Chapter 12

At times he gets agitated. It's nothing I say (I say very little). It's his own story that does it. Memory is an ocean and he bobs on its surface. I worry that he'll want to stop. But he wants to tell me his story. He goes on. After all these years, Richard Parker still preys on his mind.

He's a sweet man. Every time I visit he prepares a South Indian vegetarian feast. I told him I like spicy food. I don't know why I said such a stupid thing. It's a complete lie. I add dollop of yogurt after dollop of yogurt. Nothing doing. Each time it's the same: my taste buds shrivel up and die, my skin goes beet red, my eyes well up with tears, my head feels like a house on fire, and my digestive tract starts to twist and groan in agony like a boa constrictor that has swallowed a lawn mower.

  第十二章

    有时候他变得焦虑不安。不是因为我说了什么（我很少说话）。是他自己的故事使他这样。记忆是座海洋，他在海面上起伏。我担心他会想停下来。但是他想把自己的故事告诉我。他又接着说下去。在这么多年以后，理查德·帕克仍然让他痛苦。

    他是个可爱的人。每次我去拜访，他都准备一桌丰盛的印度南部的素食盛宴。我告诉他我喜欢辛辣的食物。我不知道为什么我会说这么蠢的话。这是个彻头彻尾的谎 言。我加了一点儿酸奶又加了一点儿酸奶。没有用。每次都一样：我的味蕾枯萎死去，我的皮肤变得火红，我的眼睛里满是泪水，我的头感觉就像一座失火的房子， 我的消化道开始扭曲和痛苦呻吟，像一条吞下了一台割草机的王蛇。