Acclaim for Yann Martel's Life of Pi(95)

"Yes."

"So you want another story?"

"Uhh...no. We would like to know what really happened."

"Doesn't the telling of something always become a story?"

"Uhh...perhaps in English. In Japanese a story would have an element of invention in it.

We don't want any invention. We want the 'straight facts', as you say in English."

"Isn't telling about something—using words, English or Japanese—already something of an invention? Isn't just looking upon this world already something of an invention?"

"Uhh..."

"The world isn't just the way it is. It is how we understand it, no? And in understanding something, we bring something to it, no? Doesn't that make life a story?"

"Ha! Ha! Ha! You are very intelligent, Mr. Patel."

Mr. Chiba: <translation>"What is he talking about?"

"I have no idea."</translation>



Pi Patel: "You want words that reflect reality?"

"Yes."

"Words that do not contradict reality?"

"Exactly."

"But tigers don't contradict reality."

"Oh please, no more tigers."

"I know what you want. You want a story that won't surprise you. That will confirm what you already know. That won't make you see higher or further or differently. You want a flat story. An immobile story. You want dry, yeastless factuality."

"Uhh..."

"You want a story without animals."

"Yes!"

"Without tigers or orangutans."

"That's right."

"Without hyenas or zebras."

"Without them."

"Without meerkats or mongooses."

"We don't want them."

"Without giraffes or hippopotamuses."

"We will plug our ears with our fingers!"

"So I'm right. You want a story without animals."

"We want a story without animals that will explain the sinking of the Tsimtsum."

"Give me a minute, please."

"Of course. <translation>I think we're finally getting somewhere. Let's hope he speaks some sense."</translation>

[Long silence]

"Here's another story."

"Good."

"The ship sank. It made a sound like a monstrous metallic burp. Things bubbled at the surface and then vanished. I found myself kicking water in the Pacific Ocean. I swam for the lifeboat. It was the hardest swim of my life. I didn't seem to be moving. I kept swallowing water. I was very cold. I was rapidly losing strength. I wouldn't have made it if the cook hadn't thrown me a lifebuoy and pulled me in. I climbed aboard and collapsed.

"Four of us survived. Mother held on to some bananas and made it to the lifeboat. The cook was already aboard, as was the sailor.

"He ate the flies. The cook, that is. We hadn't been in the lifeboat a full day; we had food and water to last us for weeks; we had fishing gear and solar stills; we had no reason to believe that we wouldn't be rescued soon. Yet there he was, swinging his arms and catching flies and eating them greedily. Right away he was in a holy terror of hunger. He was calling us idiots and fools for not joining him in the feast. We were offended and disgusted, but we didn't show it. We were very polite about it. He was a stranger and a foreigner. Mother smiled and shook her head and raised her hand in refusal. He was a disgusting man. His mouth had the discrimination of a garbage heap. He also ate the rat.

He cut it up and dried it in the sun. I—I'll be honest—I had a small piece, very small, behind Mother's back. I was so hungry. He was such a brute, that cook, ill-tempered and hypocritical.

"The sailor was young. Actually, he was older than me, probably in his early twenties, but he broke his leg jumping from the ship and his suffering made him a child. He was beautiful. He had no facial hair at all and a clear, shining complexion. His features—the broad face, the flattened nose, the narrow, pleated eyes—looked so elegant. I thought he looked like a Chinese emperor. His suffering was terrible. He spoke no English, not a single word, not yes or no, hello or thank you. He spoke only Chinese. We couldn't understand a word he said. He must have felt very lonely. When he wept, Mother held his head in her lap and I held his hand. It was very, very sad. He suffered and we couldn't do anything about it.

"His right leg was badly broken at the thigh. The bone stuck out of his flesh. He screamed with pain. We set his leg as best we could and we made sure he was eating and drinking.

But his leg became infected. Though we drained it of pus every day, it got worse. His foot became black and bloated.

"It was the cook's idea. He was a brute. He dominated us. He whispered that the blackness would spread and that he would survive only if his leg were amputated. Since the bone was broken at the thigh, it would involve no more than cutting through flesh and setting a tourniquet. I can still hear his evil whisper. He would do the job to save the sailor's life, he said, but we would have to hold him. Surprise would be the only anaesthetic. We fell upon him. Mother and I held his arms while the cook sat on his good leg. The sailor writhed and screamed. His chest rose and fell. The cook worked the knife quickly. The leg fell off. Immediately Mother and I let go and moved away. We thought that if the restraint was ended, so would his struggling. We thought he would lie calmly.