Singathology
Page 31
Suddenly, I felt like a strange hybrid orchid growing in God’s wild jungle.
浮岛六记
作者：希尼尔
模糊的鱼
好不容易，她从陌生的厨房走了出来，把糖醋鱼小心翼翼地放在餐桌上。唸中三的孩子刚回来，绕过餐桌，朝房间的方向走去。
他挂着耳机，好像与同学在讨论附近购物中心里的麦当劳，正推出一款新的双夹层炭烤鸡肉加日本芥茉的汉堡包套餐。
她觉得这道菜的味道应该不错，只是刚才洒抹在鱼身上的干淀粉不太均匀，糖醋汁的豆瓣酱用量略嫌多，卖相差了些。是太久没下厨了。
返回厨房，端出了简单的、学生时期就会做的蛋炒红西柿。平时下班太迟，也只能在办公楼附近的超市买几样别人挑剩的蔬菜、冰冻肉类的食材。
孩子在房里还未出来。她敲门后走进去。他还在浴室里，床边的iPad有人发来微信，她好奇地看了一下，好像是在讨论可乐配炸鸡，还是炸鸡配可乐更有趣味的话题。她觉得两者皆不符合营养学的标准。
“可以出来吃晚饭啦！”
“我——不——饿——！”孩子在室内回应。她有点失落。
走回到装修得亮丽的厨房里，她犹豫了一阵子，要不要再做一道小菜呢？
回头时，孩子站在餐桌前，看着一条陌生的鱼状动物，被黑褐色的酱汁淋得面目模糊。
“妈，我要出去了。我约了同学到 Pizza Hut 去。——对了，这黏黑色的东西是什么？”等不及回应，他已随手带上了门。
她的心情，如桌上的鱼，冷却后带有些醋酸，模糊的面目，继续模糊着。被青葱虚掩的鱼眼，露出白色的小珠，在一层薄薄的甜酸酱上，环视那苦辣的人生际遇。
转角荷包蛋
“阿公来了没？”
阿公正骑着一辆旧的脚踏车，赶到校园去。
阿泽在上课时段用手机，给老师扣留了。他来到学校“赎回不良物品”，相信跟上回一样，要签一份“担保书”。
孩子的爸没空来学校“解释”，听说是要到律师楼与孩子的妈签协议书。他老人家精神有点恍惚。新世代的夫妻不易当，婚姻难维持，有种种的人性诱惑，有层层的生活压力……
阿公顺便带了个饭盒，学校食堂里的伙食，一般只是达到吃得饱的功能。阿泽不喜欢，虽然他营养不良，十分瘦弱，何况，他下午还要上“屡测屡败”的数学补课。的确要多吃。
在校园的拐弯处，一辆校车冲了出来——
一辆深橙色的校车赶时间似地冲出路口，像一头美洲豹向阿公扑了过来。——脚踏车被抛到路旁的九重葛树丛下，离“学生过路”的牌子约五米处，一个锈黑的脚车轮渐行渐远、渐弱。巨大的车轮下有一只鸡腿，粘有饭粒的余温，以及血红番茄汁的惊悚。
原本搁在饭盒里的一个荷包蛋，横躺在白色的斑马线外，覆盖着，金黄色的蛋黄缓缓流出。——如气喘的脑浆，涂地，流成一滩诀别的姿势。
阿公已到来。如此仓促。
计较
安德鲁自从打假期工回来之后，凡事总斤斤计较，对“钱”的观念有所改变，这也许在学院里上了“近代经济学”，受到老师的影响有关系。
前一阵子，他的老妈到医院动了个小手术，留院观察三天后，让他安排出院。真他妈的，他竟然留了纸条，要酬劳：
来回接送：$80；安排家里清洁服务费：$60（20%折扣）；洗衣、烫衣费：$40。
我也回了张字条：
早餐：0元；晚餐：0元；
学费：0元（扣除政府津贴）。做牛做马费：0元；
牵挂：免计（17年）；
一身病痛、吃安眠药、三高药丸费：自找，只能自理。
其他：请用良心牌计算机算一算。
安德鲁没有算出来。隔天他买了一罐某牌子的天然螺旋蓝藻精片给我，留了字条说是同学的爸吃了这种保健品，精神很好，不妨一试。费用：$0。
还有，字条也加了一小行注解：多照顾身体，才会长命百岁。不然，欠您的，怎么能还得完？
通
叔公又进医院了。这回是肺炎。
自从印佣雅蒂回国后，他总是十分郁闷。
过去还有雅蒂以简单的、接近马来语的印尼话同他沟通。现在，他是“举目无亲”；我的叔叔们都属“红毛派”，一年难得探望他几回。
现在他住在医院里，护士们来自不同的国家及地区，还找不到有效的沟“通”渠道，包括年轻的医生们，在“探”“听”他的病情时，都十分辛苦。
近日肺炎好了，可能是服用药物的关系，便秘又开始严重了。住了整整两个星期，大号没上几回。
我们把叔公家里那张轮椅式的马桶推车带来，也许有了一贯熟悉的方式，“方便”起来较容易。
两天过去了，“效果”不是很理想。
堂弟艾力克斯与我来探望他时，他在床上反复难安，满肚子是“屎”，就是无法释放。艾力克斯是他最疼爱的孙子，上前聊了好一阵子。
不少的叔伯们也来探望叔公，有部分是看在将来分配财产的份上来的。时候不早，我们回去了。
隔天清早，艾力克斯约我一起来探望他，他知道叔公的“解放”时间。把他扶到轮椅式的马桶上，推到厕所去。不一会儿，我们听到“扑通”的声音。
我望着艾力克斯，是什么药这么灵？
我半推门，往隔间里探头，也没什么。只见叔公正自在地翻阅着联合早报。
告别1.5世代
他什么都不是。他是一个年轻的老人，属于过渡的一代。
斜躺在白色的床上，比我妈还年轻的医生的白袍挂满了温情。他把病历表搁在一边，建议回去定期服药，多做些运动。轻度中风在这种年纪是司空见惯，至于阻塞的血管，过一些时候再来通通血管，或做绕道手术吧！
没钱？好的，过一些日子，你来到了“建国一代”的年龄，就会有大量的医药津贴。
（真的？）
现在不行。隔床那个糖尿病患者，他比你老，属于“建国一代”，明天，详情一公布，锯脚就可以免费了。（也不是免费，是有纳税人替你买单，还给那合法的操刀者。）
他属于那最初被征召入伍的“建军的一代”，当年被折磨得变成“被击垮的一代”；那是一个反战的年代，那是经济起飞的时代，那是四小龙腾跃的时代。
然后呢？来到了新世纪，他属于“尴尬的一代”，还不能退休领自己的公积金，仍继续工作将部分收入存入公积金账户以填补未来（说不定没命按月收领）的退休金。我们用昨天微薄的血汗钱，还日益高涨的医药费。
这是一个有福利又享受不到的年代。那无奈的医生耐心地坐了下来，轻轻压按着他麻木的右腿：
“你没事的。”医生安慰他。他瞪着天花板，没有正视那张医药费的清单；他转过身去，望着电视上的节目，有艺人在用方言解释新援助配套的内容，就像当年“沙斯”爆发时的手法。他的年轻“老君”正低头忙着浏览他的手机。他斜视了那份账单，这不是普通的“白巡厝”，费用肯定不小。
他深吸了一口气，毕竟，他是“见过”大风浪的一代。一切会是美好的，假设“建国一代”是个随着时间的推移可以推前的补助名词。
关于80亿元的配套，我们在种种泛滥的对话会中躲过被溺毙的可能，那一股无以名状的感触谁人懂？他像一张老癞痢狗，舔着旧伤口，潜伏于霉锈的日子，伺机逃离家人那恳求你尽早离去的眼光。他翻了翻自己腐烂的右侧股。
> 天花板上吹来的冷风在他的记忆里刺青。他是那将被告别的一代。告别迷糊与痴呆，告别这曾经耕耘过的浮岛，在周遭的事物的流失比记忆还要快的时代……
候诊室有人不耐烦地望了过来。他大力度地咳嗽了几声，努力装着什么也没发生过。那老君耐心地面对荧光视屏，手指停了下来，不知所措，他不甚了解刚才那声长咳，是否有任何凄厉的含义？——一如他那死去（不知是哪一代）的父亲，离开前，也有如此的征兆。老爸的医药费，曾经是他大学时代的一页翻不过去的痛苦记忆，犹如看似轻狂的刺青。
查有此人
黄昏时分，组屋楼下已围满了家人及近亲。
礼仪师来为八叔入殓时，大家都退侍两侧。他生前为自己准备好的寿衣——据说是年轻时接受游击战斗军训时的制服，套在他消瘦的大体，显得有点宽；关于帽子，因生前被扣了太多顶，八婶坚持让他有一片自由的天空。
她悄悄地把一本小红册子放在他的左胸口袋，礼仪师细心为他清理右肩臂的旧疤痕，虽然拉下长袖后，就什么也看不到了。
几个堂弟们忙着查证列在讣告上的内容、家属辈分与名字的准确性。至于八叔的名字，不就是“陈公浩民”，怎么还要加上“陈真”二字？
“陈真”是谁？怎没听说过？大伙往八叔的一口铁皮箱子里找。除了一些殖民地时代的文件、发黄的照片，还有一本旧诗词的线装书，扉页写有“社会主义青年团战友赠”；还有一些剪报，其中一张的报道是“前马共成员投诚……”，一帧照片下印有““陈真”二字。
“什么是马共？”
“是指马航一共丢了多少飞机？”
“好像是指一个美丽的青花瓷，八叔的收藏品。”
“是森林一号？”
“也许是一幅乌托邦式的山水画。”
“有可能是阿里巴巴的马云的一个远亲。”
“都不是。”八婶说：“陈真还活在森林里。让他安详地歇息吧！停柩期间不做任何法事，不久前他曾托梦，有人要见他……”
八叔走的那个深夜，他年轻时的马克思曾来过。
Six Stories from the Floating Island
BY XI NI ER
Translated by Jeremy Tiang
The Blurry Fish
With some difficulty, she emerged from the unfamiliar kitchen and carefully placed the sweet and sour fish on the dining table. The fifteen-year-old child arrived home just then and walked around the table and into his bedroom.
He had his phone earpiece on and seemed to be deep in conversation with a classmate, something about the McDonald’s at a nearby mall having a new set meal: a double-decker, charcoal-grilled chicken burger with wasabi.
The dish she had made should taste pretty good although the corn starch was unevenly sprinkled and there was a little too much fermented bean paste in the gravy, the appearance thus wasn’t great. It had been too long since she cooked anything.
Returning to the kitchen, she brought out the stir-fried egg and tomato, a simple dish she had learnt during her student days. She normally finished work too late and so had to go to the supermarket near the office to buy frozen meat and vegetables already picked over by many other hands.
The child was still in his room. She knocked and went in; he was in the shower. His iPad on the bed displayed a new message which she read out of curiosity. Part of a discussion about whether fried chicken went well with Coke or the other way round. She felt that neither option was in keeping with nutritional standards.
“Come and eat dinner!”
“I’m – not – hungry!” yelled the child through the door. She felt somewhat disappointed.
Returning to the gorgeously renovated kitchen, she hesitated. Should she make a third dish?
Back outside, the child was standing by the table, staring at the strange fish-shaped object, its outlines blurred by the dark brown sauce.
“Ma, I’m going out. Meeting classmates at Pizza Hut. Oh yah, what’s that gooey, black thing?” Without waiting for a response, he pulled the door shut behind him.
Her emotions then were like the fish on the table, cold and sour, a blurry image, continuing to grow blurrier. The fish eyes, partly obscured by spring onions, looked like little white pearls, observing the bitterness of human existence through a thin glaze of sweet and sour sauce.
A Fried Egg Turns the Corner
“Has Grandpa arrived yet?”
At that moment, Grandpa was on his old bicycle, hurrying towards the school.
Ah Chak had been caught using his phone in class, and his teacher had confiscated it. Grandpa was heading to the school to retrieve this undesirable item, and presumably, as with the last time, he would be required to sign a letter of undertaking.
The child’s father didn’t have time to go to the school to explain – apparently he had to visit his lawyer’s office to sign the divorce settlement with the child’s mother. The old man thought distractedly how it wasn’t easy being husband and wife in this day and age; a marriage was hard to maintain with all kinds of human temptation, not to mention the many layers of pressure…
As he was going, Grandpa had brought a lunchbox. The food at the school canteen filled you up, but that was about all you could say for it. Ah Chak didn’t like it, leaving him malnourished and skinny. Besides, he had the repeated trials of maths tuition in the afternoon and should definitely eat heartily beforehand.
At the last turning before the gate, a school bus sped towards him –
A dark orange school bus, rushing for time, sped towards the junction like a panther pouncing on Grandpa. The bicycle was hurled towards a bougainvillea grove just five metres from the school crossing sign. A rusty black bicycle wheel drifted away, slowing down. Beneath the gigantic wheel of the bus was a chicken wing, warm rice grains still clinging to it, and the shocking red of tomato ketchup.
A fried egg had also escaped from the lunchbox and was resting just beyond a white zebra crossing stripe, flipped over, golden yellow yolk slowly oozing out like the pulsating brain matter now smeared across the road, seeping into a position of farewell.
And, just like that, Grandpa had arrived.
Held to Account
After Andrew got back from his holiday job, he began haggling over everything as if his attitude towards money had completely changed. This might also have had to do with the influence of his Modern Economics teacher at school.
A while back, his old mum had to go into hospital for a minor procedure. After being held for observation for three days, he arranged for me to be discharged. And, dammit, he actually left a note demanding compensation:
Sending you there and back: $80. Housecleaning services: $60 (after 20% discount). Laundry and ironing: $40.
I left him a note in return:
Breakfast: $0. Dinner: $0.
School fees: $0 (after government subsidy).
Waiting on you hand and foot: $0.
Concern for you: Free (17 years).
Aches and pains all over, insomnia, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, high blood sugar: I got them, so I deal with them.
Others: Please calculate this based on your conscience.
Andrew didn’t make that calculation. The next day, he bought me some off-brand natural essence of spirulina capsules, with a note saying how a classmate’s dad’s condition had improved after taking these, so why not give it a try? Cost: $0.
There was also a little P.S. on the note: Take good care of yourself. You need to live till a hundred, otherwise how will I ever pay you back everything I owe you?
Getting Through
Granduncle went to hospital again, this time with pneumonia.
Ever since the Indonesian maid Yati returned to her country, he had grown very depressed.
Previously, Yati had been able to communicate to him in simple Bahasa Indonesia, which was
close enough to Malay for him to understand. Now, he looked in vain for someone to connect with. My uncles were all of the angmoh English-speaking variety and only visited him a few times a year.
Now that he was in hospital, the nurses were all from different countries and regions, and communication was all but impossible. Even with the younger doctors, it was an ordeal when they came to examine him.
Now the pneumonia was better, but, perhaps due to his medication, the constipation was worse than ever. In a whole fortnight, he had passed motion only a couple of times.
We brought the wheelchair-style toilet seat over from Granduncle’s house, hoping the familiar device would ease the process.
Two days passed with no change.
When cousin Alex and I visited, Granduncle tossed and turned in his bed visibly in discomfort from the bellyful of shit he couldn’t get rid of. Alex was his favourite grandson, and they had a good chat.
Many of the uncles came to visit too, some with an eye on their future inheritance. As it grew late, we departed.
Early the next morning, Alex asked me to come to the hospital again. He knew it was time for Granduncle to “let go” and helped him onto the wheelchair-style toilet seat, then pushed him into the bathroom. In a short while, we heard a plop.
I stared at Alex. What medicine could have been so effective?
Pushing the door ajar, I looked inside, but there was nothing to see, just Granduncle sitting there like normal, flipping through a copy of Lianhe Zaobao.
Goodbye, Generation 1.5
He was nothing at all. He was a young old man belonging to a transitional generation.
Leaning at an angle across the white bed, the white coat of the doctor – even younger than my mother – seemed to emanate tenderness. Setting aside the clipboard with its medical notes, he suggested returning to a regime of regular medication plus more exercise. A mild stroke was not a surprise at this age, and, as for the obstructed blood vessels, they could be cleared at a later date or bypass surgery was also an option.