lote tree, but it wasn't a lote either. Nor a mangrove. Nor any other tree I had ever seen. All I know was that it was beautiful and green and lush with leaves. I heard a growl. I turned. Richard Parker was observing me from the lifeboat. He was looking at the island, too. He seemed to want to come ashore but was afraid. Finally, after much snarling and pacing, he leapt from the boat. I brought the orange whistle to my mouth. But he didn't have aggression on his mind. Simple balance was enough of a challenge; he was as wobbly on his feet as I was. When he advanced, he crawled close to the ground and with trembling limbs, like a newborn cub. Giving me a wide berth, he made for the ridge and disappeared into the interior of the island. I passed the day eating, resting, attempting to stand and, in a general way, bathing in bliss. I felt nauseous when I exerted myself too much. And I kept feeling that the ground was shifting beneath me and that I was going to fall over, even when I was sitting still. I started worrying about Richard Parker in the late afternoon. Now that the setting, the territory, had changed, I wasn't sure how he would take to me if he came upon me. Reluctantly, strictly for safety's sake, I crawled back to the lifeboat. However Richard Parker took possession of the island, the bow and the tarpaulin remained my territory. I searched for something to moor the lifeboat to. Evidently the algae covered the shore thickly, for it was all I could find. Finally, I resolved the problem by driving an oar, handle first, deep into the algae and tethering the boat to it. I crawled onto the tarpaulin. I was exhausted. My body was spent from taking in so much food, and there was the nervous tension arising from my sudden change of fortunes. As the day ended, I hazily remember hearing Richard Parker roaring in the distance, but sleep overcame me. I awoke in the night with a strange, uncomfortable feeling in my lower belly. I thought it was a cramp, that perhaps I had poisoned myself with the algae. I heard a noise. I looked. Richard Parker was aboard. He had returned while I was sleeping. He was meowing and licking the pads of his feet. I found his return puzzling but thought no further about it—the cramp was quickly getting worse. I was doubled over with pain, shaking with it, when a process, normal for most but long forgotten by me, set itself into motion: defecation. It was very painful, but afterwards I fell into the deepest, most refreshing sleep I had had since the night before the Tsimtsum sank. When I woke up in the morning I felt much stronger. I crawled to the solitary tree in a vigorous way. My eyes feasted once more upon it, as did my stomach on the algae. I had such a plentiful breakfast that I dug a big hole. Richard Parker once again hesitated for hours before jumping off the boat. When he did, mid-morning, as soon as he landed on the shore he jumped back and half fell in the water and seemed very tense. He hissed and clawed the air with a paw. It was curious. I had no idea what he was doing. His anxiety passed, and noticeably surer-footed than the previous day, he disappeared another time over the ridge. That day, leaning against the tree, I stood. I felt dizzy. The only way I could make the ground stop moving was to close my eyes and grip the tree. I pushed off and tried to walk. I fell instantly. The ground rushed up to me before I could move a foot. No harm done. The island, coated with such tightly woven, rubbery vegetation, was an ideal place to relearn how to walk. I could fall any which way, it was impossible to hurt myself. The next day, after another restful night on the boat—to which, once again, Richard Parker had returned—I was able to walk. Falling half a dozen times, I managed to reach the tree. I could feel my strength increasing by the hour. With the gaff I reached up and pulled down a branch from the tree. I plucked off some leaves. They were soft and unwaxed, but they tasted bitter. Richard Parker was attached to his den on the lifeboat—that was my explanation for why he had returned another night. I saw him coming back that evening, as the sun was setting. I had retethered the lifeboat to the buried oar. I was at the bow, checking that the rope was properly secured to the stem. He appeared all of a sudden. At first I didn't recognize him. This magnificent animal bursting over the ridge at full gallop couldn't possibly be the same listless, bedraggled tiger who was my companion in misfortune? But it was. It was Richard Parker and he was coming my way at high speed. He looked purposeful. His powerful neck rose above his lowered head. His coat and his muscles shook at every step. I could hear the drumming of his heavy body against the ground. I have read that there are two fears that cannot be trained out of us: the startle reaction upon hearing an unexpected noise, and vertigo. I would like to add a third, to wit, the rapid and direct approach of a known killer. I fumbled for the whistle. When he was twenty-five feet from the lifeboat I blew into the whistle with all my might. A piercing cry split the air. It had the desired effect. Richard Parker braked. But he clearly wanted to move forward again. I blew a second time. He started turning and hopping on the spot in a most peculiar, deer-like way, snarling fiercely. I blew a third time. Every hair on him was raised. His claws were full out. He was in a state of extreme agitation. I feared that the defensive wall of my whistle blows was about to crumble and that he would attack me. Instead, Richard Parker did the most unexpected thing: he jumped into the sea. I was astounded. The very thing I thought he would never do, he did, and with might and resolve. He energetically paddled his way to the stern of the lifeboat. I thought of blowing again, but instead opened the locker lid and sat down, retreating to the inner sanctum of my territory. He surged onto the stern, quantities of water pouring off him, making my end of the boat pitch up. He balanced on the gunnel and the stern bench for a moment, assessing me. My heart grew faint. I did not think I would be able to blow into the whistle again. I looked at him blankly. He flowed down to the floor of the lifeboat and disappeared under the tarpaulin. I could see parts of him from the edges of the locker lid. I threw myself upon the tarpaulin, out of his sight—but directly above him. I felt an overwhelming urge to sprout wings and fly off. I calmed down. I reminded myself forcefully that this had been my situation for the last long while, to be living with a live tiger hot beneath me. As my breathing slowed down, sleep came to me. Sometime during the night I awoke and, my fear forgotten, looked over. He was dreaming: he was shaking and growling in his sleep. He was loud enough about it to have woken me up. In the morning, as usual, he went over the ridge. I decided that as soon as I was strong enough I would go exploring the inland. It seemed quite large, if the shoreline was any indication; left and right it stretched on with only a slight curve, showing the island to have a fair girth. I spent the day walking—and falling-from the shore to the tree and back, in an attempt to restore my legs to health. At every fall I had a full meal of algae. When Richard Parker returned as the day was ending, a little earlier than the previous day, I was expecting him. I sat tight and did not blow the whistle. He came to the water's edge and in one mighty leap reached the side of the lifeboat. He entered his territory without intruding into mine, only causing the boat to lurch to one side. His return to form was quite terrifying. The: next morning, after giving Richard Parker plenty of advance, I set off to explore the island. I walked up to the ridge. I reached it easily, proudly moving one foot ahead of the other in a gait that was spirited if still a little awkward. Had my legs been weaker they would have given way beneath me when I saw what I saw beyond the ridge. To start with details, I saw that the whole island was covered with the algae, not just its edges. I saw a great green plateau with a green forest in its centre. I saw all around this forest hundreds of evenly scattered, identically sized ponds with trees sparsely distributed in a uniform way between them, the whole arramgement giving the unmistakable impression of following a design. But it was the meerkats that impressed themselves most indelibly on my mind. I saw in one look what I would conservatively estimate to be hundreds of thousasands of meerkats. The landscape was covered in meerkats. And when I appeared, it seamed that all of them turned to me, astonished, like chickens in a farmyard, and stood up. We didn't have any meerkats in our zoo. But I had read about them. They were in the books and in the literature. A meerkat is a small South African mammal related to the mongoose; in other words, a carnivorous burrower, a foot long and weighing two pounds when mature, slender andd weasel-like in build, with a pointed snout, eyes sitting squarely at the front of its face, short legs, paws with four toes and long, non-retractile claws, and an eight-inch tail. Its fur is light brown to grey in colour with black or brown bands on its back, while the tip of its tail, its ears and the characteristic circles around its eyes are black. It is an agile and keen-sighted creature, diurnal and social in habits, and feeding in its native range—the Kalahari Desert of southern Africa—on, among other things, scorpions, to whose venom it is completely immune. When jt is on the lookout, the meerkat has the peculiarity of standing perfectly upright on the tips of its back legs, balancing itself tripod-like with its tail. Often a group of meerkats will take the stance collectively, standing in a huddle and gazing in the same direction, looking like commuters waiting for a bus. The earnest expression on their faces, and the way their front paws hang before them, make them look either like children self-consciously posing for a photographer or patients in a doctor's office stripped naked and demurely trying to cover their genitals. That is what I beheld in one glance, hundreds of thousands of meerkats—more, a million—turning to me and standing at attention, as if saying, "Yes, sir?" Mind you, a standing meerkat reaches up eighteen inches at most, so it was not the height of these creatures that was so breathtaking as their unlimited multitude. I stood rooted to the spot, speechless. If I set a million meerkats fleeing in terror the chaos would be indescribable. But their interest in me was shortlived. After a few seconds, they went back to doing what they had been doing before I appeared, which was either nibbling at the algae or staring into the ponds. To see so many beings bending down at the same time reminded me of prayer time in a mosque. The creatures seemed to feel no fear. As I moved down from the ridge, none shied away or showed the least tension at my presence. If I had wanted to, I could have touched one, even picked one up. I did nothing of the sort. I simply walked into what was surely the largest colony of meerkats in the world, one of the strangest, most wonderful experiences of my life. There was a ceaseless noise in the air. It was their squeaking, chirping, twittering and barking. Such were their numbers and the vagaries of their excitement that the noise came and went like a flock of birds, at times very loud, swirling around me, then rapidly dying off as the closest meerkats fell silent while others, further off, started up. Were they not afraid of me because I should be afraid of them? The question crossed my mind. But the answer—that they were harmless—was immediately apparent. To get close to a pond, around which they were densely packed, I had to nudge them away with my feet so as not to step on one. They took to my barging without any offence, making room for me like a good-natured crowd. I felt warm, furry bodies against my ankles as I looked into a pond. All the ponds had the same round shape and were about the same size—roughly forty feet in diameter. I expected shallowness. I saw nothing but deep, clear water. The ponds seemed bottomless, in fact. And as far down as I could see, their sides consisted of green algae. Evidently the layer atop the island was very substantial. I could see nothing that accounted for the meerkats' fixed curiosity, and I might have given up on solving the mystery had squeaking and barking not erupted at a pond nearby. Meerkats were jumping up and down in a state of great ferment. Suddenly, by the hundreds, they began diving into the pond. There was much pushing and shoving as the meerkats behind vied to reach the pond's edge. The frenzy was collective; even tiny meerkittens were making for the water, barely being held back by mothers and guardians. I stared in disbelief. These were not standard Kalahari Desert meerkats. Standard Kalahari Desert meerkats do not behave like frogs. These meerkats were most definitely a subspecies that had specialized in a fascinating and surprising way. I made for the pond, bringing my feet down gingerly, in time to see meerkats swimming—actually swimming—and bringing to shore fish by the dozens, and not small fish either. Some were dorados that would have been unqualified feasts on the lifeboat. They dwarfed the meerkats. It was incomprehensible to me how meerkats could catch such fish. It was as the meerkats were hauling the fish out of the pond, displaying real feats of teamwork, that I noticed something curious: every fish, without exception, was already dead. Freshly dead. The meerkats were bringing ashore dead fish they had not killed. I kneeled by the pond, pushing aside several excited, wet meerkats. I touched the water. It was cooler than I'd expected. There was a current that was bringing colder water from below. I cupped a little water in my hand and brought it to my mouth. I took a sip. It was fresh water. This explained how the fish had died—for, of course, place a saltwater fish in fresh water and it will quickly become bloated and die. But what were seafaring fish doing in a freshwater pond? How had they got there? I went to another pond, making my way through the meerkats. It too was fresh. Another pond; the same. And again with a fourth pond. They were all freshwater ponds. Where had such quantities of fresh water come from, I asked myself. The answer was obvious: from the algae. The algae naturally and continuously desalinated sea water, which was why its core was salty while its outer surface was wet with fresh water: it was oozing the fresh water out. I did not ask myself why the algae did this, or how, or where the salt went. My mind stopped asking such questions. I simply laughed and jumped into a pond. I found it hard to stay at the surface of the water; I was still very weak, and I had little fat on me to help me float. I held on to the edge of the pond. The effect of bathing in pure, clean, salt-free water was more than I can put into words. After such a long time at sea, my skin was like a hide and my hair was long, matted and as silky as a fly-catching strip. I felt even my soul had been corroded by salt. So, under the gaze of a thousand meerkats, I soaked, allowing fresh water to dissolve every salt crystal that had tainted me. The meerkats looked away. They did it like one man, all of them turning in the same direction at exactly the same time. I pulled myself out to see what it was. It was Richard Parker. He confirmed what I had suspected, that these meerkats had gone for so many generations without predators that any notion of flight distance, of flight, of plain fear, had been genetically weeded out of them. He was moving through them, blazing a trail of murder and mayhem, devouring one meerkat after another, blood dripping from his mouth, and they, cheek to jowl with a tiger, were jumping up and down on the spot, as if crying, "My turn! My turn! My turn!" I would see this scene time and again. Nothing distracted the meerkats from their little lives of pond staring and algae nibbling. Whether Richard Parker skulked up in masterly tiger fashion before landing upon them in a thunder of roaring, or slouched by indifferently, it was all the same to them. They were not to be ruffled. Meekness ruled. He killed beyond his need. He killed meerkats that he did not eat. In animals, the urge to kill is separate from the urge to eat. To go for so long without prey and suddenly to have so many—his pent-up hunting instinct was lashing out with a vengeance. He was far away. There was no danger to me. At least for the moment. The next morning, after he had gone, I cleaned the lifeboat. It needed it badly. I won't describe what the accumulation of human and animal skeletons, mixed in with innumerable fish and turtle remains, looked like. The whole foul, disgusting mess went overboard. I didn't dare step onto the floor of the boat for fear of leaving a tangible trace of my presence to Richard Parker, so the job had to be done with the gaff from the tarpaulin or from the side of the boat, standing in the water. What I could not clean up with the gaff—the smells and the smears—I rinsed with buckets of water. That night he entered his new, clean den without comment. In his jaws were a number of dead meerkats, which he ate during the night. I spent the following days eating and drinking and bathing and observing the meerkats and walking and running and resting and growing stronger. My running became smooth and unselfconscious, a source of euphoria. My skin healed. My pains and aches left me. Put simply, I returned to life. I explored the island. I tried to walk around it but gave up. I estimate that it was about six or seven miles in diameter, which means a circumference of about twenty miles. What I saw seemed to indicate that the shore was unvarying in its features. The same blinding greenness throughout, the same ridge, the same incline from ridge to water, the same break in the monotony: a scraggly tree here and there. Exploring the shore revealed one extraordinary thing: the algae, and therefore the island itself, varied in height and density depending on the weather. On very hot days, the algae's weave became tight and dense, and the island increased in height; the climb to the ridge became steeper and the ridge higher. It was not a quick process. Only a hot spell lasting several days triggered it. But it was unmistakable. I believe it had to do with water conservation, with exposing less of the algae's surface to the sun's rays. The converse phenomenon—the loosening of the island—was faster, more dramatic, and the reasons for it more evident. At such times the ridge came down, and the continental shelf, so to speak, stretched out, and the algae along the shore became so slack that I tended to catch my feet in it. This loosening was brought on by overcast weather and, faster still, by heavy seas. I lived through a major storm while on the island, and after the experience, I would have trusted staying on it during the worst hurricane. It was an awe-inspiring spectacle to sit in a tree and see giant waves charging the island, seemingly preparing to ride up the ridge and unleash bedlam and chaos—only to see each one melt away as if it had come upon quicksand. In this respect, the island was Gandhian: it resisted by not resisting. Every wave vanished into the island without a clash, with only a little frothing and foaming. A tremor shaking the ground and ripples wrinkling the surface of the ponds were the only indications that some great force was passing through. And pass through it did: in the lee of the island, considerably diminished, waves emerged and went on their way. It was the strangest sight, that, to see waves leaving a shoreline. The storm, and the resulting minor earthquakes, did not perturb the meerkats in the least. They went about their business as if the elements did not exist. Harder to understand was the island's complete desolation. I never saw such a stripped-down ecology. The air of the place carried no flies, no butterflies, no bees, no insects of any kind. The trees sheltered no birds. The plains hid no rodents, no grubs, no worms, no snakes, no scorpions; they gave rise to no other trees, no shrubs, no grasses, no flowers. The ponds harboured no freshwater fish. The seashore teemed with no weeds, no crabs, no crayfish, no coral, no pebbles, no rocks. With the single, notable exception of the meerkats, there was not the least foreign matter on the island, organic or inorganic. It was nothing but shining green algae and shining green trees. The trees were not parasites. I discovered this one day when I ate so much algae at the base of a small tree that I exposed its roots. I saw that the roots did not go their own independent way into the algae, but rather joined it, became it. Which meant that these trees either lived in a symbiotic relationship with the algae, in a giving-and-taking that was to their mutual advantage, or, simpler still, were an integral part of the algae. I would guess that the latter was the case because the trees did not seem to bear flowers or fruit. I doubt that an independent organism, however intimate the symbiosis it has entered upon, would give up on so essential a part of life as reproduction. The leaves' appetite for the sun, as testified by their abundance, their breadth and their super-chlorophyll greenness, made me suspect that the trees had primarily an energy-gathering function. But this is conjecture. There is one last observation I would like to make. It is based on intuition rather than hard evidence. It is this: that the island was not an island in the conventional sense of the term—that is, a small landmass rooted to the floor of the ocean—but was rather a free-floating organism, a ball of algae of leviathan proportions. And it is my hunch that the ponds reached down to the sides of this huge, buoyant mass and opened onto the ocean, which explained the otherwise inexplicable presence in them of dorados and other fish of the open seas. It would all bear much further study, but unfortunately I lost the algae that I took away. Just as I returned to life, so did Richard Parker. By dint of stuffing himself with meerkats, his weight went up, his fur began to glisten again, and he returned to his healthy look of old. He kept up his habit of returning to the lifeboat at the end of every day. I always made sure I was there before him, copiously marking my territory with urine so that he didn't forget who was who and what was whose. But he left at first light and roamed further afield than I did; the island being the same all over, I generally stayed within one area. I saw very little of him during the day. And I grew nervous. I saw how he raked the trees with his forepaws—great deep gouges in the trunks, they were. And I began to hear his hoarse roaring, that aaonh cry as rich as gold or honey and as spine-chilling as the depths of an unsafe mine or a thousand angry bees. That he was searching for a female was not in itself what troubled me; it was that it meant he was comfortable enough on the island to be thinking about producing young. I worried that in this new condition he might not tolerate another male in his territory, his night territory in particular, especially if his insistent cries went unanswered, as surely they would. One day I was on a walk in the forest. I was walking vigorously, caught up in my own thoughts. I passed a tree—and practically ran into Richard Parker. Both of us were startled. He hissed and reared up on his hind legs, towering over me, his great paws ready to swat me down. I stood frozen to the spot, paralyzed with fear and shock. He dropped back on all fours and moved away. When he had gone three, four paces, he turned and reared up again, growling this time. I continued to stand like a statue. He went another few paces and repeated the threat a third time. Satisfied that I was not a menace, he ambled off. As soon as I had caught my breath and stopped trembling, I brought the whistle to my mouth and started running after him. He had already gone a good distance, but he was still within sight. My running was powerful. He turned, saw me, crouched—and then bolted. I blew into the whistle as hard as I could, wishing that its sound would travel as far and wide as the cry of a lonely tiger. That night, as he was resting two feet beneath me, I came to the conclusion that I had to step into the circus ring again. The major difficulty in training animals is that they operate either by instinct or by rote. The shortcut of intelligence to make new associations that are not instinctive is minimally available. Therefore, imprinting in an animal's mind the artificial connection that if it does a certain action, say, roll over, it will get a treat can be achieved only by mind-numbing repetition. It is a slow process that depends as much on luck as on hard work, all the more so when the animal is an adult. I blew into the whistle till my lungs hurt. I pounded my chest till it was covered with bruises. I shouted "Hep! Hep! Hep!"—my tiger-language command to say "Do!"—thousands of times. I tossed hundreds of meerkat morsels at him that I would gladly have eaten myself. The training of tigers is no easy feat. They are considerably less flexible in their mental make-up than other animals that are commonly trained in circuses and zoos—sea lions and chimpanzees, for example. But I don't want to take too much credit for what I managed to do with Richard Parker. My good fortune, the fortune that saved my life, was that he was not only a young adult but a pliable young adult, an omega animal. I was afraid that conditions on the island might play against me, that with such an abundance of food and water and so much space he might become relaxed and confident, less open to my influence. But he remained tense. I knew him well enough to sense it. At night in the lifeboat he was unsettled and noisy. I assigned this tension to the new environment of the island; any change, even positive, will make an animal tense. Whatever the cause, the strain he was under meant that he continued to show a readiness to oblige; more, that he felt a need to oblige. I trained him to jump through a hoop I made with thin branches. It was a simple routine of four jumps. Each one earned him part of a meerkat. As he lumbered towards me, I first held the hoop at the end of my left arm, some three feet off the ground. When he had leapt through it, and as he finished his run, I took hold of the hoop with my right hand and, my back to him, commanded him to return and leap through it again. For the third jump I knelt on the ground and held the hoop over my head. It was a nerve-racking experience to see him come my way. I never lost the fear that he would not jump but attack me. Thankfully, he jumped every time. After which I got up and tossed the hoop so that it rolled like a wheel. Richard Parker was supposed to follow it and go through it one last time before it fell over. He was never very good at this last part of the act, either because I failed to throw the hoop properly or because he clumsily ran into it. But at least he followed it, which meant he got away from me. He was always filled with amazement when the hoop fell over. He would look at it intently, as if it were some great fellow animal he had been running with that had collapsed unexpectedly. He would stay next to it, sniffing it. I would throw him his last treat and move away. Eventually I quit the boat. It seemed absurd to spend my nights in such cramped quarters with an animal who was becoming roomy in his needs, when I could have an entire island. I decided the safe thing to do would be to sleep in a tree. Richard Parker's nocturnal practice of sleeping in the lifeboat was never a law in my mind. It would not be a good idea for me to be outside my territory, sleeping and defenceless on the ground, the one time he decided to go for a midnight stroll. So one day I left the boat with the net, a rope and some blankets. I sought out a handsome tree on the edge of the forest and threw the rope over the lowest branch. My fitness was such that I had no problem pulling myself up by my arms and climbing the tree. I found two solid branches that were level and close together, and I tied the net to them. I returned at the end of the day. I had just finished folding the blankets to make my mattress when I detected a commotion among the meerkats. I looked. I pushed aside branches to see better. I looked in every direction and as far as the horizon. It was unmistakable. The meerkats were abandoning the ponds—indeed, the whole plain—and rapidly making for the forest. An entire nation of meerkats was on the move, their backs arched and their feet a blur. I was wondering what further surprise these animals held in store for me when I noticed with consternation that the ones from the pond closest to me had surrounded my tree and were climbing up the trunk. The trunk was disappearing under a wave of determined meerkats. I thought they were coming to attack me, that here was the reason why Richard Parker slept in the lifeboat: during the day the meerkats were docile and harmless, but at night, under their collective weight, they crushed their enemies ruthlessly. I was both afraid and indignant. To survive for so long in a lifeboat with a 450-pound Bengal tiger only to die up a tree at the hands of two-pound meerkats struck me as a tragedy too unfair and too ridiculous to bear. They meant me no harm. They climbed up to me, over me, about me—and past me. They settled upon every branch in the tree. It became laden with them. They even took over my bed. And the same as far as the eye could see. They were climbing every tree in sight. The entire forest was turning brown, an autumn that came in a few minutes. Collectively, as they scampered by in droves to claim empty trees deeper into the forest, they made more noise than a stampeding herd of elephants. The plain, meanwhile, was becoming bare and depopulated. From a bunk bed with a tiger to an overcrowded dormitory with meerkats—will I be believed when I say that life can take the most surprising turns? I jostled with meerkats so that I could have a place in my own bed. They snuggled up to me. Not a square inch of space was left free. They settled down and stopped squeaking and chirping. Silence came to the tree. We fell asleep. I woke up at dawn covered from head to toe in a living fur blanket. Some meerkittens had discovered the warmer parts of my body. I had a tight, sweaty collar of them around my neck—and it must have been their mother who had settled herself so contentedly on the side of my head—while others had wedged themselves in my groin area. They left the tree as briskly and as unceremoniously as they had invaded it. It was the same with every tree around. The plain grew thick with meerkats, and the noises of their day started filling the air. The tree looked empty. And I felt empty, a little. I had liked the experience of sleeping with the meerkats. I began to sleep in the tree every night. I emptied the lifeboat of useful items and made myself a nice treetop bedroom. I got used to the unintentional scratches I received from meerkats climbing over me. My only complaint would be that animals higher up occasionally relieved themselves on me. One night the meerkats woke me up. They were chattering and shaking. I sat up and looked in the direction they were looking. The sky was cloudless and the moon full. The land was robbed of its colour. Everything glowed strangely iin shades of black, grey and white. It was the pond. Silver shapes were moving in it, emerging from below and breaking the black surface of the water. Fish. Dead fish. They were floatimg up from deep down. The pond—remember, forty feet across—was filling up with all kinds of dead fish until its surface was no longer black but silver. And from the way the surface kept on being disturbed, it was evident that more dead fish were coming up. By the time a dead shark quietly appeared, the meerkats were in a fury of excitement, shrieking like tropical birds. The hysteria spread to the neighbouring trees. It was deafening. I wondered whether I was about to see the sight of fish being hauled up trees. Not a single meerkat went down to the pond. None even made the first motions of going down. They did no more than loudly express their frustration. I found the sight sinister. There was something disturbing about all those dead fish. I lay down again and fought to go back to sleep over the meerkats' racket. At first light I was stirred from my slumber by the hullabaloo they made trooping down the tree. Yawning and stretching, I looked down at the pond that had been the source of such fire and fluster the previous night. It was empty. Or nearly. But it wasn't the work of the meerkats. They were just now diving in to get what was left. The fish had disappeared. I was confounded. Was I looking at the wrong pond? No, for sure it was that one. Was I certain it was not the meerkats that had emptied it? Absolutely. I could hardly see them heaving an entire shark out of water, let alone carrying it on their backs and disappearing with it. Could it be Richard Parker? Possibly in part, but not an entire pond in one night. It was a complete mystery. No amount of staring into the pond and at its deep green walls could explain to me what had happened to the fish. The next night I looked, but no new fish came into the pond. The answer to the mystery came sometime later, from deep within the forest. The trees were larger in the centre of the forest and closely set. It remained clear below, there being no underbrush of any kind, but overhead the canopy was so dense that the sky was quite blocked off, or, another way of putting it, the sky was solidly green. The trees were so near one another that their branches grew into each other's spaces; they touched and twisted around each other so that it was hard to tell where one tree ended and the next began. I noted that they had clean, smooth trunks, with none of the countless tiny marks on their bark made by climbing meerkats. I easily guessed the reason why: the meerkats could travel from one tree to another without the need to climb up and down. I found, as proof of this, many trees on the perimeter of the heart of the forest whose bark had been practically shredded. These trees were without a doubt the gates into a meerkat arboreal city with more bustle in it than Calcutta. It was here that I found the tree. It wasn't the largest in the forest, or in its dead centre, or remarkable in any other way. It had good level branches, that's all. It would have made an excellent spot from which to see the sky or take in the meerkats' nightlife. I can tell you exacctly what day I came upon the tree: it was the day before I left the island. I noticed the tree because it seemed to have fruit. Whereas elsewhere the forest canopy was uniformly green, these fruit stood out black against green. The branches holding them were twisted in odd ways. I looked intently. An entire islaand covered in barren trees but for one. And not even all of one. The fruit grew from only one small part of the tree. I thought that perhaps I had come upon the forest equivalent of a queen bee, and I wondered whether this algae would ever cease to amaze me with its botainical strangeness. I wanted to try the fruit, but the tree was too high. So I returned with a rope. If the algae was delicious, what would its fruit be like? I looped the rope; around the lowest limb of the tree and, bough by bough, branch by branch, made my way to the small, preciouis orchard. Up, close the fruit were dull green. They were about the size and shape of oranges. Each was at the centre of a number of twigs that were tightly curled around it—to protect it, I supposed. As I got closer, I could see another purpose to these curled twigs: support. The fruit had not one stem, but dozens. Their surfaces were studded with sterns that connected them to the surrounding twigs. These fruit must surely be heavy and juicy, I thought. I got close. I reached with a hand and took hold of one. I was disappointed at how light it felt. It weighed hardly anything. I pulled at it, plucking it from all its stems. I made myself comfortable on a sturdy branch, my back to the trunk of the tree. Above me stood a shifting roof of green leaves that let in shafts of sunlight. All round, for as far as I could see, hanging in the air, were the twisting and turning roads of a great suspended city. A pleasant breeze ran through the trees. I was keenly curious. I examined the fruit. Ah, how I wish that moment had never been! But for it I might haave lived for years—why, for the rest of my life—on that island. Nothing, I thought, could ever push me to return to the lifeboat and to the suffering and deprivation I had endured on it—nothing! What reaison could I have to leave the island? Were my physical needs not met here? Was there not more fresh water than I could drink in all my lifetime? More algae than I could eat? And when I yearned for variety, more meerkats and fish than I could ever desire? If the island floated and moved, might it not move in the right direction? Might it not turn out to be a vegetable ship that brought me to land? In the meantime, did I not have these delightful meerkats to keep me company? And wastn't Richard Parker still in need of improving his fourth jump? The thought of leaving the island had not crossed my mind once since I had arrived. It had been many weeks now—I couldn't say how many exactly—and they would stretch on. I was certain about that. How wrong I was. If that fruit had a seed, it was the seed of my departure. The fruit was not a fruit. It was a dense accumulation of leaves glued together in a ball. The dozens of stems were dozens of leaf stems. Each stem that I pulled caused a leaf to peel off. After a few layers I came to leaves that had lost their stems and were flatly glued to the ball. I used my fingernails to catch their edges and pull them off. Sheath after sheath of leaf lifted, like the skins off an onion. I could simply have ripped the "fruit" apart—I still call it that for lack of a better word—but I chose to satisfy my curiosity in a measured way. It shrunk from the size of an orange to that of a mandarin. My lap and the branches below were covered with thin, soft leaf peelings. It was now the size of a rambutan. I still get shivers in my spine when I think of it. The size of a cherry. And then it came to light, an unspeakable pearl at the heart of a green oyster. A human tooth. A molar, to be exact. The surface stained green and finely pierced with holes. The feeling of horror came slowly. I had time to pick at the other fruit. Each contained a tooth. One a canine. Another a premolar. Here an incisor. There another molar. Thirty-two teeth. A complete human set. Not one tooth missing. Understanding dawned upon me. I did not scream. I think only in movies is horror vocal. I simply shuddered and left the tree. I spent the day in turmoil, weighing my options. They were all bad. That night, in bed in my usual tree, I tested my conclusion. I took hold of a meerkat and dropped it from the branch. It squeaked as it fell through the air. When it touched the ground, it instantly made for the tree. With typical innocence it returned to the spot right next to me. There it began to lick its paws vigorously. It seemed much discomforted. It panted heavily. I could have left it at that. But I wanted to know for myself. I climbed down and took hold of the rope. I had made knots in it to make my climbing easier. When I was at the bottom of the tree, I brought my feet to within an inch of the ground. I hesitated. I let go. At first I felt nothing. Suddenly a searing pain shot up through my feet. I shrieked. I thought I would fall over. I managed to take hold of the rope and pull myself off the ground. I frantically rubbed the soles of my feet against the tree trunk. It helped, but not enough. I climbed back to my branch. I soaked my feet in the bucket of water next to my bed. I wiped my feet with leaves. I took the knife and killed two meerkats and tried to soothe the pain with their blood and innards. Still my feet burned. They burned all night. I couldn't sleep for it, and from the anxiety. The island was carnivorous. This explained the disappearance of the fish in the pond. The island attracted saltwater fish into its subterranean tunnels—how, I don't know; perhaps fish ate the algae as gluttonously as I did. They became trapped. Did they lose their way? Did the openings onto the sea close off? Did the water change salinity so subtly that it was too late by the time the fish realized it? Whatever the case, they found themselves trapped in fresh water and died. Some floated up to the surface of the ponds, the scraps that fed the meerkats. At night, by some chemical process unknown to me but obviously inhibited by sunlight, the predatory algae turned highly acidic and the ponds became vats of acid that digested the fish. This was why Richard Parker returned to the boat every night. This was why the meerkats slept in the trees. This was why I had never seen anything but algae on the island. And this explained the teeth. Some poor lost soul had arrived on these terrible shores before me. How much time had he—or was it she?—spent here? Weeks? Months? Years? How many forlorn hours in the arboreal city with only meerkats for company? How many dreams of a happy life dashed? How much hope come to nothing? How much stored-up conversation that died unsaid? How much loneliness endured? How much hopelessness taken on? And after all that, what of it? What to show for it? Nothing but some enamel, like small change in a pocket. The person must have died in the tree. Was it illness? Injury? Depression? How long does it take for a broken spirit to kill a body that has food, water and shelter? The trees were carnivorous too, but at a much lower level of acidity, safe enough to stay in for the night while the rest of the island seethed. But once the person had died and stopped moving, the tree must have slowly wrapped itself around the body and digested it, the very bones leached of nutrients until they vanished. In time, even the teeth would have disappeared. I looked around at the algae. Bitterness welled up in me. The radiant promise it offered during the day was replaced in my heart by all the treachery it delivered at night. I muttered, "Nothing but teeth left! TEETH!" By the time morning came, my grim decision was taken. I preferred to set off and perish in search of my own kind than to live a lonely half-life of physical comfort and spiritual death on this murderous island. I filled my stores with fresh water and I drank like a camel. I ate algae throughout the day until my stomach could take no more. I killed and skinned as many meerkats as would fit in the locker and on the floor of the lifeboat. I reaped dead fish from the ponds. With the hatchet I hacked off a large mass of algae and worked a rope through it, which I tied to the boat. I could not abandon Richard Parker. To leave him would mean to kill him. He would not survive the first night. Alone in my lifeboat at sunset I would know that he was burning alive. Or that he had thrown himself in the sea, where he would drown. I waited for his return. I knew he would not be late. When he was aboard, I pushed us off. For a few hours the currents kept us near the island. The noises of the sea bothered me. And I was no longer used to the rocking motions of the boat. The night went by slowly. In the morning the island was gone, as was the mass of algae we had been towing. As soon as night had fallen, the algae had dissolved the rope with its acid. The sea was heavy, the sky grey. |
第91章 我爬到我兄弟的船上。用手在船上摸索。我发现他对我撒谎了。他有一点儿海龟肉，一个鯕鳅头，甚至还有一这可真是好东西一几块饼干屑。他还有水。这些都进了我嘴里。我回到自己船上，把他的船解开。 像我那样哭泣对眼睛有些好处。我视野左上方的那扇小窗户开了一道缝。我用海水冲洗眼睛。每冲洗一次,那扇窗户就开得更大一些。两天后，我的视力恢复了。 我看到的那幅景象几乎要让我希望自己还是个瞎子。他那被残杀、被支解的尸体躺在船板上。理查德·帕克把他当做了一顿丰盛的晚餐，他甚至吃了他的脸，因此我从来没有看见我的兄弟是谁。他被掏出了内脏的躯体和像船肋一样弯曲的断了的肋骨看上去就像救生艇的缩微模型，这就是船上浸透了鲜血的恐怖状况。 我要承认我用鱼叉钩住了他的一只胳膊，把他的肉当做了鱼饵。我还要承认，极度的需要逼得我发疯，受需要和疯狂的驱使，我吃了他的一些肉。我是说小块的肉，我打算放在鱼叉的钩子上的几小条，这些肉被太阳晒干以后看上去就像普通动物的肉。肉在几乎不知不觉之中滑进我嘴里。你一定要理解，我的痛苦永无休止，而他已经死了。我一抓到鱼就不吃肉了。 我每天都为他的灵魂祈祷。 第92章 我有了一个奇特的植物学发现。但是很多人都不会相信下面这一段。尽管如此，我仍然要把它告诉你，因为它是故事的一部分，而且它曾经发生在我身上。 我侧身躺着。大约中午过后一两个小时吧，阳光静静地照着，微风轻轻地吹拂。我睡了一小会儿,睡得不沉，没休息好，也没做梦。我翻身转向另一侧，翻身时尽量少消耗一些能量。我睁开眼睛。 我看见近处有树。我没有做出反应。那肯定是幻觉，眨几下眼睛，这景象就会消失不见了。 树没有消失。事实上，树木变成了一片森林。那是一座低矮的小岛的一部分。我用力坐了起来。我还是不能相信自己的眼睛。但是被如此高质量地哄骗是一件令人激动的事。那些树很美。和我以前见过的所有树都不一样。树皮是浅色的，树枝均匀地四散伸出，树叶非常繁茂。这些树叶是鲜艳的绿色。这种绿色那么鲜亮，就像翡翠一般，相比之下，旁边季风季节里的其他植物都呈现出毫无光彩的橄榄色。 我有意眨眨眼睛，希望自己的眼皮是伐木工。但是那些树却没有倒下。 我向下看去。下面的景象让我既满意又失望。岛上没有土壤。树并不是长在水里，而是长在看上去像是浓密的植物丛中，这些植物就像树叶一样绿得发亮。谁听说过没有土壤的岛屿？树木完全从植物丛中生长出来？我感到满意，因为这样的地质情况证明我是对的，这座小岛确实是幻想，是大脑开的一个玩笑。同样的情况令我失望，因为能碰到一座岛屿，任何一座岛屿，无论多么奇怪，都是件好事。 因为树还站在那儿，我也就接着看。看了这么多蓝色之后，现在看到了绿色，这对我的眼睛就像是音乐。绿色是一种可爱的颜色。它是伊斯兰教的颜色。是我最喜欢的颜色。 潮流轻柔地将小船推向幻象。小岛的海岸不能叫做沙滩，因为那里既没有沙子也没有卵石，也没有海浪拍击的声响，因为浪花完全消失在植物的孔隙之中了。小岛沿着一道大约三百码长的山脊向下斜伸向大海，在伸进海里大约四十码后突然下降，消失在深深的太平洋中。这一定是历史记录中最小的一座大陆架。 我已经习惯大脑的错觉了。为了不让错觉消失，我不让自己对它有所指望；当小船轻轻靠上小岛时，我没有动，只是继续梦想。小岛似乎是由直径两指多一点儿的盘根错节、紧密缠绕的一堆管状海草组成的。多奇异的一座岛啊，我想。 几分钟后，我爬上船舷。"寻找绿色。"这是求生指南上说的。好吧，这就是绿色。实际上，这是叶绿素的天堂。比食物颜色和闪烁的霓虹灯还要鲜亮的绿。令人沉醉的绿。"最终能对土地做出出色判断的是脚。"指南接着说。小岛就在脚能跨到的地方。是判断——然后失望——还是不判断，这是个问题。 我决定判断。我向四周看看是否有鲨鱼。没有。我翻过身，肚子朝下，抓住油布，慢慢放下一条腿去。我的脚进到了海水里。 海水很凉，很舒服。小岛就在不远处，在水中闪着微光。我伸长了身子。我想幻象的泡泡随时都会破灭的。 幻象没有破灭。我的脚伸进了清澈的水里，踩到一个柔韧又结实的有弹性的东西。我踩得更重一些。幻象不愿让步。我把全身的体重都放到了脚上。我还是没有沉下去。我还是不能相信。 最后，是我的鼻子对土地做出了判断。那气味飘进了我的鼻子，浓郁而清新，令人难以抗拒：那是植物的气味。我深深吸了一口气。几个月来我一直呼吸的是充满咸水味的空气，现在这浓烈的植物有机物质的气味让我陶醉了。直到那时我才相信，惟一变得衰弱的是我的大脑；我的思考过程变得支离破碎。我的腿开始颤抖。 "上帝啊！上帝啊！"我轻声低语。 我从船上掉了下来。 坚实的土地和清凉的水带给我巨大的震撼，让我有力气把自己拖上了小岛。我唠唠叨叨地语无伦次地对上帝说着感谢的话，然后便倒了下去。 但我却无法安静地躺着。我太激动了。我试图站起来。血一下子从头上流走了。大地剧烈地摇晃起来。晕眩的感觉让我眼前一阵发黑。我想我要晕倒了。我稳住了自己。似乎我惟一能做的就是急促地喘息。我努力坐了起来。 "理查德·帕克！陆地！陆地！我们获救了！"我叫道。 植物的气味非常强烈。绿色那么清新，令人心旷神怡，力量、 与慰藉仿佛通过眼睛注人了我的身体。 错综复杂地缠结在一起的奇怪的管状海草是什么东西？可以吃吗？这似乎是海洋藻类的一种，但相当坚硬，比普通藻类硬多了。抓在手里，感觉是潮湿的，很容易碎。我拽了一下。没用什么力气就拽断了几缕。海草的横截面上有两道同心壁：呈非常鲜明的绿色的外壁是潮湿的，有些粗糙，内壁在外壁和草芯之间。由内壁和外壁所形成的两根管子之间的分界非常明显：中间那根管子是白色的，而包裹在它外面的那根管子是绿色的,越接近内壁颜色越浅。我把一根海草放到鼻子下面。除了令人愉快的植物香气以外，它还有一种说不出来的气味。我舔了舔。我的脉搏变快了。海草里含有淡水。 我咬了一口。这一咬让我吃了一惊。内管有一种苦涩的咸味一但外管不仅可以吃，而且味道好极了。我的舌头开始顫抖起来，就像手指在飞快地翻着字典，寻找着久已遗忘的单词。它找到了：甜蜜，我的眼睛听到这个词时愉快地闭上了。不是甜美的甜，而是甜糖的甜。海龟和鱼有很多滋味，但是它们从来、从来都不甜。这种海草有一种淡淡的甜味，甚至比我们加拿大的枫树汁更让人喜欢。要说硬度，最接近的只有荸荠了。 大量唾液从干糊一样的嘴里涌了出来。我扯着身边的海草，发出快乐的叫喊声。内管和外管很容易就完全分开了。我开始把外管塞进嘴里。我两只手并用，使劲往嘴里塞，嘴开始用比这么久以来任何时候都更快的速度更用力地咀嚼着。我不停地吃，直到周围形成了一道不折不扣的壕沟。 两百英尺以外有一棵树。那是山脊下坡惟一的一棵树，山脊看上去非常远。我用了山脊这个词；这个词可能会让人对山坡的坡度有一个错误的印象。小岛很低矮，这我巳经说过了。山坡很平缓，高度大约有五六十英尺。但是对于我当时的处境,这个高度的山坡就像一座大山一样赫然耸立。那棵树更诱人。我注意到了那片树阴。我试图再站起来。我终于蹲了起来，但一开始站，我的头就开始晕，身体无法保持平衡。即使我没有倒下去，我的腿也没有一点儿力气了。但是我的意志非常坚强。我下定决心要向前走。我向前爬着，费力地移动着，虚弱地跳跃着来到了树前。 当我爬进斑驳的闪着微光的树阴，听到风吹树叶发出的又干又脆的声音时，我知道自己再也不会体验到如此巨大的快乐了。这棵树没有内陆那些树高大茂盛，而且因为生长在山脊这一侧，更多地暴露在自然环境中，它有些矮小，不像其他树那样长得匀称。但它仍然是一棵树，当你在海上迷失了这么久以后，能看见一棵树，真是太好了。我歌唱那棵树的光荣，它从容不迫的绝对纯洁，它十分耐看的美丽外表。噢,要是我能像它一样，植根于大地，但每一只手都高高地举起，赞美上帝，那该多好！我哭了。 就在我的心颂扬安拉的时候，我的大脑开始注意安拉的作品。那棵树的确是直接从海草丛中长出来的，就像我在救生艇上看到的那样。地上没有一丝土壤的痕迹。要不就是土在更深的地方，要不就是这棵树是一种奇妙的共生体，或者说寄生树。树干大约有人的胸脯那么宽。树皮是灰绿色的，又薄又滑，而且非常软，我能用指甲在上面留下划痕。心形的树叶大而阔，顶端是尖的。树冠和芒果树一样，是浑圆的，非常可爱，但它不是芒果树。我觉得它闻上去像钝叶康达木，但又不是钝叶康达木。也不是红树。也不是我见过的其他任何树。我只知道它非常漂亮，是绿色的，枝叶繁茂。 我听见一声咆哮。我转过身。理查德·帕克正在救生艇上打量着我。他也在看着小岛。他似乎想上岸来，但又害怕。最后，吼叫了好几声，来回踱了好几次以后，他从船上跳了下来。我把橘 红色哨子放到嘴边。但他并没有想袭击我。仅仅保持平衡已经很困难了；他像我一样两脚站立不稳。前进时，他四肢颤抖，紧贴着地面朝前爬，像一只刚出生的小虎崽。他与我保持着很长一段安全距离，向山脊跑去，消失在小岛的内陆深处。 我吃东西，休息，试图站起来，总的来说，沉浸在极度快乐之中，就这样度过了一天。用力太猛时我会感到恶心。而且我一直感到脚下的地在摇晃，我要跌倒了，甚至在我一动不动地坐着时也是如此。 傍晚，我开始担心理查德·帕克。既然环境和地方都改变了，我不能肯定他碰到我时会做出怎样的反应。 我不情愿地爬回到救生艇上，这完全是为了安全。无论理查德·帕克占据岛上多大的地方，船头和油布仍然是我的地盘。我寻找着能让救生艇停泊的地方。显然，海岸上覆盖了厚厚一层海藻，因为除了海藻我什么也没找到。最后，我把一支桨柄朝下深深地插进海藻丛里，再把船系在桨上，就这样解决了停船的问题。 我爬到油布上。我已经筋疲力尽了。因为吃得太多，我的身体已经用尽了力气；因为运气突然改变，我的神经紧张起来。一天结束时，我模糊地记得听见理查德·帕克在远处咆哮的声音，但是浓浓睡意征服了我。 夜里醒来时，我的下腹部有一种奇怪的不舒服的感觉。我以为是痉挛，可能是吃海藻中毒了。我听见了一声响声。我看了看。理查德·帕克在船上。他在我睡着时回来了。他正喵喵叫着，舔着脚掌。我觉得他回来很令人费解，但没再多想一很快痉挛变得更厉害了。我痛得蜷起身子，浑身发抖，这时一个对大多数人来说非常正常但我却久已忘记的过程开始了：排便。这非常痛苦， 但在这之后我睡着了，那是我自从"齐姆楚姆"号沉没前一天晚上以来睡过的最沉、最令人精神振作的一觉。 早晨醒来时，我感到有力气多了。我充满活力地朝那棵惟一的树爬去。我的眼睛再一次尽情享受它的绿色，就像我的胃尽情享受海藻。我早饭吃得太多了，海藻丛被我挖了一个大洞。 理查德·帕克又犹豫了好几个小时，才从船上跳下来。快到中午，他跳下来时，刚落到岸上，就立刻跳了回去，一半身体落进了水里，看上去非常紧张。他嘶嘶叫着，一只爪子在空中抓着。真是奇怪。我不知道他在做什么。焦虑过去了，他显然比前一天站得更稳，再一次消失在山脊那边。 那天，我靠着树站起来了。我感到头晕。让地面停止移动的惟一办法是闭上眼睛，紧紧抓着树。我把树推开，试图走几步，却立即摔倒了。我还没来得及移动一只脚，就猛地倒了下去。没有受伤。小岛覆盖着一层紧密缠绕在一起，像橡胶一样有弹性的植物，是一个重新学习走路的理想场所。我可以朝任何方向摔倒，却不可能伤了自己。 第二天，在船上——理查德·帕克又回到了船上——度过了又一个休息充分的夜晚之后，我能走路了。摔了几跤之后，我终于走到了树跟前。我能感到自己的力气每一小时都在增长。我举起鱼叉，从树上勾下一根树枝。我摘下几片叶子。叶子软软的，叶面没有蜡质，但是很苦。理查德·帕克对救生艇上的窝恋恋不舍一这就是我对他晚上又回来的解释。 那天傍晚，太阳落山时，我看见他回来。我把救生艇重新在埋在海藻丛里的桨上系好。当时我正在船头，检查缆绳是不是安全地系在桨柄上了。他突然出现了。刚开始我没认出他来。这只飞快从山脊上冲下来的健美的动物不可能是在不幸中与我做伴 的那只没精打采的湿漉漉的老虎吧？但他确实是的。那是理查德·帕克，他正飞快地朝我跑来。他看上去坚定果断。他低着头，有力的脖颈高高耸起。每跑一步，他的毛皮和肌肉就晃动一下。我能听到他沉重的身体在地上跑过时发出的咚咚声。 我在书上读到过，有两种恐惧即使经过训练也无法消除：突然听见意外的声音时吃惊的反应，还有眩晕。我还要加上第三种，那就是，看见我们知道的杀手迅速直接地逼近。 我赶紧去摸哨子。在他离救生艇还有二十五英尺远时，我用尽全身力气吹响了哨子。尖厉的声音撕开了空气。 哨声达到了预想的效果。理查德·帕克刹住了脚步。但是他显然想再向前跑。我第二次吹响了哨子。他开始转过身去，用一种非常古怪的，像鹿一样的动作在原地跳了起来，边跳边凶猛地吼叫着。我第三次吹响了哨子。他身上的每一根毛都竖了起来。他的爪子完全伸了出来。他正处在非常激动不安的状态之中。我害怕哨声形成的一道保护墙就要倒了，他就要袭击我了。 他没有袭击我，却做了一件最出乎意料的事：他跳进了海里。我惊呆了。我以为他永远也不会做的事，他恰恰做了，而且果断有力。他有力地向船尾划去。我本想再吹咱子，但却打开柜子盖，坐了下来,退回到我那块地盘里面不受打扰的地方。 他猛冲到船尾，大量的水从他身上流下来，把我在的船这头弄得向上翘。他在舷边和坐板上站了一会儿，打量着我。我的心都变衰弱了。我想我没有力气再吹哨子了。我茫然地看着他。他跳到船板上，消失在了油布下面。越过锁柜盖子的边缘，我能看见他的部分身体。我扑到油布上，他看不见我一但我就在他上面。我真想立刻生出翅膀来飞走。 我平静了下来。我有力地提醒自己，这就是过去这么久以来我的处境，与一只老虎生活在一起，他就在我身体下面，带着体温。 我的呼吸慢了下来，睡意袭来。 夜里某个时候，我醒了。这时我已忘记了害怕，朝老虎看过去。他正在做梦：他在睡梦中颤抖着，咆哮着，声音大得将我吵醒了。 早上，和前几天一样，他越过了山脊那边。 我决定，只要有了足够的力气，我立刻就去岛上勘察一番。这座岛似乎很大，如果海岸线能说明问题的话；海岸线向左右伸展，只有一处稍有弯曲，这说明岛的边缘很规则。那天我走几步便摔倒，爬起来又继续走，从岸边走到树跟前又走回去，努力想要让腿恢复健康。每次摔倒我都大吃一顿海藻。 一天快要结束时，理查德·帕克回来了，这次比前一天稍早了些。这时我已经在等着他了。我坐在那儿静观其变，没有吹哨子。他来到水边，用力一跳便跳到了救生艇边上。他进了自己的地盘，并没有侵入我的领地，只是让船突然向一边倾斜过去。他又恢复了以前的良好状态，这很可怕。 第二天早上，我让理查德·帕克先离开,过了很长时间以后，我才出发去勘察小岛。我朝山脊走去。我自豪地迈着双脚,一步一步地向前走，步态虽然有些笨拙，却充满了活力，很容易就走到了。当我看见山脊那边的景象时，要是我的腿再虚弱些，一定会支持不住的。 先从细节开始说吧。我看见整座岛屿都覆盖着海藻，而不仅仅是岸边如此。我看见一座绿色大高原，中央是一片绿色森林。我看见森林周围有几百座分布均匀、大小相同的池塘，池塘与池塘之间整齐地长着稀疏的树木，整个排列方式明显让人认为这? 是经过设计的。 但给我留下不可磨灭的印象的还是那些沼狸。我一眼看见成千上万只沼狸，这还是保守的估计。岛上到处都是沼狸。当我出现时，似乎所有的沼狸都惊讶地转身面对着我，并且直立起来，好像农场上的鸡。 我们的动物园里没有沼狸。但是我在书上读到过。书上和文献里都有关于它们的记载。沼狸是南非一种小型哺乳动物，与獴有亲缘关系；换句话说，它们是一种会掘洞的食肉动物，身长一英尺，成年时体重两磅，体型细长，像鼬，鼻子尖，眼睛在脸正前方，腿短，脚有四趾,爪子不能缩回，尾巴有八英寸长。它的毛皮是浅棕色或灰色的，背上有黑色或棕色条纹，尾尖、耳朵和眼睛周围极具特色的圆圈是黑色的。沼狸是一种动作灵活、目光敏锐的动物，白天活动，喜欢群居，在原生长地——南部非洲的卡拉哈里沙漠——以包括蝎子在内的动物为食，对蝎子的毒液具有完全的免疫力。瞥觉时，沼狸有一个特点，喜欢靠后腿末端笔直地站立，用尾巴帮助保持平衡，两条腿和尾巴像三角架一样支撑着身体。通常一群沼狸会集体做出这样的姿势，它们聚在一起站着，朝一个方向看，看上去就像上下班的人在等公交车。它们脸上庄重的表情和前爪放在身体前面的样子使它们看上去就像在摄像师面前忸忸怩怩摆姿势照相的孩子，或是医生诊室里脱光了衣服，假装害羞地捂住生殖器的病人。 这就是我一次所看见的，成千上万只——比这还多，上百万只——沼狸朝我转过身来，立正站着，好像在说：“什么，先生？”你要知道，站着的沼狸最多能达到十八英寸高，因此并不是这些动物的身高,而是它们的数不清的数量太令人吃惊了。我站在原地一步也动不了，一句话也说不出。如果我让一百万只沼狸惊恐 地逃开，那混乱场面一定难以描述。但是它们对我的兴趣很快就过去了。几秒钟后，它们又回去做我出现之前正在做的事，那就是啃海藻，看池塘。看到这么多生物同时弯下身去，让我想起了清真寺里祈祷时的情景。 这些动物似乎没有感到任何恐惧。我从山脊上下去时，没有一只因为害怕而躲开，或者在我面前表现出一丁点儿紧张。只要我想，我完全可以去摸一只沼狸，或者抱起来一只。我没有这么做。我只是走进一定是世界上最大的沼狸群中，这是我一生中最奇异、最奇妙的一次体验。空中的叫声不绝于耳。是它们在吱吱吱、唧唧唧、喳喳喳、汪汪汪地叫。它们数量如此之多，兴奋的情绪如此奇特，一阵阵的叫声就像一群鸟飞来又飞去，有时叫声很高，就在我身边盘旋，接着在最近的一只沼狸停止叫唤后平息了下去，而远处的其他沼狸又开始叫了起来。 它们不怕我，是因为我应该怕它们吗？这个问题从我脑中闪过。但是答案——即它们不会伤害我——立即变得很清楚。沼狸密密麻麻地聚在池塘周围，要到池塘边去，我不得不用脚把它们推开，这样才不至于踩到它们。它们对我鲁莽地向前冲没有丝毫的反感，像好脾气的人群一样为我让开一条道。我朝池塘里面看时，能感到脚踝上紧贴着温暖的有毛的身体。 所有的池塘都是圆形的，而且都同样大小——直径大约四十英尺。我以为池塘很浅，却看见了深深的、清澈的池水。实际上，池塘似乎深不见底。直到我能看得见的深处，池壁都是绿色的海藻组成的。显然,覆盖在小岛表面的一层海藻很厚。 我看不见任何能引起沼狸不变的好奇心的东西，要不是附近一座池塘边突然爆发出吱吱的叫声和吠声，我可能就不再继续寻找谜题的答案了。沼狸们异常激动地跳上跳下。突然，几百只沼狸开始潜进池水里。后面的沼狸争抢着往池塘边跑，所有沼狸都在推推搡搡。这是集体疯狂；甚至小小的沼狸幼崽也在往水边跑，它们的妈妈和守护者几乎抓不住它们。我目不转睛地看着，简直不敢相信自己的眼睛。这些沼狸不是普通的卡拉哈里沙漠沼狸。普通的卡拉哈里沙漠沼狸没有像青蛙一样的行为。这些沼狸一定是一个亚种，擅长如此有趣的令人惊讶的行为方式。 我轻手轻脚地朝池塘走去，刚好来得及目睹沼狸在游泳——真的是在游泳 ——一边把许多鱼抓上岸来，抓上来的还不是小鱼。其中有几条是鯕鳅，这种鱼在船上绝对会是一顿盛宴。它们比沼狸大得多。我不能理解沼狸怎么能抓住这么大的鱼。 就在沼狸把鱼从池塘里拖出来，表现出真正的团队合作技巧的时候，我注意到了一件奇怪的事：所有鱼毫无例外地都已经死了。是刚刚死的。沼狸正把并非它们杀死的鱼拖到岸上。 我在池塘边跪下来，把几只兴奋的湿漉漉的沼狸拨到一边。我碰了碰池水。水比我估计的要凉。有一道水流在把冷一些的水从底下带上来。我用手捧起一捧水放到嘴边，呷了一口。 是淡水。这解释了为什么鱼会死一当然，把一条咸水鱼放在淡水里，它会被腌得肿起来，然后死去。但是生活在海里的鱼在淡水里来干什么呢？它们是怎么来的呢？ 我从沼狸中间穿过，来到另一座池塘边。这里的池水也是淡水。再去另一座池塘；情况一样。第四座池塘也是一样。 这些都是淡水池塘。这么多淡水是从哪里来的呢，我问自己。答案很明显：从海藻来。海藻自然地、持续不断地将海水脱盐，这就是为什么它里面是咸的而表面却有淡水的原因：淡水正从里面渗出来。我没有问自己海藻为什么要这么做，怎么做，或 者盐水到哪里去了。我的大脑已经不再问这样的问题。我只是大笑起来，跳进了池塘里。我发现自己很难浮在水面上；我还很虚弱，没有足够的脂肪让自己浮起来。我抓住池塘边。在纯净、清洁、没有盐分的水里洗澡，这种感觉无法用语言表达。在海上漂流了这么长时间，我的皮肤已经变得像一层厚厚的兽皮，我的头发又长又乱，其油亮的程度简直可以和捕蝇带相媲美。我感到甚至灵魂都被盐腐蚀了。于是，在一千只沼狸的注视下，我将自己浸泡在水中，让淡水将污染我的每一粒盐晶体都融化掉。 沼狸转过脸去。它们行动一致，在同一时间转向同一个方向。我从水里出来看看发生了什么事。是理查德·帕克。他证实了我的怀疑，那就是这些沼狸世世代代都没有见过食肉动物，因此有关安全距离、逃跑、单纯的恐惧的所有概念已经在基因遗传中被淘汰了。他从沼狸群中跑过，吞下一只又一只沼狸，鲜血从他嘴边滴了下来，他身后留下一道谋杀与暴力的痕迹，而这些沼狸们，和老虎脸贴脸，却在原地跳上跳下，仿佛在说：“该我了！该我了！该我了！”以后我还会一次又一次地看见这样的情景。这些沼狸的生活中只有看池塘和啃海藻这两件事，什么都不能分散它们做这两件事的注意力。无论理查德·帕克在大吼一声扑上去之前用老虎的精湛技艺悄悄接近，还是满不在乎地没精打采地走过，对它们来说都一样。它们不会受打扰。温顺的天性占了上风。 他杀死的沼狸超过了自己的需要。他杀死它们，却并不吃。在动物身上,猎杀的强烈欲望和吃的欲望是截然分开的。这么长时间没有猎物，而现在又突然有了这么多猎物一他被压抑的本能猛烈地释放了出来。 他离我很远，对我没有危险。至少现在没有。 第二天早上，他走了之后，我把救生艇打扫了一遍。这太有必要了。船上堆满了人和动物的骨架，还有数不清的吃剩下的鱼和海龟，那副景象我就不描述了。那堆散发着恶臭的令人恶心的东西全都被我扔到海里去了。我不敢到船板上去，害怕给理查德·帕克留下我来过的明显痕迹，因此我只能站在水里，用鱼叉把这些东西从油布上或船舷上捅下去。鱼叉无法清除的东西一臭气和污迹一被我用一桶桶水冲洗掉了。 那天晚上，他走进干净的新窝，并没有什么反应。他爪子里抓着好几只沼狸，这些沼狸都被他在夜里吃掉了。 在接下来的几天里，我整天吃喝，洗澡，观察沼狸，走走，眺跳，休息休息，让自己变得更加强壮起来。我跑起来更加平稳自然，这使我的心情愉快极了。我的皮肤痊愈了。疼痛消失了。简单地说，我恢复了活力。 我在岛上勘察了一番。我想要沿岛走一圈，但放弃了。我估计小岛的直径有六七英里，也就是说周长大约有二十英里。我所看见的景象似乎说明海岸的地形特征没有变化。到处是令人目眩的绿色，到处是同样的山脊，同样的从山脊伸向海里的斜坡,同样的零星分布的稀疏树木打破了单调。在勘察海岸之后，我发现了一件不同寻常的事：海藻的高度和密度是随天气变化而变化的，因而小岛本身的高度和密度也随天气变化而变化。在非常炎热的天气里，海藻缠结得更紧更密，小岛变高，山脊更高，爬上去更陡。这不是一个迅速变化的过程。只有持续好几天的炎热天气才能引起这一变化。但变化肯定发生了。我相信这是为了蓄水，也是为了海藻表面少暴露在阳光下面。 相反的现象一小岛变得松弛一发生得更快，更突然，原因也更明显。在这样的时候，山脊下降，所谓的大陆架伸得更远，沿岸的海藻变得非常松弛，我往往会把脚陷进去。在阴云密布的天气里，这种现象就会发生，波涛汹涌的海水让这一现象发生得更快。 在岛上，我经历了一次大风暴，在这次经历之后，我可以放心地在最糟糕的飓风天气里待在岛上了。坐在树上，看巨浪朝岛上冲来，似乎要冲上山脊，带来一片喧闹与混乱一这时却看见每一个浪头都退了回去，仿佛遇上了流沙。这真是令人敬畏的奇观。在这方面，这座小岛倒挺有甘地精神一它用不抵抗来进行抵抗。每一朵浪花都消失在了岛上，没有发出一声撞击声，只激起了一点点泡沫。只有让大地摇晃的一阵震颤和让池塘水面荡起波纹的几圈涟漪表明有某种巨大的力量正在通过。这一力量的确是通过了：在小岛的背风处，力量大大减弱的海浪涌了出来，流走了。看见海浪离开海岸线，这是一种最奇怪的景象。风暴及其造成的小地震没有让沼狸感到丝毫的不安。它们继续做着自己的事,仿佛周围环境并不存在。 更让人难以理解的是，小岛竟如此荒凉。我从没有见过如此单一的生态环境。这个地方的空中没有苍蝇，没有蝴蝶，没有蜜蜂，没有任何昆虫。树上没有一只鸟。平原上没有啮齿动物，没有昆虫的幼虫，没有蠕虫，没有蛇，没有蝎子；岛上没有任何其他树,没有灌木,没有草，没有花。池塘里没有淡水鱼。海岸不长草，没有螃蟹、整虾、珊瑚，也没有卵石或岩石。除了沼狸这一惟一的、显著的例外，岛上没有任何外来的东西，无论是有机体还是无机体。岛上除了绿得炫目的海藻和绿得炫目的树，什么都没有。 这些树不是寄生树。有一天，我吃了一棵小树树根处的很多海藻，树根都露出来了，我才发现了这一点。我看见树根并不 伸进海藻丛中的独立的根须，而是与海藻连接在一起，成了海藻的一部分。这就意味着这些树与海藻是共生关系，一种互利的相互给予的关系，或者，更简单，这些树就是海藻的不可分割的一部分。我猜是后者，因为这些树似乎不开花也不结果。一个独立的有机体，无论它有怎样亲密的共生关系，我都怀疑它是否会放弃繁殖这一生命中如此重要的部分。树叶繁茂，叶片宽大，因为叶绿素丰富而有着碧绿的颜色，这一切说明树叶喜好阳光，而这使我怀疑这些树首先有搜集能量的功能。但这只是猜测。 我还要提出一个看法。这是建立在直觉而不是确凿证据的基础之上的。这就是：这座小岛不是传统意义上的岛屿——即固定在大洋底部的小陆块——而是一个自由漂浮的有机体，一个体积巨大的海藻球。我隐约感觉到，那些池塘向下伸到这堆巨大的漂浮的海藻的侧面，通向海洋，否则无法解释为什么生活在外海的鯕鳅和其他鱼会出现在池塘里。 这个看法还需要经过进一步研究才能证实，但不幸的是，我弄丢了带走的海藻。 我恢复了生气，理查德·帕克也一样。因为饱餐了沼狸的缘故，他的体重上升了，他的毛皮又开始有了光泽，他又恢复了以前健康的模样。他一直保留着晚上回救生艇的习惯。我总是确保自己在他之前回去，用大量的尿液标志出我的地盘，这样他就不会忘记谁是谁，什么东西是谁的。但是，天一亮，他就离开了，比我漫游得更远；因为小岛上到处都一样，通常我只待在一个地方。白天我很少看见他。我变得紧张起来。我看见他用前爪在树上抓过的痕迹——树干上留下的抓痕很深，真的。我开始听见他粗哑的咆哮声，嗷——嗷的叫声圆润而洪亮，像一座不安全的深深的矿并或者一千只愤怒的蜜蜂一样让人脊背发凉。他在寻找―只雌虎，这件事本身并没有让我不安；这意味着他在岛上很舒服，已经在考虑繁殖后代了，这才是让我不安的事。我担心，在新的条件下，他可能不会容忍在他的地盘上有另一只雄性动物存在，特别是在他夜间的地盘上，尤其是当他不断吼叫却得不到回答的时候，而他的吼叫肯定得不到回答。 一天，我正在森林里散步。我充满活力地走着，沉溺在自己的思考中。我从一棵树下经过一几乎撞上了理查德·帕克。我们俩都吃：一惊。他发出嘶嘶声，后腿直立，高高地站在我面前，巨大的脚掌随时准备把我击倒在地。我一下子僵住了，恐惧和震惊让我无法动弹。他四肢落地，走开了。走了三四步后，他转过身来，又直立了起来，这次还发出了咆哮声。我继续像一尊雕像一样站在那里。他又走了几步，然后第三次重复了威胁的动作。看到我并不构成威胁，他感到满意，慢慢走开了。我刚喘过气来，不再颤抖，就立即把哨子放进嘴里，开始去追他。他已经走了很远―段距离，但我仍然能看见他。我跑得十分有力。他转过身来，看见我，蹲下身来——然后蹿了过来。我用最大的力气吹响哨子，希望哨音能和一只孤独的老虎的叫声传得一样远，传到的范围一样广。 那天夜里，他在我下面两英尺的地方休息的时候，我得出了结论，应该开始马戏训练了。 训练动物的最大困难在于，动物是靠本能或死记硬背来完成动作的。不依靠本能而在动物头脑中建立新的联系，这种走捷径的可能性极小。因此，要让动物牢记人为规定的某种动作，比如打滚和奖赏之间的联系，只能通过让大脑麻木的不断重复。这是一个缓慢的过程，既取决于运气，也取决于刻苦训练，尤其是当动物已经成年的时候。我吹哨子吹得肺都疼了。我捶胸捶得胸口满是伤痕。我叫了几千遍"嗨！嗨！嗨！"——这是我用来命令老虎的语言，意思是"跳！"我扔给他几百片沼狸肉，要是我自己能吃掉这些肉，我会很高兴的。训练老虎可不是什么简单的技艺。他们的大脑远不如马戏团和动物园里通常训练的其他动物——例如海狮和黑猩猩——那么灵活。但是，对于我训练理查德·帕克所取得的成果，我不想过于居功。他不仅是一只年轻的成年老虎，而且是一只顺从的年轻成年老虎，一只地位最低的老虎。这是我的好运气，这好运气救了我的命。我害怕岛上的条件对我不利，这里有如此丰富的食物和水，有如此广阔的空间，也许他会放松，会变得自信，不再那么容易接受我的影响。但是他一直很紧张。我太了解他了，能够感觉到这一点。夜晚，在救生艇上，他不安宁也不安静。我把他的紧张归因于岛上的新环境：任何改变，哪怕是积极的改变，都会让动物紧张。无论是什么原因，他感到紧张，这意味着他还愿意听话；不仅如此，他感到有必要听话。 我用细树枝做了一个环，训练他从环里跳过去。这是简单的四级跳固定节目。每跳一次,他都能贏得几块沼狸肉作为奖赏。当他笨拙地朝我跑来时,我先伸直左臂拿着环，环离地面大约三英尺。他跳过去，停止跑动之后，我用右手拿着环，背对着他，命令他转过身来再跳一次。跳第三次时，我跪在地上，把环放在头顶上方。看着他朝我跑过来是一种刺激神经的体验。也许他不去跳，却袭击我，我从未战胜过这样的恐惧。幸运的是，每次他都跳了。然后我站起来，把环抛起来，让它像轮子一样转动。理查德·帕克应该跟着环跑，在它落地之前最后一次跳过去。最后这部分动作他总是做不好，不是因为我没能把环抛好，就是因为他笨拙地撞了上去。但至少他跟着环跑了，也就是说他离开了我。每次 环掉在地上时他都感到很惊奇。他目不转睛地看着它，好像那是和他一起跑的某种庞大动物，出乎意料地倒了下去。他会站在环旁边；不停地嗅。我会把最后一块奖赏扔给他，然后走开。 最后，我离开了小船。我完全可以拥有整座小岛，却与一只动物待在如此狭窄的住处，而且它需要越来越大的地方，这看上去很荒唐。我决定，睡在树上是安全的。理查德·帕克夜间在救生艇上睡觉的习惯在我心里从来不是一个必须遵守的规则。要是哪一次他决定在午夜去散步，而我却在自己的领地之外，毫无防备地在地上睡着了，这可不是个好主意。 于是，有一天,我带着网、一根缆绳和几条毯子离开了小船。我在森林边上选中了一棵漂亮的树，把缆绳扔上最矮的树枝。我现在已经相当健康，用胳膊拉住绳子往树上爬没有任何问题。我找到两根靠在一起的平伸的结实的树枝，把网系在上面。一天结束时，我回到了树上。 我刚卷起毯子，做了一个床垫，就觉察到沼狸群中一阵骚动。我看了看。我把树枝拨开，好看得更仔细些。我环顾四周，尽力远眺。没错。沼狸正离开池塘一实际上，是在离开整个平原一并迅速向森林跑来。整个沼狸国都在搬迁，一个个弓着背，脚爪奔跑着，动作迅速得让人难以看清。我正在想这些动物还能给我带来怎样的惊奇，这时，我惊恐地发现，从离我最近的池塘跑来的沼狸已经把我的树包围了，正沿着树干爬上来。树干正在浪潮般涌来的下定决心的沼狸群中消失。我以为它们要来袭击我，以为这就是理查德·帕克在救生艇上睡觉的原因：白天沼狸是温顺无害的，但是晚上，它们会用集体的重量把敌人压碎。我既害怕又愤怒。和一只450榜重的孟加拉虎一起在救生艇里活了这么长时间，却在树上死于两磅重的沼狸之手，这个悲剧? 太不公平，太荒唐，让我无法忍受。 它们并不想伤害我。它们爬到我身上，从我身上爬过，在我身边爬一从我身边爬过。每一根树枝上都蹲着沼狸。整棵树上挤满了沼狸。它们甚至占据了我的床。在我的视野之内，情况都一样。它们在爬我所能看得见的每一棵树。整个森林都变成了棕色，仿佛在几分钟之内秋天突然来临了。它们成群结队急匆匆朝森林更深处还空着的树奔去，发出的声音比一群受了惊而奔跑的大象发出的声音还要大。 同时，平原变得光秃秃的，一片荒凉。 从与老虎同眠的双层床，到与沼狸共处的过于拥挤的宿舍一如果我说生活可能发生最令人惊讶的转变，会有人相信吗？我与沼狸挤，好在自己的床上有一个位置。它们紧紧偎依着我。没有一平方英寸的地方是空的。 它们安顿下来，不再吱吱唧唧地叫。树上安静下来。我们睡着了。 黎明，我醒来时，身上从头到脚盖了一条活的毛毯。有几只小沼狸发现了我身上更温暖些的地方。我脖子上紧紧围着满是汗的领子——在我头旁边如此心满意足地安顿下来的一定是它们的妈妈——另几只则挤在我腹股沟那里。 和侵占树时一样，它们又迅速地不拘礼节地离开了树。周围每棵树都一样。平原上挤满了沼狸，空气中开始充满它们白天的叫声。树看上去空荡荡的。我心里也感到有些空荡荡的。我喜欢和沼狸一起睡觉的经历。 我开始每天晚上都在树上过夜。我把救生艇上有用的东西都拿来，在树顶为自己搭了一间可爱的卧室。我习惯了沼狸从我身上爬过时不是故意的抓挠。我惟一的不满是上面的动物偶尔会排泄在我身上。 一天夜里,沼理把我吵醒了。它们吱吱叫着，身体在发抖。我坐起来，朝它们看的方向望去。天上没有一丝云彩，一轮满月挂在天空。大地失去了色彩。一切都在黑色、灰色和白色的阴影里奇怪地闪着微光。是池塘。银色的影子正在池塘里移动，它们从下面出现，打碎了黑色的水面。 鱼。死鱼。正从水下浮到水面上来。池塘——记住，池塘有四十英尺宽——正渐渐挤满各种各样的死鱼，直到水面不再是黑色，而成了银色。水面仍在继续骚动，显然更多的死鱼还在浮上来。 这时一条死鲨鱼静静地出现了，沼狸激动异常，像热带鸟类―样尖声叫喊。歇斯底里的情绪传到了邻近的树上。叫声震耳欲聋。我不知道是否即将看见鱼被拖到树上的情景。 没有一只沼狸下树到池塘去。甚至没有做出准备下树的动作。它们只是大声表达着自己的失望。 我觉得这是一个邪恶的景象。所有这些死鱼身上有些什么东西令我感到不安。 我又躺下来，努力在沼狸的吵闹声中再次人睡。天刚亮，我就被沼狸成群结队下树的喧闹声吵醒了。我边打哈欠伸懒腰，边往下看昨天夜里引起如此激情和紧张不安的池塘。 池塘是空的。或者几乎是空的。但不是沼狸干的。它们刚开始潜进水里去抓剩下的鱼。 鱼消失了。我惊讶得目瞪口呆。我看的不是那座池塘吗？不，肯定就是那座池塘。我能肯定不是沼狸把鱼吃光了吗？完全可以肯定。我几乎看不到它们把一整条鲨鱼从池塘里拖出来，更不用说把鱼背在背上,然后消失不见了。会是理查德·帕克吗？也许有 一部分是他吃掉的，但他不会一夜吃完整个池塘的鱼。 这完全是个谜。无论我盯着池塘和深深的绿色的池壁看多少次，都无法解释这些鱼出了什么事。第二天夜里我又去看，但是没有新的鱼到池塘里来。 谜题的答案是后来才出现的，是在森林深处出现的。 森林中央的树更加高大一些，一棵挨着一棵。树下还是很清爽，没有任何林下灌木丛，而头顶的树冠却如此茂密，天空几乎被遮住了,或者，换句话说，天空是纯绿色的。一棵棵树挨得太近了，树枝相互交错，相互碰触，相互缠绕，很难分清一棵树的树枝伸到哪里为止，另一棵树的树枝又是从哪里开始的。我注意到树干干净平滑，树皮上没有沼狸爬树时留下的数不清的细小爪印。我很容易就猜出了为什么：沼狸不需要爬上爬下就能从一棵树到另一棵树。我发现，位于森林中心的边缘的许多树的树皮都差不多被撕碎了，这证实了我的猜测。毫无疑问，这些树是通向沼狸生活的树木城市的大门，这座城市比加尔各答更加繁忙。 我就是在这儿发现那棵树的。它不是森林中最大的一棵树，也不是森林正中心最大的一棵，也没有任何其他与众不同之处。它有漂亮的平伸的树枝，仅此而已。会是一个看天和观察沼狸在夜间的生活的好地方。 我可以确切地告诉你，我是哪一天碰到了那棵树：就是我离开小岛的前一天。 我注意到那棵树是因为那上面似乎有果子。在其他地方，森林里的树冠一律是绿色的，而这些果子却是黑色的，很引人注目。挂着果子的树枝奇怪地盘绕着。我目不转睛地看着。整座岛上的树都不结果子，只有这一棵例外。而且甚至不是整棵树都如此。只有树的一小部分长出了果子。我想也许我碰到了森林中地位相当于蜂王的树，我不知道这海藻是否会有一天不再用它的植物学上的奇异现象令我惊奇。 我想尝尝果子，但是树太高了。于是我回去拿来一根缆绳。海藻味道很好，果子的味道会如何呢？ 把缆绳打成环，扣在最低的主枝上，然后踩着一根根大树枝,一根根分树枝，朝那座小小的珍贵的果园爬去。 靠近了看，这些果子是暗绿色的。大小和形状都像甜橙。每只果子周围都有许多细枝紧紧缠绕着一——是为了保护果子吧，我想。再靠近些，我能看到这些缠绕的细枝的另一个目的了：为了支撑果子。果子不只有一根梗子，而是有很多根。果子表面密布着细枝，这些细枝将果子与环绕在周围的细枝连在一起。这些果子一定很重而且鲜美多汁，我想。我靠近了。 我伸手摘了一只。果子太轻了，令我失望。几乎轻若无物。我用力扯了一下，把所有的梗子都拔了下来。 我在一根粗壮的树枝上舒舒服服地躺下来，背对着树干。在我头顶上是绿叶搭成的不断移动的屋顶，一道道阳光从叶缝间照射下来。在我所能看得到的地方，四周悬挂在空中的，是这座了不起的悬浮城市的盘绕旋转的道路。令人愉快的微风在树丛间吹拂。我很好奇。我仔细看了看果子。 啊，我多希望从来没有过那一刻啊！如果没有那一刻，我也许会在岛上住很多年。嗨，也许我下半辈子就住在那儿了。我想，没有什么能够把我推回到救生艇上，推回到我在那上面忍受过的痛苦和匮乏中去，什么也不能！我会有什么理由要离开这座小岛呢？难道我的身体需要没有在这里得到满足吗？难道这里没有我一辈子都喝不完的淡水吗？还有我吃不完的海藻？当我渴望变化的时候,难道这里没有比我想要的还要多的沼狸和鱼吗？如果 小岛在漂动，在移动，它不是也可能朝着正确的方向移动吗？它不是可能最后成为把我带上陆地的一艘植物船吗？同时,难道我没有这些令人愉快的沼狸做伴吗？难道理查德·帕克不需要把第四跳练习得更加完美吗？自从来到岛上，离开的念头从没有在我脑中闪过。我已经在岛上待了好几个星期了，我说不出具体有几个星期，而且我还可以继续待下去。这一点我很肯定。 我大错特错了。 如果那只果子有种子，那便是播下的一粒导致我离开的种子。 那并不是一只果子，而是由许多树叶黏在一起形成的一只球。那许多果梗其实是许多叶梗。每拽下一根叶梗，便有一片叶子剥落下来。 剥了几层以后，我看见里面的叶子已经没有了梗子，平平地黏在球上。我用指甲抓住叶片边缘，把叶子扯了下来。一片一片的叶子外皮被揭开，就像剥开一层又一层的洋葱皮。我完全可以把"果子"撕开——我仍然把它叫做果子，因为找不到更恰当的词。但我选择慢慢地满足自己的好奇心。 果子变小了，从一只甜橙那么大，变得像一只柑橘那么大。我腿上和下面的树枝上满是剥下来的薄薄的软软的树叶。 现在只有红毛丹那么大了。 现在想起来我的脊椎骨都会打寒颤。 只有櫻桃那么大了。 然后，里面的东西露了出来，那是一只绿色牡蛎中的一颗无法用语言形容的珍珠。 一颗人类的牙齿。 确切地说，是一颗臼齿。牙齿表面染成了绿色，上面满是细小的孔洞。 恐惧的感觉慢慢袭来。我还有时间扯开其他果子。 每一只里面都有一颗牙齿。 一只里面是犬齿。 另一只里面是前臼齿。 这儿是一颗门齿。 那儿是另一颗臼齿。 三十二颗牙齿。一副完整的人类牙齿。一颗不少。 我恍然大悟。 我没有尖叫。我想只有电影里的人才在恐惧时叫出声来。我只是打了个颤，从树上下来了。 那一天，我权衡着各种选择，心乱如麻。所有的选择都很糟糕。 那天夜里，我躺在通常过夜的那棵树上，检验了自己的结论。我抓住一只沼狸，把它从树枝上扔了下去。 它掉下去时吱吱叫着。刚掉到地上，它就立即朝树上跑来。因为沼狸特有的无知，它又回到了我旁边的地方。它开始舔自己的爪子。它看上去非常不舒服，重重地喘着粗气。 我本来可以到此为止，但我想自己试一试。我爬下去，抓住了缆绳。我在缆绳上打了结，这样爬起来容易一些。到了树底部，我把脚放到离地面一英寸的地方。我犹豫了。 我松开手。 刚开始我没觉得什么。突然，一阵灼痛从双脚直蹿上来。我尖叫起来。我以为自己要倒下去了。我设法抓住绳子,让自己离开了地面。我发疯般的在树干上摩擦着脚底心。这有点儿用，但还不够。我爬回到树枝上，把脚浸泡在床边那桶水里，又用树叶擦脚。我拿出刀来，杀死两只沼狸，试图用它们的血和内脏缓解疼痛。但是脚仍然感到灼痛。一夜都在痛。因为痛，也因为焦虑，我一夜没睡。 这座岛是食肉的。这就解释了为什么池塘里的鱼会消失。小岛将咸水鱼吸引到地下管道里来——如何吸引，我不知道；也许鱼像我一样吃了太多的海藻。它们被困住了。它们迷了路吗？通向大海的出口被堵住了吗？是不是水在不知不觉中改变了盐碱度，当鱼觉察到的时候已经太晚了？不管是哪一种情况，它们发觉自己被困在了淡水里，死去了。一些鱼浮到了池塘水面上，碎鱼肉为沼狸提供了食物。夜里，通过某种我不了解，但显然被阳光抑制了的化学过程，食肉海藻的酸性变得很高，池塘成了装满酸的大缸，把鱼消化掉了。这就是理查德·帕克每天晚上都回到船上的原因。这就是沼狸睡在树上的原因。这就是我在这座岛上除了海藻什么都没有看见过的原因。 这也解释了为什么会有牙齿。某个可怜的迷失的灵魂在我之前来过这可怕的海岸。他？还是她？在这里待了多长时间？几个星期？几个月？几年？在这座树木的城市里，只有沼狸做伴，孤苦伶仃地过了几个4、时？有多少关于幸福生活的梦想破碎了？有多少希望变成了泡影？有多少埋藏在心里的话直到死都没有说出口？忍受过多少孤独？产生过多少希望？而在所有这一切之后，又怎样？忍受所有这些痛苦的意义何在？ 除了像口袋里的零钱的珐琅质，什么也没有。那个人一定死在了树上。是因为疾病？受伤？沮丧？破碎的灵魂要杀死有食物、水和蔽身之处的身体，需要多长时间？这些树也是食肉的，但是酸水平低得多，在小岛其他地方都冒着泡的时候，树上是个可以安全过夜的地方。但是一旦人死了，停止了活动，树就会慢慢将尸体包裹起来，消化掉，滤取骨头里的营养，直到骨头消失。最后，甚至牙齿也会消失。 我环顾四周的海藻。一阵苦涩涌上心头。在我心里，这些海藻在白天所展示的光明前景已经被它们在夜晚的背叛所取代。 我低声咕哝道：“只剩下牙齿了！牙齿！” 早晨，我下定了决心。我要出发去寻找自己的同类，我宁愿在这一过程中丧身，也不愿在这座杀人的岛上过孤独的令人不满意的生活，虽然身体舒服，精神却已死亡。我在船上备足了淡水，还像骆驼一样喝足了水。一整天我都在吃海藻，一直吃到肚子再也撑不下为止。我杀了很多沼狸，剥了皮，把柜子塞得满满的，把船板也堆得满满的。我从池塘里捞上来很多死鱼。我用斧子砍下一大堆海藻，用一根缆绳穿起来，系在船上。 我不能抛弃理查德·帕克。离开他就意味着杀死他。他连第一夜都活不过去。日落时，独自在船上，我会知道他正被活活烧死。或者他跳进了海里，那他就会淹死。我等着他回来。我知道他不会迟到的。 他上船后，我把船推下了水。有几个小时，潮流让我们无法远离小岛。大海的声音令我不安。而且我已经不能适应船的晃动了。夜晚过去得很慢。 早晨，小岛已经看不见了，我们拖着的那堆海藻也不见了。夜幕刚刚降临，海藻的酸就把绳子腐蚀断了。 大海波涛汹涌，天空阴沉灰暗。 |
CHAPTER 90 I said, "Richard Parker, is something wrong? Have you gone blind?" as I waved my hand in his face. For a day or two he had been rubbing his eyes and meowing disconsolately, but I thought nothing of it. Aches and pains were the only part of our diet that was abundant. I caught a dorado. We hadn't eaten anything in three days. A turtle had come up to the lifeboat the day before, but I had been too weak to pull it aboard. I cut the fish in two halves. Richard Parker was looking my way. I threw him his share. I expected him to catch it in his mouth smartly. It crashed into his blank face. He bent down. After sniffing left and right, he found the fish and began eating it. We were slow eaters now. I peered into his eyes. They looked no different from any other day. Perhaps there was a little more discharge in the inner corners, but it was nothing dramatic, certainly not as dramatic as his overall appearance. The ordeal had reduced us to skin and bones. I realized that I had my answer in the very act of looking. I was stairing into his eyes as if I were an eye doctor, while he was looking back vacantly. Only a blind wild cat would fail to react to such a stare. I felt pity for Richard Parker. Our end was approaching. The next day I started feeling a stinging in my eyes. I rubbed and rubbed, but the itch wouldn't go away. The very opposite: it got worse, and unlike Richard Parker, my eyes started to ooze pus. Then darkness came, blink as I might. At first it was right in front of me, a black spot at the centre of everything. It spread into a blotch that reached to the edges of my vision. All I saw of the sun the next morning was a crack of light at the top of my left eye, like a small window too high up. By noon, everything was pitch-black. I clung to life. I was weakly frantic. The heat was infernal. I had so little strength I could no longer stand. My lips were hard and cracked. My mouth was dry and pasty, coated with a glutinous saliva as foul to taste as it was to smell. My skin was burnt. My shrivelled muscles ached. My limbs, especially my feet, were swollen and a constant source of pain. I was hungry and once again there was no food. As for water, Richard Parker was taking so much that I was down to five spoonfuls a day. But this physical suffering was nothing compared to the moral torture I was about to endure. I would rate the day I went blind as the day my extreme suffering began. I could not tell you when exactly in the journey it happened. Time, as I said before, became irrelevant. It must have been sometime between the hundredth and the two-hundredth day. I was certain I would not last another one. By the next morning I had lost all fear of death, and I resolved to die. I came to the sad conclusion that I could no longer take care of Richard Parker. I had failed as a zookeeper. I was more affected by his imminent demise than I was by my own. But truly, broken down and wasted away as I was, I could do no more for him. Nature was sinking fast. I could feel a fatal weakness creeping up on me. I would be dead by the afternoon. To make my going more comfortable I decided to put off a little the intolerable thirst I had been living with for so long. I gulped down as much water as I could take. If only I could have had a last bite to eat. But it seemed that was not to be. I set myself against the rolled-up edge of the tarpaulin in the middle of the boat. I closed my eyes and waited for my breath to leave my body. I muttered, "Goodbye, Richard Parker. I'm sorry for having failed you. I did my best. Farewell. Dear Father, dear Mother, dear Ravi, greetings. Your loving son and brother is coming to meet you. Not an hour has gone by that I haven't thought of you. The moment I see you will be the happiest of my life. And now I leave matters in the hands of God, who is love and whom I love." I heard the words, "Is someone there?" It's astonishing what you hear when you're alone in the blackness of your dying mind. A sound without shape or colour sounds strange. To be blind is to hear otherwise. The words came again, "Is someone there?" I concluded that I had gone mad. Sad but true. Misery loves company, and madness calls it forth. "Is someone there?" came the voice again, insistent. The clarity of my insanity was astonishing. The voice had its very own timbre, with a heavy, weary rasp. I decided to play along. "Of course someone's there," I replied. "There's always some one there. Who would be asking the question otherwise?" "I was hoping there would be someone else." "What do you mean, someone else? Do you realize where you are? If you're not happy with this figment of your fancy, pick another one. There are plenty of fancies to pick from." Hmmm. Figment. Fig-ment. Wouldn't a fig be good? "So there's no one, is there?" "Shush...I'm dreaming of figs." "Figs! Do you have a fig? Please can I have a piece? I beg you. Only a little piece. I'm starving." "I don't have just one fig. I have a whole figment." "A whole figment of figs! Oh please, can I have some? I..." The voice, or whatever effect of wind and waves it was, faded. "They're plump and heavy and fragrant," I continued. "The branches of the tree are bent over, they are so weighed down with figs. There must be over three hundred figs in that tree." Silence. The voice came back again. "Let's talk about food..." "What a good idea." "What would you have to eat if you could have anything you wanted?" "Excellent question. I would have a magnificent buffet. I would start with rice and sambar. There would be black gram dhal rice and curd rice and? "I would have? "I'm not finished. And with my rice I would have spicy tamarind sambar and small onion sambar and? "Anything else?" "I'm getting there. I'd also have mixed vegetable sagu and vegetable korma and potato masala and cabbage vadai and masala dosai and spicy lentil rasam and? "I see." "Wait. And stuffed eggplant poriyal and coconut yam kootu and rice idli and curd vadai and vegetable bajji and? "It sounds very? "Have I mentioned the chutneys yet? Coconut chutney and mint chutney and green chilli pickle and gooseberry pickle, all served with the usual nans, popadoms, parathas and puris, of course." "Sounds? "The salads! Mango curd salad and okra curd salad and plain fresh cucumber salad. And for dessert, almond payasam and milk payasam and jaggery pancake and peanut toffee and coconut burfi and vanilla ice cream with hot, thick chocolate sauce." "Is that it?" "I'd finish this snack with a ten-litre glass of fresh, clean, cool, chilled water and a coffee." "It sounds very good." "It does." "Tell me, what is coconut yam kootu?" "Nothing short of heaven, that's what. To make it you need yams, grated coconut, green plantains, chilli powder, ground black pepper, ground turmeric, cumin seeds, brown mustard seeds and some coconut oil. You saute the coconut until it's golden brown? "May I make a suggestion?" "What?" "Instead of coconut yam kootu, why not boiled beef tongue with a mustard sauce?" "That sounds non-veg." "It is. And then tripe." "Tripe? You've eaten the poor animal's tongue and now you want to eat its stomach?" "Yes! I dream of tripes a la mode de Caen—warm—with sweetbread." "Sweetbread? That sounds better. What is sweetbread?" "Sweetbread is made from the pancreas of a calf." "The pancreas!" "Braised and with a mushroom sauce, it's simply delicious." Where were these disgusting, sacrilegious recipes coming from? Was I so far gone that I was contemplating setting upon a cow and her young? What horrible crosswind was I caught in? Had the lifeboat drifted back into that floating trash? "What will be the next affront?" "Calf's brains in a brown butter sauce!" "Back to the head, are we?" "Brain souffle!" "I'm feeling sick. Is there anything you won't eat?" "What I would give for oxtail soup. For roast suckling pig stuffed with rice, sausages, apricots and raisins. For veal kidney in a butter, mustard and parsley sauce. For a marinated rabbit stewed in red wine. For chicken liver sausages. For pork and liver pate with veal. For frogs. Ah, give me frogs, give me frogs!" "I'm barely holding on." The voice faded. I was trembling with nausea. Madness in the mind was one thing, but it was not fair that it should go to the stomach. Understanding suddenly dawned on me. "Would you eat bleeding raw beef?" I asked. "Of course! I love tartar steak." "Would you eat the congealed blood of a dead pig?" "Every day, with apple sauce!" "Would you eat anything from an animal, the last remains?" "Scrapple and sausage! I'd have a heaping plate!" "How about a carrot? Would you eat a plain, raw carrot?" There was no answer. "Did you not hear me? Would you eat a carrot?" "I heard you. To be honest, if I had the choice, I wouldn't. I don't have much of a stomach for that kind of food. I find it quite distasteful." I laughed. I knew it. I wasn't hearing voices. I hadn't gone mad. It was Richard Parker who was speaking to me! The carnivorous rascal. All this time together and he had chosen an hour before we were to die to pipe up. I was elated to be on speaking terms with a tiger. Immediately I was filled with a vulgar curiosity, the sort that movie stars suffer from at the hands of their fans. "I'm curious, tell me—have you ever killed a man?" I doubted it. Man-eaters among animals are as rare as murderers among men, and Richard Parker was caught while still a cub. But who's to say that his mother, before she was nabbed by Thirsty, hadn't caught a human being? "What a question," replied Richard Parker. "Seems reasonable." "It does?" "Yes." "Why?" "You have the reputation that you have." "I do?" "Of course. Are you blind to that fact?" "I am." "Well, let me make clear what you evidently can't see: you have that reputation. So, have you ever killed a man?" Silence. "Well? Answer me." "Yes." "Oh! It sends shivers down my spine. How many?" "Two." "You've killed two men?" "No. A man and a woman." "At the same time?" "No. The man first, the woman second." "You monster! I bet you thought it was great fun. You must have found their cries and their struggles quite entertaining." "Not really." "Were they good?" "Were they good?" "Yes. Don't be so obtuse. Did they taste good?" "No, they didn't taste good." "I thought so. I've heard it's an acquired taste in animals. So why did you kill them?" "Need." "The need of a monster. Any regrets?" "It was them or me." "That is need expressed in all its amoral simplicity. But any regrets now?" "It was the doing of a moment. It was circumstance." "Instinct, it's called instinct. Still, answer thte question, any regrets now?" "I don't think about it." "The very definition of an animal. That's all you are." "And what are you?" "A human being,, I'll have you know." "What boastful pride." "It's the plain truth." "So, you would throw the first stone, would you?" "Have you ever had oothappam?" "No, I haven't. But tell me about it. What is oothappam?" "It is so good." "Sounds delicious. Tell me more." "Oothappam is often made with leftover batter, but rarely has a culinary afterthought been so memorable." "I can already taste it." I fell asleep. Or, rather, into a state of dying delirium. But something was niggling at me. I couldn't say what. Whatever it was, it was disturbing my dying. I came to. I knew what it was that was bothering me. "Excuse me?" "Yes?" came Richard Parker's voice faintly. "Why do you have an accent?" "I don't. It is you who has an accent." "No, I don't. You pronounce the 'ze'." "I pronounce ze 'ze', as it should be. You speak with warm marbles in your mouth. You have an Indian accent." "You speak as if your tongue were a saw and English words were made of wood. You have a French accent." It was utterly incongruous. Richard Parker was born in Bangladesh and raised in Tamil Nadu, so why should he have a French accent? Granted, Pondicherry was once a French colony, but no one would have me believe that some of the zoo animals had frequented the Alliance Francaise on rue Dumas. It was very perplexing. I fell into a fog again. I woke up with a gasp. Someone was there! This voice coming to my ears was neither a wind with an accent nor an animal speaking up. It was someone else! My heart beat fiercely, making one last go at pushing some blood through my worn-out system. My mind made a final attempt at being lucid. "Only an echo, I fear," I heard, barely audibly. "Wait, I'm here!" I shouted. "An echo at sea..." "No, it's me!" "That this would end!" "My friend!" "I'm wasting away..." "Stay, stay!" I could barely hear him. I shrieked. He shrieked back. It was too much. I would go mad. I had an idea. "MY NAME," I roared to the elements with my last breath, "IS PISCINE MOLITOR PATEL." How could an echo create a name? "Do you hear me? I am Piscine Molitor Patel, known to all as Pi Patel!" "What? Is someone there?" "Yes, someone's there!" "What! Can it be true? Please, do you have any food? Anything at all. I have no food left. I haven't eaten anything in days. I must have something. I'll be grateful for whatever you can spare. I beg you." "But I have no food either," I answered, dismayed. "I haven't eaten anything in days myself. I was hoping you would have food. Do you have water? My supplies are very low." "No, I don't. You have no food at all? Nothing?" "No, nothing." There was silence, a heavy silence. "Where are you?" I asked. "I'm here," he replied wearily. "But where is that? I can't see you." "Why can't you see me?" "I've gone blind." "What?" he exclaimed. "I've gone blind. My eyes see nothing but darkness. I blink for nothing. These last two days, if my skin can be trusted to measure time. It only can tell me if it's day or night." I heard a terrible wail. "What? What is it, my friend?" I asked. He kept wailing. "Please answer me. What is it? I'm blind and we have no food and water, but we have each other. That is something. Something precious. So what is it, my dear brother?" "I too am blind!" "What?" "I too blink for nothing, as you say." He wailed again. I was struck dumb. I had met another blind man on another lifeboat in the Pacific! "But how could you be blind?" I mumbled. "Probably for the same reason you are. The result of poor hygiene on a starving body at the end of its tether." We both broke down. He wailed and I sobbed. It was too much, truly it was too much. "I have a story," I said, after a while. "A story?" "Yes." "Of what use is a story? I'm hungry." "It's a story about food." "Words have no calories." "Seek food where food is to be found." "That's an idea." Silence. A famishing silence. "Where are you?" he asked. "Here. And you?" "Here." I heard a splashing sound as an oar dipped into water. I reached for one of the oars I had salvaged from the wrecked raft. It was so heavy. I felt with my hands and found the closest oarlock. I dropped the oar in it. I pulled on the handle. I had no strength. But I rowed as best I could. "Let's hear your story," he said, panting. "Once upon a time there was a banana and it grew. It grew until it was large, firm, yellow and fragrant. Then it fell to the ground and someone came upon it and ate it." He stopped rowing. "What a beautiful story!" "Thank you." "I have tears in my eyes." "I have another element," I said. "What is it?" "The banana fell to the ground and someone came upon it and ate it—and afterwards that person felt better." "It takes the breath away!" he exclaimed. "Thank you." A pause. "But you don't have any bananas?" "No. An orang-utan distracted me." "A what?" "It's a long story." "Any toothpaste?" "No." "Delicious on fish. Any cigarettes?" "I ate them already." "You ate them?" "I still have the filters. You can have them if you like." "The filters? What would I do with cigarette filters without the tobacco? How could you eat cigarettes?" "What should I have done with them? I don't smoke." "You should have kept them for trading." "Trading? With whom?" "With me!" "My brother, when I ate them I was alone in a lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific." "So?" "So, the chance of meeting someone in the middle of the Pacific with whom to trade my cigarettes did not strike me as an obvious prospect." "You have to plan ahead, you stupid boy! Now you have nothing to trade." "But even if I had something to trade, what would I trade it for? What do you have that I would want?" "I have a boot," he said. "A boot?" "Yes, a fine leather boot." "What would I do with a leather boot in a lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific? Do you think I go for hikes in my spare time?" "You could eat it!" "Eat a boot? What an idea." "You eat cigarettes—why not a boot?" "The idea is disgusting. Whose boot, by the way?" "How should I know?" "You're suggesting I eat a complete stranger's boot?" "What difference does it make?" "I'm flabbergasted. A boot. Putting aside the fact that I am a Hindu and we Hindus consider cows sacred, eating a leather boot conjures to my mind eating all the filth that a foot might exude in addition to all the filth it might step in while shod." "So no boot for you." "Let's see it first." "No." "What? Do you expect me to trade something with you sight unseen?" "We're both blind, may I remind you." "Describe this boot to me, then! What kind of a pitiful salesman are you? No wonder you're starved for customers." "That's right. I am." "Well, the boot?" "It's a leather boot." "What kind of leather boot?" "The regular kind." "Which means?" "A boot with a shoelace and eyelets and a tongue. With an inner sole. The regular kind." "What colour?" "Black." "In what condition?" "Worn. The leather soft and supple, lovely to the touch." "And the smell?" "Of warm, fragrant leather." "I must admit—I must admit—it sounds tempting!" "You can forget about it." "Why?" Silence. "Will you not answer, my brother?" "There's no boot." "No boot?" "No." "That makes me sad." "I ate it." "You ate the boot?" "Yes." "Was it good?" "No. Were the cigarettes good?" "No. I couldn't finish them." "I couldn't finish the boot." "Once upon a time there was a banana and it grew. It grew until it was large, firm, yellow and fragrant. Then it fell to the ground and someone came upon it and ate it and afterwards that person felt better." "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all I've said and done. I'm a worthless person," he burst out. "What do you mean? You are the most precious, wonderful person on earth. Come, my brother, let us be together and feast on each other's company." "Yes!" The Pacific is no place for rowers, especially when they are weak and blind, when their lifeboats are large and unwieldy, and when the wind is not cooperating. He was close by; he was far away. He was to my left; he was to my right. He was ahead of me; he was behind me. But at last we managed it. Our boats touched with a bump evensweeter-sounding than a turtle's. He threw me a rope and I tethered his boat to mine. I opened my arms to embrace him and to be embraced by him. My eyes were brimming with tears and I was smiling. He was directly in front of me, a presence glowing through my blindness. "My sweet brother," I whispered. "I am here," he replied. I heard a faint growl. "Brother, there's something I forgot to mention." He landed upon me heavily. We fell half onto the tarpaulin, half onto the middle bench. His hands reached for my throat. "Brother," I gasped through his overeager embrace, "my heart is with you, but I must urgently suggest we repair to another part of my humble ship." "You're damn right your heart is with me!" he said. "And your liver and your flesh!" I could feel him moving off the tarpaulin onto the middle bench and, fatally, bringing a foot down to the floor of the boat. "No, no, my brother! Don't! We're not? I tried to hold him back. Alas, it was too late. Before I could say the word alone, I was alone again. I heard the merest clicking of claws against the bottom of the boat, no more than the sound of a pair of spectacles falling to the floor, and the next moment my dear brother shrieked in my face like I've never heard a man shriek before. He let go of me. This was the terrible cost of Richard Parker. He gave me a life, my own, but at the expense of taking one. He ripped the flesh off the man's frame and cracked his bones. The smell of blood filled my nose. Something in me died then that has never come back to life. |
第90章 我说："理查德·帕克，出了什么事？你瞎了吗？"我边说边在他面前挥挥手。 有一两天他不停地揉眼睛，郁郁寡欢地喵喵叫着，但我没想什么。惟一丰盛的是疼痛和痛苦。我抓到了一条鯕鳅。我们已经有三天没吃任何东西了。前一天有一只海龟游到了船边，但是我太虚弱了，没有力气把它拉上来。我把鱼切成两半。理查德·帕克在朝我这个方向看。我把他的那一半扔给了他。我以为他会敏捷地用嘴接住。鱼照直打在他脸上。他低下头去。他左闻闻，右闻闻，找到了鱼，开始吃起来。现在我们吃东西都很慢。 我仔细看他的眼睛。那双眼睛和其他任何一天没有什么不同。也许内眼角多了一些分泌物，但这并不引人注目，肯定没有他的整体形象引人注目。苦难已经使我们瘦得皮包骨头。 我意识到，就在看着他的眼睛的时候，我知道答案是什么了。我盯着他的眼睛看，好像自己是个眼科医生，而他却茫然地回视。只有一只瞎了眼的野猫才不会对这样的凝视作出任何反应。 我很可怜理查德·帕克。我们的末日就要到了。 第二天，我开始感到双眼刺痒。我揉了又揉，痒却没有停止。相反：我感觉更糟了，和理查德·帕克不一样，我的眼睛开始流脓。接着黑暗降临了，眨眼也没有用。开始的时候，就在我面前，每样东西的中心都有一个黑点。一小点变成了一大片，延伸到我的视野边缘。第二天早上，我能看到的太阳成了左眼上方的一线光亮，像一扇开得太高的窗户。到了中午,一切变得一片漆黑。 我对生命恋恋不舍。我有些轻度发狂。热得要死。我力气太小，已经站不住了。我的嘴唇干硬开裂。我嘴巴发干发白，外面有一层黏黏的唾液，舔上去是臭的，闻起来也臭。我的皮肤被晒伤了。我枯萎的肌肉很疼。我的四肢，尤其是双脚，都肿了起来，每时每刻都在疼。我很饿，食物又没有了。至于水，理查德·帕克喝得太多，我的饮水量已经缩减到每天五勺。但是，和我将要忍受的精神折磨相比，这点肉体上的痛苦算不了什么。我要把失明的那一天作为极度痛苦的开始。我无法精确地告诉你这是在旅途中的什么时候发生的。我说过，时间已经变得无关紧要。一定是在第一百天和第二百天之间的什么时候。我肯定自己再活不过一天了。 到了早晨，我已经没有了对死亡的恐惧，我决定去死。 我得出伤心的结论，就是我不能再照顾理查德·帕克了。作为饲养员，我是失败的。他的死亡正在逼近，这比我自己的死亡对我的震动更大。但是，真的，我已经垮了，筋疲力尽，无法再为他做什么了。 大自然在迅速下沉。我能感到一种致命的虚弱正慢慢爬上来。到了下午我就会死去。为了让自己走得舒服一些，我决定稍稍摆脱一下这么长时间以来我一直在忍受的干渴。我大口吞下尽可能多的水。要是能再最后吃一口东西就好了。但是似乎不可能了。我靠在船中间卷起来的油布边上，等着呼吸离开身体。我低声说：“再见了，理查德·帕克。对不起我让你失望了。我尽了最大努力。永别了。亲爱的父亲，亲爱的母亲，亲爱的拉维，向你们致意。你们亲爱的儿子和弟弟来见你们了。我没有一个小时不在想你们。看见你们的那一刻将是我一生中最幸福的一刻。现在我把一切都交给上帝，他就是爱，他是我之所爱。” 我听见一句话：“有人吗？” 当你独自一人处在大脑垂死时的黑暗中时，你听见的东西令人惊讶。一个没有形状也没有颜色的声音听上去很奇怪。眼睛瞎了，听到的声音就和以前不一样。 那几句话又传来了："有人吗？" 我得出的结论是自己疯了。这令人伤心，但是真的。苦难喜欢同伴，疯狂使它产生。 "有人吗？"声音又传来，没有罢休。 我失去了理智，令人惊讶的是，对这一点我十分清楚。这个声音有其独特的音质，深沉、疲惫、嘶哑。我决定与它周旋一番。 “当然有人，”我答道，"永远都有人。否则是谁在问问题呢？"“我以为会有别人。” "你是什么意思，别人？你知道自己在哪儿吗？如果你不喜欢这一阵子幻想，可以另选一阵子。可以选择的幻想多着呢。" 嘿。一阵子。榛—子。榛子不是很好吗？ "那就是没人了，是吗？" "嘘……我正梦到榛子呢。" "榛子！你有一个榛子？请问我可以吃一口吗？求你了。只要一小口。我饿死了。" "我不只是有一个榛子。我有一阵子榛子呢。" "一阵子的榛子！噢，求求你，能给我几个吗？我……" 这个声音，不管是风吹还是海浪造成的效果，消失了。 "这些榛子又大又重又香，"我接着说，"树枝垂了下来，被累累的榛子果压弯了。那棵树上一定有三百多棵榛子。" 沉默。 那个声音又回来了。"我们说说食物吧……" "真是个好主意。" "如果你能想吃什么就吃什么，那你想要吃什么？" "这个问题太好了。我要吃一顿丰盛的自助餐。先吃米饭和浓味小扁豆肉汤。还要有黑绿豆和木豆饭和酥酪饭和……" "我要吃……" "我还没说完呢。和米饭一起吃的，我要加香料的罗望子浓味肉汤和小洋葱浓味肉汤和……" "还要别的吗……" "我就要说到了。我还要西谷米蔬菜和奶油咖喱蔬菜和土豆玛沙拉和卷心菜豆粉油圈和马沙拉米粉烙饼和辛辣的香料汤 和……" "我知道了。" "等一下。还有塞了馅的茄子干咖喱和挪子山药肉汁咖喱和黑绿豆米饼和酥酪豆粉油圈和豆粉米粉煮蔬菜和……" "听上去非常……" "我说了印度酸辣酱吗？椰子酸辣啬和薄荷酸辣酱和腌绿辣椒酸辣酱和醋栗酸辣酱，当然，所有这些都要配上平常吃的印度式面苞、印度炸圆面包片和蔬菜泥。" "听上去……" "还有沙拉！芒果酥酪沙拉和秋葵酥酪沙拉和清淡的新鲜的黄艰沙拉。甜食嘛，要杏仁乳米糖和牛奶乳米糖和棕榈粗糖煎饼和花生太妃糖和椰子软奶糖和香草冰淇淋，上面有滚热的厚厚的巧克力沙司。" "就这些吗？" "吃这些点心的时候，我要喝装满一个十升玻璃杯的新鲜、洁净、清凉的冰水和咖啡。" "听上去非常好。" "确实非常好。" "告诉我，什么是椰子山药肉汁咖喱？" "那可是天上的美味啊，真的。要做椰子山药肉汁咖喱，你得有山药，磨碎的椰子，青大蕉，辣椒粉，黑胡椒面，姜黄粉，莳萝子，棕色芥末子和一些揶子油。把椰子煎到焦黄——" "我能提个建议吗？” "什么建议？" "别吃椰子山药肉汁咖喱了，为什么不吃撒了芥末沙司的煮牛舌呢？" "这听上去不是素食。" "不是的。然后是肚子。" "肚子？你已经把这头可怜动物的舌头给吃了，现在你还想吃它的胃？" "对！我做梦都想吃新法烹制的肚子——带着体温——和杂碎一起吃。" "杂碎？这听上去好多了。什么是杂碎？" "杂碎是用小牛的胰脏做的。" "胰脏！" "用蘑菇做配菜，用文火炖，简直太好吃了。" 这些恶心的渎圣的食谱是从哪儿来的？我已经如此神智不清，竟想要吃母牛和她的小牛犊了吗？我是被什么斜风给吹了？救生艇又漂回那堆漂浮的垃圾了吗？ "下一个冒犯是什么？" "蘸棕色黄油酱的小牛脑！" "回到头部了，是不是？" "脑子奶酥！" "我感到恶心。有什么是你不吃的吗？" "要是能吃上牛尾汤，要我给什么都行啊。要是能吃上填了米饭、香肠、杏子和葡萄干的烤乳猪。要是能吃上蘸黄油、芥末和荷兰芹酱的小牛腰。要是能吃上用红酒炖的兔子。要是能吃上小鸡肝香肠。要是能吃上小牛肉和用猪肉和肝做陷的饼。要是能吃上青蛙。啊，给我青蛙，给我青蛙！" "我忍不住了。" 声音消失了。我恶心得浑身颤抖。大脑的疯狂是一回事，但疯狂传到了胃里，这是不公平的。 突然我明白了。 "你会吃流血的生牛肉吗？"我问。 "当然！我喜欢鞑靼牛排。" "你会吃死猪凝固的血吗？" "每天都吃，蘸苹果酱吃。" "你会吃动物身上的任何东西吗，最后剩下的东西？" "碎肉玉米炸饼和香肠！我要吃满满一大盘！" "胡萝卜呢？你会吃清淡的生胡萝卜吗？" 没有回答。 "你没听见吗？你会吃胡萝卜吗？" "我听见了。老实说，如果可以选择，我不会吃。我对那种东西没什么胃口。我觉得味道不佳。" 我笑起来。我知道了。我听到的声音不是幻觉。我没有发疯。 是理查德·帕克在对我说话！这个食肉的流氓！我们在一起这么长时间，他却选在我们死去之前一小时说起话来。我的地位得到了提高，能够与一只老虎友好交谈。我心里立即充满了一种常见的好奇，就是那种让电影明星受折磨的影迷的好奇。 "我很好奇，告诉我——你吃过人吗？" 我很怀疑。动物当中的食人者比人类当中的谋杀犯还要少见，而且理查德·帕克在他还是个小虎崽的时候就被抓住了。但是谁能说他妈妈在被"口渴"抓住之前没有抓过一个人类呢？ "什么问题啊。"理查德·帕克答道。 "似乎有道理。” "有道理吗？" "对。" "为什么？" "你有吃人的名声。" "是吗？" "当然。你看不见这个事实吗？" "看不见。" "好吧，让我来说清楚你显然看不见的东西：你有那个名声。那么，你杀过人吗？" 沉默。 "怎么？回答我。" "杀过。" "噢，这让我的脊柱都在打颤。杀过几个？" "两个。" "你杀过两个男人？" "不是。一个男人和一个女人。" "是同时吗？" "不是。先杀了男人，再杀了女人。" "你这个怪物！我敢打赌你一定觉得挺好玩。你一定觉得他们的喊叫和挣扎很有趣。" "并不完全是。" "他们如何？" "他们如何？" "对。别这么迟钝。他们味道如何？" "不行，味道不好。" "我想也是。我听说动物的嗜好是后天养成的。那么你为什么要杀死他们呢？" "因为需要。" "怪物的需要。后悔吗？" "不是他们死就是我死。" "你把这种需要表达得很简洁，毫无道德感。但是现在后悔吗？" "那是一瞬间的事。是当时的情况造成的。" "本能，那叫本能。还是回答问题吧，现在后悔吗？" "我不去想这件事。" "完全是动物的定义。你就是个动物。" "你是什么？" "一个人，我会让你知道的。" "自吹自擂的傲慢。" "这是明摆着的事实。" "那么，你会扔第一块石头①，会吗？" 【①典出《圣经·约翰福音》第八章。法利赛人将一个行淫时被抓住的女子带稣面前，问他是否按律法用石头将她打死。耶稣对他们说你们中间谁是没有罪的谁就可以先拿石头打她。】 "你吃过酸面薄煎饼吗？" "不，没吃过。但是对我说说吧。酸面薄煎饼是什么？" "太好吃了。" "听上去很好吃。再多告诉我一些。" "酸面薄煎饼通常是用吃剩下的面糊做的，但是很少有用烧剩下的菜做成的东西如此令人难以忘怀。" "我现在好像已经能尝到了。" 我睡着了。或者说，是陷人了临死前的谵妄状态。 但是有什么东西在咬我。我说不出是什么。不管是什么，它在妨碍我的垂死过程。 我苏醒了过来。我知道打扰我的是什么了。 "对不起？" "什么？"理查德·帕克的声音微弱地传来。 "为什么你有口音？" "我没有口音。有口音的是你。" "不，我没有。你没有读出咬舌音。" "本来就不该咬舌，就应该这么读。你说话的时候好像嘴里含着温暖的石子。你有印度口音。" "你说话的时候好像你的舌头是一把锯子而英语单词是用木头做的。你有法国口音。" 这非常不相称。理查德·帕克在孟加拉出生，在泰米尔纳德长大，他怎么会有法国口音呢？就算本地治里曾经是法国殖民地，但没有人能让我相信动物园里的一些动物会经常去仲马街的法文协会。 这真让人不解。我又陷入了迷惑之中。 我喘着气醒了过来。有人！传到我耳朵里的声音既不是带口音的风也不是动物在说话。那是另一个人！我的心狂跳起来，最后一次试图把血液压进我精疲力竭的身体。我的大脑做了最后一次努力，试图保持清醒。 "只是回声吧，恐怕。"我听见了，几乎听不清。 "等一下，我在这儿！"我叫道。 "海上的回声……" "不，是我！" "会停止的！” "我的朋友！" "我正变得越来越衰弱……" "别走，别走！" 我几乎听不见他。 我尖叫起来。 他也尖叫起来。 我受不了了。我要疯了。 我有了一个主意。 "我的名字我用最后一口气对着四周叫道，"叫派西尼·莫利托·帕特尔。"回声怎么能造出名字来呢？"你听见我说话吗？我是派西尼·莫利托·帕特尔，大家都叫我派！" "什么？那儿有人吗？" "是的，有人！" "什么？这会是真的吗？请问,你有食物吗？什么都行。我没有食物了。我已经好几天没有吃东西了。我一定得吃点儿东西。不管你给我什么我都会感谢你的。我求你了。" "但是我也没有食物，"我回答道，心里很绝望，"我自己也好几天没吃东西了。我还希望你会有食物呢。你有水吗？我的水已经很少了。" "不，我没有。你什么食物都没有吗？什么都没有？" "没有，什么都没有。" 沉默，沉重的沉默。 "你在哪里？"我问。 "我在这里。"他疲惫地答道。 "但那是哪里？我看不见你。" "为什么你看不见我？” "我已经瞎了。" "什么？"他惊叫起来。 "我瞎了。我的眼睛除了黑暗什么也看不见。我徒劳地眨着眼睛。在过去两天里，如果我能相信皮肤可以测出时间的话。它只能告诉我是白天还是黑夜。" 我听见一声可怕的呜咽。 "什么事？出了什么事，我的朋友？" 他不停地呜咽。 "请回答我。出了什么事？我瞎了，我们没有食物也没有水，但是我们相互拥有。这是件幸运的事。一件可贵的事。出了什么事，我亲爱的兄弟？" "我也瞎了！" "什么？" "我也徒劳地眨着眼睛，就像你说的那样。" 他又呜咽起来。我惊讶得说不出话来。我在太平洋上遇到了在另一只救生艇里的另一个瞎子！ "但是你是怎么会瞎的呢？"我咕哝道。 "可能是和你同样的原因吧。糟糕的卫生状况作用于山穷水尽、忍饥挨饿的身体的结果。" 我们都崩溃了。他在呜咽，我在抽泣。这太让人受不了，真的太让人受不了了。 "我有一个故事。"过了一会儿,我说。 "一个故事？" "对。" "故事有什么用？我饿。" "这是个关于食物的故事。" "词句不含卡路里。" "画饼充饥嘛。" "是个好主意。" 沉默。使人挨饿的沉默。 "你在哪儿？"他问。 "这儿。你呢？" 我听见船桨伸进水里的哗哗声。我伸手去拿从沉没的小筏子捞上来的一支船桨。桨太沉了。我用手摸索着，找到了最近的桨架。我把船桨套进去，抓住浆柄划起来。我没有力气，但却尽力地划。 "我们听听你的故事吧。"他气喘吁吁地说。 "从前有一根香蕉，它长大了。它长得又大，又结实，又黄又香。后来它掉到了地上，有人看见了，就把它吃了。" 他停止了划桨。"多美的故事啊！" "谢谢。" "我热泪盈眶。" "我还有一部分没讲。" "是什么？" "香蕉掉到了地上，有人看见了，就把它吃了——后来那人感觉好多了。" "这真让人激动得透不过气来！"他叫道。 "谢谢。" 停顿。 "但是你没有香蕉？" "没有。一只猩猩分散了我的注意力。" "一只什么？" "说来话长。" "有牙膏吗？" "没有。" "牙膏涂在鱼上很好吃。有香烟吗？" "我已经吃了。" "你把香烟吃了？" "过滤嘴还在。如果你喜欢可以拿去。" "过滤嘴？没有烟草我要过滤嘴有什么用？你怎么能吃香烟呢？" "那我该把它们怎么办呢？我又不抽烟。" "你应该把它们留着卖。" "卖？卖给谁？" "给我！" "我的兄弟，我吃香烟的时候是独自一人在太平洋中央的一只救生艇上。" "因此？" "因此，在太平洋中央遇到一个人，把香烟卖给他，在我看来这个可能性不大。" "你应该预先计划好，你这个笨蛋！现在你没有东西可卖了。" "但是就算我有东西卖，我能用它来换什么呢？你有什么我想要的东西？" "我有一只靴子。"他说。 "一只靴子？" "对，一只漂亮的皮靴。" "我在太平洋中央的救生艇上要一只靴子有什么用？你以为我业余时间去远足吗？" "你可以吃啊！" "吃靴子？什么主意啊。" "你吃香烟？为什么不能吃靴子？" "这个主意真让人恶心。顺便问一句,是谁的靴子？" "我怎么知道？" "你是要我吃一个陌生人的靴子？" "这有什么不同吗？" "我目瞪口呆。一只靴子。我是印度教徒，我们印度教徒认为牛是神圣的，就算不考虑这一点，吃皮靴也让我想起吃脚上可能分泌出来的所有脏东西，还有靴子穿在脚上时可能踩到的所有脏东西。" "那就不给你靴子了。" "我们先看看吧。" "什么？你想要我不看一眼就买你的东西吗？" "我们都是瞎子，请允许我提醒你。" "那就向我描绘一下吧！你真是个可怜的推销员！难怪你没有顾客。" "对。是这样。" "那么，谈谈靴子吧？" "这是一只皮靴。" "哪一种皮靴？" "普通的那种。” "也就是说？" "有一根鞋带，几个孔眼和一个鞋舌。有一个鞋垫。普通的 那种。" "什么颜色？" "黑色。" "有几成新？" "穿旧了。皮子又软又柔韧，手感很好。" "气味如何?" "温暖芳香的皮革味。" "我必须得承认——我必须得承认——听上去很诱人！" "别想它了。" "为什么？" 沉默。 "你不回答问题吗，我的朋友？" "没有靴子。" "没有靴子?" "没有。" "这真让我伤心。" "我把它吃了。" "你把靴子吃了？" "是的。" "好吃吗？" "不好吃。香烟好吃吗？" "不好吃。我没法吃下去。" "我也没法吃下靴子。" "从前有一根香蕉，它长大了。它长得又大,又结实：又黄又香。后来它掉到了地上，有人看见了，就把它吃了，后来那人感觉好多了。" "对不起。我为自己说过的话和做过的事道歉。我是个没用的人。"他突然说。 "你是什么意思？你是世界上最可贵、最了不起的人。来吧，我的兄弟，让我们到一起来，尽情地享受对方的陪伴吧！" "好啊！" 太平洋可不是划船的合适地方，尤其是当划船的身体虚弱，双目失明，他们的救生艇体积庞大，难以操作，而风又不配合的时悸。他靠我近了，乂离我远了。他在我左边，又到了我右边。他在我前面，又到了我后面。但最后我们终于到了一起。我们的船相碰时发出的声音甚至比海龟撞上来的声音还要甜美。他扔给我一根缆绳，我把他的船系到了我的船上。我张开双臂去拥抱他也被他拥抱。我的眼里闪着泪花，但脸上却在微笑。尽管我瞎了，却仿佛能看见他就在我面前，栩栩如生。 "我可爱的兄弟。"我轻声低语。 "我在这儿。"他回答。 我听见一声微弱的咆哮。 "兄弟，有一件事我忘了说了。" 他重重地跌倒在我身上。我们一半身子压在油布上，一半身子压在中间的坐板上。他伸过手来掐我的脖子。 "兄弟，"他过于热切的拥抱让我气喘吁吁，"我的心和你在一起，但我必须紧急提议我们到敝人的小船的另一半去。" "你他妈的心是和我在一起!"他说， "还有你的肝和你的肉！" 我能感到他从油布上滚到中间的坐板上，不幸地把一只脚放到了船板上。 "不，不,我的兄弟！不要！我们并不是……" 我想把他拉回来。唉，太迟了。还没说出"单独"两个字，我又 是单独一人了。我听见爪子抓在船底的非常轻微的喀嚓声，和一副眼镜掉在地上的声音一样轻，紧接着我就听见我亲爱的兄弟在我面前尖叫起来，我从没有听见过任何人像这样尖叫过。他松 开了我。 这就是理查德·帕克的可怕代价。他给了我一条命，我自己的命，但代价是取走一条命。他把肉从那个人的身体上撕下来，咬碎了他的骨头。我的鼻子里充满了血腥味。就在那一刻，我心里的某种东西死了，再也没有复活。 |
CHAPTER 86 "Richard Parker, a ship!" I had the pleasure of shouting that once. I was overwhelmed with happiness. All hurt and frustration fell away and I positively blazed with joy. "We've made it! We're saved! Do you understand, Richard Parker? WE'RE SAVED! Ha, ha, ha, ha!" I tried to control my excitement. What if the ship passed too far away to see us? Should I launch a rocket flare? Nonsense! "It's coming right towards us, Richard Parker! Oh, I thank you, Lord Ganesha! Blessed be you in all your manifestations, Allah-Brahman!" It couldn't miss us. Can there be any happiness greater than the happiness of salvation? The answer—believe me—is No. I got to my feet, the first time in a long time I had made such an effort. "Can you believe it, Richard Parker? People, food, a bed. Life is ours once again. Oh, what bliss!" The ship came closer still. It looked like an oil tanker. The shape of its bow was becoming distinct. Salvation wore a robe of black metal with white trim. "And what if...?" I did not dare say the words. But might there not be a chance that Father and Mother and Ravi were still alive? The Tsimtsum had had a number of lifeboats. Perhaps they had reached Canada weeks ago and were anxiously waiting for news from me. Perhaps I was the only person from the wreck unaccounted for. "My God, oil tankers are big!" It was a mountain creeping up on us. "Perhaps they're already in Winnipeg. I wonder what our house looks like. Do you suppose, Richard Parker, that Canadian houses have inner courtyards in the traditional Tamil style? Probably not. I suppose they would fill up with snow in winter. Pity. There's no peace like the peace of an inner courtyard on a sunny day. I wonder what spices grow in Manitoba?" The ship was very close. The crew better be stopping short or turning sharply soon. "Yes, what spices...? Oh my God!" I realized with horror that the tanker was not simply coming our way—it was in fact bearing down on us. The bow was a vast wall of metal that was getting wider every second. A huge wave girdling it was advancing towards us relentlessly. Richard Parker finally sensed the looming juggernaut. He turned and went "Woof! Woof!" but not doglike—it was tigerlike: powerful, scary and utterly suited to the situation. "Richard Parker, it's going to run us over! What are we going to do? Quick, quick, a flare! No! Must row. Oar in oarlock...there! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUM? The bow wave pushed us up. Richard Parker crouched, and the hairs on him stood up. The lifeboat slid off the bow wave and missed the tanker by less than two feet. The ship slid by for what seemed like a mile, a mile of high, black canyon wall, a mile of castle fortification with not a single sentinel to notice us languishing in the moat. I fired off a rocket flare, but I aimed it poorly. Instead of surging over the bulwarks and exploding in the captain's face, it ricocheted off the ship's side and went straight into the Pacific, where it died with a hiss. I blew on my whistle with all my might. I shouted at the top of my lungs. All to no avail. Its engines rumbling loudly and its propellers chopping explosively underwater, the ship churned past us and left us bouncing and bobbing in its frothy wake. After so many weeks of natural sounds, these mechanical noises were strange and awesome and stunned me into silence. In less than twenty minutes a ship of three hundred thousand tons became a speck on the horizon. When I turned away, Richard Parker was still looking in its direction. After a few seconds he turned away too and our gazes briefly met. My eyes expressed longing, hurt, anguish, loneliness. All he was aware of was that something stressful and momentous had happened, something beyond the outer limits of his understanding. He did not see that it was salvation barely missed. He only saw that the alpha here, this odd, unpredictable tiger, had been very excited. He settled down to another nap. His sole comment on the event was a cranky meow. "I love you!" The words burst out pure and unfettered, infinite. The feeling flooded my chest. "Truly I do. I love you, Richard Parker. If I didn't have you now, I don't know what I would do. I don't think I would make it. No, I wouldn't. I would die of hopelessness. Don't give up, Richard Parker, don't give up. I'll get you to land, I promise, I promise!" CHAPTER 87 One of my favourite methods of escape was what amounts to gentle asphyxiation. I used a piece of cloth that I cut from the remnants of a blanket. I called it my dream rag. I wet it with sea water so that it was soaked but not dripping. I lay comfortably on the tarpaulin and I placed the dream rag on my face, fitting it to my features. I would fall into a daze, not difficult for someone in such an advanced state of lethargy to begin with. But the dream rag gave a special quality to my daze. It must have been the way it restricted my air intake. I would be visited by the most extraordinary dreams, trances, visions, thoughts, sensations, remembrances. And time would be gobbled up. When a twitch or a gasp disturbed me and the rag fell away, I'd come to full consciousness, delighted to find that time had slipped by. The dryness of the rag was part proof. But more than that was the feeling that things were different, that the present moment was different from the previous present moment. CHAPTER 88 One day we came upon trash. First the water glistened with patches of oil. Coming up soon after was the domestic and industrial waste: mainly plastic refuse in a variety of forms and colours, but also pieces of lumber, beer cans, wine bottles, tatters of cloth, bits of rope and, surrounding it all, yellow foam. We advanced into it. I looked to see if there was anything that might be of use to us. I picked out an empty corked wine bottle. The lifeboat bumped into a refrigerator that had lost its motor. It floated with its door to the sky. I reached out, grabbed the handle and lifted the door open. A smell leapt out so pungent and disgusting that it seemed to colour the air. Hand to my mouth, I looked in. There were stains, dark juices, a quantity of completely rotten vegetables, milk so curdled and infected it was a greenish jelly, and the quartered remains of a dead animal in such an advanced state of black putrefaction that I couldn't identify it. Judging by its size I think that it was lamb. In the closed, humid confines of the refrigerator, the smell had had the time to develop, to ferment, to grow bitter and angry. It assaulted my senses with a pent-up rage that made my head reel, my stomach churn and my legs wobble. Luckily, the sea quickly filled the horrid hole and the thing sank beneath the surface. The space left vacant by the departed refrigerator was filled by other trash. We left the trash behind. For a long time, when the wind came from that direction, I could still smell it. It took the sea a day to wash off the oily smears from the sides of the lifeboat. I put a message in the bottle: "Japanese-owned cargo ship Tsimtsum, flying Panamanian flag, sank July 2nd, 1977, in Pacific, four days out of Manila. Am in lifeboat. Pi Patel my name. Have some food, some water, but Bengal tiger a serious problem. Please advise family in Winnipeg, Canada. Any help very much appreciated. Thank you." I corked the bottle and covered the cork with a piece of plastic. I tied the plastic to the neck of the bottle with nylon string, knotting it tightly. I launched the bottle into the water. CHAPTER 89 Everything suffered. Everything became sun-bleached and weather-beaten. The lifeboat, the raft until it was lost, the tarpaulin, the stills, the rain catchers, the plastic bags, the lines, the blankets, the net—all became worn, stretched, slack, cracked, dried, rotted, torn, discoloured. What was orange became whitish orange. What was smooth became rough. What was rough became smooth. What was sharp became blunt. What was whole became tattered. Rubbing fish skins and turtle fat on things, as I did, greasing them a little, made no difference. The salt went on eating everything with its million hungry mouths. As for the sun, it roasted everything. It kept Richard Parker in partial subjugation. It picked skeletons clean and fired them to a gleaming white. It burned off my clothes and would have burned off my skin, dark though it was, had I not protected it beneath blankets and propped-up turtle shells. When the heat was unbearable I took a bucket and poured sea water on myself; sometimes the water was so warm it felt like syrup. The sun also took care of all smells. I don't remember any smells. Or only the smell of the spent hand-flare shells. They smelled like cumin, did I mention that? I don't even remember what Richard Parker smelled like. We perished away. It happened slowly, so that I didn't notice it all the time. But I noticed it regularly. We were two emaciated mammals, parched and starving. Richard Parker's fur lost its lustre, and some of it even fell away from his shoulders and haunches. He lost a lot of weight, became a skeleton in an oversized bag of faded fur. I, too, withered away, the moistness sucked out of me, my bones showing plainly through my thin flesh. I began to imitate Richard Parker in sleeping an incredible number of hours. It wasn't proper sleep, but a state of semi-consciousness in which daydreams and reality were nearly indistinguishable. I made much use of my dream rag. These are the last pages of my diary: Today saw a shark bigger than any I've seen till now. A primeval monster twenty feet long. Striped. A tiger shark—very dangerous. Circled us. Feared it would attack. Have survived one tiger; thought I would die at the hands of another. Did not attack. Floated away. Cloudy weather, but nothing. No rain. Only morning greyness. Dolphins. Tried to gaff one. Found I could not stand. R.P. weak and ill-tempered. Am so weak, if he attacks I won't be able to defend myself. Simply do not have the energy to blow whistle. Calm and burning hot day. Sun beating without mercy. Feel my brains are boiling inside my head. Feel horrid. Prostrate body and soul. Will die soon. R.P. breathing but not moving. Will die too. Will not kill me. Salvation. An hour of heavy, delicious, beautifal rain. Filled mouth, filled bags and cans, filled body till it could not take another drop. Let myself be soaked to rinse off salt. Crawled over to see R.P. Not reacting. Body curled, tail flat. Coat clumpy with wetness. Smaller when wet. Bony. Touched him for first time ever. To see if dead. Not. Body still warm. Amazing to touch him. Even in this condition, firm, muscular, alive. Touched him and fur shuddered as if I were a gnat. At length, head half in water stirred. Better to drink than to drown. Better sign still: tail jumped. Threw piece of turtle meat in front of nose. Nothing. At last half rose—to drink. Drank and drank. Ate. Did not rise fully. Spent a good hour licking himself all over. Slept. It's no use. Today I die. I will die today. I die. This was my last entry. I went on from there, endured, but without noting it. Do you see these invisible spirals on the imargins of the page? I thought I would run out of paper. It was the pens that ran out. |
第86章 “理查德·帕克，一条船！” 我有幸能有一次机会叫出这句话。我简直高兴得不知所措。所有的痛苦和挫折都消失了，我实在是快乐得容光焕发。 "我们成功了！我们得救了！你明白吗，理查德·帕克？我们得救了！哈，哈，哈，哈！" 我试图控制自己，不要过度兴奋。要是船离我们太远，看不见我们怎么办？我要发射一枚照明信号弹吗？荒唐！ "它正朝我们开过来，理查德·帕克！噢，我谢谢你，象头神！感激你所有的化身，安拉—梵天！" 它不会看不见我们的。还有什么比获救更快乐吗？答案——相信我——是没有。我站了起来，这是这么长时间以来我第一次做出这样的努力。 "你能相信吗，理查德·帕克？人，食物，一张床。生活又是我们的了。噢，多大的福气啊！" 船开得更近了。看上去像一艘油轮。船头的形状开始变得清楚起来。救星穿着一件镶白边的黑色金属袍子。 "要是……？" 我不敢说出那几个字。也许父亲、母亲和拉维还活着，难道没有这样一种可能吗？"齐姆楚姆"号有好几只救生艇。也许几个星期以前他们就到了加拿大，现在正焦急地等着我的消息呢。也许我是沉船上惟一下落不明的人。 "上帝啊，油轮真大！" 慢慢朝我们开过来的简直是座山。 "也许他们已经在温尼伯了。我很想知道我们的房子是什么样子的。理查德·帕克，你猜加拿大的房子会有传统泰米尔式的内院吗？也许没有。我猜到了冬天院子里肯定会积满了雪。真遗憾。星期天没有比内院更安静的地方了。我不知道马尼托巴出产什么香料？" 船离得很近了。船员最好马上把船停下来，或者立即掉头。 "是啊，什么香料呢……？噢上帝啊！" 我惊恐地意识到，油轮不是正朝我们开过来——实际上它是在朝我们直冲过来。船头像一堵巨大的金属墙，每一秒钟都在变得更宽。围绕着船头的一个巨浪正无情地朝我们打来。理查德·帕克终于感觉到了这正在逼近的骇人的毁灭力量。他转过身，开始"汪！汪"地叫起来，但声音并不像狗叫——而是虎啸：低沉有力，令人毛骨悚然，完全符合当时的情况。 "理查德·帕克,它要从我们身上开过去了！我们该怎么办?快，快，照明弹！不！得划船。船桨在桨架上……在那儿！嗨唷!嗨唷！嗨唷！嗨唷！嗨唷！嗨？" 船头将我们推上了浪尖。理查德·帕克蹲了下来，身上的毛都竖了起来。救生艇从船头的浪上滑了下来，在只差不到两英尺的地方从油轮边擦过，没有被撞上。 大船从我们身边滑过，仿佛有一英里长，是一座一英里长的悬崖梢壁，一座一英里长的城堡，没有一个哨兵注意到我们正在护城河里受折磨。我发射了一枚照明信号弹，但没能瞄准。信号弹没有冲上舷墙，在船长面前爆炸，而是从舷侧弹跳开来，径直落进了太平洋，嘶嘶地叫着熄灭了。我用尽全身力气吹响了哨子。我放声大叫。全都无济于事。 引擎发出轰隆隆的巨大声响，推进器在水下劈开一条路，搅得海水仿佛嫌炸了一般。大船翻腾着浪花从我们身边开过，留下我们在它身后冒着泡沫的尾流中又蹦又跳。这么多星期以来我一直听的是自然界的声音，这些机器的噪声奇怪又令人敬畏，让我惊讶得发不出声来。 不到二十分钟，这条30万吨巨轮便成了地平线上的一个黑点。我转过身时，理查德·帕克还在朝船的方向看。几秒钟后，他也转过身去，我们的目光短暂地相遇了。我的眼神里充满了渴 望、痛苦、气愤和孤独。他只知道有一个令人紧张的重大事件，一件超出了他的理解能力的事情发生了。他没有看出那是与我们擦肩而过的救星。他只看到这个老大，这只奇怪的难以预料的老虎，刚才非常兴奋。他又打起吨来。他对这个事件的惟一评论是一声古怪的喵喵声。 "我爱你！"这几个字脱口而出，那么纯洁，那么自由，其中包含的爱是那么地无边无际。这种感情充满了我的胸膛。"真的。我爱你，理查德·帕克。如果现在没有你，我真不知道自己会做什么。我想我肯定坚持不下来的。不，做不到。我会因为失望而死去。别放弃，理查德·帕克，别放弃。我会把你带到陆地上的，我保证，我保证！" 第87章 我最喜欢的一种逃避方式就是轻度的窒息。我用的是从一块破毯子上剪下来的一块布。我把它叫做我的梦之帆。我用海水把布打湿，让布全部湿透，但不滴水。我舒服地躺在油布上，用梦之帆盖住脸,让布贴在脸上。我会陷人晕眩，这对于一个极其无精打采的人来说并不难。但是梦之帆使我的晕旋有了特别的性质。一定是它限制了我的呼吸。最不同寻常的梦幻、迷恍、幻象、思想、感觉、记忆一起出现了。时间会被吞噬。当一阵抽搐或一次喘息打扰了我，布掉下去时，我就会完全醒来，高兴地发现时间巳经溜走了。其中一个证明就是布已经干了。不仅如此,我还感到周围的事物不一样了，现在这个时刻和刚才那个时刻不一样了。 第88章 有一天我们遇到了垃圾。先是一片片油漂在水上,闪着亮。紧接着后面漂来了生活垃圾和工业垃圾：主要是形状、颜色各异的废塑料，还有木头片、啤酒罐、酒瓶、破布和绳子。这些东西周围是黄色的泡沫。我们进了垃圾堆。我想看看有什么可能对我们有用的东西。我捡起一只塞着盖的空酒瓶。救生艇撞上了一只没有了电动机的冰箱。它门朝天漂着。我伸出手去，抓住把手，把门掀了开来。一股刺鼻的恶臭窜了出来，似乎把空气都变臭了。我用手捂住鼻子，朝冰箱里面看去。里面有斑斑乌溃，变黑的果汁，一堆完全烂了的蔬菜，腐蚀得太厉害、巳经成了绿色胶状物的牛奶，还有四分之一只死动物，已经腐烂发黑得认不出是什么了。从大小来看，我想那是羊肉。在封闭的、潮湿的冰箱里，气味有足够的时间来形成、发酵、变得怨恨而气愤。它用压抑已久的愤怒攻击我的感觉，让我头晕目眩，胃部绞痛，两腿发抖。幸运的是，海水很快填满了那个可怕的洞，那个东西沉到了水下。冰箱留下的空被其他垃圾填上了。 我们把垃圾抛在了后面。有很长时间，当风从那个方向吹来时，我还能闻到那股气味。一天以后，海水才把救生艇舷侧油腻的污迹冲洗掉。 我在酒瓶里放了一封信："日本货船‘齐姆楚姆’号，飘巴拿马国旗，从马尼拉开出四天后，于1977年7月2日在太平洋沉没。我在救生艇上。我叫派·帕特尔。有些食物和水，但孟加拉虎是个严重问题。请通知加拿大温尼伯的家人。非常感激任何帮助。谢谢。"我塞住瓶口，用一块塑料薄膜盖在瓶塞上,用尼龙绳把塑料薄膜系在瓶颈上，系的紧紧的。我把瓶子投进了水里。 第89章 一切都受到了损害。一切都因日晒雨淋而退了色。救生艇、丢失前的小筏子、油布、蒸馏器、接雨器、塑料袋、绳索、毯子、网——所有东西都破旧了，撑大了，变松了，晒干了，腐烂了，撕破了，退色了。鲜艳的橘黄色变得发白。光滑的东西变得粗糙。粗糙的东西变得光滑。锋利的东西变钝了。完整的东西变成了碎片。我用鱼皮擦，用海龟油抹，让它们润滑一些，但都没有用。盐仿佛有一百万张嘴，继续啃咬着每一样东西。至于太阳，它炙烤着一切。它让理查德·帕克处在半受抑制的状态中。它把骨架上的肉剔得干干净净,把骨头烘烤得发出了白色微光。它把我的衣服烧掉了，要不是我用毯子和支起的海龟壳保护皮肤，它还会把我的皮肤也烧掉的，尽管我的皮肤已经很黑了。热得受不了时，我就打一桶海水浇在身上；有时海水太暖了，感觉就像糖浆。太阳还对付所有的气味。我什么气味也不记得了。或者说只记得手动照明弹的气味。闻起来像莳萝，我提到过吗？我甚至不记得理查德·帕克的气味了。 我们的生命在凋零。这个过程很慢，因此我并不总是能注意到。但是我能经常注意到。我们是两只憔悴的哺乳动物，干渴又饥饿。理查德·帕克的毛失去了往日的光泽，有些毛甚至从肩部和腰部掉了下来。他瘦多了，成了装在尺寸过大的退了色的毛皮包里的一具骨架。我也变得枯槁，身体里的水分已被吸干，薄薄的肌肉下面,骨头清晰可见。 我开始模仿理查德·帕克睡很长时间，长得令人难以置信。那不是正常的睡眠，而是一种半昏迷的状态，在那种状态下，白日梦和现实几乎无法区分。我常常用梦之帆。 下面是我的日记的最后几页： 今天看见一条我至今为止看见过的最大的鲨鱼。一条二十英尺长的原始怪物。身上有条纹。是条虎鲨——非常危险。它围着我们打转。怕它会袭击我们。和老虎在一起活了下来；以为我会死于这海中老虎之手。没有袭击我们。游走了。多云，但天没变。 没下雨。只是早展天空灰蒙蒙的。海豚。试图用鱼叉叉上来一只。发现自己站不起来了。R·P身体虚弱，脾气暴躁。我太虚弱了，如果他袭击我，我会无法保护自己。连吹哨子的力气都没有。 风平浪静，骄阳似火，无情地照射着。感到脑浆巳经在脑袋里煮沸了。感到惊恐。 身体和灵魂都倒下了。很快就要死了。R·P在呼吸，但一动不动。也要死了。不会杀我了。 得救了。下了一小时的倾盆大雨，甘甜的美丽的雨。注满了我的嘴，注满了接雨器的袋子和罐子，注满了我的身体，直到我一滴也不能再喝了。让雨水湿透身体，把盐冲掉。爬过去看看R·P。没有反应。他身体蜷缩着，尾巴耷拉着。毛被打湿后结成了一团一团的。淋湿的身体小了些。瘦骨嶙峋。第一次摸了摸他。看他是不是死了。没死。还有体温。摸他的感觉令人吃惊。即使在这样的情况下，他的身体也结实、强壮、有活力。摸他时，他的毛皮顫抖了一下，好像我是只蚊子。最后，半埋在水里的头动了动。喝水要比淹死好。还有更好的现象：尾巴竖了起来。把几块海龟肉扔到他鼻子跟前。没有反应。最后半抬起身子——喝水。喝啊喝啊。又开始吃。没有完全站起来。花了足足一小时舔遍全身。睡了。 没有用。今天我死了。 今天我就要死了。 我死了。 这是日记的最后一页。从那以后，我一直在忍受痛苦，却没有记下来。你看见页边空白处这些看不见的螺旋形的印迹吗——我以为纸会用完。用完的是钢笔。 |
CHAPTER 80 Of all the dorados, I remember one in particular, a special dorado. It was early morning on a cloudy day, and we were in the midst of a storm of flying fish. Richard Parker was actively swatting at them. I was huddled behind a turtle shell, shielding myself from the flying fish. I had a gaff with a piece of net hanging from it extended into the open. I was hoping to catch fish in this way. I wasn't having much luck. A flying fish whizzed by. The dorado that was chasing it burst out of the water. It was a bad calculation. The anxious flying fish got away, just missing my net, but the dorado hit the gunnel like a cannonball. The thud it made shook the whole boat. A spurt of blood sprayed the tarpaulin. I reacted quickly. I dropped beneath the hail of flying fish and reached for the dorado just ahead of a shark. I pulled it aboard. It was dead, or nearly there, and turning all kinds of colours. What a catch! What a catch! I thought excitedly. Thanks be to you, Jesus-Matsya. The fish was fat and fleshy. It must have weighed a good forty pounds. It would feed a horde. Its eyes and spine would irrigate a desert. Alas, Richard Parker's great head had turned my way. I sensed it from the corner of my eyes. The flying fish were still coming, but he was no longer interested in them; it was the fish in my hands that was now the focus of his attention. He was eight feet away. His mouth was half open, a fish wing dangling from it. His back became rounder. His rump wriggled. His tail twitched. It was clear: he was in a crouch and he was making to attack me. It was too late to get away, too late even to blow my whistle. My time had come. But enough was enough. I had suffered so much. I was so hungry. There are only so many days you can go without eating. And so, in a moment of insanity brought on by hunger—because I was more set on eating than I was on staying alive—without any means of defence, naked in every sense of the term, I looked Richard Parker dead in the eyes. Suddenly his brute strength meant only moral weakness. It was nothing compared to the strength in my mind. I stared into his eyes, wide-eyed and defiant, and we faced off. Any zookeeper will tell you that a tiger, indeed any cat, will not attack in the face of a direct stare but will wait until the deer or antelope or wild ox has turned its eyes. But to know that and to apply it are two very different things (and it's a useless bit of knowledge if you're hoping to stare down a gregarious cat. While you hold one lion in the thrall of your gaze, another will come up to you from behind). For two, perhaps three seconds, a terrific battle of minds for status and authority was waged between a boy and a tiger. He needed to make only the shortest of lunges to be on top of me. But I held my stare. Richard Parker licked his nose, groaned and turned away. He angrily batted a flying fish. I had won. I gasped with disbelief, heaved the dorado into my hands and hurried away to the raft. Shortly thereafter, I delivered to Richard Parker a fair chunk of the fish. From that day onwards I felt my mastery was no longer in question, and I began to spend progressively more time on the lifeboat, first at the bow, then, as I gained confidence, on the more comfortable tarpaulin. I was still scared of Richard Parker, but only when it was necessary. His simple presence no longer strained me. You can get used to anything—haven't I already said that? Isn't that what all survivors say? Initially I lay on the tarpaulin with my head against its rolled-up bow edge. It was raised a little—since the ends of the lifeboat were higher than its middle—and so I could keep an eye on Richard Parker. Later on I turned the other way, with my head resting just above the middle bench, my back to Richard Parker and his territory. In this position I was further away from the edges of the boat and less exposed to wind and spray. CHAPTER 81 I know my survival is hard to believe. When I think back, I can hardly believe it myself. My crude exploitation of Richard Parker's weak sea legs is not the only explanation. There is another: I was the source of food and water. Richard Parker had been a zoo animal as long as he could remember, and he was used to sustenance coming to him without his lifting a paw. True, when it rained and the whole boat became a rain catcher, he understood where the water came from. And when we were hit by a school of flying fish, there too my role was not apparent. But these events did not change the reality of things, which was that when he looked beyond the gunnel, he saw no jungle that he could hunt in and no river from which he could drink freely. Yet I brought him food and I brought him fresh water. My agency was pure and miraculous. It conferred power upon me. Proof: I remained alive day after day, week after week. Proof: he did not attack me, even when I was asleep on the tarpaulin. Proof: I am here to tell you this story. CHAPTER 82 I kept rainwater and the water I collected from the solar stills in the locker, out of Richard Parker's sight, in the three 50-litre plastic bags. I sealed them with string. Those plastic bags wouldn't have been more precious to me had they contained gold, sapphires, rubies and diamonds. I worried incessantly about them. My worst nightmare was that I would open the locker one morning and find that all three had spilled or, worse still, had split. To forestall such a tragedy, I wrapped them in blankets to keep them from rubbing against the metal hull of the lifeboat, and I moved them as little as possible to reduce wear and tear. But I fretted over the necks of the bags. Would the string not wear them thin? How would I seal the bags if their necks were torn? When the going was good, when the rain was torrential, when the bags had as much water as I thought they could take, I filled the baiiling cups, the two plastic buckets, the two multi-purpose plastic containers, the three beakers and the empty cans of water (which I now preciously kept). Next I filled all the plastic vomit bags, sealing them by twisting them shut and making a knot. After that, if the rain was still coming down, I used myself as a container. I stuck the end of the rain-catcher tube in my mouth and I drank and I drank and I drank. I always added a little sea water to Richard Parker's fresh water, in a greater proportion in the days following a rainfall, in a lesser during periods of drought. On occasion, in the early days, he dipped his head overboard, sniffed the sea and took a few sips, but quickly he stopped doing it. Still, we barely got by. The scarcity of fresh water was the single most constant source of anxiety and suffering throughout our journey. Of whatever food I caught, Richard Parker took the lion's share, so to speak. I had little choice in the matter. He was immediately aware when I landed a turtle or a dorado or a shark, and I had to give quickly and generously. I think I set world records for sawing open the belly shells of turtles. As for fish, they were hewn to pieces practically while they were still flopping about. If I got to be so indiscriminate about what I ate, it was not simply because of appalling hunger; it was also plain rush. Sometimes I just didn't have the time to consider what was before me. It either went into my mouth that instant or was lost to Richard Parker, who was pawing and stamping the ground and huffing impatiently on the edge of his territory. It came as an unmistakable indication to me of how low I had sunk the day I noticed, with a pinching of the heart, that I ate like an animal, that this noisy, frantic, unchewing wolfing-down of mine was exactly the way Richard Parker ate. CHAPTER 83 The storm came on slowly one afternoon. The clouds looked as if they were stumbling along before the wind, frightened. The sea took its cue. It started rising and falling in a manner that made my heart sink. I took in the solar stills and the net. Oh, you should have seen that landscape! What I had seen up till now were mere hillocks of water. These swells were truly mountains. The valleys we found ourselves in were so deep they were gloomy. Their sides were so steep the lifeboat started sliding down them, nearly surfing. The raft was getting exceptionally rough treatment, being pulled out of the water and dragged along bouncing every which way. I deployed both sea anchors fully, at different lengths so that they would not interfere with each other. Climbing the giant swells, the boat clung to the sea anchors like a mountain climber to a rope. We would rush up until we reached a snow-white crest in a burst of light and foam and a tipping forward of the lifeboat. The view would be clear for miles around. But the mountain would shift, and the ground beneath us would start sinking in a most stomach-sickening way. In no time we would be sitting once again at the bottom of a dark valley, different from the last but the same, with thousands of tons of water hovering above us and with only our flimsy lightness to save us. The land would move once more, the sea-anchor ropes would snap to tautness, and the roller coaster would start again. The sea anchors did their job well—in fact, nearly too well. Every swell at its crest wanted to take us for a tumble, but the anchors, beyond the crest, heaved mightily and pulled us through, but at the expense of pulling the front of the boat down. The result was an explosion of foam and spray at the bow. I was soaked through and through each time. Then a swell came up that was particularly intent on taking us along. This time the bow vanished underwater. I was shocked and chilled and scared witless. I barely managed to hold on. The boat was swamped. I heard Richard Parker roar. I felt death was upon us. The only choice left to me was death by water or death by animal. I chose death by animal. While we sank down the back of the swell, I jumped onto the tarpaulin and unrolled it towards the stern, closing in Richard Parker. If he protested, I did not hear him. Faster than a sewing machine working a piece of cloth, I hooked down the tarpaulin on both sides of the boat. We were climbing again. The boat was lurching upwards steadily. It was hard to keep my balance. The lifeboat was now covered and the tarpaulin battened down, except at my end. I squeezed in between the side bench and the tarpaulin and pulled the remaining tarpaulin over my head. I did not have much space. Between bench and gunnel there was twelve inches, and the side benches were only one and a half feet wide. But I was not so foolhardy, even in the face of death, as to move onto the floor of the boat. There were four hooks left to catch. I slipped a hand through the opening and worked the rope. With each hook done, it was getting harder to get the next. I managed two. Two hooks left. The boat was rushing upwards in a smooth and unceasing motion. The incline was over thirty degrees. I could feel myself being pulled down towards the stern. Twisting my hand frantically I succeeded in catching one more hook with the rope. It was the best I could do. This was not a job meant to be done from the inside of the lifeboat but from the outside. I pulled hard on the rope, something made easier by the fact that holding on to it was preventing me from sliding down the length of the boat. The boat swiftly passed a forty-five-degree incline. We must have been at a sixty-degree incline when we reached the summit of the swell and broke through its crest onto the other side. The smallest portion of the swell's supply of water crashed down on us. I felt as if I were being pummelled by a great fist. The lifeboat abruptly tilted forward and everything was reversed: I was now at the lower end of the lifeboat, and the water that had swamped it, with a tiger soaking in it, came my way. I did not feel the tiger—I had no precise idea of where Richard Parker was; it was pitch-black beneath the tarpaulin—but before we reached the next valley I was half-drowned. For the rest of that day and into the night, we went up and down, up and down, up and down, until terror became monotonous and was replaced by numbness and a complete giving-up. I held on to the tarpaulin rope with one hand and the edge of the bow bench with the other, while my body lay flat against the side bench. In this position—water pouring in, water pouring out—the tarpaulin beat me to a pulp, I was soaked and chilled, and I was bruised and cut by bones and turtle shells. The noise of the storm was constant, as was Richard Parker's snarling. Sometime during the night my mind noted that the storm was over. We were bobbing on the sea in a normal way. Through a tear in the tarpaulin I glimpsed the night sky. Starry and cloudless. I undid the tarpaulin and lay on top of it. I noticed the loss of the raft at dawn. All that was left of it were two tied oars and the life jacket between them. They had the same effect on me as the last standing beam of a burnt-down house would have on a householder. I turned and scrutinized every quarter of the horizon. Nothing. My little marine town had vanished. That the sea anchors, miraculously, were not lost—they continued to tug at the lifeboat faithfully—was a consolation that had no effect. The loss of the raft was perhaps not fatal to my body, but it felt fatal to my spirits. The boat was in a sorry state. The tarpaulin was torn in several places, some tears evidently the work of Richard Parker's claws. Much of our food was gone, either lost overboard or destroyed by the water that had come in. I was sore all over and had a bad cut on my thigh; the wound was swollen and white. I was nearly too afraid to check the contents of the locker. Thank God none of the water bags had split. The net and the solar stills, which I had not entirely deflated, had filled the empty space and prevented the bags from moving too much. I felt exhausted and depressed. I unhooked the tarpaulin at the stern. Richard Parker was so silent I wondered whether he had drowned. He hadn't. As I rolled back the tarpaulin to the middle bench and daylight came to him, he stirred and growled. He climbed out of the water and set himself on the stern bench. I took out needle and thread and went about mending the tears in the tarpaulin. Later I tied one of the buckets to a rope and bailed the boat. Richard Parker watched me distractedly. He seemed to find nearly everything I did boring. The day was hot and I proceeded slowly. One haul brought me something I had lost. I considered it. Cradled in the palm of my hand was all that remained between me and death: the last of the orange whistles. CHAPTER 84 I was on the tarpaulin, wrapped in a blanket, sleeping and dreaming and awakening and daydreaming and generally passing the time. There was a steady breeze. From time to time spray was blown off the crest of a wave and wet the boat. Richard Parker had disappeared under the tarpaulin. He liked neither getting wet nor the ups and downs of the boat. But the sky was blue, the air was warm, and the sea was regular in its motion. I awoke because there was a blast. I opened my eyes and saw water in the sky. It crashed down on me. I looked up again. Cloudless blue sky. There was another blast, to my left, not as powerful as the first. Richard Parker growled fiercely. More water crashed against me. It had an unpleasant smell. I looked over the edge of the boat. The first thing I saw was a large black object floating in the water. It took me a few seconds to understand what it was. An arching wrinkle around its edge was my clue. It was an eye. It was a whale. Its eye, the size of my head, was looking directly at me. Richard Parker came up from beneath the tarpaulin. He hissed. I sensed from a slight change in the glint of the whale's eye that it was now looking at Richard Parker. It gazed for thirty seconds or so before gently sinking under. I worried that it might strike us with its tail, but it went straight down and vanished in the dark blue. Its tail was a huge, fading, round bracket. I believe it was a whale looking for a mate. It must have decided that my size wouldn't do, and besides, I already seemed to have a mate. We saw a number of whales but none so close up as that first one. I would be alerted to their presence by their spouting. They would emerge a short distance away, sometimes three or four of them, a short-lived archipelago of volcanic islands. These gentle behemoths always lifted my spirits. I was convinced that they understood my condition, that at the sight of me one of them exclaimed, "Oh! It's that castaway with the pussy cat Bamphoo was telling me about. Poor boy. Hope he has enough plankton. I must tell Mumphoo and Tomphoo and Stimphoo about him. I wonder if there isn't a ship around I could alert. His mother would be very happy to see him again. Goodbye, my boy. I'll try to help. My name's Pimphoo." And so, through the grapevine, every whale of the Pacific knew of me, and I would have been saved long ago if Pimphoo hadn't sought help from a Japanese ship whose dastardly crew harpooned her, the same fate as befell Lamphoo at the hands of a Norwegian ship. The hunting of whales is a heinous crime. Dolphins were fairly regular visitors. One group stayed with us a whole day and night. They were very gay. Their plunging and turning and racing just beneath the hull seemed to have no purpose other than sporting fun. I tried to catch one. But none came close to the gaff. And even if one had, they were too fast and too big. I gave up and just watched them. I saw six birds in all. I took each one to be an angel announcing nearby land. But these were seafaring birds that could span the Pacific with hardly a flutter of the wings. I watched them with awe and envy and self-pity. Twice I saw an albatross. Each flew by high in the air without taking any notice of us. I stared with my mouth open. They were something supernatural and incomprehensible. Another time, a short distance from the boat, two Wilson's petrels skimmed by, feet skipping on the water. They, too, took no notice of us, and left me similarly amazed. We at last attracted the attention of a short-tailed shearwater. It circled above us, eventually dropping down. It kicked out its legs, turned its wings and alighted in the water, floating as lightly as a cork. It eyed me with curiosity. I quickly baited a hook with a bit of flying fish and threw the line its way. I put no weights on the line and had difficulty getting it close to the bird. On my third try the bird paddled up to the sinking bait and plunged its head underwater to get at it. My heart pounded with excitement. I did not pull on the line for some seconds. When I did, the bird merely squawked and regurgitated what it had just swallowed. Before I could try again, it unfolded its wings and pulled itself up into the air. Within two, three beatings of its wings it was on its way. I had better luck with a masked booby. It appeared out of nowhere, gliding towards us, wings spanning over three feet. It landed on the gunnel within hand's reach of me. Its round eyes took me in, the expression puzzled and serious. It was a large bird with a pure snowy white body and wings that were jet-black at their tips and rear edges. Its big, bulbous head had a very pointed orange-yellow beak and the red eyes behind the black mask made it look like a thief who had had a very long night. Only the oversized, brown webbed feet left something to be desired in their design. The bird was fearless. It spent several minutes tweaking its feathers with its beak, exposing soft down. When it was finished, it looked up and everything fell into place, and it showed itself for what it was: a smooth, beautiful, aerodynamic airship. When I offered it a bit of dorado, it pecked it out of my hand, jabbing the palm. I broke its neck by leveraging its head backwards, one hand pushing up the beak, the other holding the neck. The feathers were so well attached that when I started pulling them out, skin came off—I was not plucking the bird; I was tearing it apart. It was light enough as it was, a volume with no weight. I took the knife and skinned it instead. For its size there was a disappointing amount of flesh, only a little on its chest. It had a more chewy texture than dorado flesh, but I didn't find there was much of a difference in taste. In its stomach, besides the morsel of dorado I had just given it, I found three small fish. After rinsing them of digestive juices, I ate them. I ate the bird's heart, liver and lungs. I swallowed its eyes and tongue with a gulp of water. I crashed its head and picked out its small brain. I ate the webbings of its feet. The rest of the bird was skin, bone and feathers. I dropped it beyond the edge of the tarpaulin for Richard Parker, who hadn't seen the bird arrive. An orange paw reached out. Days later feathers and down were still floating up from his den and being blown out to sea. Those that landed in the water were swallowed by fish. None of the birds ever announced land. CHAPTER 85 Once there was lightning. The sky was so black, day looked like night. The downpour was heavy. I heard thunder far away. I thought it would stay at that. But a wind came up, throwing the rain this way and that. Right after, a white splinter came crashing down from the sky, puncturing the water. It was some distance from the lifeboat, but the effect was perfectly visible. The water was shot through with what looked like white roots; briefly, a great celestial tree stood in the ocean. I had never imagined such a thing possible, lightning striking the sea. The clap of thunder was tremendous. The flash of light was incredibly vivid. I turned to Richard Parker and said, "Look, Richard Parker, a bolt of lightning." I saw how he felt about it. He was flat on the floor of the boat, limbs splayed and visibly trembling. The effect on me was completely the opposite. It was something to pull me out of my limited mortal ways and thrust me into a state of exalted wonder. Suddenly a bolt struck much closer. Perhaps it was meant for us: we had just fallen off the crest of a swell and were sinking down its back when its top was hit. There was an explosion of hot air and hot water. For two, perhaps three seconds, a gigantic, blinding white shard of glass from a broken cosmic window danced in the sky, insubstantial yet overwhelmingly powerful. Ten thousand trumpets and twenty thousand drums could not have made as much noise as that bolt of lightning; it was positively deafening. The sea turned white and all colour disappeared. Everything was either pure white light or pure black shadow. The light did not seem to illuminate so much as to penetrate. As quickly as it had appeared, the bolt vanished—the spray of hot water had not finished landing upon us and already it was gone. The punished swell returned to black and rolled on indifferently. I was dazed, thunderstruck—nearly in the true sense of the word. But not afraid. "Praise be to Allah, Lord of All Worlds, the Compassionate, the Merciful, Ruler of Judgment Day!" I muttered. To Richard Parker I shouted, "Stop your trembling! This is miracle. This is an outbreak of divinity. This is...this is..." I could not find what it was, this thing so vast and fantastic. I was breathless and wordless. I lay back on the tarpaulin, arms and legs spread wide. The rain chilled me to the bone. But I was smiling. I remember that close encounter with electrocution and third-degree burns as one of the few times during my ordeal when I felt genuine happiness. At moments of wonder, it is easy to avoid small thinking, to entertain thoughts that span the universe, that capture both thunder and tinkle, thick and thin, the near and the far. |
第80章 在所有鯕鳅当中，我对其中一条，特别的一条，记得尤其清楚。那是多云的一天，一大清早，我们就被仿佛暴雨一般落下的飞鱼包围了。理查德·帕克积极地用爪子猛拍这些鱼。我缩成一团，躲在一只海龟壳后面，用龟壳挡住飞鱼。我手里抓着一只鱼叉，鱼叉上面挂着一片鱼网，伸在外面。我希望能用这种方式抓到鱼。但是运气并不好。一条飞鱼嗖嗖地飞了过去。紧追不舍的鯕鳅从海里冲了出来。它没有计算好。焦急的飞鱼从网边擦过，飞走了，而鯕鳅却像一枚炮弹一样撞上了舷边。重重的一击让整条船都摇晃起来。一股鲜血喷洒在油布上。我迅速做出反应。我倒在冰雹般的飞鱼群下面，抢在一条鲨鱼之前抓住了鯕鳅。我把它拖到了船上。它已经死了，或者差不多死了，身上变幻着七彩的颜色。多好的猎物啊！多好的猎物啊！我兴奋地想。谢谢你，耶稣—麻蹉①。鱼肥嫩多肉。一定有足足四十磅重。够一大群人吃了。它多汁的眼睛和脊椎可以灌溉一片沙漠。 【①麻蹉，梵文，即鱼,印度大神毗湿奴10种化身中的第一种。化为麻蹉的毗湿奴拯救人类免遭洪水毁灭。】 哎，理查德·帕克的大脑袋已经朝我转了过来。我用眼角的余光感觉到了。飞鱼还在不断飞来，但他已经不感兴趣了；现在他的注意力完全集中在我手里的鱼上。他离我有八英尺远。他半张着嘴，一片鱼鳍在嘴边晃着。他的脊背变得更圆了。他的臀部在扭动。他的尾巴在抽动。很明显：他在蹲伏，想要袭击我。躲开 已经太迟了，甚至吹哨子也已经太迟了。我的末日到了。 但是这该适可而止了。我已经忍受得太多。我太饿了。一个人能够忍受饥饿的天数是有限的。 于是，在饥饿造成的疯狂时刻：因为我吃东西的决心比活下去的决心更坚定——在没有任何自卫方式的情况下，在完全赤手空拳的情况下，我死死地盯着理查德·帕克的眼睛。突然之间，他那野兽的强壮体力对我来说只意味着道德上的软弱。这力量根本无法和我心中的力量相比。我凝视着他的眼睛，我的眼睛睁得大大的，眼神中带着挑战，我们对抗着。任何一个动物饲养员都会告诉你，老虎，事实上所有猫科动物，都不会在对方的直视下发起进攻，而会等到鹿或者羚羊或者野牛移开目光。但是了解这一点是一回事，而利用这一点却是另一回事（而且如果你想用目光使群居的猫科动物屈服，这一点知识根本就没有用。你用目光镇住了一头狮子，而另一头狮子却会从你背后扑上来）。有两秒钟，也许是三秒钟的时间，一场为了争夺地位和权威的可怕的心理战在一个小伙子和一只老虎之间展开了。他只需跳过很短的距离，就能扑到我身上。但是我一直盯着他。 理查德·帕克舔了舔鼻子，咆哮一声，转过身去了。他愤怒地拍着一条飞鱼。我贏了。我难以置信地喘着气，用力把鱼拖到手里，急忙上了小筏子。过了一会儿，我给了理查德·帕克一大块鱼。 从那天开始，我感到自己的主人地位已经不会受到质疑，于是开始在救生艇上待的时间越来越长，先是待在船头，然后，当我有了信心之后，待在更舒服的油布上。我仍然害怕理查德·帕克，但只在必要的时候。他的存在不再使我感到紧张。你可以习惯任何事情——我不是说过吗？所有幸存者不都是这么说的吗？ 开始的时候，我躺在油布上，头冲着船头，即油布卷起的一头。这头稍高一些——因为救生艇的船尾比中间部分要高——这样我就可以看着理查德·帕克。 后来我换了个方向，头靠在中间的坐板上，背对着理查德·帕克和他的地盘。在这个位置上，我离船的边缘更远，也更少地暴露在海风和海浪的飞沫中了。 第81章 我知道，我能活下来，这让人难以相信。回想起来，我自己也难以相信。 我粗暴地利用了理查德·帕克不能在颠簸的船上行走这一点，但这不是惟一的解释。还有一个解释：我是食物和水的来源。理查德·帕克从记事起就生活在动物园里，他已经习惯了有人把食物送到他嘴边，而他连爪子都不用抬一下。的确，下雨的时候，整条船成了一个接雨器，这时他明白了水是从哪里来的。当我们被一大群飞鱼袭击的时候，我的作用就不那么明显了。但是这些事件并没有改变现实，那就是，当他越过舷边向远处看时，他看不见能够捕猎的丛林，也看不见能够自由自在喝水的河流。而我却带给他食物，带给他淡水。我起着纯粹的奇迹般的作用。这给了我力量。证明：一天又一天过去了，一个星期又一个星期过去了，我还活着。证明：他没有袭击我，即使当我在油布上睡着的时候。证明：我现在正在这儿告诉你这个故事。 第82章 我把雨水和从太阳能蒸馏器里搜集到的水盛在三只50升的塑料袋里，放进锁柜，不让理查德·帕克看见。我用细绳把袋口扎紧。对我来说，就算是装满了黄金、蓝宝石、红宝石和钻石的袋子，也不会比那几只塑料袋更加珍贵。我不停地担心这些袋子。我最糟糕的噩梦就是有一天早晨打开锁柜时发现三只袋子里的水都泼了出来，或者更糟糕，袋子都破了。为了预先阻止这样的悲剧，我用毯子把袋子包起来，这样它们就不会和救生艇的金属壳发生摩擦，我还尽可能不去搬动它们，以减少磨损，防止撕裂。但是我很为袋口发愁。细绳会不会把袋口磨薄了？如果袋口破了，我怎么样才能把袋子扎起来呢？ 当情况良好的时候，或者下暴雨的时候，当袋子已经装足了水，我想已经不能再装的时候，我就把戽斗、两只塑料桶、两只多功能塑料容器、三只烧杯和空水罐（我把它们当宝贝一样珍藏着）里都接满水。然后再把呕吐时用的塑料袋也接满水，把袋口绕上几圈，打个结。这些东西都接满水之后，如果雨还在下，我就用自己做容器。我把接雨器的管子末端放进嘴里，喝呀喝呀喝呀。 我总是在喂理查德·帕克的淡水里掺上一点儿海水，下过雨后的几天里掺的比例大些，干旱的时候掺的比例小些。刚开始的时候，有时他会把头伸到船外面，闻一闻海水，然后喝几小口，但他立刻就停止这么做了。 但我们仍然很难维持。淡水太少，这是整个旅途中不断让我们感到焦虑和痛苦的惟一一件事。 无论我抓到什么食物，恕我直言，理查德·帕克都吃大份。在这一点上我别无选择。我刚抓住一只海龟或一条鯕鳅或一条鲨鱼，他立刻就知道了，我就得很快地慷慨地把食物给他。我想我锯开海龟腹部的壳的速度已经创世界纪录了。至于鱼嘛，实际上它们还在扑腾的时候就被砍成了几块。如果说我变得对吃的东西丝毫不挑剔，这不仅是因为可怕的饥饿；显然也是因为太急迫了。有时候我简直没有时间考虑放在面前的是什么。东西不是立、刻进了我嘴里，就是被理查德·帕克吃了。他用爪子抓地，跺脚，在自己的地盘边上不耐烦地喷着气。我就像动物一样吃东西，发出很大的声响，发疯一般的不加咀嚼地狼吞虎咽，和理查德·帕克吃东西时一模一样。注意到这一点的那一天，我的心被刺痛了。这毫无疑问地表明我巳经多么地堕落。 第83章 一天下午，慢慢地起了一场风暴。云仿佛受了惊吓，在风前面跌跌撞撞地跑。海也学云的样，升起又落下，让我的心都沉了下去。我把太阳能蒸馏器和鱼网都收了进来。噢,你们真应该看看那幅景象！到目前为止，我见到的只是小山丘般的海水，而这些长浪是真正的大山。我们所处的山谷太深了，里面一片昏暗。山坡太陡了，救生艇开始朝坡下滑去，几乎像在冲浪。小筏子被异常粗暴地对待，被从水里拉出来，拖在船后面，乱颠乱跳。我将两只海锚都抛了出去，让它们一前一后拖在水中，这样两只锚就不会绞在一起了。 在朝巨大的长浪上爬升时，船紧紧地抓住海锚，就像登山的人抓住绳索。我们一直朝上冲，在一阵光亮和一片飞沫中，船突然向前倾斜，冲到了雪白的浪尖。在浪尖上，周围几英里之内的景象都看得清清楚楚。但是大山会移动位置，我们脚下的大地会开始下沉，让我的胃翻腾得难受极了。转眼之间我们又坐在了黑暗的谷底，这不是刚才的山谷，但和在刚才的山谷里一样，成吨的水在我们头顶盘旋，我们轻得不堪一击，而这时只有这一点能救我们。大地又动了起来，系海锚的缆绳突然拉紧，我们又开始像乘坐环滑车一样，时而升起，时而降落。 海锚干得好——实际上，几乎干得太好了。每一排长浪都想趁我们在浪尖上时将我们打翻，但是浪尖另一边的海锚却用力拉住我们，帮我们度过了危险，但代价是船的前部被往下拉，结果船头掀起一片浪花和飞沫。每一次我都被淋得透湿。 接着,一排长浪涌来，特别急切地要把我们带走。这一次，船头沉到了水下。我大吃一惊，浑身冰凉，吓得魂不附体。我几乎支持不住了。船被淹没了。我听见理查德·帕克的叫声。我感到死亡已经来临。我只有一个选择，要不被水淹死，要不被动物咬死。我选择了被动物咬死。 当我们从长浪背面往下沉时，我跳到油布上，把油布朝船尾铺开，把理查德·帕克堵在了船尾。也许他表示反抗了，但我没听见。我以比缝纫机缝布还要快的速度用钩子把油布固定在船两侧。我们又在向上爬了。船在不断地向上倾斜。我很难保持平衡。现在整条救生艇都被油布盖住了。除了我这头，油布已经被固定住。我挤进舷边坐板和油布之间，拉过剩下的油布，盖隹头。我没有多少空间。舷边和坐板之间有十二英寸，舷边坐板只有一英尺半宽。但是，即使在面对死亡的时候，我也没有鲁莽地移到船板上去。还有四只钩子需要系住。我从开口处伸出一只手去系缆 绳。每系好一只钩子，都使得下一只钩子更难系。我系好了两只。还有两只。船在平稳地不断地向上冲。倾斜度超过了30度。我能感到自己正在被一股力量朝船尾拉。我发疯般的扭动着手，成功地用缆绳又系住了一只钩子。我已经尽了最大努力了。这活不应该是在救生艇里面，而应该是在救生艇外面完成的。我用力拉住绳子，这样才不会滑到船那头去，想到这一点，我就感到拉绳子不那么费力了。船迅速越过45度的斜面。 我们到达长浪浪尖，穿过浪峰到另一边时，一定倾斜到了60度。长浪的很小一部分水哗地打在我们身上。我感到自己被一只巨大的拳头打了一下。救生艇突然向前倾斜，一切都反了过来：现在我到了救生艇低的一头，淹没船只的海水和泡在水里的老虎都朝我冲了过来。我没有感觉到老虎——我不知道理查德·帕克究竟在哪里；油布下面一片漆黑——但在到达下一个谷底之前我已经被淹得半死了。 从那天下午直到夜里，我们升起又落下，升起又落下，升起又落下，直到恐惧变得单调，被麻木和完全的放弃所取代。我一只手抓住油布的绳子，另一只手抓住船头坐板的边，身体紧贴着艇边坐板躺着。这样的姿势——一海水不断涌进来，又不断涌出去——使我被油布打得一败涂地，我浑身湿透，寒冷透骨，身上被骨头和海龟壳碰得一块块青肿，划出一道道伤痕。暴风雨的声音一直没有停歇，理查德·帕克的吼叫声也一直没有停止。 夜里的某个时候，我的大脑意识到风暴过去了。我们正在正常地在海里随着波浪起伏。透过油布上的一道裂口，我瞥见了夜晚的天空。天上繁星点点，没有一丝云彩。我解开油布，睡在了上面。 黎明时，我发现小筏子丢了。留下的只有两支捆着的船桨和 两支桨之间的一件救生衣。我看见这些的心情，就像房主看见被烧毁的房子的最后一根房梁时的心情一样。我转过身，仔细搜索每一寸地平线。什么也没有。我的小小的海上小镇消失不见了。海锚奇迹般地没有丢——它们还忠实地拖在救生艇后面——但这对我并不是安慰。小筏子丢了，这对我的身体不是致命的伤害，但对我的精神却是致命的打击。 小船的情况很糟糕。油布有好几处地方破了，有几处显然是理查德·帕克抓破的。很多食物都不见了，不是掉进海里了，就是被进到船里的水泡坏了。我浑身酸痛，大腿上有一道深深的裂口，伤处已经发白，肿了起来。我太害怕了，几乎不敢检查锁柜里有什么。感谢上帝，盛水的袋子都没破。太阳能蒸馏器里的气没有被全部放掉，它们和鱼网一起将空间填满了，让袋子没法大幅度移动。 我筋疲力尽，心情沮丧。我解开船尾的油布。理查德·帕克太安静了，我怀疑他是不是淹死了。他没淹死。我把油布向后卷到中间的坐板，光照在了他身上，他惊醒过来，吼了一声。他从水里爬出来，爬到船尾坐板上。我拿出针线，开始补油布上的裂口。 后来我把一只桶系在绳子上，从船里往外舀水。理查德·帕克心不在焉地看着我。他似乎觉得我做的什么事都很枯燥乏味。天很热，我干得很慢。一桶水里有一样我丢失的东西。我凝视着它。捧在我掌心里的是挡在我与死亡之间惟一的东西：最后一只橘黄色哨子。 第84章 我正躺在油布上，裹着毯子，睡觉，做梦，然后醒来，做白日梦，概括地说，是在打发时间。微风一直吹着。波峰上的浪花时不时被吹落下来，打湿了小船。理查德·帕克钻到了油布下面。他不喜欢被打湿，也不喜欢小船颠簸。但是天空碧蓝，空气温暖，大海有规律地起伏着。我醒过来是因为有一阵冷雨。我睁开眼睛，看见了天上的水。水正哗哗地落到我身上。我又看了看天。蓝蓝的天空上没有一丝云彩。又是一阵冷雨，浇在我左边，没有第一次那么有力。理查德·帕克凶猛地叫了起来。更多的水落在身上。气味不怎么好闻。 我越过船边向外面看去。首先看见的是浮在水上的一个巨大的黑色物体。几秒钟之后，我才明白那是什么。它体侧一道拱形的褶皱给了我线索。那是一只眼睛。是条鲸鱼。它那只和我的脑袋一样大的眼睛正盯着我看呢。 理查德·帕克从油布下面出来了。他发出一声嘶嘶声。我从鲸鱼眼光里闪过的一丝变化感觉到现在它正看着理查德·帕克。它盯着看了大约三十秒钟，然后才慢慢沉了下去。我不知道它会不会用尾巴袭击我们，但是它一直沉下去，消失在了深蓝色的海洋里。它的尾巴就像一个渐渐消失的巨大的圆括号。 我相信这条鲸鱼是在找伴。它一定拿定了主意，认为我还不够大，而且，我似乎已经有伴了。 我们看见了好几条鲸鱼，但是没有一条像第一条那样靠得那么近。它们喷出的水柱会让我注意到它们的存在。它们会在不远处浮出水面，有时有三四只，像是短暂出现的火山群岛。这些温柔的庞然大物总是能让我提起精神。我坚信它们明白我的处境，当它们看到我时，其中一条叫道："噢！那就是班普对我说过的带着一只猫咪的乘船失事的人。可怜的孩子。希望他有足够的浮游生物可以吃。我一定要把他的事告诉芒普、汤普和斯蒂普。我不知道附近是不是有条船，我可以去告诉船上的人。他妈妈再國见到他一定会很高兴的。再见，我的孩子。我会努力帮助你的。我叫平普。"于是，消息在暗中传播，太平洋的每一鲸鱼都知翻了，要不是平普去向一艘日本船求救，被卑怯的船员用鱼熗刺中，我可能早就得救了。兰普在挪威船那儿遭到了同样的命运。捕鲸是令人发指的罪行。 海豚是常客。有一群海豚和我们一起待了一天一夜。它们非常快乐。它们在海中翻腾，转身，在船下面追逐，似乎只为了好玩，而没有任何其他目的。我试图抓住一只。但是没有一只游到鱼叉附近。即使有一条游近了，它们的速度也太快，体型也太大了。我放弃了，只是看着它们。 我一共看见了六只鸟。每一只鸟飞来，我都以为它是天使，来报告陆地就在附近的消息。但它们只是海鸟，能飞过整座太平洋，连翅膀都不扇动一下。我带着敬畏、嫉妒和自怜看着它们。 有两次我看见了信天翁。每一只都高高地在天上飞，根本不看我们一眼。我张大了嘴目不转睛地看着。它们是超自然的，深不可测。 还有一次，就在离小船不远的地方，两只威尔逊海燕从海面掠过,脚在水面上弹跳着。它们也没有看我们一眼，也同样让我感到惊奇。 我们终于吸引了一只短尾巴剪嘴鸥的注意力。它在我们头顶盘旋，最后落了下来?它伸出脚，上下扇动着翅膀，落在水面上，像一只软木塞一样轻盈地漂浮着。它好奇地看着我。我赶快在鱼钩上装上一小块飞鱼肉，把鱼线抛了出去。我没在鱼线上安重物，因此很难把它抛到小鸟的近旁。我第三次把鱼线抛出去时，那只鸟朝下沉的饵料游过来，把头伸到水下去吃。我的心兴奋得怦怦直跳。我等了几秒钟，没有收线。当我收线时，鸟只是呱呱叫着，把刚才吞下去的东西又吐了出来。我还没来得及再试一次，它就展开翅膀，飞上了天空。只扇了两三下翅膀，它便上路了。 我捉假面樫鸟的运气要好一些。它不知从什么地方冒了出来，滑翔着朝我们飞来，展开的翅膀有三英尺多宽。它落在舷边我伸手可及的地方。它圆圆的眼睛敏锐地看着我，眼神既迷惑又严肃。这是一只大鸟，一身雪白的羽毛，只有翅尖和翅膀后缘的羽毛是乌黑的。大大的球茎状的脑袋上长着一只很尖的橘黄色的嘴，如同一张黑色假面具的脸和面具后面的红色眼睛让它看上去像个偷了一夜东西的小贼。只有那双长着棕色的蹼的过大的脚还不够完美。这只鸟毫不畏惧。它花了好几分钟时间用嘴琢羽毛,露出了下面柔软的绒毛。啄完后，它抬起头来，整个身体清楚地展现在我面前，露出了它的实际模样：一架线条流畅、外观漂亮的流线型飞艇。我喂它一小块鯕鳅肉，它就在我手上啄食，嘴戳着我的手掌心。 我一只手把它的嘴往后推，另一只手抓住它的脖子，利用杠杆作用弄断了它的脖子。羽毛附着得太紧了，当我开始拔毛的时候，皮也被扯了下来——我简直不是在拔毛；我是在把它撕成碎块。实际上它真够轻的，体积庞大却轻若无物。我拿出刀，把皮剥了下来。它那么大，肉却少得令人失望，只有胸脯上有点儿肉。这肉比鯕鳅肉更有咬劲，但我不觉得口味有什么不同。它胃里除了我刚才喂给它的那块鯕鳅肉，还有三条小鱼。我把鱼身上的消化液冲洗掉，然后把鱼吃了。我吃了鸟的心、肝和肺。我就着一口水吞下了它的眼睛和舌头。我把它的头砸碎，剔出了里面小小的脑子。我吃了它脚上的蹼。剩下的只有皮、骨头和羽毛。我把这些扔到油布那边给理查德·帕克，他没有看见刚才来了一只鸟。一只橘黄色的爪子伸了出来。 几天以后，还有羽毛和绒毛从他的窝里飘出来，被风吹到了海上。落在水面上的被鱼吞吃了。 没有一只鸟报告过陆地的消息。 第85章 有一次，闪电了。天那么暗，白天就像黑夜。大雨倾盆。我听见远处有雷声。我以为这样的天气状况会一直持续下去。但是起了一阵风，风把雨吹得一会儿飘向这边，一会儿飘向那边。紧接着，一道白色锯齿状闪电哗啦啦地从天空直冲下来，刺穿了水面。闪电离船还有段距离，但是那效果却可以看得非常清楚。海水仿佛被像是白色根须的东西射穿了；一瞬间，一株巨大的天树立在了大洋中。我从没有想过可能会发生这样的事，闪电击中了大海。雷声发出轰隆隆的巨响。闪电的光异常强烈。 我转身对理查德·帕克说：“看，理查德·帕克，一道闪电。”我能看出他的感受。他紧贴船板趴着，四肢张开，显然在颤抖。 闪电对我的影响却截然相反。它把我从有限的平凡之中拉了出来，猛地将我推进了兴奋和惊奇的状态之中。 突然，离我们更近的地方出现了一道闪电。也许这道闪电本来是要击中我们的：我们刚从一排长浪的浪尖上跌落下来，正在浪背面沉下去，这时浪尖被击中了。有两秒，也许是三秒钟的时间，碎裂的宇宙之窗上一块巨大的白得耀眼的碎玻璃在天空中舞动，并不坚固，但异常有力。一万只喇叭和两万面鼓发出的声音也不会有那道闪电发出的声音大；那声音震耳欲聋。大海变成了白色，所有的色彩都消失了。一切不是纯粹白色的光，就是纯粹黑色的影子。与其说光照亮了一切，不如说穿透了一切。闪电来得快，去得也快——热乎乎的海水的飞沫还没来得及落到我们身上，闪电就已经消失了。被惩罚的长浪恢复了黑色，继续满不在乎地翻卷着。 我眼花缭乱，仿佛被雷击中一样呆若木鸡一我差点儿真的被雷击中了。但是我没有害怕。 "赞美安拉吧。他是所有世界的统治者，仁慈的、宽大的最终审判日的主宰。"我喃喃低语。我对理查德·帕克叫道：“别抖了！这是奇迹。这是神威的爆发，这是……这是……”我找不出词来形容这是什么，这个如此巨大，如此奇异的东西。我喘不过气来，也说不出话来。我躺回到油布上，伸展开胳膊和腿。雨水冷人骨髄。但我却在微笑。在我的记忆中，那次差点儿触电并被三度烧伤是我的苦难遭遇中极少几次让我真正感到快乐的经历之一。 在惊奇的时刻，很容易避免一些不重要的想法，而是心存跨越宇宙的思想。这思想将雷鸣声与丁当声、厚密与稀薄、近处与远处的一切都包容在内。 |
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。 |
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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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。 |
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 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。 |
