英文小说：A Shadow in Surfers Paradise(33)天堂之影

洋八路

Chapter 33




Which bench? Was it the one he used to sit on together with Kang, or Fang, or Vivian? It must have been one of them, but which one for such a dreadful night, he can’t remember.

Now a cool breeze from the sea moves about his face, but instead solacing him, it makes him shudder.

On the beach, he rises and sits up again, cross-legged like the Buddha of Guanyin.

The shadow, in his front, has now a shape of an acute cone. Looking far into the dusky sky, he notices a star, considerably brighter than the rest, is glowing, not far above the level of sea. ‘How is this star so different?’  

Intrigued with the little miracle for a long while, he then notices it is actually growing. ‘Why, it is a plane!’ he exclaims, as the flashing light, faint as it is, is revealing its identity.

He looks at the plane, in the manner of a cat looking at a bird moving about a tree, thinking of the passengers in the craft, who may have shut the little windows and fallen asleep, or go through video channels to pass their life in the hollowness of the universe. But the idea of being fastened in the seat doesn’t appeal to him. If he allows his imagination go wild, he wishes to become an insect, drifting through the infinite space, eyeing the whole universe, dark and ugly, bright and pretty.

Then suddenly, still like a cat, his attention is attracted to some flying objects emerging from his right and coming in his direction. There, a flock of birds, the little bodies of which are illuminated by the light of the street lamp, are rising and falling, zigzagging along the coastline, quietly plotting white curves like a Chinese calligrapher making strokes on a canvas.

‘Where are they heading to?’ he asks himself, as the birds thread their way past him, and to his left, and at last vanishing. ‘Are they rushing to a party in crevices among rocks, or a snow field at the North Pole?’

Wherever they go, they seem firmly set towards a destination, may it be a dream, a destiny or a tragedy.  Humans, him one of them, are loaded with thoughts and ideals, fantasies and delusions, desires and regrets, always hesitating, forever comparing good and bad, judging from low to high, forever wanting more than they already have, fearing a loss even before it comes, unable to lead a simple, instinctive life like birds, who just fly as they live, and die quickly as they turn sick.

Presently a couple of human joggers come on the scene. Bigger than those birds, slower but no less sure and bright and quiet, they pace swiftly close to the water line. To his dreamy eyes, they are of a superior class to some human fellows, the barbarians who at this time may drink to death, eat to obese, smoke to cancer, drug to phantoms, game to lunatics, work to addicts; who may at this time dread mortgages, quarrel with partners, grapple with the half-grown, monstrous young adults; and who may at this time, shriek in streets, rape the bikes, murder for power, or 不雅 like idiots…  

The wavelets, the only source of sound on the entire beach, are glistening. Each of them is conducting its brief life-journey. It is initiated from a little white speckle, then grows steadily broader and higher, until abruptly, it dies off. At its peak, the foam is rolling like a butterfly swimmer pulling and pushing with two gigantic arms. Collectively, they are like dancing on the dark stage, with a costume of only pale sleeves. On and off they switch one after another, as if being accorded by the piano keys pressed and released intermittently, and they are immortal, showing no symptoms of fatigue.

Very much awed and lured by its eternity, he stands up, and without rolling up his pants, steps into the water.

His shadow now, on the surface, is meshed, and shattered, and formless.

Water reaches his knees, and his mind plays a scene of a movie he had watched a long time before, where a man, the hero, walked deep into the sea, slowly, mysteriously fading out in the darkness.

This tide, this water intimacy, this torrential nature, and this black sky, and this sand between his toes, and this crazy foam, and this absolute solitariness, are all like the figments and sensations in a dream; no more is he a spectator, he is now an actor, a hero on the stage.  

The circumstance he may consider suitable for suicide is when he is too old, too weak to lead a healthy mobile life, and when his living is a burden to others, becoming a type of near meaningless rubbish to the earth, and at which time he would choose a place, to end it peacefully and respectfully. He doesn’t like the idea of being drowned, it would be an unthinkable notion of salty and bitter water choking his lungs. Ideally he would jump off a cliff, when the scenes in his dying eyes must be beautiful, the flying freedom in the sky must be delicious, and the deformation of his body into either a clutch of dust or a little pool of blood or a bundle of food for the sharks, must be painless.

He remains in the water for a timeless time, until the chill reaches his heart, hushing his breathing symptoms, before venturing back to the beach, where he takes off his drenched pants, wrings as hard as his strength permits to dry them, and then puts them back on.

Then he continues to trace along the fringe of the waterline. He raises his head, looks into the sky, and is amazed to find the moon, crescent and weak and cold, looking at him like all the little stars do.

Yes, the moon is a female, as fancied at least by the Chinese; she is cool and cruelly beautiful; she is a woman whom millions of people on Earth decide to love, desperately and ridiculously. He wants to talk to her, in his most tender whisper, to send her his finest kiss, to love her dearly and melancholily, with his spirit and his precious sperm.

He sits down again on the dry sand, because looking up too long strains his neck, tired and sore.

A sudden trace of whiteness flashes in his eyes, shocking for a moment his threads of mooning. Some metres away from where he sits, two seagulls are landing quietly. They are eyeing him, curiously, hesitating, tilting their dainty heads sideways. One of them advances to him three steps or so, then backs off about two. The other appears rather timid, staying cautiously behind, as if awaiting for a safety report from the pioneer before daring to make a move.  

He had MacDonald’s as his supper, but doesn’t have any chips now at hand; otherwise he would feed them, and befriend them in his absolute solitude. He raises a hand, they instantly jerk up. Their bird-instinct is divided between anticipation for food and apprehension of danger, the reaction to both of which is executed simultaneously and perfectly.

He raises his hand again, and they do the act again; he does it once again, and they react once again.

Seeing no food, nor any real danger, the two seagulls linger.

Then, he says to them: ‘There are tons of pollutants we humans make, they spoil you, ruin your digestion, disable your system. The chips you beg from our hands will fatten you, weigh you heavy, perish you ugly.

‘We don’t have the beauty of your feathers, nor have we your flying wings, because we have absorbed too much junk. Junk food and junk mail are our tradition, nowadays, we have new junks, junk email, junk phone calls, junk websites, junk mobiles, junk blogs, junk noses, junk breasts, junk pills, junk movies, junk games, junk music, junk…

‘The junks are what we need, to pamper our body, to tease our mind, to seduce quicker, to die faster, or, in order to produce more junks, to live longer…’

The one, braver, and closer to him, is understandingly nodding its head, and replies: ‘Yes, yes, you are right, absolutely right, but I still want to eat, and you, a man or a ghost, please stop your words, and show me your hands.’

Coolly, Bing is regarding him, who must be the husband as he estimates. ‘You have a bold heart. Are you the husband?’

‘Of course, I am. We male gulls are all husbands.’

‘And females are all wives?’

‘None of your human business, just show me your hands!’ He ruffles his feather and jerks his neck.

This is a rude species, he thinks, so he decides to despise his request.

The husband flits a few steps towards him as if it wants to attack his hand, but Bing exercises a great calmness, with a human’s pride.

Then, the timid wife, who hides behind her husband, probing her neck, speaks first time: ‘Who are you? Are you a human or just a heartless thing brought ashore by the sea?’

Still calm and motionless like a statue, he refuses to look at her and answer her.

The wife is upset and despondent by the lack of food and communication and, becoming impatient, she mutters, ‘He is a ghost. He is a subclass, a thing without mercy and empathy. He is hungry and starving too. Oh, my dear, let’s go, leave the hopeless to die alone on the beach.’ She complains and nags her ‘man’ in their bird language.

‘Stop whinging! Woman! Can’t you just shut up?!’ The husband, exasperated, turns to her, screwing up his neck, blowing his feathers, ‘You must have more patience, I know humans, they are generally good folks, don’t you know they love Nature and us birds?’

Intimidated by the sudden temper of her husband, she lowers her body, as well as her head, as if she is expecting the angry husband to come aboard her back to mate her, to help alleviate his anger. However, he doesn’t; at this point of time, he desires junk food more than junk sex. So she has to stand up, meekly relieved, looking disappointedly at the looming darkness; whilst her husband, her master, is using his bird-patience to deal with the man, who seems to have turned dead for the while.

The couple, jogging, flitting about, continue to study and evaluate the dead thing, or precisely, a junk person. But time passes by, they have induced no symptoms of life from the sitting object.

At last, the husband loses his hope and patience, and says to his wife, ‘Woman, sometimes you do have greater wisdom than we husbands. Let’s go, and leave alone the miserable.’ Happily praised by her ‘man’, the wife stretches and flutters her wings; she fires up into the air, and draws beautifully in a half circle, waiting in the air to be joined by her husband.  

In a white flash, they are gone, silently as if the darkness has paralysed their uttering device.

A sudden loss of society strikes his heart; he feels alone and forlorn, and begins to miss them, yearning for their company.

And they miss him too; there, in the near sky, the two gulls appear again. They circle three circles, and land onto same place as before, repeating their gesture to demand food from him.

Bing, with respect, as well as gratitude for their coming back, looks at them without moving his head, and sighs: ‘Ah, how quickly they forget their failure and their contempt! They do have an ingenuous mind and a pure heart.’ But the idea that they have come back merely for food, instead for the sake of companionship, spoils his temper, and suddenly, a wicked thought dawns on his head.

Slowly, and imperceptibly, he manages to withdraw his legs, readying his body in a manner like a predator preparing a striking on a prey.

Then abruptly, he stands up, with a force and speed like a hard-compressed spring suddenly released.

A monster of a man’s height turns alive.

One second or two, the couple is transfixed with utmost fear. Then, as if recovering their consciousness of imminent death, they flap frantically, shooting to the sky in two opposite directions. The husband, alone to the left, lets out a plaintive and brief cry ‘Ah!’; the wife, alone to the right, shrieks a series, ‘Ah! Ghost! Ah! Ghost! Ah!...’

Their cry and shrieks, like swords plunging into the heart of the darkness, shock the beach, quake the paradise, shake the very shadow and scare its master.

Shivering, he trudges back to the beach entrance. There he ascends the stairs, and arrives at Cavil Ave. The gleaming yellowish M of MacDonald warmed his eyes; instantly, he has an earnest desire for the fried chips, the very junk food the gulls had been begging.

Only at this moment, he thinks he fully understands the gulls.

He goes into the shop, asks earnestly for two large chips and one large coke.

Patiently he waits.

The shop girl, a rich-built, high-bodied, high-browed, well-bosomed, long-nosed girl, a descendant of Anglo-Saxons, or whatever name representing the species originally from Europe, gives him the things he wants, and smiles prettily to him as if she admires him, and will make love to him if he dare ask so. He takes the bag from her and immediately starts to chew the French chips.

And with his eating, the fried temperature cultivates his empathy towards the two gulls he has so recently bullied, so he goes back to the same spot, with the hot chips, waiting for them.

But they never come.

He is alone.

And then his thoughts go back twenty years ago, continuing to tell himself a story that is long and tedious, and that is almost as junky as the chips.



--- End of Chapter 33---