IDENTIKIT

（语言能力如奶油般化开）
（原文在后面）
鱼已经在雨林里走了一个月。他手里握着一块可以用作小刀的木头，用它在茂密的植被中砍出一条路。合适的工具很难找到，因为这里的所有木头都湿透了。天气又热又湿，所以不需要生火。鱼至今还未找到驱蚊的方法。三天之前，他发现了一种开绿色花的植物。如果把花骨朵拨开，就会溢出一股杉树的味道，那味道可以杀死五米之内的任何昆虫。可惜，那种花太稀有了，不是个持久的驱蚊方法。
到现在，鱼大概看起来像个战争英雄。他总是被地上的根茎和藤蔓绊倒，腿上多了很多伤疤。还有那些虫子和动物咬的伤口——幸运的是，他目前还活着，毒素只是让他的胳膊失去一小会儿知觉。为了得到食物，他需要上树和猴子搏斗。那些水果尝起来很烂，鱼拉了几次稀，不过他慢慢适应了。他很少洗澡，除非碰巧遇上一条浅浅的小溪。俯下身看看水面，一个野人就和他对视上。那人的头发长到后背，眼神不安地跳动，像一只被捕猎的小动物。
植被变得稀疏起来，也有可能是鱼的幻觉。雨林有很多小把戏，他需要很努力才能保持理性。沙漠里，你在死前看到美好的图像。在这里不一样。你缓慢而卑微地死去，就像其他任何生物一样——那些植物，动物，菌类。你因脱水而腐烂。没有什么美好的图像。你感受不到生命最后的快感。在这里，最干脆的死法就是从世界上最大的瀑布跳下，而他早就错过那个机会了。
但这不是鱼的幻觉。那些高大的蕨类，灯笼草和有毒的藤蔓低下头，变得低矮。它们向后、向下撤退，只留下一片黑色的土壤。雨林卸下所有的防备，向他袒露了全部。他面前出现了一条路，直指它的心脏。
沿着路向上走，鱼能感觉到在上坡。重力轻轻地拽住他，腿上的肌肉绷紧了。那种压力缓慢堆积着，仿佛随时要冲破极限。这让他想起十一岁那年，骑着自行车冲上杂货店后那座陡坡的情景。那儿有一个底部堆着垃圾的小山坡，吸引了不少玩滑板的人。他的膝盖常蹭得鲜血淋漓，暑假结束时甚至摔断了胳膊。
这就是尽头，是么？鱼问自己。他从未如此接近过终点。森林退下层层伪装，那些用来迷惑他的陷阱。它们都是魔术师的把戏，只够大白那些一直薄弱的人。但他做到了，他没有发疯，也没有在一棵树上吊死，任凭昆虫解剖他的尸体。鱼不是那样的人。
他很好奇雨林什么时候公布大奖。也许，他会爬上山顶，只为来到悬崖边上。那样，他就可以看见横跨两个国家的瀑布——那是埋葬许多灵魂的坟墓。
鱼继续向前走，想象着自行车上变速器的样子。它在右边的把手上，有着绿色的数字。双手扶把时，他很轻松就能够到，还可以用食指调整档位。现在，数字变成了七，他用尽全力往上推，指纹几乎被蹭掉。压力从腿上转移到握着变速器的手指上，但数字卡住了。它们到达了极限，就像他一样。
就在那时，鱼看见了悬崖边上的那棵树。悬崖上一滴水也没有，瀑布从来没有存在过。瀑布只是一个可怕的流言，最初由看到山脚下尸体的探险家们传播开。但这座雨林是无辜的，它拒绝用湍急的水流将绝望的人们送往死亡，于是那些人只能自我了断。全都是一场巨大的骗局，只有懦弱而恐惧的人才能做得出来。
那棵树忽略了这一切，只是静静地站在那里。最低的树枝上有一颗果子，鱼不用垫脚就能够到。那是一颗熟透的咖啡豆，天下最棒的咖啡豆。只需将一点粉末放在鼻子下，死人就能跳起来，天使也会坠入地狱。那颗金色的豆子在阳光下闪闪发光，它的外壳裂开一个小口，露出里面整整齐齐的种子。
他伸出残缺的手指，轻轻放在豆子的表面。它摸起来很光滑，还有点凉。
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人生中很长一段时间，鱼经历了被自己命名为“精神无能”的状态。那就是说，不能受到性、咖啡因、酒精和毒品的刺激——当然，他从来没吸过毒。
那是段很困难的时间，有点像长期失眠，只是难熬的夜晚被大学生活和社交替代。鱼想尽一切办法逃出去，它只是咬得更紧，一点点渗入他的日程表，吞噬他的精力。鱼早睡早起，沿着讲座楼外的梧桐大道晨跑。没什么用。他又试着晚睡晚起，结果就是旷了很多课。他吃下安眠药，去蹦迪然后喝很多酒。不错，他确实头疼了几天，但仅此而已。鱼还像以前那样疲惫。
他从不酗酒也不沾毒品，却陷入了难以理解的混乱。或许这是因为太早开始喝咖啡，但鱼实在不记得它本应带来的刺激效果。也许咖啡因只是让那个天真的六岁小孩变得快乐，却没告诉他背后的原因。
当你被日程表压得喘不过气来，还需要应付其他人（教授、学生），你的心理防线突然像冰山融化一样塌下来。那一刻，你感到多么无助。精心维护的的面具，一下就被紫色的眼袋和你混乱的词句扯掉。你的脑子渐渐不在线了，面前的人脸变得模糊。你想，他们什么时候才会注意到我这个样子呢？五秒钟？幸运的话，十秒钟？最后你强迫自己醒过来，因为每一次解离的后果很可能是你的名声，或是成绩。
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我第一次见到伦琴是在文学讲座上。当时教授正在夸一份作业，所有人都在鼓掌，那声音快把我震聋了。那感觉好像是被困在洗衣机里，所有陶醉的面孔扭曲成旋涡。左手和右手分开，再冲向彼此，发出巨大的一声“啪”！礼堂又小又热，我想跑出去，但清晰地意识到：只要我做过第一次，就会有下一次。
我侧着脑袋揉太阳穴时，那人的目光正和我的撞上。我牢牢抓住它，像抓住大海里的救生圈。我还来不及选择，某一种同谋关系就瞬间形成了。伦琴在笑。他把眼睛眯成两条缝，瞳孔吞掉了所有眼白。颜色太浅的眉毛让他看起来像个火星人。
那一瞬间很快就过去了。伦琴打开他贴满贴纸的笔记本电脑，好像什么也没有发生一样。掌声小下去。我舒了一口气，为交到新朋友感到自豪。
后来，我发现我们有很多共同点。我们都上文学课和音乐鉴赏，出于同样的原因——对什么事都不感兴趣，还要完成学分。那次初遇之后，我才慢慢观察起他来。我当然注意过伦琴，他就是那个受欢迎的家伙，身边永远跟着两三个朋友。他有种怪怪的好看，白金色的头发让他看起来像大卫鲍伊。女生都喜欢他，他也回报她们的好意，但从不陷入爱情。我们是那么不同的人，他却在人群中挑出了我。我就是那个沉默寡言的亚洲人，头发乱糟糟，还戴眼镜。几个月之后，伦琴跟我说，那时他觉得我们是全校唯二的正常人。
几天后，伦琴找到我，问我要不要一起吃午饭。我受宠若惊，恨不得躲到一株盆栽后面。他咧开嘴笑了笑，露出两颗尖牙。我一下就同意了。你觉得鸡柳怎么样——他漫不经心地说，好像完全不在乎我的看法——我听说食堂做的很不错。
伦琴吃饭的时候完全变了一个人。他不用餐具，还发出咀嚼的声音。我还没来得及看清食物全貌，鸡就被清理掉了。他喝东西的时候稀里哗啦，每一次困难的吞咽，喉结都一跳一跳。等到我再看向他，伦琴眼里已经有了生理性的泪水。
我从小就讨厌各种噪音。我爸的餐桌礼仪极差，甚至比伦琴还糟。他吃一块热豆腐，不等它凉下来就急忙塞进嘴里，烫得他呼呼吹气。每次和家人吃晚饭我都狼吞虎咽，只为早点离开那儿。或者我会捂上耳朵，听自己的骨头随着咀嚼的动作发出雷鸣般的响声。七岁那年，我有了第一架钢琴。父母没有和我商量就决定把它放在客厅里，紧挨着餐桌。我总是很快把饭吃完，然后迫不及待地在琴凳上坐下，爸爸喝汤的声音却频频打断我，妈妈还会让我小点声。这很不公平，他们完全不知道有些噪音在我听来像金属的摩擦，而那些年餐桌旁的时光是多么痛苦。
多年的练习后，我终于得以在餐桌上控制住怒火，不再对发出声音的人大发雷霆。但伦琴吃饭的样子在我的脑海中依然清晰。那时，他不再完美无缺，而是变得粗俗、鄙陋。后来，我意识到这可能是他展现脆弱面的方式，向我展示——我，那个不招人待见的失败者。
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一段时间后，鱼决定对他的“无能”问题采取措施。食堂旁的咖啡馆无济于事。那里售卖甜腻的卡布奇诺，很受学生欢迎。咖啡馆不小，但五十个顾客和一个爱调情的店员挤在一起，那地方就成了地狱。咖啡豆的效力一天天减弱，就像夏天逐渐让步给冬天。周一，我来上一杯拿铁，一整天都精神奕奕。他热情地和见到的人交往，脑子里仿佛有无法穷尽的创造力。周二他做同样的事，只是提前一小时屈服于睡眠。周三到来时，咖啡因已完全离他而去。鱼奔跑着想抓住它的尾巴，它便消失在街角，只剩他一个人遍体鳞伤。
到了十一月底，他才知道学校还有另一个咖啡馆。它在西边，藏在自行车架后面。鱼是个路痴，只认得宿舍和教室间的路，所以这新闻的冲击格外大。那时候他和一个大号保温杯相依为命，早上接满，就能维持一整天。他两手塞在长羽绒服里，熬过一个又一个讲座，像一头野猪一样精明地保存热量。现在他才意识到，当时的生活简直如苦行一般。鱼几乎不吃任何食物，也从不感到饥饿。他晚上醒着，白天入睡。他躲避和其他人任何形式的接触，伦琴也一样——他开始让鱼感到厌烦。
除了入学教育那会儿，鱼从没去过校园的西侧。有一次，他平时走的门因为施工而锁上了，他不得不绕一大圈走西门。西门是公园那种可以旋转的门，和正门相比很简陋。大部分大学都直接对外开放，他们的学校破例了。一个朋友告诉他，这是因为它的前身就是一座公园。从西门进去，你就来到一片草坪。那里曾经开过演唱会，还有人放电影，不过现在所有的草都枯了，应该没有人想坐上去。草坪的周围是一圈高高的灌木，一边有自行车架，把整个区域隔离起来。最后，“香蕉船”咖啡馆就在胡乱停放的自行车后——那儿的咖啡和别的地方没有什么不同。
鱼推开门挤进去。门没有响，不像其他喜欢到处挂风铃的店主——这让他很愉快。里面很黑，一盏冷色调的小灯。只有他和店员两个人，不像之前那个吵闹的咖啡馆。咖啡的气味飘在空气里，太浓以至于逼近了酱油的味道。
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店员坐在柜台上的一排空玻璃罐后，脸半掩着。我起了退出的念头，因为他看起来像是在睡觉。我刚迈出第一步，他就起身向我走来，低声问我想要什么。
男人四十岁左右，乌黑的发际线像潮水一般后退。肯定是个亚洲人。他的名牌上写着“King”而不是任何人都会想到的“金”。也许他太看高自己了，不屑臣服于这么平庸的名字。
我犹豫了。一杯和往常一样的拿铁没什么问题。我可以肯定“香蕉船”的咖啡豆和另一家店不一样，这样我就可以亢奋几天，再沉沦下去，就像之前浪费掉几百种豆子那样。但这一次，有什么东西让我停住了。它渴望改变，而不是旧的循环。它想找到能治愈一切的解药，让我再次变得强大，变成人上人，长得好看，脑子也聪明，就像伦琴一样。King冲我笑了笑，好像能感觉到我在抉择。
“一杯冰茶，谢谢，”我说。
“柠檬味还是桃子味？我打赌你喜欢柠檬味。”
我点了点头。他说的没错。
King在柜台后面捣鼓起来，腰间围一条围裙。他生得虎背熊腰，浑身都是肌肉。我暗暗想，这个巨人绝对不可能没有差错地做一杯饮料。
“你知道吗？”他背对着我说道，“世界上有两种人，柠檬人和桃子人。你呢，很明显是第一种。”
“行吧，”我耸耸肩，“你继续说。”
“柠檬人从来都喜欢冒险和寻求刺激。他们不安分，有野心，昼夜颠倒地寻找他们想要的东西。”
“那就错了，”我说，“我不是那样的。”
“你可以这么说，但我看人很准的。”
King做好了饮料。他的手很大，像是能一下子把你捂死。但它们其实很柔软，布满深深的沟壑，就像两只危险的枕头。杯子在那双大手里显得很小，却让我感到安心——饮料肯定是洒不出来了。
“谢谢，”我一边咕哝着，一边插进一根吸管，“那你呢？你是柠檬人还是桃子人？”
King眼角的皱纹团到一起。他的脸晒得很黑，有棱有角的。他肯定是那种脑袋一碰到枕头就睡着的人。真让人羡慕。
“怎么说呢，小子。我之前是个桃子人，但我真的特别，特别想变成一个柠檬人。看看我现在的样子，”他张开两条铁一样硬的胳膊，“你觉得我是什么样的人？我做到了吗？”
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我在那条被我成为“橡树大道”的路上骑着车。伦琴从后面缓缓追上来，开着一辆黄色跑车。
最近一个月，我一直在躲着他。文学课和音乐鉴赏课上，我坐到教室最后面，希望他不要看到我。他当然不瞎，我就戴上耳机，假装音乐老师让听的贝多芬奏鸣曲很吸引人。你或许觉得我是个很矛盾的人，无比渴望友谊却在得到之后马上扔掉。我大概就永远困在自己那点烂事里了——我那摆脱不掉的“无能”——以至于无法给外来者腾出空间。伦琴是对我大学生活的威胁，它虽然很累，却也还算正常。他是个自来熟，一说到自己就滔滔不绝。他太耀眼了。我呢，我不爱说话，精神也不太稳定。我们从一开始就不应该成为朋友。
那辆跑车敞着车篷，伦琴探出头来，把胳膊搭在门上。他今天穿一件橙色的衬衫，打一条花领带。他戴着墨镜，镜片又细又长，像是Neo会戴的那种。
他轻松地邀请我今晚去他家吃饭。我刚喝了那杯柠檬冰茶，伦琴的话还没有进到我的脑子里。我感觉很不错，完全不觉得学校的名人请我去吃饭是件奇怪的事。我没有犹豫就同意了。
伦琴坐在他的车里，那个亮闪闪的方向盘后面，一条胳膊放在外面，像是抽烟的人会做的那样。他没有说话，好像在请我上车，但我不能确定。这对我来说太多了，太突然，也太荒唐。再多的柠檬冰茶也救不了我。伦琴的眼睛被反光墨镜遮住，我看不清他的脸，所以我拒绝了第二个邀请。我跨上自行车，沿着“橡树大道”骑下去，轮子不时被落叶绊一下。
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伦琴家真的很有钱。他开着那辆跑车出现时，我就应该意识到这一点。
他父母住在近郊的一栋房子里。假期时，他和姐姐就会回家过节。每一年，他们全家都去瑞士滑雪，而我，只能打零工勉强赚够飞机票的钱。
伦琴开一辆黑色的BMW接上我。从老爸老妈那儿借来的，他说。房子从外面看起来很壮观：高高的三层建筑，修理得一丝不苟的草坪，走廊闪闪发光的名贵木材。里面更是了不得。伦琴的父母热情地欢迎我，就像其他正常的父母一样，语气亲昵，不过分强调房子的细节。我一直盯着室内的东西看——旋转楼梯，还有熊熊燃烧的壁炉。这是我从小就想要的住宅，那巨大的沙发，波斯地毯，还有投影仪拼在一起，拼成一副完美的图画。我得知伦琴的妈妈厨艺很不错，而集成式厨房便是来自他爸爸——一位大学教授——的结婚纪念礼物。
伦琴有个叫玛丽安的妹妹。家长们做饭的时候，她跑过来和我们说话，告诉我她在学医。这简直是个遗传学上的谜题，他们全家人的头发颜色各异，伦琴是金发，他爸爸黑发，妈妈榛子色，玛丽安则是夺人眼球的红色。我不禁怀疑他俩是不是领养的，因为两人毫无共同点可言。伦琴叛逆大胆，非常外向，玛丽安却温柔平和，更喜欢独处。她让我想起火蜥蜴，一种温驯的小生物。它们总是停在缀满露珠的嫩芽上，后背上一抹鲜艳的红色。她的善意穿透了我坚硬的保护壳，哪怕只有一秒钟。
伦琴的妈妈做了德式土豆煎饼和炸猪排。她确实是个很棒的厨师。我坐在玛丽安和伦琴中间，他们不时开一些我不知道的玩笑。我想象着他们小时候的样子，两个性格、发色各异的兄妹，在这栋豪宅中长大，每年平安夜在圣诞树下嬉戏。这些东西我小时候都没有——包括一个美丽的妹妹。
玛丽安是左撇子，所以我们的胳膊肘常常会碰到一起。她每次都要道歉，并说自己从小就讨厌用刀叉，更喜欢用筷子。她说的每一件事都让我大笑，它们出自一个表面看起来沉默寡言的人，却真的很有趣。她还说伦琴的餐桌礼仪很差，只是因为我在场他才有好好表现。伦琴做了个鬼脸，就像兄妹之间会做的那样，然后假装玩他的食物。
甜点过后，我们聊了会儿天，伦琴一家邀请我过夜，因为他们有太多空闲的客房了。我礼貌地拒绝，推辞自己明早有课。我撒了谎。如果在另一个时间，我会不惜一切在他们家住上一宿。只是今晚，我的身心又一次罢工了。
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有一段时间，鱼每天晚上都会做同一个梦——那时他还会在晚上睡觉。这让他感到害怕，因为梦不应该是那样的。梦都是暂时的，很容易就能忘记，也从不会影响正常生活。其实，那些梦也确实对他没什么影响，因为它们都很古怪，也没什么用处，但也让他的内心经历了不小的波澜。
在梦里，鱼一开始站在一条柏油路上，路对面是一个小屋。他出于无聊——而不是好奇心，决定过去一探究竟。鱼有一项他引以为傲的特长，那就是在做梦的时候保持清醒，知道“我在做梦”这件事。后来他才知道，这并没有什么出众。柏油路和小屋出现的时候，鱼清晰地意识到自己在做梦。他可以确定这两个东西和现实生活格格不入，因此是大脑的一些把戏。另一方面，他也知道结束梦境的唯一方法就是找到“谜底”。每个梦都有个“谜底”，那个大奖，插进锁孔里的钥匙。只需找到它，梦就会结束，他也可以回到真正的世界。他就是困在珊瑚丛里的那条鱼，永远寻找一座座海底迷宫的出口。他是经历者，却从不是操控者。他看见梦境最真实的样子，想做个旁观者却陷进去太深。如果能掌控自己的脑子，他早就找到逃离童年噩梦的方法了。
鱼走到屋子前面，看到一头拴在木棍上的羊。羊周围一圈的地都秃掉了，正好形成一个完美的圆。虽然嘴里没有食物，它却在咀嚼。它的牙是黄的，固执的下巴发出机械的声音。羊闻起来很骚，鱼转过身去，走上屋子的台阶。
小屋的门是蓝色的，还没有把手。它已经弯曲变形，鱼轻轻一推就开了。擅自闯入他人住宅在梦里显得合理，毕竟除了原路返回，鱼想不出别的找到“谜底”的办法。
屋子比看起来还要小。鱼环顾四周，只看见厨房和几张椅子。他去厨房，那里的水龙头没水了。水池上方的肥皂碗里放着一张黑白照片，鱼把整个肥皂碗捧起来看，生怕照片会碎掉。一个男人和一个女人冲鱼微笑，男人六十岁左右，留着白胡子。女人的脸看不清，只留下一半笑容，大概是过曝的缘故。男人下面有一行工整的字迹——“迪亚哥”。迪亚哥，是么？鱼想着。他就是这豪华宫殿的主人。
所有的椅子都缺胳膊少腿，椅面上绑着印花坐垫。鱼凑近细看，发现坐垫边缘用细红线绣着纹样。做手艺活的人一定是小屋的主人，还是个完美主义者。鱼将一把椅子反过来，发现椅子腿不是被暴力拽下，只留下和椅面上一个空空的凹槽。主人好像故意用螺丝刀把腿卸下，像刺绣那样细致专注。
正当鱼在屋里漫无目的地走着时，某样东西吸引了他的目光。他绕过坏掉的椅子，看见了一面镜子里自己的模样。他伸手想捂住嘴，之间却碰到了扎手的胡茬。镜面发黄发污，可仍清晰地反射出一位老人的样貌。鱼不断告诉自己这只是一个梦，可那大腹便便、四肢枯瘦的人的目光不肯放过他。他颤抖着举起一只手——那上面布满皱纹，仿佛他刚从泳池爬上来。鱼早已习惯在梦中改变形象，他可以变成其他物种，或是被浓硫酸包裹，每一寸皮肤发黑冒泡；但他从未从镜子里直面自己的样子。这仿佛是大脑在向他揭示某个真相：镜中的映像并非完全虚幻，而是潜藏于他内心的存在。
鱼感到一阵恐慌，手忙脚乱地寻找屋子的出口。前门毫无意义——他深知那只会让自己回到原点。幸运的是，他很快在窗帘后找到一扇和先前相似的门。他掀起窗帘、撞开门，积攒许久的灰尘高高扬起，迷了眼睛。有一瞬间，他以为真的成功了，清晨已然来临 ，他会在床上醒来。他大错特错。当鱼走下自以为通向自由的后门台阶时，他被周遭的熟悉感闪电般击中。柏油路无尽地延伸下去，一根孤零零的棍子杵在地上，还有那只该死的羊——它不知疲倦地咀嚼着空气，粉红色的屁股一颤一颤。
那时，鱼才意识到，自己就像一只海洋生物，被永远封存在珊瑚的白骨丛中。
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我推开“香蕉船”的门时，King正旁若无人地哼着歌。我打断他，感谢他前几天的柠檬冰茶。那杯饮料让我获得了活力，不是咖啡带给人那种神经质的能量，而是轻柔，舒缓。喝下它的那一刻，我在骨头里可以感觉到，所有的事情都发生了转机。一切都像镶上了金边，伦琴握着方向盘的苍白的手，玛丽安的包住嘴唇的笑。我好像变成了另一个人，跳脱出本来的身体，一个更高更好的人。可惜，饮料的效果只是暂时的，这是为什么我在伦琴家吃过晚饭就离开了。
我问King冰茶的配方。一开始，他没有答话，只是四处忙活，洗洗杯子和餐具。我觉得他在装，因为除了我之外，学校里没有人会来这儿消费。他大概在反复清洗同一堆东西。我又问了一次，他转过身来，用一根手指指着我，说：小子，首先你得戒掉那些垃圾食品。
我结巴起来，推辞说自己从不吃任何垃圾。怎么说呢，课间或者中午，我确实会去另一家咖啡馆买上一两个甜甜圈。十六岁那年，我才意识到自己噬甜如命，那年纪几乎所有人都不再喜欢糖果。我身体里的每个细胞都渴望着碳水化合物。天，想想它能带来的满足感。有时候我压制那种欲望。有时候我奇迹般地忘了它，然后绝食一整天。
我又问了一次冰茶的事。King耸了耸肩，说可以在随便哪个商店找到。他不知道学校的物资来自哪里，只知道每个月初，一辆卡车会把它们运过来。我当时应该看起来很绝望，King一言不发地把饮料递给我，然后我。又变成了一个人。
离开咖啡馆，我做的第一件事就是去最近的集装超市Costco。一列列高高立起的货架，各种食物，装在袋子，盒子，瓶子里。我记得小时候，全家一起去Costco买东西是件大事。爸爸把车停在外面巨大的停车场，我们推一辆对于我来说太高的购物车，然后我就会迫不及待地冲向推销榨汁机的区域——那里有可以免费品尝的果汁。Costco从来都是我的快乐源泉，那里有和我的脸一样大的披萨，还有棕榈树下的快餐店，卖奶酪汉堡和超辣的腌辣椒。家旁边的Costco与众不同。我现在身处的这个只是一个冰冷的集装箱，房顶高高，太多人都挤在同一个空间。我卖了每一种品牌的冰茶，然后仓皇逃离。
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暮春的某个时候，有人决定在“香蕉船”前面的草坪上放电影。天气渐渐暖和起来，长袖被换下，暖风裹挟着生长的味道，土壤和嫩芽即将在夏天重生。不知道谁会有心举办这样一个活动，因为草坪实在简陋得令人难堪。放映前一天，有人整理了咖啡馆前的自行车，把器材安装上。不得不说，我很佩服他们。那片空地焕然一新，细碎的新草长了出来，努力遮盖住枯黄的部分。空地外围的灌木丛开了花，引来人群前来拍照。我充满希望。我正喝着那天的第三杯冰茶，心情很不错。我在店里待了很长时间，写下一些零碎的东西，享受着King令人安心的存在以及其他人的缺席。我问他去不去看电影，King说不去。
电影开始时，太阳刚刚在“香蕉船”后面落下。店里的灯还开着，只是血红色天空下一抹柔和的色彩。我可以看见King的身影，他站在柜台后面，抱着双臂，漠不关心地看着外面的一切。电影很无聊，我隐约记得它是黑白的，讲了一个关于爱情的故事。片子很有名，示爱镜头出现时，女孩们就牢牢抓住她们的男朋友。四十分钟过去了，我开始觉得不舒服。我的屁股很疼，草上的水打湿了裤子。我在想要不要离开，喝上一杯。
这时，背后传来一个熟悉的声音。丝滑，欢快，压低到耳语的声音。是伦琴和玛丽安。玛丽安做了个“嗨”的嘴型，在我身边坐下。伦琴优雅地在她妹妹另一侧坐下，毫无违和之感。自从我上次拜访他家，已经过去了很长时间。我不断推迟和伦琴相遇，希望他能找到新朋友，然后把我忘了。可再一次见到妹妹的欲望太强烈，一股无名的力量把哥哥拉向我——还是我拉向他？
我想，玛丽安今天没什么事，单纯想看看伦琴学习的地方。她证实了我的猜测，和我低声说起话来。她说自己完全不在乎什么电影，可伦琴求着她来，虽然他也对片子不感兴趣。他就是喜欢观察别人，她半开玩笑地说，他从小就喜欢玩一些小游戏。那你爱看什么电影，我问。我想想，她说，恐怖片，或是老电影。非常老的那种。
不知道玛丽安说伦琴喜欢观察别人是什么意思，或许那就是他愿意和我成为朋友的原因。我知道他学生物专业，对于他来说，我就是一只实验小白鼠，行为有趣的观察对象。说不定他的其他朋友和女朋友也是一样——实验牺牲品，仅此而已。他太聪明了，不应该和其他人类平等交流。他悠闲地从上帝视角观察所有人的生活，那些他从未经历过的崩溃情绪。而精神不稳定的我，很有可能是他们当中最吸引人的。
电影放到一半，King关门了。我下意识地转头时，他已经离开，“香蕉船”熄了灯。草坪上没人注意到光线暗下去一点。那时我才注意到，伦琴也悄悄走了，玛丽安另一边的位置空着。懦弱的念头击中我：离开玛丽安，让她独自看完电影。
那时，她凑过来吻了我。就像那样。很轻，不像电影里那样激情四射，主人公紧紧抓住彼此不放手。她只是闭上眼，把嘴贴近我的待了一会儿。我把眼睛睁得很大，足以看见她肩头的红发像海浪一样起伏。电影达到了高潮，银幕上的人物也在接吻。那是一个默片，所以没有音乐，四周只有情侣们亲热的声音。突然，我感到仿佛在下雨，下暴雨，天空中雷声阵阵，闪电劈倒了一棵树。而我们，我们就在那中央，与世隔绝的两个人。我很久没有感到这么畅快，我也知道这次不是冰茶的功劳。
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鱼在闲着的时候喜欢去室内泳池游泳。泳池在体育馆一层，攀岩馆旁边。进去之前，你可以闻到很浓的氯气味儿，整个体育管理的人都受着苦。氯气让他的鼻腔发痒，每次游完泳，他都会流上两天的鼻涕。鱼参加游泳训练的时候，情况还没这么糟糕。他曾经住在加州的一个叫做“山景城”的小城市，那里只有室外泳池。几乎所有的小孩都参加了游泳队，每个周末队之间会进行比赛。实话实说，当时他是游得最棒的那个。上小学时他开始参加训练，每周去三次。鱼迅速爱上了这项运动。那时他还在初级道，跟其他一帮瞎糊弄的小孩在一块儿。但他和他们不一样，他是认真的。鱼迅速升入中级道和高级道，和中学生一起训练。他精通所有的泳姿，尤其擅长蛙泳。他可以一口气儿从泳池的一头游到那一头，只用蛙泳泳姿。当水漫过你的脑袋，世界上所有的声音瞬间被关掉了，只剩下你，白白的池底，和你双腿有力的动作。
季节在加州是不存在的。冬天和夏天一样，只是稍微凉快些。什么也无法阻止鱼参加训练。训练次数从每周三次增加到五次，他迅速地发育，身体变得更加强壮、细长。他因自己宽阔的胸膛感到骄傲，里面有一对强大的肺。鱼变成了“那个小张”。他拥有独属于我的泳道，它在泳池的最左边，挨着教练坐的藤椅和红色数字的钟表。没有人打扰他。鱼为自己制定训练流程，每次入水都精神高度集中，不断挑战极限。教练时不时把他叫过去给小孩们做示范，他总是欣然答应，用流畅的动作展示自己背部的肌肉线条。
不得已离开游泳队时，鱼很痛苦。他的教练是个脾气暴躁的墨西哥老头，留着白胡子，总是戴一顶草帽。虽然他从不吝惜各种骂人话，他却对鱼格外地好。鱼走时，他用铁一般的大手握住鱼的手，悲伤地道别。
大学的室内泳池和之前的室外泳池完全不一样。更衣室里的柜子和淋浴都是全新的，再加上几乎没人来这里游泳，泳池变成了鱼的专属。在这么靠北的州，大概没人喜欢游泳，因为天气总是很糟糕，人们不惯于打湿自己的身体。
室内泳池让人心情抑郁。你从更衣室出来，除了白雾什么也看不见。水热得像温泉，肌肉一入水就松掉了。鱼再怎么拍打自己也无法进入状态，更别提得到有效的训练。他想念家里的冷水，水面上打转的绝望的蜜蜂，到处都是的干叶子，还有雨天的训练。在这里，一旦把脑袋伸进水里，你就会变瞎，只能看见一片无尽的白色。他从小就害怕浑浊的水。汽车旅店的泳池在晚上会打开水下的大灯，它们像潜水艇的探照灯一样。他会做噩梦，梦见鲨鱼在漆黑一片的水里追着自己。
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King告诉我柠檬冰茶缺货时，我崩溃了。他说他无能为力，况且是因为我的无节制购买才导致月底之前冰茶就卖光了。承认这件事很艰难，但我确实开始有点上瘾了。正常的日子一天三杯，心情不好的时候五杯。无论如何，King应该高兴才对。我不再去售货机或是咖啡店买垃圾食品，还让他赚了不少钱。
这一次，他只给我桃子冰茶喝，像应付小孩一样。我一言不发地用吸管喝了下去，一点效果也没有。只是糖分、添加剂超标的混合物，虽然甜的东西确实让我有点晕。在Costco卖的茶包全都是废物，虽然尝起来和“香蕉船”的货差不多，但完全让我兴奋不起来。
过一会儿，King感到无聊，开始谈他的过去。他说自己曾经是个警察，会追踪罪犯。虽然我很困，但他说的事我一个字也不信。从一开始，King就看起来像是会以卖故事为生、最后流落到大学角落咖啡馆的人。这份工作很适合他，就像他胳膊上的肌肉，还有他总是别在胸前的外星人徽章。
他说起一个叫做“照片合成”的警察术语。他知道我心不在焉，但他一谈到这个东西就严肃起来。据King所说，“照片合成”是警察用来追踪犯人的手段，它不是照片，反倒更像块拼图。目击者坐在光纤昏暗的审讯室里，一个个紧张得发抖，说出他们眼中嫌犯的样子。中年，中等身高，棕头发，扁鼻子。她穿一件皮夹克。以此类推。最后，所有的描述来到一位艺术家手里，艺术家把信息整合到一起，完成一幅肖像。
“停一下。你不会就是那种艺术家吧？”
King能看出来他挑起了我的兴趣。他笑了。
“不是，但我是检查肖像的那个人。老天，他们可真会画！那些艺术家知道自己在干什么，也都签了保密协议。他们把自己那部分的工作做得很不错。我在办公室通宵的时候，就把所有的画贴到墙上，想抢在别人前面破案。那很困难，而且铅笔画在关灯之后看起来像真的一样。真他妈瘆人。结果，谁知道呢，天亮了，随便哪个小鬼就破了案，说自己抓到了嫌疑人。那人看起来可一点不像画上的那位，可我却盯着他看了一个晚上！我可能确信他左脸有块疤，结果他却又肥又圆，脸光滑得像婴儿的屁股。我无法承受接二连三的失败，那太让人沮丧了。”
“所以你就退出了，是吧？当然，前提是你真的是个警察。”
“不不，也不是。这几天，我常常想到以前的事情。你知道，那些失败的经历让我很不爽，但我越坚定地想达到什么，越无能为力。如果你在我的位置，你无法找到任何一个人来担责。我做错了什么吗？没有，我只是个不太聪明的条子，也不擅长拼图游戏。目击者呢？他们都太害怕了，不想被卷入案子里。‘唉，那天晚上我喝醉了，看不清东西。’‘他跑得太快了，我实在看不见他的脸。’很多很多的借口。可我又能怪他们什么呢？”
“不要这么说。”我替King感到遗憾。
“其实也没有。那些事情都过去了，只是多年之后，它们又让我想要思考。你说，你怎么知道记忆是不是真的？”
“什么意思，真的？记忆当然是真的。它们在我的脑子里啊。”
“那你就大错特错了。看看那些目击证人，他们都很确定自己看见了什么。我也一样，我信任艺术家做好他的工作。但结果呢，结果总是不尽人意。”
“你的意思是，人的记忆会随着时间推移而失真？”
King的眼里闪着危险的光。“不只是失真，小子。是改变，混淆，甚至彻底颠覆。你好好想想，嗯？”
我闭上眼睛。我试着把记忆变得有形，把它们变成可以握在手里的丝质手绢，有着水银一般的触感。我想到自己对情绪摇滚的热爱，那时我还在上高二，和别人组建了一个乐队。我浪费了很多时间，成绩也下滑不少。现在我在一个三流大学，前途不怎么光明。每当我回忆起我的高中时光，愧疚之感就油然而生，因为那些记忆密切联系着现在和未来。
更久之前呢？我用手指按压眼皮，一些图像出现了。我从不是个怀旧的人，童年回忆就那么流走，我也不会注意。我想到早年的训练时光，我被困在慢道，五年级的学生在水里把我推来推去。我想到幼儿园，当所有人午睡时，我就把手伸进睡衣里触摸自己。我清晰地记得这些所有的事情，它们和当下没有任何直接的联系，却那么真实，甚于最近发生的那些事。可是，我又怎么确认它们是不是“真的”呢？我没有办法像测试一种药物或一截电线那样测试记忆。它们悬在半空，没有意义，也没有重点。说不定它们真是假的，就像King所怀疑的。
“怎么样，小子，有答案了吗？”
我睁开眼。“那是隐私。”
*
我最后一次和玛丽安见面时，伦琴不在场。我问她哥哥去哪儿了——真是个很蠢的问题，尤其是在你暗恋妹妹的情况下。她说伦琴去南美考察了。我好几周没看见他，这很让我担心。
我没有问题了。玛丽安只是站在那里，甜甜地对着我笑。我们站在草坪上，几个月前我们第一次接吻的地方。这期间，玛丽安完全没有联系我，我为此很伤心。她像一只红头发的精灵，“砰”地出现在我无趣的生活中。
那天“香蕉船”正好又缺货，我有种不祥的预感。她指望我做什么？再亲她一次？这次更大胆一些？我想告诉玛丽安，我发生了很大的变化。我不再是那个喝茶喝到嗨的浪漫主义者，背后还有她哥哥撑腰。
我领着她逛了一圈校园，就像入学教育时那样。这是食堂，这是讲堂，这是运动馆。我找不到有意思的事来讲，可玛丽安听得很认真，一直注视我的眼睛，还不时地点头。她这样子让我紧张，她付出的太多了。她的注意力，她的友善，她的时间。我不配拥有一个如此投入的美丽女孩。我敢说，在她上学的地方，遍地都是帅气、聪明的家伙，每一个都比我更值得。
中午，我带玛丽安去“香蕉船”吃点东西。我喜欢店主，可这掩盖不了咖啡馆很简陋的事实。当然，这个地方比喧闹的食堂好多了。那里人来人往，传送带无休止地运转，把垃圾送往它们来的地方。“香蕉船”仿佛是我的第二个家，King也变得越来越像一位家人。
我们进店的时候，King还像往常那样，在柜台后面哼着歌。他抬起头，用眼神说“今晚有人要有福气了”。我只是摇摇头。我想和他建立眼神交流，可他只是耸耸肩，转过身去。他应该理解我才对。那时我很无助，正向他发出最后的求救信号——在我小岛的篝火燃尽之前。
我点了餐，给自己来一杯桃子冰茶，玛丽安则是蓝莓马芬和浓缩咖啡。我们谈着无关紧要的东西。你的学校真不错。谢谢，我想你的也是。你哥哥怎么样。唉，你知道的，还跟以前一样。礼貌的交谈，只在表面徘徊，从不触及任何事情的本质。冰茶让我头重脚轻，甚至有点醉了。我试着起身和King谈谈他的配方，可我的头和四肢罢工了。内脏在咕嘟冒泡，我却只能坐在那里，看着词句从嘴里出去。
吃完东西，我们沿着“橡树大道”散步，也就自然而然地来到我的宿舍。我丧失了对方向的掌控，好像瞬移到了宿舍楼前。玛丽安站在比我高一级的台阶上，暧昧地笑着。她领着我上楼，在不熟悉环境的情况下来到我的房间，反锁上门。我已经晕头转向。我不知道自己是谁，在哪儿，或是要干什么。冰茶模糊了我的视线，又让我感到出奇的高兴。我还没反应过来，玛丽安就把我推到门上，一边吻我一边抚摸我的衣服。她闻起来像柠檬香皂，那味道让我的感官世界更加混乱。她开始脱衣服，布条像西藏的彩旗一样飞到地上。我不知道该做什么。我只是靠着墙站着，一动不动。我没有脱衣服，虽然那好像是我该做的事情。
玛丽安把手放到我的腰带上时，我才醒过来。房间里的女孩渴望着我，我也想得到她。但，就在那里，我被压倒性的自卑感掌控了——我的老朋友从背后抱上来，就在我最想摆脱它的时候。我生病了，精神上的病。我应该被流放到世界的边缘。多少咖啡亦或是冰茶都不能改变这个事实。我一直都是从前那个我，永远都是，也将一直维持那种状态。
我推开玛丽安的手，逃出房间，只留下她一个人怔在原地。
*
我跑了很久。等我终于来到“香蕉船”的门前，已是傍晚。夕阳停在灌木上方，把它们染成橘色。天气逐渐转凉，我却把外套落在了宿舍。操。
King正在把一些箱子塞进一辆车的后备箱。那是一辆军绿色的越野车，轮子和侧面全是泥巴。King看起来很严肃。他没有在哼歌。当时我真想一拳把他打倒，因为他害我喝不上柠檬茶——无论那些肌肉多硬。我写下这些话时，才意识到它们是多么好笑。但几分钟前失败的性经历依然刺痛着我，我感到纯纯的愤怒——一种素未谋面的情绪。
我还没来得及出手，King先开口了：“我要离开这里，当一名罪犯。”
他没有抬头，声音也不大。
我瞥一眼他的车，想象他在阿根廷的雨林飙车、躲避缉毒警察的样子。
“不是你想的那种。我只想做得小一些，不会搭上人命，但也会制造点麻烦。”
我不动。
“你肯定很好奇，”他继续低声咕哝着，“其实，我要在网上卖游戏，把价格压到很低。比方说，原价一百刀，我只收你四块钱。听起来怎么样？”
“你疯了，”我说。
“现在不想打我了吧？听我说，我卖的不是游戏本身，而是一些账号。用不上什么电脑知识，只需要一点点诈骗。这很值，因为那些用文学作隐喻的电子邮件地址太招笑了。全都是智障。”King哼了一声，把最后一个箱子放进后备箱。从我站的位置看不到咖啡店的内部。那家伙大概把他的私人物品全放在柜台底下，我不在的时候就躲进去。
“等等，”我冲着他的背影喊道，“今天是十月的第一天，你难道没有新货吗？”
King转过身，十分钟以来第一次用正脸看我。他背朝“香蕉船”的荧光黄色招牌，我看不清他的脸。我想到自己滑稽的样子，五官被照成黄色，看起来像个彻头彻尾的失败者。那天他穿了一双黑色的靴子，它们在泥地里留下深深的印记，和一把半自动步枪应该很配。
“你一旦做了选择，就无法改变什么了，小子。你当初选了柠檬，选得不错。现在只剩下桃子味，你必须接受这个事实。有时候我想，你到底是不是一个柠檬人，像我一开始想的那样。我可能错了。”
King摇摇头，跳上车。
一连串图像在我眼前闪过，关于失望还有让人失望。老师，朋友，还有家长的肖像。短短几个月的友情结束了，King是否会成为我最后一个拖后腿的人？
“你也没我想的那么硬气！”我朝着凛冽的空气喊回去。
*
去完伦琴家之后，我决定离开学校。我很久没有见过那家伙了，还一直以为他在南美洲考察，用像我这样的小动物做实验。我希望那里的蚊子像灯笼一样大，能一口把他的脑袋咬掉。
King走之后，现实才慢慢落了地。我失去了朋友和曾经爱过我的女孩，感到日渐空虚。我能感受到大气层的波动，它像是要告诉我一位亲人离开了尘世，升入了无尽的黑洞中。我告诉自己这种想法很蠢，没有人死掉，但我还是骑车去瞧了一眼。
伦琴家没有人，一块写着“已售出”的牌子贴在门外的信箱上。我毫无困难地说服自己他们一家都搬去另一个州了，玛丽安口中的南美考察也是个谎言。虽然我和那四个人不熟，但这种事却很符合他们的作风。我想到初识伦琴时，他说我们俩是全校唯二的正常人。有着奇怪外星人长相和聪明头脑的他，大概撒什么慌都不费吹灰之力。他面前有那么多扇门——投身生物学研究，找到一个漂亮的老婆，组建美满的家庭。一个个耀眼的可能性。可他把它们一一关上，悄无声息地消失，就像King选择成为过去的敌人——一名弱爆了的“罪犯”。
*
鱼骑车回学校，往腰包里塞了几件东西：一个三明治，一条干净内裤，它们将完成飞机旅途中的使命，仅此而已。他订了去巴西利亚的机票，然后出发，把他拥有的东西全部留在宿舍里。鱼绕到西边的草坪和自行车告别。它太大了，也没什么用，但他还是会想念它的。
飞机上的旅途又长又无聊。鱼死死睡了十个小时，醒来之后也没有感到惊讶。他坐起来推开遮光板，外面的天空是鸡尾酒的颜色。
鱼一路搭便车，来到阿根廷和巴西的交界处。他不会说西班牙语，路上遇到的人也随他的便。只需用手上下挥两下，开车的人就会发出长长的一声“哦”，然后通过后视镜看他一眼。梦中的瀑布大概是个很火的景点。这个国家的人并不像世界认为的那般凶悍。他们其实很安静，从不管闲事，对待鱼这样的外国人非常有礼貌。他们都是理想的司机，除了询问目的地之外一言不发，像是毛拖到地上的山羊。他为此很感激，因为终于可以静静待一会，看着窗外城市的痕迹一点点消失，最后变成荒野。
雨林的边缘和梦中一模一样。路边的破屋子，还有屋外空地上拴的一头骡子。它低头看着地面，除了消化食物外别无他用。鱼太熟悉这些事物了，以至于感到无聊。一个老头从屋子里走出来——是迪亚哥。看见他之前，鱼已经熟知关于他的一切。他的名字，外貌，还有过去。鱼来这个地方，好像就是为了证实已知。迪亚哥茂密的白胡子下面塞着一根雪茄。他的胳膊和腿瘦到皮包骨头，和高高隆起的肚子很不成比例。他用小眼睛打量鱼一会儿，最后决定鱼太穷了，不值得杀人灭口。
“西方人，人们来这儿只有两个原因：看瀑布，或者自寻死路。”
迪亚哥的英语一点毛病也没有。这种反常只是让鱼心中的拼图更加完整。
“看瀑布的，我杀掉。不想活的，我由他们去。”
“我为第三种而来，”鱼说。
迪亚哥看了他最后一眼，然后转身走向破屋后面。那里有一条湍急的河流，一条黄色的船系在木桩上，船身轻轻撞击着河岸。鱼把腰包留在岸边，上了船。迪亚哥站到船头，用一根长木杆当作桨。
雨林的深处和外沿完全是两码事。越往里面划，水就越深，颜色也变浅了。几分钟后，漂浮的藻类完全消失了，水面变得奶白奶白的。鱼把头探出去，就能看见自己扭曲的倒影，浑浊的液体却阻隔了视线。后来，迪亚哥警告他说水里有鳄鱼。如果离得太近，它们能咬掉人的胳膊。
不一会儿，鳄鱼就自己浮出水面。它们有着金色的眼球金色的瞳孔，头顶绿色的皮招来杀身之祸。它们实在是腼腆的生物，从来不露出整个身体，只是偶尔出来透透气，看看外来者的样子。鱼替它们感到伤心。它们不是冷血的杀手，人类才是。
鳄鱼的头一接触空气，一群小鸟就飞过来站上去。那些鸟的腿很长，身子很小，眼睛像宝石一样红。每一个的头顶都有一小块白色，那颜色让鱼想起曾经认识的某个人的头发。很奇怪，他想不起来那人的名字了，其他人也一样。他们的影子似乎逐渐被水面升起的蒸汽所冲散，吞噬了。鱼想起记忆可能是假的这件事。或许它一直都是，而这条河就是最好的证明。至少现在，他很确定周围的环境是真的——老头迪亚哥，香蕉黄色的船，鳄鱼。这就是“现实”，没有人可以动摇这个事实。
他们终于来到码头——伸进水里的一大坨泥。岸上有一根和先前很像的棍子，上面系着绳子，绳子的一头埋进地里。迪亚哥没有用那个东西，只是请鱼下船，然后说了再见。鱼一脚踩进泥里，很小心才没有踏进水里。
“那很明智，”迪亚哥说，“你只要碰到水面，鳄鱼就立马把你吃掉。”
鱼什么也没说。
迪亚哥又开始用长棍划水，沿着之前的方向返回。这一次他的速度更快了，来时那么慢，恐怕是为了延迟鱼的死期。如果鱼开口要，他说不定会递上一根烟。
“你真要跳的话，最后把身体蜷成球！”他从江心喊道。
“什么！”
“瀑布的尽头，快要坠落的时候。别舒展身体！蜷起来，你就必死无疑！”
“多谢指点！”说完，鱼转过身去。反正那也不是他来这里的原因。他把左脚从泥里揪出来，一瘸一拐走进巴西雨林苍翠的灌木丛。路很长，他没有带任何工具和实物，却无端地预感一切都会顺利。毕竟，带的任何东西都可能像记忆中的人们那样随时消失。
***
I had been walking through the rainforest for a month. I held in my hands a piece of sharp wood as a knife, using it to pave my way through unyielding ferns. It was hard to find a suitable tool, since all the wood in the forest were soaked through and useless. There was no need to build a fire because of the steamy weather, but I still haven’t found an efficient way to ward off mosquitoes. Three days ago I came across a kind of plant that bore green flowers. When you slice open the buds, a fragrance that resembled juniper spilled out and repelled insects within a five meter radius. That method failed after some time because the flower was too rare and bloomed too quickly for me to stock up on.
I must look like a war hero by now. I got bruises and scars from tripping on roots and vines too often. There were the pest bites and animal bites, though none cost me my life, just made one of my limbs go numb for an hour. My food came from trees I had to climb and fight with angry monkeys to get. The fruit tasted bad and made me shit, but I got used to them after a while. Cleaning myself was pure privilege, only for when I stumble upon a shallow flow of water. When I peered at my reflection I would see a savage, his hair down to his upper back, his eyes wild and darting, like a prey’s.
The undergrowth seemed to thin off, or maybe it was just my imagination. The rainforest plays tricks on one’s mind, and I had to try hard to maintain my sanity. It’s not like how you die of thirst and delusion in the desert, where you see nice visions and reach out to touch them before the end. In the rainforest you die slow and minimally, just like any equal being, the plants, the animals, the fungus. You rot of dehydration. You see no vision. You feel no final pang of pleasure. The only quick way to end it all was by falling down the largest waterfall on Earth, but I already missed that chance.
But then, it really did thin off. It wasn’t my imagination. The tall ferns, the lantern grasses, the poisonous vines that were once twice the size of normal plants bent down and became short. They retreated and descended into the ground until there was nothing but the smooth, dark soil. The rainforest shed all its defences and was bare before me. Now I could see a clear path in front of me, piercing straight into the forest’s heart.
I followed the path and it climbed uphill, sloping just enough for me to sense it. I could feel gravity pulling me down and the muscles on my knee straining. The tension increased slowly and felt like bursting any second. I thought of how I rode my bike up the steep hill behind the grocery store when I was eleven. The place was wasted and a gathering spot for skateboarders. I often got scrapes and finally broke my arm at the end of summer vacation.
So this is finally it, huh? I asked myself. I was closer to the end than I had ever been. The forest peeled away its layers, the traps and tricks it threw at me before. They were only a magician’s sleight of hand, meant for the weak-minded. I made it and didn’t go insane or hang myself on a tree, waiting for insects to dissect my body into parts. I wasn’t like that.
I wonder how long it would be before the rainforest revealed the grand prix. Maybe I would finish the agonizing journey and arrive at the edge of a cliff, which would explain the climb. Then I would finally be able to see the waterfall haunting the two countries on either side, the tomb for many poor souls.
I walked on, conjuring the image of the gear shifter on my bike, strapped on the right side and showing green digits. I could easily reach it while holding both handles, and push the dial with my index finger. Now the digits flashed seven and I pushed it with all my might, almost sacrificing my finger prints because of the friction. I could feel the weight transitioning from my legs to that sole finger. The digits were stuck because they reached their maximum. I, too, couldn’t bear the physical pain anymore.
That’s when I saw it, a single tree standing at the edge of the cliff. The cliff was totally dry. There was no waterfall. There had never been any kind of waterfall. It was all just a horrible rumour, perhaps started by explorers who’d seen corpses lying at the foot of the mountain. But the mountain was innocent and bore no such evil fruit. It refused to carry desperate people down its torrents and they chose to do it themselves instead- out of cowardness. It was all just a framing, something frightened people would do out of instinct.
The tree ignored all this and stood. It bore one single fruit on the lowest branch, where I could easily reach. It was a ripe coffee bean, the most powerful bean of all time. The bean was golden and shone under the blazing sun. The shell already cracked and revealed neat rows of seeds, like babies sleeping in cradles.
I reached out my damaged finger and laid it on the bean’s glittering surface. It was smooth and very cold.
*
For a period of Fish’s life, he experienced what himself named “mental impotence”, that is, being unable to be stimulated by sex, caffeine, alcohol, drugs- not that he’s ever tried the last one.
That period was very difficult for Fish, a bit like the state of insomnia, except instead of endless nights, he’s faced with days and days of college and social interaction. Fish did his best to avoid the condition, as it slowly creeped into his schedule and swallowed up his energy. He slept early, got up early, and went for morning runs along the road by the lecture hall surrounded by poplar trees. When that didn’t work, he tried sleeping late and waking late, often missing classes, which turned out just as insufficient as the first attempt. he took sleeping pills and went to parties with heavy drinking. Sure, he did get a few headaches and hangovers, but that’s it. Fish was just as tired as before.
Fish was never a heavy drinker or junkie, so he’s messed up in a way he doesn’t understand. Maybe he did start drinking coffee at too early an age, but he couldn’t remember the stimulation it’s supposed to have brought him. Maybe caffeine just made that innocent six year old tranquil and happy, without letting him understand the mechanisms.
Do you know the helplessness when, going about your schedule that’s so tight packed it’s about to burst into flames, you encounter other people, professors, other students, and your barrier crashes down without warning, like a glacier collapsing. That carefully kept mask of competence and self esteem, torn by the purple bags under your eyes and your muddled speech. As your mind swims out of focus and the face of the person before you blurs, you wonder how long it will take them to notice your detachment. Five seconds? Maybe, if I’m lucky, even ten? Then you force yourself to snap out of it because this might cost you your reputation or grades.
*
The first time I met Röntgen was during a literature lecture. The professor was praising the work of one of the students, gesturing wildly with his arms. Everyone was clapping and the sound was overwhelming. To me, it felt like being trapped inside a washing machine, the faces distorted into swirls of awe and admiration, fifty pairs of hands making contact all at once. Palms taken apart, then crash with a crisp smack! The lecture hall was small and the heat too much. I wanted to get out but realized if I get away with it this time, I’ll do it again and again untill I drop out of college.
Then, as I tilted my head to rub my temple, I caught his eye and I held onto it like a lifesaver. A kind of mutual agreement formed between us immediately, dragging me into the relationship with an accomplice before I had time to choose. Röntgen was smiling, his eyes slits and the pupils expanding until there were no whites. He had such light brows they were almost invisible, giving him the appearance of an alien. The eyelids merged into his forehead, and retreated into a blond hairline.
Then the moment was gone, Röntgen sank back into his seat like nothing happened and opened his laptop covered with stickers. The clapping slowly died down. I felt assured somehow, like I had an actual friend in the whole classroom.
Later, I found that we had a lot in common than I’d thought. We both took literature and music appreciation, more or less out of the same reason- that is, interested by almost nothing and obligated to complete our credits. It was only after that encounter during the lecture that I began to take him into focus. Sure, I did notice Röntgen before. He was the popular guy, always accompanied by two or three others. He was good-looking in a Röntgen way, with his pale blond hair and David Bowie complexion. Girls liked him and he liked them back, equally mild and never in love, so he always had one to take around school. In these ways we were so different it made me wonder how he noticed me. I was just the Asian guy with floppy hair and thick lenses, who never talked and minded his own business. As Röntgen told me, years later, he thought we were the only normal ones in this school.
A few days later after music appreciation, Röntgen caught up with me and asked me if I wanted to have lunch together. I was genuinely flattered and torn between saying yes and hiding behind a large potted plant. Then he flashed one of his brilliant smiles with the pointy teeth showing and I gave in. How do you like chicken fingers, he said without showing the slightest inclination to hear my opinion, I heard the ones they make in the cafeteria are great. It turned out that Röntgen was a totally different person when he was eating. He was a complete animal. He ate with only his hands and made loud chewing noises, devouring the poor chicken before I had the chance to take a good look at it. It was even worse hearing him drink. He sipped noisily and gulped hard, his Adam’s apple jumping up and down, and tears welled up in his eyes.
I had hated noises since I was little. My dad had terrible table manners and ate just like Röntgen, making puffing sounds when he attacked a piece of tofu before it cooled. During those family dinners I mostly ate quickly to leave the table as soon as I can, or I covered my ears and chewed, listening to my bones grind like thunder. Matters became worse when I got a piano at seven, which my parents decided to put in the living room, right next to the dining table. I would often finish my meal quickly, only to play and hear dad slurping his soup, or mom yelling for me to keep the noise down. It was unfair and they had no idea that some noises sound like knives scraping against metal to me, and what torture it was to endure those childhood sessions of ear-wrecking.
After years of practice, I was finally able to control the anger at whoever making disgusting noises, but the impression of Röntgen eating still lived with me. When he was eating he no longer seemed the flawless man-god, but vulgar and repulsive. Later, I realized it might had been his way of exposing his soft side to me, the loser lying at the bottom of the popularity ladder.
*
After a while, Fish decided to do something about his impotence problem. The coffee shop by the cafeteria was a total failure. It sold sickly sweet cappuccinos and were welcomed by all the students. The place was hardly small but when you had fifty bodies jammed together and only one flirty clerk it was pure hell. Plus, the effect of the beans slowly faded, day by day, like a summer flower losing its color. On Monday he’d grab a latte and feel energized the entire day. Fish meets other people and greets them passionately, his mind bursting with creativity. On Tuesday he does the same, except he finally gives in to sleep at midnight, not one in the morning. Then Wednesday rolls around and caffeine abandons him completely, he struggles to grasp its tail but it vanishes around the corner, leaving him battered and helpless.
It was at the end of November that Fish came to know the existence of another coffee shop on the west side of campus, hidden behind the bicycle racks. He couldn’t find his way anywhere except his dorm and the classrooms, so the news was shocking to him. At that time of the year Fish lived only on a large Thermos, filling it in the morning and taking small, careful sips throughout the day. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his parka and sat through lectures, preserving his heat with the expertise of a hibernating boar. It only occurred to Fish recently how ascetic he was back then. He ate almost nothing and seldom experienced hunger. He was awake at night and slept during the day. He avoided all forms of contact with other people, even Röntgen, who had started to annoy him.
Fish had never been to the west side before besides during orientation. One time the gate he used to take was locked due to construction, so he had to circle the outskirts of campus and take the west gate. It’s shabby and small compared to the main entrance, with black iron bars that rotate, like the ones in public parks. Most colleges don’t have gates and a friend told him it’s because theirs used to be an actual park. After you go through the west gate there’s a pavilion where concerts and movie screenings supposedly take place, but it’s so barren and unappealing he doubts anyone would want to set their butts on a bald piece of frozen dirt. Tall bushes surround the grass, with a space marked out for bicycles on one side, cutting the place off from the rest of campus. Then there’s the Banana Boat, the entrance forever blocked by careless bikers, and coffee as same as anywhere else on earth.
When Fish pushed the door open and forced his way in, there’s no stupid ringing sound of ornaments tied to the handle, which pleased him. The interior of the shop was dark, illuminated slightly only by a cold light. There’s no one except Fish and the clerk, unlike the noisy cafe before. The heavy scent of coffee beans intoxicated the air, so thick it resembled a fragrance no more and adopting the odour of soy sauce.
The clerk sat behind the counter and half-empty jars of cookies, his face hidden, his torso bent. He seems to be napping and I started to retreat. But just as I made a step, he got up and came towards me, asking in a low, husky voice what I want.
The man looked to be about his forties, his hairline slowly fading but still dark. Asian, definitely, but the name tag confused me. “King”, it said, instead of the natural “Kim” which I assigned him as first sight. Maybe he considered himself too high to acquiesce to such a banal name.
I hesitated. Having the old latte would do. Surely, the Banana Boat had beans different from the other shop. I would be hyper for a few days, then my spirits would die down once again, just like the million times before and the million species of coffee beans I’d wasted. But this time something nagged at the back of my mind. It screamed for new and not the old loop. It wanted to find a cure once and for all, to make me powerful again, the cream of the crop, handsome and smart like Röntgen and not some loser. King grinned toothily at me, as if sensing my dilemma.
“An iced tea, please,” I said.
“Lemon or peach? Ah, I bet you like lemon.”
I nodded. He was right.
King set to work behind the counter, a greasy apron strapped around his muscular back, broad like a brown bear’s. I made a mental bet that this enormous had no way of making a drink without spilling anything.
“You know,” King said to me without turning around, “there are two kinds of people, the lemon people and the the peach people. You, obviously, are the first kind.”
“Okay,” I shrugged, “tell me about it.”
“You see, lemon people always have a craving for adventure and excitement. They’re restless, ambitious, extending day into the night.”
“That’s not true,” I said, “I’m not like that.”
“Say what you want, but I see a lemon and I know one.”
King handed my drink over. He had palms so big they could muffle you to death in a second, but they were rather soft, like dangerous pillows, with deep creases cutting into the flesh. I felt somewhat assured to see those hands hold a tiny cup becuase they made the chances of spilling zero.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, and pierced my iced tea with a straw, “What about you? Are you a lemon or a peach?”
The wrinkles around King’s eyes deepened. His face was tanned and chiseled. He must be the kind that falls dead as soon as their heads touch the pillow and sleeps for ten hours like a log.
“Well, son, I used to be a peach, but I longed to be a lemon so, so bad. So here I am,” He spread those humongous hands, biceps bristling on his arm, “What kind of guy do you think I am? Am I a lemon yet?”
*
I was riding my bike along the road when Röntgen pulled up beside me in his yellow sports car. It was “oak tree boulevard”, as I liked to call it.
I had avoided talking to Röntgen for a month. In literature and music appreciation I took seats at the back of the classroom, hoping he wouldn’t find me. When he did, I put on headphones and concentrated on Beethoven’s symphonies and pretended to be intrigued, as assigned by the music teacher. You might say I’m a contradictory sort of guy, wanting friendship so bad and banishing it at first sight. I guess I was stuck permanently in my own problems, my lethargy, to spare any room for an intruder. Röntgen posed as a threat to my exhausting yet normal college life. He was easy-going and loves to talk about himself. He’s just too bright. Meanwhile I, dark, brooding and mentally unstable. We should have never become friends.
The hood of Röntgen’s car was down and he leaned out to me, an arm resting on the door. He was wearing a orange shirt and flowered tie. He had on sunglasses, the lenses long and slick, like the kind Neo wears.
He asked me to have dinner with his family tonight in a casual tone. I just had the lemon iced tea and the news didn’t quite go through me. I felt good and it didn’t occur to me that the most popular guy in school inviting me to his house might be peculiar in some sense. I said yes without hesitation.
So Röntgen just sat there behind the shiny wheel of his vehicle, arm dangling out, as if holding a cigarette. His posture was inviting and he remained silent for a while. He’s beckoning me to join him in the car but this is just too big a step for me. No amount of iced tea would help me out. Röntgen’s eyes were hidden behind his lenses, a blinding blur. I couldn’t read his expression so I refused the offer, mounting my bike once more and starting down the boulevard filled with obstacles of fallen oak leaves.
*
Röntgen’s family was rich. Really, really rich. I should have acknowledged that when he showed up in that sports car.
His parents lived in a house in the suburbs, which him and his sister dropped by during holidays. The whole family went on skiing vacations in Switzerland every year, while I struggled in work to earn my plane ticket money.
We arrived in Röntgen’s car, this time a black BMW. Borrowed from my folks, he told me. I was awestruck by the exterior of the residence, with its three looming stories, well-kept lawn, and front porch glistening with expensive wood. The inside was even better. Röntgen’s parents came to greet us just like any other parent, warm and skitting over the details of the house casually. Yet I can’t keep my eyes off the monumental staircase and mantlepiece with actual logs crackling inside. This is the dream house of my childhood, the large sofa, Persian rug and TV projector all fitting into one perfect picture of harmony and wealth. I was told that Röntgen’s mom was a skilled cook and the integrated kitchen was a anniversary gift from his dad, who was a university professor.
Then there was Röntgen’s sister Marianne. While the parents were working on the food, she came over to chat with us, and told me she was studying at medical school, As a genetic mystery, each member in the family had different hair colors, Röntgen blond, his dad jet black, his mom hazelnut and Marianne a striking red. Sometimes it made me wonder whether the two of them were adopted, since they had nothing in common whatsoever. Röntgen was rebellious and outgoing, while Marianne was softspoken and mostly kept to herself. She reminded me of a salamander, such a clement creature, perching on the tips of vegetation glistening with dew, trailing a mane of red. Her benevolence penetrated my shell at first sight of her, if only just for a second.
Röntgen’s mom served us schnitzel and kartoffelpuffer, which turned out to be fried pork chops and potato pancakes. She really was a fantastic cook. I sat between Marianne and Röntgen, they sometimes making a family joke I didn’t know. I imagined them younger, just two siblings with different colored hair and personalities, growing up in this mansion and playing by the fireplace or under the Christmas tree. Things I never had as a child, including a beautiful sister.
Marianne was left handed, so our elbows would often bump. She apologized everytime, and said that she’d hated using a knife and fork since she was little and preferred using a chopstick instead. I laughed at everything she said, whole-heartedly, because they were all genuinely funny, coming out of the mouth of someone who seemed so quiet and aloof. She also said that Röntgen had bad table manners, and that it’s only because of me being the guest that he behaved, to which Röntgen made a face, just like siblings would do, and started pretending to play with his food.
After dessert and some talking, the whole family invited me to stay over, since there were so many spare bedrooms gathering dust. I refused politely, saying that I have early classes tomorrow. It was a lie. I would have stayed with them for anything in the world if not for my mind failing me, again.
*
Fish used to have the same dream every night, several days in a row, when he still slept. It creeped him out, because dreams were not supposed to be like that. Dreams were supposed to be temporary and easily forgotten, and never to impact your real life. However, it did not really have any kind of impact on him, for the dream was so peculiar and useless it would never have fitted into reality, though it did stir up his mind a little.
When he entered the dream, Fish always saw himself standing on a asphalt road, across from a hut. Naturally, he felt the urge to go over to it, more out of boredness than curiosity. Fish had a talent that he had been proud of for a long time- the ability to remain aware even in dream state- although he found out later that it wasn’t rare for people to do so. Fish knew he was dreaming the moment the road and hut appeared in front of him. He was sure they didn’t fit into his day life, so they must be mere tricks of his mind. On the other hand, he also knew there was no way getting out of a dream without getting to the bottom first. Every dream had a “bottom”, as he liked to call it. The answer to the riddle. The bonus prize. The key to the locked door. He just have to find it, then the dream would end and he’s be transported back to the asphalt world. He was the fish trapped among coral reefs, finding the way out of every maze filled with tentacles and lures. He was the experiencer but never the controller of anything happening inside his own mind. He only saw dreams in their own form and lived them as a spectator too involved, which was different from controlling them. If he could, he would have escaped the million nightmares that haunted his childhood.
As he appraoched the hut, Fish saw a goat tied to a stick on the ground. The land around the animal was barren, forming a perfect circle of dirt with the radius of the rope around its neck. The animal was grazing, though there was no food in its mouth. It had yellowed teeth and a stubborn jaw, which made mechanic grinding sounds with a mind of their own. The goat reeked of piss, so Fish turned away and went up the stairs of the hut.
The hut had a blue steel door with no door knob, but it was battered and the edge was curved, so Fish easily pushed it open. Trespassing other people’s property seemed like the right thing to do, for he thought of no other way to get to the “bottom” except retreat back the way he’d come.
The hut was even smaller than it had looked on the outside. All Fish could see was what looked to be a kitchen, and a few chairs strewn across the remains of a carpet. He went into the kitchen and tried the tap, which had no running water. There was a black-and white photo in a soap dish next to the sink. Fish took the dish in his hands, for fear the frail piece of dried pulp would crumble to pieces. A man and woman smiled at Fish. The man seemed to be in his sixties and had a white beard. The woman’s face was a white blur due to over-exposure, but her smile remained. Neat handwriting could be seen under the man, reading “Diego”. So it’s Diego, isn’t it? Thought Fish. The owner of the luxurious palace.
The chairs were all missing legs and had flowered cushions strapped onto them. Fish came closer to examine the chairs and saw neat embroidery on the cushions. The craftsman used a thin red thread, weaving simple patterns around the edge. Whoever did the needle work probably owned the hut and was a perfectionist. As Fish turned over one of the chairs to examine it, he saw that the missing leg left no trace of violence, only an empty slot where it connected with the body. It seemed as if someone took the leg off deliberately, with a screwdriver, in the same meticulous way as embroidering the cushions.
Fish was wandering aimlessly around the hut when something caught his eyes. He picked his way around the broken chairs and saw his reflection in an old mirror. His hand shot up to his mouth to suppress a gasp, only to feel the rough prick of a beard. The mirror was yellowed and stained, but on the surface the silhouette of an old man could be clearly distinguished. Fish kept telling himself it was just a dream as the man with the skinny limbs and swollen belly stared back at him from the mirror. He trembled as he lifted the free hand to examine it. It was full of creases, as if Fish had just gotten out of the pool. Taking another form in dreams was not peculiar to Fish. He could be of another species or covered by bubbling sulfric acid, every square of his skin rotting and blackening. But he had never fully confronted his image in a dream before, with a medium as raw and primitive as a mirror. It was as if his brain tried to tell him something about himself, that the image wasn’t merely a reflection, but something lying within him.
Panic seized Fish as he tried desperately to find a way out of the hut. Going out of the front door was be useless for he knew well it would take him nowhere. Fortunately, he found a hidden door in the back, blue just like the first one, concealed by curtains with lace. He yanked the curtains up, the dust gathering there flying and blinding him, and pushed the back door open. For a second he thought he was free, dawn was about to break, and he would find himself back on his own bed, fully conscious. But he was wrong. As Fish descended the steps leading from what he thought was the back door, the familiarity of the surroundings struck him like a lightning bolt. The asphalt road stretched on endlessly, the lone stick stuck in the ground, and the pink ass of a goat devoid of any hair and shaking as it chewed the air tiredlessly.
It was only then that Fish realized he was stuck, like a sea creature caught among skeletons of coral.
*
King was humming to himself when I entered the Banana Boat, oblivious to his surroundings. I interrupted him by thanking him for the lemon iced tea I bought days before. The drink had charged me with energy, not just the neurotic kind coffee gives me, but refreshing in a subtle way. Things had started to turn out great for me the moment I gulped down, I could sense it in my bones. Everything had adopted a golden lining, Röntgen’s pale hand on the wheel, Marianne’s tight-lipped smiles, everything. I had felt a different person, someone outside of my body, beyond me. The effect was temporary, though, which had compelled me to leave the house after dinner.
I asked King what was in the iced tea. He didn’t respond at first, going about here and there to wash the cups and coffee utensils. I think he was faking all of it since no one except me comes here to purchase anything. He’s probably just washing clean things over and over again. When I asked again, he turned around and pointed a finger at me, saying: son, first, you have gotta stop eating all those crap.
His reaction surprised me. I stammered, defended myself and said I don’t eat any crap. Well, sure, I do grab a donut or two at the other coffee shop sometimes, between classes or when I’m feeling hungry. I had come to realize that I had a sweet tooth at the late age of sixteen, right at the time when most people got over theirs. In fact, I craved carbohydrates from the bottom of my heart. The moment something sugary entered my mouth I engulfed it with saliva and gulped it down. Oh, the satisfaction it brought me. Sometimes I got distracted by the thought of eating so much I couldn’t focus during class. Sometimes I repressed it. Other times I forgot about it, miraculously, and didn’t eat anything for a whole day.
I asked about the tea again, to which King just shrugged and said you could find it at almost any store. He had no idea where all the school’s supplies came from, only that a truck came every month to drop them off. I must have looked pretty desperate, because King gave me my drink without a word, and I became a person again.
After the meeting with King, the first thing I did was stop by the nearest Costco. Rows and aisles of food, in packages, boxes and bottles. I remembered going to Costco as an important thing for my family to do when I was little. Dad would park the car, then we would grab a shopping cart that seemed enormous to me at that time, and hit the tasting section where blending machines where sold. Costco had always been a source of happiness for me, with the pizza slices sold beyond the cashier that were as big as my face, and In-N-Out the fast food place waiting by the Californian palm trees outside. Costco at home was different. This one is just a shipping container with ceilings too high and people too many. I grabbed as many brands of ice tea bags I could find and escaped from the place.
*
Around some time in late spring, someone decided to hold a movie screening on the pavilion before the Banana Boat. It was the time when sleeves were getting warm and the wind picked up the scent of fresh, growing things, shoots and buds and soil that were rebirthed in summer. It still remains a mystery who would have the heart to hold such an event, on such repulsing grass. Before the night of the screening, someone arranged the bikes in front of the coffee shop and set up the movie equipment. I was impressed. They did a rather good job of remaking the place. Tiny hairs of grass were starting to grow once more, barely covering up the barren parts. The bushes surrounding the open spaces flowered, attracting people who took pictures then left. I felt hopeful. I was on my third cup of iced tea that day and was in good spirits. I lingered around the shop longer than before, enjoying King’s reassuring presence and the abstence of other people, writing things and being thoughtful. When I asked him if he would go to the screening, King said no.
When the movie started, the sun was just setting behind the Banana Boat. Its lights were still on, a faint warm blotch against the bloodshot background of the evening. I could see King standing behind his counter with his arms crossed, a towering black figure, observing everything happening outside with feigned indifference. The movie was boring. I vaguely remember it as black and white and the story had something to do with love. It was well-known and girls made gushing noises when a wooing scene came up, attaching themselves even more firmly to their boyfriends. Around forty minutes into the movie I started to feel uncomfortable. My butt ached and the grass was moist, digging into my pants. I thought about leaving and grabbing another drink.
At that moment I heard a familiar voice behind me. Silky, cheerful, contained to a whisper. It was Röntgen and his sister Marianne. Marianne mouthed “hi” and sat down beside me. Röntgen placed himself at the other side of his sister, graceful and good-naturedly, just like he always has been. It had been a long time since I visited their house. I put off meeting Röntgen endlessly, thinking he would find new friends and just forget about me. Yet the thought of meeting Marianne again pulled at my heart and finally drawing the brother towards me- or me towards him.
I figured Marianne had a day off and wanted to take a look at the place where Röntgen studied. Her words justified my guess and we started talking in a low voice, in order to not disturb the others, just like we did at her house. She said she didn’t care about the movie but that her brother begged her to come, even though he was never a fan of movies. He just likes to observe people, she said with a mocking tone, it’s one of the little games he’s enjoyed since he was a kid. Then what kind of movies do you like, I asked. Hmm, she said, thrillers, maybe, or really old movies. Really, really old ones.
I wondered what Marianne had meant by saying Röntgen liked to observe people. Maybe that’s the reason he befriended me, I thought. I knew he majored in biology and I could be just like a lab rat to him. Someone interesting, in terms of human behavior. It’s even possible that all his former friends and girlfriends meant the same to him. Just experiment subjects, no more. He was too smart to engage with any other human being on an equal level. He just sat back and marveled at their lives, the constant changes of mood and breakdowns he had never experienced. I, with my condition of mental instability, might just prove to be the most promising of them all.
At some point during the movie King closed the shop and left. I turned my head instinctively and he was gone, the lights in the Banana Boat off. No one at the screening noticed this, but the pavilion seemed to dim, if only just a little bit, without the shop’s lighting. That’s when I realized Röntgen had left, too, without a sound, for the space next to Marianne was empty. I felt a sudden jolt of panic. I didn’t know what to do and my iced tea was running out. Leave for Marianne to sit through the rest of the movie? That was my cowardly instinct.
Then she leaned in and kissed me. Just like that. Real gentle, not like the ones in movies where people start at the mouth and get very passionate, crawling all over each other. She just placed her mouth on mine and stayed for a while, her eyes closed. I had my eyes wide open, though, and I could see her red hair over her shoulder rippling locks of tidal wave. The movie had gotten to the climax and the main characters were kissing as well, but it was a silent film so there’s no music, just the sound of couples making out on the damp pavilion. All of a sudden, I got the feeling that it was raining, pouring even, with thunder rolling in the skys and lightning crashing into trees, and we were in the midst of it all, shut off from all surroundings, on our own, the two of us. I had never felt this relieved in decades, and I knew it wasn’t the iced tea helping this time.
*
Sometimes, when he had the time, Fish liked to go to the indoor pool for a swim. It’s on the first floor of the sports building, right next to the climbing walls. Before you went in you could smell the chlorine from very far away, and the people in the gym had to endure that. Personally, chorine made Fish’s nose funny and he would sneeze and drip snot everywhere for two days after each swim. It didn’t use to be this bad, especially when he was in training in my school years. Fish lived in a small town in California called Mountain View, where outdoor swimming pools were a big thing. Almost all the kids were on swim teams, and the teams competed against each other on weekends. Truth to be told, Fish was the best of them. He started to go to swimming practice when he was in elementary school, three times a week, and he loved the sport. He was in the beginner lane then, along with bunch of other kids his age who would just fool around in the water. But Fish was serious about swimming and quickly moved up the lanes, mingling with middle schoolers and kids much older than him. He mastered all the strokes but breastroke was his best and he was thrilled at that. He could go from one side of the pool to the other in one breath and with breastroke. When you immerse your head in the water all the noise in the world automatically turns off, and it’s just you, the white grainy floor and the powerful kicks of your legs.
California had no seasons whatsoever. Winter was like summer, just a little bit chilly. Nothing could stop Fish from going to practice. It went from three times a week to five and he grew quickly, his body becoming slimmer and more in shape. He took pride in his broad chest and the lungs it carried inside. Now he was “that Zhang”. Fish had a lane to himself, at the far side of the pool where coach sat next to the large time with red digits, and no one would disturb him. He would do his routine, in full concentration and always pushing his limits. Sometimes coach would call Fish to give a demonstration to the other kids and he did so without breaking a sweat, showing off his back muscles when they broke the surface of the water.
Fish was pained to leave his team and his coach. The coach was a gruffy old Mexican with a white beard, wearing a straw hat rain or shine, emitting the most obscene curses when kids got behind the time. He had always been nice to Fish and was genuinely sad to see him go, shaking his hand farewell with that iron grip of his. The indoor pool on campus was completely different from the pools Fish had back home. The lockers and showers were all brand new and almost no one used them, so he had the place to himself. You would guess that swimming wasn’t popular this upstate, where the weather was bad and people didn’t enjoy getting themselves wet. Indoor pools were depressing. When you entered you couldn’t see anything except white mist. The water was hot as hell and felt like hot springs. There’s no way Fish could get any amount of practice in this hot tub, for his muscles all relaxed the moment they touched the water, and he couldn’t get them to wake up even by slapping himself. He missed the cold water back home, the desperate bees wheeling circles on the surface, the dead leaves floating everywhere and the swims in pouring rain. Here, as soon as you dipped your head in you were blinded, a patch of endless white stretching before your eyes. Fish had had a fear of murky waters since he was little. At motels, the pools had lights on underwater at night, like the searchlight of submarines. He had nightmares of that scene with sharks chasing after me in dark, impenetrable waters.
*
I was furious when King told me the shop was short on lemon iced tea. He said he couldn’t do anything about it and since I was practically the only costumer there it’s probably my fault they ran out of the stuff way before the end of the month. It’s hard for me to admit but I had been developing a sort of addiction for the drink. Three cups a day on average and five on moody ones. Nevertheless, King should be happy I’d been letting him make money off me, now that I’d stopped buying “junk” at the vending machine or cafe.
The tea packs I bought at Cotsco were a complete waste of money. They did nothing except make my blood sugar rise to a fatal level and increase my chance of getting gestational diabetes. Whatever King kept behind the counter must have been top secret and he won’t let me in on it easily.
This time he just gave me the peach tea like how you handle toddlers, and I sipped it through a plastic straw without a word. It didn’t work at all. Just another synthetic mixture of sugar and additives, though the sweetness did make me a little sleepy. After a while King got bored and started talking about his past. He talked about how he used to be a cop and track down criminals. Even though I was feeling drousy I didn’t believe a single word he said. King had seemed to me, from the beginning, a guy who’d sell stories for a living and go broke and end up in a discreet coffee shop in some college with the brilliant name of the Banana Boat. It suited him well, this job, along with the muscles along his arm and the alien pin he always wore on his apron.
But then he started talking about something called an identikit, a police term, I guess. King could tell I was bored, but when he got to this he suddenly became serious and searched for eyes. According to him, identikit was something the police use to track down the bad guys, but it’s not a picture, more like a puzzle. Witnesses would come and sit in dimly lit interrogation rooms, each with their own nervous tick, and describe the suspect in detail. Middle age, average height, brown hair, flat nose. He’s wearing a biker jacket. So on. Then the descriptions would get sent to an artist, who would piece up all these information into a complete drawing and send that back to the police.
“Wait, you didn’t happen to be one of those art guys, do you?” I asked.
King could see he had fired up my interest, and a little smile crept up his face.
“No, but I was the one going through all of them pictures. Man, what nice drawings they were! The artists were all the best of their bunch, and kept on confidentiality agreement. They all did their job pretty well. Sometimes I’d stay at my office for the night and plaster all the pictures on the wall, trying to figure out the case before anyone else did. It was hard, and the pencil people all looked real when the lights were out. They gave me the creeps. Then before you know it it’s morning and some other perk comes along and say they’ve captured the suspect, and god he looks nothing like the portrait I’ve been staring my eyes out for the whole night. I could be sure of a left face scar, and he turns out fat and chubby and smooth like a baby’s ass. I tell you I couldn’t stand the constant defeat. It’s just too depressing.”
“So that’s why you quit, huh? If you ever were a cop like you said you were.” I smirked.
“Nah, not because of that. But these days the old times come back more forcefully than before and got me thinking a great deal. It used to bug me, you know, the defeats. But the more determined I was the more helpless. You couldn’t find a single person to take the responsibility if you were in my place. Did I do anything wrong? No, I was just a not-so-smart cop who suck at puzzle games. And the witnesses? They were all scared as hell and worried they might get involved somehow. Oh well, that night I was a little drunk I couldn’t see well. You see he was going by so damn fast I barely cought a glimpse of him. All these excuses, and who was I to blame them?”
“Don’t put it like that.” I felt bad for him.
“No, frankly I don’t. It’s all past now, the past. It just got the little gears in my head turning after so many years. Say, how do you know if memory was real?”
“What do you mean, real? Of course they’re real. They’re in my head.”
“No, that you’re wrong. Look at all the witness. They were all so sure of what they saw. And me, too, trusting the artist to do his part. But what had turned out was never what I’d expected.”
“So what you’re trying to say is, people’s memories of stuff get muddled over time?”
Kings eyes had a dangerous gleam in them. “Not just muddled, son. Distorted, altered, even turned into complete opposites. Think about it, will you?”
I screwed my eyes shut for a few seconds. I tried to grasp memories in my bare hands, turning them into silk handkerchiefs with the touch of mercury. I thought of how I had loved emo music when I was in my second year of highschool and joined a band. I spent most of time with the band guys and got bad grades. Now I’m in a mediocre college with a not-so-bright future. Yes, I remembered my highschool years with guilt and because they were directly related to the present and future.
What about further back? I pressed my eyelids together even harder and images started to appear behind them. I had never been a nostalgic person. Childhood memories just slipped by without me noticing them. I thought about my early years of swim training, when I was still in the slow lane and fifth graders would push me around in water. I thought of in kindergarden, when it was napping time and all the kids went to their beds to sleep, I would reach inside my pajamas and touch myself. I remembered all these things with vivid clarity. They were in no way connected with “now”, and yet they feel so real, even more so than the recent ones. Now, how do I know if they were real. There’s no way for me to test them out, like testing a medication or piece of wire. The memories just float there, without meaning or focus. Maybe they were fake, like King suspected.
“Alright, son, you got an answer?”
I opened my eyes. “Private.”
*
The last time I saw Marianne she was not not accompanied by her brother. I asked her where Röntgen went, which was a stupid question to ask first thing you meet the girl you had a huge crush on, really, adn she said he’d went on some field trip to South America. I hadn’t seen him for weeks and it was starting to worry me.
After that exchange, Marianne just stood there and peered at me sweetly. We were standing on the pavilion again, the place where we had our first kiss months ago. During those months I hadn’t heard anything from her and I was quite hurt. Marianne had appeared out of nowhere, like a redheaded elf, smack into my dull life. That day happened to be the day when the Banana Boat was out of stock again, and I was feeling unfortunate. What did she expect me to do? Kiss her again? This time not only on the mouth but somewhere else, too? I felt in desperate need to tell her I was not the same person as last time, the romantic supported spiritually by her brother and high on lemon iced tea.
I took her on a tour of the campus, just like they did during orientation. Here’s the cafeteria, here’s the lecture hall, here’s the sports building. There was nothing interesting to talk about, but Marianne listened intently, bobbing her head up and down and always staring into my eyes when I’m speaking. This made me nervous. She’s giving away too much, I thought. Her attention, her amicability, her time. Who am I to appreciate such investment from a gorgeous girl? I bet where she went to school there’s herds of hot, smart guys more deserving than I was.
Around noon I took Marianne to the Banana Boat for a bite of something. It really was a shabby place, despite my sentiments for the shop owner, but it had felt more intimate than the bustling cafeteria, where people came and went with platefulls and expressionless faces, and the forever rotating belt carrying scarred plates back to where they came from. The Banana Boat was the closest to a home I could get, and King a family member, too.
When we entered the shop, King was behind the counter as usual, humming one of his songs. He glanced up and gave me a “somebody’s gonna get laid today” look and I shook my head no. I tried to keep eye contact but he just shrugged and turned away. He should’ve known better. I was stranded then, sending out a help signal before the fire on my island burned out.
I ordered for the both of us, me a peach iced tea and Marianne an espresso and blueberry muffin. We talked about nonchalant things. Your school is so nice. I bet yours too. How’s your brother. Oh, you know, his old self. Polite exchanges skirting on the surface of practically everything. The iced tea made me docile and light-headed, even a little drunk. I tried to get up to have a word with King about his recipe, but my legs and head failed me. I was inclined to sit there talking about unimportant things, while my inner world bubbled with lava.
After having the food we walked along Oak Boulevard, which naturally led to my dorm. I didn’t have a single idea where we were heading and suddenly, we’re standing on the doorsteps of the dorm building, Marianne a step taller than me. She flashed her sweet smile at me, inviting and erotic. It was almost as if it was she who led me in, to my room without knowing the directions, and locking the door behind us. I was in a daze by now. I didn’t know who I was, where I was at or what I was going to do. The iced tea made my vision spin and delightfully happy. Before I knew it Marianne was pushing me against the door, kissing me hard and running a hand down my shirt. She smelled of lemon soap, which added to the thousand sensation I was going through in my head and made it spin even faster. She began to take her clothes off and they flew of her flawless body like different colored flags off a pole in Tibet. I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there, stunned, leaning faintly against the wall. I didn’t make a move to undress though it felt like the right thing to do.
Only when Marianne start to unbuckle my pants did I wake out of the trance I was in. The girl in that room wanted me so bad, and so had I. But then, right there, I was overtaken by a sense of inferiority, my old friend hugging me from the back just when I wanted to banish him the most. I was sick, mentally, someone meant to be shut from the rest of the world, banished on the outskirts. No amount of coffee or iced tea would change that. I was just who I had been, always, and I would stay that way forever.
So I pushed Marianne’s hand away and fled the room of hell, leaving her hurt and confused.
*
It was late afternoon when I arrived on the doorsteps of the Banana Boat, gasping for air from the long run. The sun was nestled in the high shrubs, tinting them an orangey color. The weather was starting to get cold and I forgot my jacket in my dorm. Damn.
King was packing some boxes into a car I’d never seen before. It was a military green land rover with mud all over its tyres and back. He had on a solemn expression and he wasn’t humming. At the moment I wanted to punch the guy right in the face, no matter how rock hard his muscles were, for failing to provide me with lemon iced tea. Now that I said it I immediately felt stupid, but the humiliation of fruitless sex minutes ago still throbbed in my heart, and I was overwhelmed by the feeling of pure rage- something I haven’t felt for a very long time.
Before I could make my move King said, just loud enough for me to hear, without looking up, “I’m leaving here to become a criminal.”
I looked at his dirty car and the image of him racing among the ferns of Argentina as a wanted drug dealer crossed my mind.
“Not the kind you’re thinking about. Just a small one, not enough to make you dead but still causes trouble.”
I didn’t move.
“You’re probably wondering,” King continued in his mumbling way, “I’m gonna sell games for almost nothing on the internet. Well, almost as in a hundred buck game I give you for four bucks. How’s that?”
“You’re crazy.” I muttered.
“So you don’t want to hit me anymore, do you? Actually I won’t be selling the games themselves, just the accounts of those who are rich enough to own them. Requires minumum hacking skills and a little bit of fraud. Still pays off when you get handfuls of those emails addresses with too obvious literary references. Those dimwits.” King snorted as he jammed the last box into the trunk. Standing here I couldn’t see any change to the coffee shop’s interior. Perhaps the guy always kept his personal things under the counter, where he slinked away to when I’m not in.
“Wait,” I called after him. “it’s the first day of October, aren’t you supposed to have new stock in now?”
King slowly turned around and faced me for the first time in the past ten minutes. His back was to the neon sign saying “Banana Boat” that I faced, so I couldn’t see his complexion. I thought of how I’d look, my face lit bright banana yellow and bloated and loser-like. He was wearing a pair of black combat boots and left deep tracks in the mud, which would go so well with a semi-automatic rifle in his hands.
“Choices aren’t meant to be remade, kid. You chose lemon and you chose well. Now there’s only peach left and you gotta deal with it. Sometimes I wonder if you’re really a lemon guy like I thought you were. Maybe I was wrong.”
King shook his head and jumped into his car.
Images flashed before my eyes. Images of denial and discontent and disappointment. Teachers, friends, parents. Would King be the last one I had to disappoint, after these pitiful months of friendship?
“Maybe you’re not as tough as I thought, either.” I shouted back into the chilly air.
*
I decided to leave school after I took a trip to Rontgen’s family house. I hadn’t seen him for a very long time, all the while under the impression he was off to some nature reserve in South America, doing research here and there on animals just as stranded like I was. I hoped the mosquitoes there were as big as lanterns and that they’d bite his head off, I really do.
After King left that feeling of faked assurance slowly took of its veil. I felt the emptiness around me increasing day by day, the emptiness of losing friends that once were and a girl who had loved me. I could sense the ripples in the atmosphere change as if someone I knew had left the mortal world and ascended into the abyss. I told myself it was silly, nobody died but I still rode my bike there check that out anyway.
Rontgen’s parents’ house was empty. A sign that read “SOLD” was pasted to the mailbox in front of the looming white building. I accepted the fact that the whole family had moved to another state and that what Marianne had told me about Rontgen’s field trip was a total lie, without a second of hesitation. It was like them to do something like that, and I knew them enough, however little, to believe so. I thought of how Rontgen had told me he thought we were the only normal ones in our school. Him, with his weird alien looks and big, smart, brain, wouldn’t break a sweat to tell anyone a lie. So many paths opened up to him, a career of biology research, a beautiful wife and ideal family, countless dazzling possibilities. Yet he closed them one by one and chose to disapppear without even telling a friend, just like King, who did the exact opposite by becoming his past self’s antagonist- a so called criminal.
Fish rode his bike back to school and packed some things into a waist pouch. A sandwich and a pair of clean underwear, about to complete their purposes during the plane trip and only that. He booked a late flight to Brazilia and took off, leaving all his belongings behind in the dorm. He crossed to the west pavilion on purpose to say goodbye to his bicycle. It was too big and pretty much useless but FIsh was still going to miss it.
The trip was long and dull, just like any other plane trip. Fish slept soundly for ten hours and it didn’t surprise him at all. When he woke up it was light out side and the sky was a cocktail color.
He hitchhiked all the way to the Argentina and Brazil border without speaking a word of Spanish. He just gestured with his hands, making a vertical sweep and whoever was driving would let out a long “oh” and glance once in the rearview mirror at Fish. The waterfall he saw in his dream must have been a popular tourist attraction. The people in this country were not as hostile as the world took them for. They were quiet and polite to foreigners, like goats with long hair you see on the hills, and never nosed into business that wasn’t their’s. They were all aloof and ideal drivers, mute except when they asked you your destination. Fish was grateful towards the Brazilians for that. He was able to always keep to himself and only himself, watching the scenery outside the window change from urban to rural and finally the lone wild.
When Fish arrived at the edge of the rainforest, it was just like how he’d pictured it in his dream. The shabby hut on the side of the road made invisible by mud, and a scrapped car sunk into a ground. A mule was tied to a post by the house, its head bent and eyes fixed on the ground. It didn’t seem to serve any purpose, just taking in portions and portions of food. These things were already so familiar to him he was begining to feel bored. Then an old man walked out of the shed- Diego. Before he saw him Fish already knew his name, his past, and his appearance. It was like he only came to this place to confirm what he had in my mind. Diego had a cigarrette stuffed under his bushy white beard. His arms and legs were bony, but his stomach was bulging like a frog’s. His beady eyes sized Fish up and decided he wasn’t worth killing for money.
“You know, Westerner, people come here for two reasons. To watch the Falls, or to die.”
Diego’s perfect English didn’t surprise Fish. In fact, it fitted perfectly into the puzzle he’d been constructing for a long time.
“Those who watch the Falls, I kill for profit. Those who die, I let them be.”
“I came for neither.” Fish said.
Diego peered at him under his white brows one last time and turned to pave the way behind his shed. There was river flowing past it and a yellow boat was tied to a stick in the ground, the sides lapping gently against the bank. Fish got on and abandoned his pouch on the shore. Diego went to the head of the boat and took out a long stick to prod the water with.
The depths of the rainforest was nothing like the outskirts. As they rowed on, the water became deeper and the colors lighter. After several minutes the seaweed floating on the surface disappeared completely, and the river adopted a milky color. Fish let his head wander over the surface and all he could see was the murky substance without penetrating one centimeter into its depths and his face distorted by the currents. Diego warned him not to do that after several attempts because he said there were crocodiles that could tear your arm off if you get too close.
The crocodiles starting popping out after a while. They had golden irises and slits of pupils. The skin on the top of their heads was a beautiful dark green, which drove so many to hunt them dead. They were timid creatures who never exposed their bodies, only coming to the surface once in minutes for air and a look at the intruders. Fish felt sad for them, taken for cold-blooded killers by the most cold-blooded of all killers-men.
The moment the crocodiles popped out, some tiny birds would swarm over and occupy the space on the beasts’ heads. The birds had legs longer than their minuscule bodies and ruby-red eyes. There was a patch of white on each one’s head, which resembled the hair of someone Fish knew a long time ago. It’s funny because he couldn’t seem to remember the name or the others he had in his memory. Their figures seemed to fade slowly into the steam rising from the milky waters until they became shadows and were engulfed whole. Fish thought of how memory was supposed to be fake. Maybe it had always been, and the river was to prove that. At least now he could be sure of his surroundings, old man Diego, the boat, the river and the crocodiles. They couldn’t be more real and he was sure of their presence. This is the present and nobody could deceive him of that.
At last they arrived at a dock made of mud that slowly melted into the water. There was a stick similar to the one before on the ground, with rope tied around the middle and one end buried in the muck. Diego didn’t use it or make a move to dock, he just let Fish jump off the boat and waved goodbye. Fish was careful to not step into the water as he made a loud splash into the puddles of mud.
“That’s wise,” Diego said, “the crocodiles will eat you if you touch the water.”
Fish said nothing.
Diego started prodding with his stick again, directing the boat the way they had come, this time faster than before. Fish wondered if he did that on purpose to delay what he thought was Fish’s own death sentence. The old man might even have offered him a smoke if he’d asked.
“If you’re in for it, curl into a ball at the end!” He shouted from the heart of the river.
“What!” Fish shouted back.
“At the end of the waterfall, when you’re about to crash. Don’t stretch out. Curl, then you will die without a doubt!”
“Thanks for the advice!” Fish said and turned around. That wasn’t what he came here, anyway. He dragged his left foot out of the mud with a loud sucking noise and picked his way into the green, bushy Brazilian rainforest. There would be a long way to go. He didn’t bring any tools or food, but he was sure somehow that everything was going to work out fine for him. He was afraid anything he brought would vanish just like the people in his memory.