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 the 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 even sweeter-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.

第九十章

    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。我抓到了一条鲼鳅。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。我对生命态恋不舍。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罴暗中时，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。榛一子。榛子不是很好吗？

    “另就是没人了，是吗？”

    “ ……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椰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？椰子酸辣酱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包、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瓜沙拉。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，姜黄子，棕色芥末子和一些椰子油。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昵？”

    “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——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。"

    “ 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。"

    “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（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到耶稣面前，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。"），会吗？”

    “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，是陷入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。”

    “不。"

    “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，叹黄又香。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，尤其是当划船的人身体虚弱，双目失明，他们的救生艇体积庞大，难以操作，而风又不配合的时候。他靠我近了，又离我远了。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。