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.

第七十七章

    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人量，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。鲅鳅的肉更紧，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，吸食里面的骨髓，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，但气味并不强烈二大小就像一只牛奶球，但没那么软。实际上，它硬  得像块石头。如果你把它装进火枪里，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，故在一边。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。

    只过了几个星期，我的身体就开始变坏了。我的脚踝开始肿了起来，我发现站着很累。