Chapter 3

I was named after a swimming pool. Quite peculiar considering my parents never took to water. One of my father's earliest business contacts was Francis Adirubasamy. He became a good friend of the family. I called him Mamaji, mama being the Tamil word for uncle and ji being a suffix used in India to indicate respect and affection. When he was a young man, long before I was born, Mamaji was a champion competitive swimmer, the champion of all South India. He looked the part his whole life. My brother Ravi once told me that when Mamaji was born he didn't want to give up on breathing water and so the doctor, to save his life, had to take him by the feet and swing him above his head round and round.

"It did the trick!" said Ravi, wildly spinning his hand above his head. "He coughed out water and started breathing air, but it forced all his flesh and blood to his upper body. That's why his chest is so thick and his legs are so skinny."

I believed him. (Ravi was a merciless teaser. The first time he called Mamaji "Mr. Fish" to my face I left a banana peel in his bed.) Even in his sixties, when he was a little stooped and a lifetime of counter-obstetric gravity had begun to nudge his flesh downwards, Mamaji swam thirty lengths every morning at the pool of the Aurobindo Ashram.

He tried to teach my parents to swim, but he never got them to go beyond wading up to their knees at the beach and making ludicrous round motions with their arms, which, if they were practising the breaststroke, made them look as if they were walking through a jungle, spreading the tall grass ahead of them, or, if it was the front crawl, as if they were running down a hill and flailing their arms so as not to fall. Ravi was just as unenthusiastic.

Mamaji had to wait until I came into the picture to find a willing disciple. The day I came of swimming age, which, to Mother's distress, Mamaji claimed was seven, he brought me down to the beach, spread his arms seaward and said, "This is my gift to you."

"And then he nearly drowned you," claimed Mother.

I remained faithful to my aquatic guru. Under his watchful eye I lay on the beach and fluttered my legs and scratched away at the sand with my hands, turning my head at every stroke to breathe. I must have looked like a child throwing a peculiar, slow-motion tantrum. In the water, as he held me at the surface, I tried my best to swim. It was much more difficult than on land. But Mamaji was patient and encouraging.

When he felt that I had progressed sufficiently, we turned our backs on the laughing and the shouting, the running and the splashing, the blue-green waves and the bubbly surf, and headed for the proper rectangularity and the formal flatness (and the paying admission) of the ashram swimming pool.

I went there with him three times a week throughout my childhood, a Monday, Wednesday, Friday early morning ritual with the clockwork regularity of a good front-crawl stroke. I have vivid memories of this dignified old man stripping down to nakedness next to me, his body slowly emerging as he neatly disposed of each item of clothing, decency being salvaged at the very end by a slight turning away and a magnificent pair of imported athletic bathing trunks. He stood straight and he was ready. It had an epic simplicity. Swimming instruction, which in time became swimming practice, was gruelling, but there was the deep pleasure of doing a stroke with increasing ease and speed, over and over, till hypnosis practically, the water turning from molten lead to liquid light.

It was on my own, a guilty pleasure, that I returned to the sea, beckoned by the mighty waves that crashed down and reached for me in humble tidal ripples, gentle lassos that caught their willing Indian boy.

My gift to Mamaji one birthday, I must have been thirteen or so, was two full lengths of credible butterfly. I finished so spent I could hardly wave to him.

Beyond the activity of swimming, there was the talk of it. It was the talk that Father loved. The more vigorously he resisted actually swimming, the more he fancied it. Swim lore was his vacation talk from the workaday talk of running a zoo. Water without a hippopotamus was so much more manageable than water with one.

Mamaji studied in Paris for two years, thanks to the colonial administration. He had the time of his life. This was in the early 1930s, when the French were still trying to make Pondicherry as Gallic as the British were trying to make the rest of India Britannic. I don't recall exactly what Mamaji studied. Something commercial, I suppose. He was a great storyteller, but forget about his studies or the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre or the cafes of the Champs-Elysees. All his stories had to do with swimming pools and swimming competitions. For example, there was the Piscine Deligny, the city's oldest pool, dating back to 1796, an open-air barge moored to the Quai d'Orsay and the venue for the swimming events of the 1900 Olympics. But none of the times were recognized by the International Swimming Federation because the pool was six metres too long. The water in the pool came straight from the Seine, unfiltered and unheated. "It was cold and dirty," said Mamaji. "The water, having crossed all of Paris, came in foul enough. Then people at the pool made it utterly disgusting." In conspiratorial whispers, with shocking details to back up his claim, he assured us that the French had very low standards of personal hygiene. "Deligny was bad enough. Bain Royal, another latrine on the Seine, was worse. At least at Deligny they scooped out the dead fish." Nevertheless, an Olympic pool is an Olympic pool, touched by immortal glory. Though it was a cesspool, Mamaji spoke of Deligny with a fond smile.

One was better off at the Piscines Chateau-Landon, Rouvet or du boulevard de la Gare. They were indoor pools with roofs, on land and open year-round. Their water was supplied by the condensation from steam engines from nearby factories and so was cleaner and warmer. But these pools were still a bit dingy and tended to be crowded. "There was so much gob and spit floating in the water, I thought I was swimming through jellyfish," chuckled Mamaji.

The Piscines Hebert, Ledru-Rollin and Butte-aux-Cailles were bright, modern, spacious pools fed by artesian wells. They set the standard for excellence in municipal swimming pools. There was the Piscine des Tourelles, of course, the city's other great Olympic pool, inaugurated during the second Paris games, of 1924. And there were still others, many of them.

But no swimming pool in Mamaji's eyes matched the glory of the Piscine Molitor. It was the crowning aquatic glory of Paris, indeed, of the entire civilized world.

"It was a pool the gods would have delighted to swim in. Molitor had the best competitive swimming club in Paris. There were two pools, an indoor and an outdoor. Both were as big as small oceans. The indoor pool always had two lanes reserved for swimmers who wanted to do lengths. The water was so clean and clear you could have used it to make your morning coffee. Wooden changing cabins, blue and white, surrounded the pool on two floors. You could look down and see everyone and everything. The porters who marked your cabin door with chalk to show that it was occupied were limping old men, friendly in an ill-tempered way. No amount of shouting and tomfoolery ever ruffled them. The showers gushed hot, soothing water. There was a steam room and an exercise room. The outside pool became a skating rink in winter. There was a bar, a cafeteria, a large sunning deck, even two small beaches with real sand. Every bit of tile, brass and wood gleamed. It was - it was..."

It was the only pool that made Mamaji fall silent, his memory making too many lengths to mention.

Mamaji remembered, Father dreamed.

That is how I got my name when I entered this world, a last, welcome addition to my family, three years after Ravi: Piscine Molitor Patel.

 第三章

    我的名字是根据一座游泳池的名字取的。这很奇怪，因为我父母从来不喜欢水。父亲最早的商业伙伴之一是弗朗西斯·阿迪鲁巴萨米。

    他成了我们家的好朋友。我叫他玛玛吉。“玛玛”在泰米尔语里是“叔叔”的意思，“吉”是一个后缀，在印度表示尊敬和喜爱。早在我出生之前，在玛玛吉还是个年轻人的时候，他是个很有实力的游泳冠军，是整个印度南部的冠军。他一辈子看上去都像个冠军的样子。我哥哥拉维有一次告诉我说，玛玛吉出生时，他不愿意放弃呼吸水，于是，为了救他的命，医生不得不抓住他的两条腿，把他提起来，头朝下转了一圈又一圈。

    “这一招真管用！”拉维说，同时一只手在头顶上飞快地绕着圈。“他把水咳了出来，开始呼吸空气，但这把他所有的肌肉和血液都挤压到了上半身。所以他的胸脯才这么厚实，而他的腿却那么细。”

    我信了他。（拉维取笑起人来毫不留情。他第一次当着我的面叫玛玛吉“鱼先生”的时候，我在他床上放了一根香蕉皮。）甚至到了六十几岁，玛玛吉的背已经有些驼了，一辈子不断起作用的反产科学的重力已经开始将他的肌肉往下拉，这时他仍然每天早晨在奥罗宾多静修处的游泳池游十五个来回。

    他试图教我父母游泳，但他们最多只能在沙滩上走迸齐膝深的水里，用胳膊可笑地划着圆圈。如果他们在练习蛙泳，那劫作就会让他们看上去好像在走过一片丛林，边走边分开前面高高的草；如果他们在练习自由泳，那动作就会让他们看上去好像正跑下一座山坡，边跑边挥动着手臂，以防止跌倒。拉维对游泳同样没什么热情。

    玛玛吉不得不等到我来到这个家里，好找到一个愿意追随他的人。在我达到游泳年龄的那一天——让妈妈感到苦恼的是，玛玛吉说能够游泳的年龄是7岁——他带我到海滩去，面对大海伸开双臂，说：“这是我送给你的礼物。”

    “然后他差点儿把你给淹死。”妈妈说。

    我一直忠实于我的水上古鲁（古鲁，指印度教、锡克教的宗教教师或领袖。这里指导师、指导者）。在他的注视下，我躺在沙滩上，拍打着双腿，在沙子上划着，每划一下就转过头来呼吸。我看上去一定像一个孩子在用慢动作以古怪的姿势发脾气。在水里，他把我托在水面上，我尽力地游。这比在岸上困难多了。但是玛玛吉很有耐心，而且不断鼓励我。

    当他感到我已经有了足够的进步时，我们便不再大笑大叫，跑迸海里，溅起浪花，而是离开了蓝绿色的海浪和冒着泡沫的激流，去了有着规则的长方形状和正式的浅水池（并且需要付钱才能进去）的静惨处的游泳池。

    整个童年，我每星期都和他到那里去三次，这成了每星期一、星期三和星期五一大早的老规矩，每次都游极有规律的漂亮的自由泳。我清晰地记得这位站在我身边脱光了衣服的庄重的老人，他一件一件地把所有衣服都脱了下来，他的身体渐渐显露出来，只是在最后，他稍稍转过身子的动作，和他那条运动员穿的漂亮的进口游泳裤挽回了他的体面。他笔直地站着，已经准备好了。这一切仿佛史诗一般简洁。游泳指导，以及后来的游泳实践，能把人累垮，但是能够越来越轻松、越来越快地做一个游泳动作，一遍又一遍地做，直到这几乎成了一神催眠，水从铅铸般沉重，变得液体般轻盈，这能给我带来深深的快乐。

    我响应有力的海浪的召唤，独自一人回到大海。海浪哗啦啦打下来，谦恭的细碎的浪花追逐着我，像温柔的套索，套住了心甘情愿的印度男孩。这在让我快乐的同时又让我感到负疚。

    有一次玛玛吉过生日，我送给他一件礼物，那时我一定是1 3岁左右。礼物是用蝶泳游了一个来回。游完后我太累了，几乎连向他挥挥手的力气都没有了。

    除了去游泳，我们还谈论游泳。父亲喜欢的是谈论游泳。他越是不愿意真的去游泳，就越是对游泳充满了幻想。休假时他谈论关于游泳的所有知识，工作时他便谈论经营一座动物园。水里没有河马比有河马好对付多了。

    玛玛吉在巴黎学习过两年，多亏了殖民地政府。他一生中从没有像在巴黎那么快乐过。那是20世纪30年代早期，当时法国人还在试图使本地治里成为高卢人的地方，而英国人正在试图使印度其他地方成为大不列颠的地盘。我想不起来玛玛吉具体学的是什么了。我想是与商业有关的什么专业吧。他很会讲故事，却忘记了自己学的是什么，也忘记了埃菲尔铁塔、卢浮官或香榭丽舍大道上的咖啡馆。他所说的所有事情都与游泳池和游泳比赛有关。例如，巴黎有一座德利尼游泳池，是这座城市最古老的游泳池，建于1796年，是停泊在凯道赛的一只露天平底船，也是1900年奥林匹克运动会游泳比赛的场地D但这两个年代都不被国际游泳联合会承认，因为这座游泳池的长度比标准游泳池长六米。池里的水直接来自塞纳河，没有经过过滤，也没有经过加热。“这座游泳池又冷又脏。”玛玛吉说，“水在流进游冰池里之前从整个巴黎流过，已经够臭的了，池里的人更是把水弄得恶心极了。”他仿佛在和我们计划阴谋一般，低声用令人震惊的细节证明自己的说法，向我们保证说法国人的个人卫生水平很差。“德利尼已经够糟的了。皇家浴场更糟，那简直是塞纳河上的一座公共厕所。他们至少还从德利尼里把死鱼捞出来。"尽管如此，奥林匹克游泳池就是奥林匹克游泳池，它有着不朽的光荣。尽管这是座污水池，玛玛吉在谈到它时，脸上还是带着深情的微笑。

    朗东城堡、鲁韦或是加勒大道的游泳池要好多了。这些游泳池都是室内的，有屋顶，建在陆地上，全年开放。池水经过附近工厂的蒸汽机的冷凝处理，因此干净多了，也温暖多了。但是这些游泳池仍然有些脏，而且往往很拥挤。“水里漂了太多的唾液和黏黏的一团团的东西，我以为自己是从水母群中间游过呢。”玛玛吉格格笑着说。

    埃贝尔、勒德律一罗兰和鹌鹑坡游泳池是明亮宽敞的现代化游泳池，池水来自自流井。它们是优秀城市游泳池的楷模。当然，还有图埃尔游泳池，这座城市的另一座奥林匹克游泳池，于1924年第二次巴黎运动会时启用。还有其他游泳池，很多很多。

    但是在玛玛吉的眼里，没有哪一座游泳池能够比得上莫利托游泳池。它是巴黎乃至整个文明世界的水上运动场的最高光荣。

    “神仙也会喜欢在里面游泳的。莫利托有全巴黎最好的竞技游泳俱乐部。它包括两座池子，一座室内的，一座室外的。两个池子大得像两小片海。室内池总是为想游来回的人留下两条泳道。池水那么干净，那么清澈，简直可以用来煮早晨的咖啡。游泳池周围两层楼上是蓝白相间的木板更衣室。你可以俯瞰每一个人和每一件东西。用粉笔在更衣室门上画上有人标记的杂工是些瘸腿的老人，脾气暴躁，却很友好。无论多大的叫声，无论什么样的傻话，都不会让他们生气。淋浴时，热水从莲蓬头哗哗地冲出来，真舒服。还有一间蒸汽房和一间健身房。室外池在冬天就成了溜冰场。还有一间酒吧，一间咖啡馆，一个大日光浴平台，甚至还有两处小沙滩，沙滩上是真正的沙子。每一片瓷砖，每件，每一块木头，都闪闪发光。它是——它是……”

    这是惟一一座让玛玛吉沉默的游泳池，记忆中他在那里游过的来回太多了，说也说不完。

    玛玛吉在回忆，父亲在梦想。

    于是，当我来到这个世界，在拉维出生三年之后，成为家里最后添的一个受欢迎的孩子时，我有了这样一个名字：派西尼(派西尼：Piscine．法语“游泳池”的意思。)莫利托·帕特尔。