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.

第七十章

    宰海龟不是件容易 的事。我抓住的第一只海龟是只小玳瑁。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 看找。我抓起刀，戳了戳它的一只前鳍，希望这样能刺激它。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，掉下来酌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 没有云彩的火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。