少年派的奇幻漂流 Chapter 5

Chapter 5

My name isn't the end of the story about my name. When your name is Bob no one asks you, "How do you spell that?" Not so with Piscine Molitor Patel.

Some thought it was P. Singh and that I was a Sikh, and they wondered why I wasn't wearing a turban.

In my university days I visited Montreal once with some friends. It fell to me to order pizzas one night. I couldn't bear to have yet another French speaker guffawing at my name, so when the man on the phone asked, "Can I 'ave your name?" I said, "I am who I am." Half an hour later two pizzas arrived for "Ian Hoolihan."

It is true that those we meet can change us, sometimes so profoundly that we are not the same afterwards, even unto our names. Witness Simon who is called Peter, Matthew also known as Levi, Nathaniel who is also Bartholomew, Judas, not Iscariot, who took the name Thaddeus, Simeon who went by Niger, Saul who became Paul.

My Roman soldier stood in the schoolyard one morning when I was twelve. I had just arrived. He saw me and a flash of evil genius lit up his dull mind. He raised his arm, pointed at me and shouted, "It's Pissing Patel!"

In a second everyone was laughing. It fell away as we filed into the class. I walked in last, wearing my crown of thorns.

The cruelty of children comes as news to no one. The words would waft across the yard to my ears, unprovoked, uncalled for: "Where's Pissing? I've got to go." Or: "You're facing the wall. Are you Pissing?" Or something of the sort. I would freeze or, the contrary, pursue my activity, pretending not to have heard. The sound would disappear, but the hurt would linger, like the smell of piss long after it has evaporated.

Teachers started doing it too. It was the heat. As the day wore on, the geography lesson, which in the morning had been as compact as an oasis, started to stretch out like the Thar Desert; the history lesson, so alive when the day was young, became parched and dusty; the mathematics lesson, so precise at first, became muddled. In their afternoon fatigue, as they wiped their foreheads and the backs of their necks with their handkerchiefs, without meaning to offend or get a laugh, even teachers forgot the fresh aquatic promise of my name and distorted it in a shameful way. By nearly imperceptible modulations I could hear the change. It was as if their tongues were charioteers driving wild horses. They could manage well enough the first syllable, the Pea, but eventually the heat was too much and they lost control of their frothy-mouthed steeds and could no longer rein them in for the climb to the second syllable, the seen. Instead they plunged hell-bent into sing, and next time round, all was lost. My hand would be up to give an answer and it would be acknowledged with a "Yes, Pissing." Often the teacher wouldn't realize what he had just called me. He would look at me wearily after a moment, wondering why I wasn't coming out with the answer. And sometimes the class, as beaten down by the heat as he was, wouldn't react either. Not a snicker or a smile. But I always heard the slur.

I spent my last year at St. Joseph's School feeling like the persecuted prophet Muhammad in Mecca, peace be upon him. But just as he planned his flight to Medina, the Hejira that would mark the beginning of Muslim time, I planned my escape and the beginning of a new time for me.

After St. Joseph's, I went to Petit Seminaire, the best private English-medium secondary school in Pondicherry. Ravi was already there, and like all younger brothers, I would suffer from following in the footsteps of a popular older sibling.

He was the athlete of his generation at Petit Seminaire, a fearsome bowler and a Powerful batter, the captain of the town's best cricket team, our very own Kapil Dev. That I was a swimmer made no waves; it seems to be a law of human nature that those who live by the sea are suspicious of swimmers, just as those who live in the mountains are suspicious of mountain climbers. But following in someone's shadow wasn't my escape, though I would have taken any name over "Pissing," even "Ravi's brother." I had a better plan than that.

I put it to execution on the very first day of school, in the very first class. Around me were other alumni of St. Joseph's. The class started the way all new classes start, with the stating of names. We called them out from our desks in the order in which we happened to be sitting.

"Ganapathy Kumar," said Ganapathy Kumar.

"Vipin Nath," said Vipin Nath.

"Shamshool Hudha," said Shamshool Hudha.

"Peter Dharmaraj," said Peter Dharmaraj.

Each name elicited a tick on a list and a brief mnemonic stare from the teacher. I was terribly nervous.

"Ajith Giadson," said Ajith Giadson, four desks away...

"Sampath Saroja," said Sampath Saroja, three away...

"Stanley Kumar," said Stanley Kumar, two away...

"Sylvester Naveen," said Sylvester Naveen, right in front of me.

It was my turn. Time to put down Satan. Medina, here I come.

I got up from my desk and hurried to the blackboard. Before the teacher could say a word, I picked up a piece of chalk and said as I wrote:

- I double underlined the first two letters of my given name -

Pi Patel

For good measure I added

π = 3.14

and I drew a large circle, which I then sliced in two with a diameter, to evoke that basic lesson of geometry.

There was silence. The teacher was staring at the board. I was holding my breath. Then he said, "Very well, Pi. Sit down. Next time you will ask permission before leaving your desk."

"Yes, sir."

He ticked my name off. And looked at the next boy.

"Mansoor Ahamad," said Mansoor Ahamad.

I was saved.

"Gautham Selvaraj," said Gautham Selvaraj.

I could breathe.

"Arun Annaji," said Arun Annaji.

A new beginning.

I repeated the stunt with every teacher. Repetition is important in the training not only of animals but also of humans. Between one commonly named boy and the next, I rushed forward and emblazoned, sometimes with a terrible screech, the details of my rebirth. It got to be that after a few times the boys sang along with me, a crescendo that climaxed, after a quick intake of air while I underlined the proper note, with such a rousing rendition of my new name that it would have been the delight of any choirmaster. A few boys followed up with a whispered, urgent "Three! Point! One! Four!" as I wrote as fast as I could, and I ended the concert by slicing the circle with such vigour that bits of chalk went flying.

When I put my hand up that day, which I did every chance I had, teachers granted me the right to speak with a single syllable that was music to my ears. Students followed suit. Even the St. Joseph's devils. In fact, the name caught on. Truly we are a nation of aspiring engineers: shortly after, there was a boy named Omprakash who was calling himself Omega, and another who was passing himself off as Upsilon, and for a while there was a Gamma, a Lambda and a Delta. But I was the first and the most enduring of the Greeks at Petit Seminaire. Even my brother, the captain of the cricket team, that local god, approved. He took me aside the next week.

"What's this I hear about a nickname you have?" he said.

I kept silent. Because whatever mocking was to come, it was to come. There was no avoiding it.

"I didn't realize you liked the colour yellow so much."

The colour yellow? I looked around. No one must hear what he was about to say, especially not one of his lackeys. "Ravi, what do you mean?" I whispered.

"It's all right with me, brother. Anything's better than 'Pissing'. Even 'Lemon Pie'."

As he sauntered away he smiled and said, "You look a bit red in the face."

But he held his peace.

And so, in that Greek letter that looks like a shack with a corrugated tin roof, in that elusive, irrational number with which scientists try to understand the universe, I found refuge.

   第五章

    我有了名字，可是关于我的名字的故事并没有结束。如果你叫鲍勃，没有人会问你：“怎么拼？”叫派西尼·莫利托·帕特尔就不一样了。

    有人以为我的名字是P．辛格，（ 锡克族男子的姓。）而我是锡克教徒，于是他们想知道我为什么不戴包头巾。

    上大学的时候，有一次我和几个朋友一起去蒙特利尔。有一天晚上，订比萨饼的事落到了我头上。我无法忍受另一个说法语的人放声嘲笑我的名字，因此当接电话的 人问：“请问你叫什么？”时，我说：“我的名字是你叫的吗？’’半个小时后，比萨饼送到了，是给“李乔·德曼”的。的确，我们遇见的人可能改变我们，有时 改变如此深刻，在那之后我们成了完全不同的人，甚至我们的名字都不一样了。注意西蒙也叫彼得，马太也叫利未，拿但业也叫巴多罗马，是犹大而不是加略人叫达 太，西缅被叫做尼结，扫罗成了保罗。

    我12岁的时候，有一天早晨，我的罗马士兵站在校园里。我刚到学校。他看见了我，一道邪恶的天才之光照亮了他愚钝的大脑。他抬起胳膊，指着我叫道：“是排 泄哩．帕特尔！”(派西尼的名字与英文中表示小便的俚语Pissing音。)所有人都立刻大笑起来。我们鱼贯走进教室时，笑声停止了。我头戴荆棘冠，最后 一个走进去。

    孩子的无情对谁都不是新闻。没有人煽动，没有人要求，这几个字随风飘过校园，传进我戽朵里：“排泄哩在哪里？我得走了。"或者：“你正面对着墙，你在排泄 呢？”或者类似的话。我会一动不动，或者相反，继续做自己的事，假装没有听见。声音会消失，但伤害却留了下来，像小便蒸发后留下的气味。

    老师也开始这么做。是天太热的原因。随着一天的时间渐渐地过去，早晨还像一片绿洲一样紧凑的地理课开始像塔尔沙漠一样拉长了；一天刚开始的时候如此充满活 力的历史课变得干巴巴灰蒙蒙的；最初如此精确的数学课变得糊里糊涂。老师们下午疲惫不堪，用手帕擦着额头和颈背，他们并不是想伤害我的感情，也不是想让大 家发笑，但是甚至他们也忘记了我的名字所能激发的独特联想，很不体面地将它扭曲了。从几乎难以察觉的语调变化中我能听出来。好像他们的舌头是赶着野马的驾 车人。他们能勉强发出第一个音节，但是最后，天太热了，他们对口喷白沫的战马失去了控制，不再能勒住缰绳让马走过第二个音节，而是不顾一切地向下冲到了第 三个音节，下一次再叫的时候，一切都变了味儿。我会举起手来回答问题，老师点名让我回答时会说：“排泄哩，你说。”通常老师意识不到他刚才叫了我什么。他 会疲惫地看我一会儿，不知道为什么我没有说出答案。有时候全班似乎像他一样被炎热打倒了，对此也没有反应。没有一声窃笑或一个微笑。但我总是能听见那含糊 的声音。

    在圣约瑟学校的最后一年．．我感到自己就像在麦加遭受迫害的先知穆罕默德，愿他安息。但是就像他准备逃往麦地那，准备进行标志着穆斯林纪元开始的逃亡一样，我也在计划自己的逃亡，在为自己计划一个新的开始。

    在圣约瑟学校毕业之后，我进了小修院，(原文为法语。)那是本地治里最好的一所说英语的中学。拉维已经在那儿了。像所有弟弟一样，我会因为追随一个受到大 家喜爱的兄长的足迹而感到痛苦。在小修院他是同龄人中的运动员，一个令人生畏的投球手和有力的击球员，城里最好的板球队，我们自己的卡皮尔·德福（印度有 名的板球队）的队长。我是个游泳健将，这一点并没有惊起什么波澜；似乎人性的法则便是如此，生活在海边的人觉得游泳健将可疑，就像生活在山里的人觉得登山 健将可疑一样。但是跟随某个人的影子，这并不是我要的逃跑，尽管除了“排泄哩”我愿意叫任何名字，哪怕“拉维的弟弟”也行。我有比这更好的计划。

    第一天上学，在第一堂课上，我便将这个计划付诸实施了。我周围还有其他圣约瑟的校友。和所有新课一样，那堂课也是从报名字

    开始的。我们按照碰巧坐的位子的顺序在座位上报出自己的名字。

    “库马尔一？加纳帕蒂·库马尔说。

    “维平·纳特。”维平·纳特说。

    “沙姆舒尔·胡达。"沙姆舒尔·胡达说。

    “彼得·达马拉杰。"彼得·达马拉杰说。

    每个名字报出来之后，老师都会在名册上把这个名字勾掉，

    并且很快地看那个学生一眼，以帮助自己记住他。

    “阿吉特·贾得桑。”阿吉特·贾得桑说，离我还有四张桌子。

    “萨帕特·萨罗贾。¨萨帕特·萨罗贾说，还有三张桌子。

    “斯坦利·库马尔。”斯坦利·库马尔说，还有两张桌子。

    “西尔维斯特·纳维恩。"西尔维斯特·纳维恩说，他就在我莳面。

    轮到我了。是解决这个讨厌问题的时候了。麦地那，我来了。

    我从座位上站起来，匆匆朝黑板走去。老师还没来得及说一个字，我已经拿起一枝粉笔，边说边在黑板上写道：

    我的名字叫

    派西尼·莫利托·帕特尔

    大家都叫我

    ——我在名字前面两个字母下面画了两道线一

    派．帕特尔

    另外我又加上了

    π=3.14

    然后我画了一个大圆圈，又画了一条直径，把圆．分为二，以此让大家想起几何初级课程。教室里鸦雀无声。老师盯着黑板。我屏住了呼吸。接着他说：“很好，派。坐下。下次离开座位之前要请求老师的同意。”

    “ 是，老师。”

    他把我的名字勾掉了。然后看着下一个男孩子。

    “曼苏尔·阿哈迈德。”曼苏尔·阿哈迈德说。

    我得救了。

    “戈坦姆·萨尔瓦拉吉。”戈坦姆·萨尔瓦拉吉说。

    我能呼吸了。

    “阿伦·安奈吉。”阿伦·安奈吉说。

    一个新的开始。

    我对每个老师都重复这个表演。重复很重要，不仅在训练动物时是这样，在训练人时也是如此。在一个姓名平常的男孩子和下一个姓名平常的男孩子之间，我冲上前 去，用鲜艳的色彩，有时还有粉笔写在黑板上发出的可怕的刺耳的声音，来装饰我重生的细节。这样重复了几次之后，男孩子们开始像唱歌一样跟着我一起说，我一 边在正确的音符下面画线，一边迅速吸一口气，这时声音渐强，达到了高潮，我的新名字被演奏得如此激动人心，任何唱诗班指挥都会感到高兴的。有几个男孩子还 接着低声地急迫地喊：“三！点！一！四！”同时我尽快地写着，用将圆一分为二的动作结束了合唱，因为用力太猛了，碎掉的粉笔飞了出去。

    每次有机会我都举手，那天我举手时，老师给了我用一个音节报出名字的权利，这个音节在我听来就像音乐一样优美。学生们也这么叫我。甚至圣约瑟的淘气鬼们。 事实上，这个名字流行起来。一点不错，我们国家人人都是有志气的工程师：很快就有一个叫欧普拉卡什的男孩开始叫自己欧米茄(Omega)，还有一个假装是 尤普赛伦(Upsilon)，过了一阵子又有了一个迦玛（CANAAN），一个兰姆达（Lambda）和一个德尔塔(Delta)o但是在小修院，我酌名 字是第一个也是叫得最长久的一个希腊字母。甚至我哥哥，板球队的队长，学生崇拜的偶像，也表示认可了。第二个星期，他把我拉到了一边。

    “我听说你有个外号，这是怎么回事？”他说。

    我没有说话。因为无论会是什么样的嘲讽，要来的总是来要的。躲也躲不掉。

    “我不知道你这么喜欢黄色。”

    黄色？我朝四周看了看。不能让任何人听见他要说的话，尤其是他的跟班。“拉维，你是什么意思？”我低声说。

    “我没意见，弟弟。什么都比‘排泄哩’好。甚至‘柠檬派’。"

    他边急急忙忙地走开边笑着说：“你的脸有点儿红了。"

    但是他保持了沉默。

    于是，在那个像一间盖着波纹铁屋顶的棚屋的希腊字母里，在那个科学家试图用来理解宇宙的难以表述的无理数里，我找到了避难所。