Читать книгу Buying a Fishing Rod for my Grandfather - Mabel Lee, Gao Xingjian - Страница 6

Cramp. His stomach is starting to cramp. Of course, he thought he would be able to swim further out. But about a kilometre from shore his stomach is starting to cramp. At first he thinks it’s a stomachache—which will pass if he keeps moving. But when his stomach keeps tightening, he stops swimming any further and feels it with his hand. The right side is hard, and he knows it’s a cramp in his stomach because of the cold water. He hadn’t exercised enough to prepare himself before entering the water. After dinner, he had set off alone from the little white hostel and had come to the beach. It was early autumn, windy, and at dusk few people were getting in the water. Everyone was either chatting or playing poker. In the middle of the day men and women were lying everywhere on the beach, but now there were only five or six people playing volleyball, a young woman in a red swimsuit, the others young men. Their swimming costumes were all dripping wet—they’d just come out of the water. On this autumn day, the water was probably too cold for them. Right along the shore there was no-one else in the water. He had gone straight into the water without looking back, thinking that the woman might be watching him. He can’t see them now. He looks back, towards the sun. It’s setting, about to set behind the beachfront pavilion of the rehabilitation hospital on the hill. The lingering brilliant yellow rays of the sun hurt his eyes, but he can see the beachfront pavilion on top of the hill, the outline of the hazy tree tops above the coast road, and the boat-shaped rehabilitation hospital from the first floor up; anything below that can’t be seen, because of the surging sea and the direct rays of the sun. Are they still playing volleyball? He is treading water.

White-crested waves on the ink-green sea. The surging waves surround him, but no fishing boats are at work. Turning his body, he is borne up by the waves. Up ahead on the grey-black sea is a dark spot, far in the distance. He drops down between the waves and can no longer see the surface of the sea. The sloping sea is black and shiny, smoother than satin. The cramp in his stomach gets worse. Lying on his back and floating on the water, he massages the hard spot on his abdomen until it hurts less. Diagonally in front of him, above his head, is a feathery cloud; up there, the wind must be even stronger.

As the waves rise and fall, he is borne up and then dropped between them. But just floating like this is useless. He has to swim quickly toward shore. Turning, he tries hard to keep his legs pressed together and, by so doing, counteract the wind and the waves to enhance his speed. But his stomach, which had gained some slight relief, again starts hurting. This time the pain comes faster. He feels his right leg immediately become stiff, and the water go right over his head. He can see only ink-green water, so limpid and, moreover, extremely peaceful, except for the rapid string of bubbles he breathes out. His head emerges from the water and he blinks, trying to shake the water from his eyelashes. He still can’t see the shore. The sun has set, and the sky above the undulating hills glows the colour of roses. Are they still playing volleyball? That woman, it’s all because of that red swimsuit of hers. He’s sinking again, surrendering to the pain. He rapidly strikes out with his arms, but, taking in air, swallows a mouthful of water, salty sea water, and coughing makes him feel like he is having a needle jabbed into his stomach. He has to turn again, to lie flat on his back with his arms and legs apart. This way he can relax and let the pain subside a little. The sky above has turned grey. Are they still playing volleyball? They are important. Did the woman in the red swimsuit notice him entering the water, and will they look out to sea? That dark spot back there in the grey-black sea…is it a small boat? Or is it a pontoon that has broken loose from its mooring, and would anyone be concerned with what has happened to it? At this point, he can rely only upon himself. Even if he calls out, there is only the sound of the surging waves, monotonous, never-ending. Listening to the waves has never been so lonely. He sways, but instantly steadies himself. Next, an icy current charges relentlessly by and carries him, helpless, along with it. Turning on his side, with his left arm stroking out, his right hand pressing against his abdomen, and his feet kicking, he massages. It still hurts, but it’s bearable. He knows he can now depend only on the strength of his own kicking to fight his way out of the cold current. Whether or not he can bear it, he’ll just have to, because this is the only way he’ll be able to save himself. Don’t take it too seriously. Serious or not, he has a cramp in his abdomen and he’s one kilometre from shore, out in deep sea. He’s not sure any more if it’s one kilometre, but senses that he’s been floating in line with the shore. The strength of his kicking barely offsets the thrust of the current. He must struggle to get out of it, or else before too long he’ll be like that dark spot floating on the waves, and vanish into the grey-black sea. He must endure the pain, he must relax, he must kick as hard as he can, he can’t slow down, and above all he mustn’t panic. He has to coordinate his kicking, breathing and massaging with great precision. He can’t be distracted by any other thoughts, and he can’t allow any thoughts of fear. The sun has set very quickly, and there is a hazy grey above the sea, but he can’t see any lights on the shore yet. He can’t even see the shore clearly, or the curves of the hills. His feet have kicked something! He panics, and feels a spasm in his stomach—sharp and painful. He gently moves his legs; there are stinging circles on his ankles. He has run into the tentacles of a jellyfish, and he sees the grey-white creature, like an open umbrella, with thin floating membranous lips. He is perfectly capable of grabbing it and pulling out its mouth and its tentacles. Over the past few days he has learned from the children living here by the sea how to catch and preserve jellyfish. Below the windowsill of his hostel window, there are seven salted jellyfish with their tentacles and mouths pulled out. Once the water is squeezed out, all that remains are sheets of shrivelled skin, and he too will be just a piece of skin, a corpse, no longer able to float to the shore. Let the thing live. But he wants to live even more, and he will never catch jellyfish again—that is, if he can return to shore—and he won’t even go into the sea again. He kicks hard, his right hand pressed against his stomach. He stops thinking about anything else, only about kicking in rhythm, evenly, as he pushes through the water. He can see the stars…they are wonderfully bright…in other words, his head is now pointing in the direction of the shore. The cramp in his abdomen has gone, but he keeps rubbing it carefully, even though this slows him down…