Chapter 2 The first series of Kamantan and Lulu｜2

Fury Fighter in the Manor One year, the heavy rainy season was not expected for a long time. It was a terrible and soul-stirring experience, and all farmers who experienced this natural disaster will never forget it.Even after many years, far away from Africa, when he is in the humid climate of Northern Europe and occasionally hears the sound of rain coming at night, he will wake up in his dream and shout: I am looking forward to it!Looking forward to it! In a normal year, the heavy rainy season begins in the last week of March and lasts until mid-June.Before the rainy season comes, the world is getting hotter and drier every day, and its scorching degree is not less than that before the great thunderstorm in Europe.

The Masaiyi people and my neighbors on the other side of the river would set fire to the wasteland at this time, and only after the first rain would there be fresh green grass for the cattle to eat.The fire on the prairie swayed in the wind.Long, rainbow-shimmering blue smoke drifted through the grass.The heat and burnt smell of burning grass seemed to be wafting out of a kiln, covering the cultivated land. Looking far and wide, large swathes of clouds gathered together and disappeared without a trace in an instant.Light rain and fog paint the horizon with a blue slash.There is only one view of the whole world.

In the evening, before sunset, the scenery of nature comes closer and the mountains are closer.In the clear blue and emerald green tones, it appears full of life and meaningful artistic conception.An hour or two later, you step out of the house, the stars recede, and the night air is so soft and deep, pregnant with the kindness we all hope for. When the rapid, weak and strong sound passes over your head, it is the wind in the tall woods, isn't it rain; when it sweeps away against the ground, is it the wind among the bushes and grass Rain; when it rustles in the low places, it is the wind in the cornfield. Its movement resembles raindrops, making it difficult for you to distinguish the real from time to time, and you even get a little moisture from the rain from the sound.As if, at least it's showing on stage what you've longed for, and it's not rain.

But it is raining when the earth echoes deep and solemn like a soundboard, and the world roars up and down all around you.This rain seems to be rushing back to the sea, so eager; it is also like falling into the arms of a long-lost lover, so real. But that year, the heavy rain was not expected for a long time.At that time, it seems that the entire universe is divorced from you.Sometimes it gets cooler, some days it's still cold, but there's no sign of humidity in the atmosphere.Everything has dried out and hardened, as if all the power and elegance in this world have disappeared.It doesn't matter whether the weather is bad or good, but the negation of all weather, as if the rainy season has been postponed indefinitely.A sullen wind passes over your head like a thin draft, and all color fades from everything, and all smells of fields and forests fade away.A feeling of falling out of favor with the titans haunts you.In the south, across the grassland after the fire, it was black and desolate, with gray and white ashes everywhere.

Looking forward to no rain, the prospect and hope of the manor became increasingly bleak and eventually came to naught.The plowing, pruning, and planting of the last few months were the work of a fool.The work of the manor gradually came to a standstill, unable to move an inch. Springs in grasslands and mountains have dried up, and many strange wild ducks and geese fly to our ponds; by the ponds on the edge of the manor, zebras come to drink water in the early morning and at sunset. There are two or three in a row. Hundreds of them; the wild fowls huddled and trampled, and when I rode among them, these little creatures were unafraid.But for the sake of our animals, we have to find a way to drive them away.The water level in Fangfang Pond is dropping.Still, it was a pleasure to go to the pond, where the tumult of mud and water seemed to patch the brown landscape with green patches.

Indigenous people became silent amid the drought.I never heard a word from them about the prospect of rain, though you'd think they knew the signs of the weather better than we did.Their very existence depends on the weather.It was not uncommon for them, and their ancestors, to lose nine-tenths of their livestock in a year of drought.Their shambas were cracked, and only sparse and withered sweet potato and corn seedlings lay prostrate on the ground. After a while, I learned from the natives their code of conduct, that disasters should never be mentioned or complained of before them, just as the past must never be mentioned to those who have suffered disgrace.But I'm a European, and I haven't been here long enough, unlike some Europeans who have lived here for generations to learn the resigned passivity of the natives.I'm still young and instinctively self-preserving, and I have to focus on something if I don't want to drift away with the dust on the manor road and the green smoke on the prairie.I began to write novels, myths, and love stories at night, which would divert my energies far away to other lands, to other ages.

I told quite a few stories to a friend who used to live at my estate. When I got up to go out, the relentless wind was blowing, the sky was clear, and countless cold stars were shining.Everything is dry. At first, I only wrote at night, and later, I often wrote in the morning.In the field, I was in a dilemma: Should I turn over the land again and plant corn again?Do you want to pick off those withered coffee cherries and keep the coffee tree?Day after day, I hesitated. I was used to writing in the dining room, with the paper spread out on the dining table, and between writing, I had to do the accounts of the estate, make estimates, and have some letters from the farmers to answer.My servants asked me what I was doing, and I told them I was trying to write a book.They treat the book as a last-ditch effort to save the estate and are very concerned about its progress.Later, they often asked how the book was doing.They would come in and stand for a long time watching me write.In the paneled room their heads were the same color as the panels; at night they seemed to be left with nothing but a white robe to keep me company against the wall.

My dining room faces west, with three long windows, facing the whole terrace, lawn and woods.The terrain gradually descends until it reaches the river.The river became the dividing line between me and the Maasai people.You can't see the river from the house, but you can know the twists and turns of the river from the distribution of tall, dark green acacia trees on the bank.On the other side of the river, another tree-covered land rose.Beyond the forest is the blue grassland, extending to the foot of Enge Mountain. Sincerity can move mountains, and mountains can come to me. The wind blows from the east and my restaurant door is downwind and always open.For this reason the natives were familiar with the west side of the house.They pave the way around and stay in constant touch with everything going on in the room.Out of the same motive, the little shepherd boys also drove the sheep and let them graze on the lawn.

These little boys drove the goats and sheep of their parents' generation around the manor, looking for a tender grassland for the sheep, which established a life bond between my civilized house and wild animals.My servant did not trust the shepherd boys very much, and did not want them to come into my room.But children have a real love and passion for civilization.Civilization poses no danger to them because they can leave at any time.In their eyes, the typical symbol of civilization is a German-made cuckoo clock hanging in the dining room.The clock is purely for decoration in the African plateau.You could tell the time from the position of the sun all year round, and since you had no dealings with the railroads and could arrange the life of the estate as you wished, the presence or absence of a clock was of little importance.But this clock is quite finely crafted.Every hour of walking, a cuckoo among the pink rose bushes will knock open the small door and pop out to announce the hour with a clear and proud song.This miraculous mechanism can arouse the excitement of the children in the manor every time.Based on the position of the sun, they can accurately determine the approaching noon crowing time.At a quarter to twelve I could see them coming to my house from all directions, followed by their flocks which they dared not leave behind.The heads of children and flocks, clustered through bushes and wormwood, like the heads of frogs swarming in a pond.

They left their flocks on the lawn and walked in lightly with bare feet. The older one was about ten years old, and the younger one was only two years old.They behaved dignifiedly, maintaining a sort of custom-designed ritual of visiting. They were free to move about the house as long as they did not touch anything, and could not speak or sit down except to answer questions.When the cuckoo jumped out to meet them, the children burst into a burst of ecstasy and suppressed laughter.Sometimes there is such a thing: a very young shepherd boy, who has no sense of responsibility for herding sheep, will come alone early the next morning, and the mechanism is closed in front of the clock at this time, and there is no bird singing. Kuyu sang softly about his love for the clock, and walked out in a well-mannered manner.My servants laughed at these children and confided to me that they were so ignorant that they really believed that the cuckoo was alive.

At this moment, my servants themselves come in to watch me type.Some evenings, Kamantan leaned against the wall, silent.His eyeballs rolled like a pair of black drops under his lashes.His expression seemed to be determined to learn this mechanism, not only can it be disassembled, but also installed. One night, I was writing at my desk, and when I looked up, I met this pair of eyes full of rich thoughts. Mushab, he asked after a while, do you yourself believe that you can write a book? I replied: I don't know. Anyone who wants to talk to Kamantan must imagine that there is a long, reserved, and seemingly deliberate pause before each phrase.All aborigines are masters of the art of pause, which is to open up a wider way of speaking for conversation. Kamantan made a long pause at this moment, and said again: I don't believe you can write. I had no one else to discuss my book with, so I put down the paper and asked him why.Only then did I realize that he had been thinking about today's talk and had already made full preparations.He stood, holding "The Odyssey" behind his back, and slowly put the book on the table. Look, Mshab, he said, this is a good book.Stitched together from end to end, even if you lift it high and shake it vigorously, it will not fall apart.The man who wrote the book was very clever.But what you wrote, he went on, with contempt and a kind of friendly sympathy, some here, some there.If someone forgets to close the door, it blows away and falls on the floor, and you get angry again.This is not going to be a good book.he asserted. I then explained to him that someone in Europe can bind all the papers together. After binding, is your book as heavy as this one?He asked, weighing The Odyssey. Seeing that I didn't answer right away, he simply handed me the book so that I can judge for myself. No, I answered, not so much, but there are some books in the library that, you know, are much lighter. So, is it hard too?he asked again. I told him that it was very expensive to pack the books so hard. He stood silently for a while, and then expressed that he had greater hopes for my book.Perhaps it was because he had doubts about the book, and then repented later, he picked up the scattered manuscript papers one by one, and arranged them neatly on the dining table.He still didn't leave, still standing by the table, as if waiting for something.After a long time, he asked me solemnly: Mushab, what is in the book? As an explanation, I told him a story about the hero of the Odyssey and the Cyclops.Talk about how Odysseus claimed to be inhuman, how he plucked out the eyes of the Cyclops, and how he escaped the fate of being tied up in the belly of a sheep. Kamantan listened with interest, and expressed his opinion: the sheep must be of the same breed as Mr. Lang's sheep, which he had seen at the Nairobi Livestock Show.He brought up the Cyclops in turn and asked me if it was black like Kikuyu.I said no.He also wanted to know if Odysseus was of my tribe or family. How did he say, he asked, the word, inhuman, in his own vernacular?Please say it again. He said Otis, and I told him he called himself Otis, which in his vernacular meant inhuman. Will you write the same thing?he asks. No, I said, people can write about whatever they like, I might write about you. Kamantan, who had just started talking, now shut up again.He looked down at himself and asked in a low voice which part of him I was writing about. I might write about your illness, or how you went out to herd sheep.I said, what do you think? His eyes scanned the room, and finally he replied succinctly (in Swahili) I don't know. Are you afraid?I asked. After stopping for a long time, he said with certainty: Yes, all the shepherd boys on the grassland are always afraid sometimes. What are you afraid of?I asked. He was silent, and after a while, he looked at me, his face became calm and heavy, his eyes were shining brightly: I'm afraid of Otis.The shepherd boy on the prairie is afraid of Otis. Within a few days, I heard Kamantan tell other servants that the book I was writing could be bound together in Europe, and that it would cost a lot of money to make it as strong as "The Odyssey".During the talk, he also took out the book for display.However, he did not believe that the cover of my book could be made blue. Kamantan has a talent that turns out to be useful in my house.Whenever he wants to cry, I believe he will cry. If I reprimanded him seriously, he would stand straight in front of me, looking into my face with a dedicated and sad expression.Such a sad look is only occasionally revealed by the Kikuyu.Then his eyes bulged and filled with tears.Slowly, big teardrops rolled out of the eye sockets drop by drop and flowed down the cheeks.I know that these are purely crocodile tears, and I would be completely indifferent to someone else.But Kamantan's tears are another matter.At such times, his flat, wood-like face seemed to be sunken again in the dark, infinitely lonely world in which he had wandered for many years.Such heavy, wordless tears he would wipe away like a shepherd boy.The tears made me uneasy, and looked at his fault from the perspective of guilt, which invisibly narrowed his fault, so I couldn't bear to continue to criticize him.In a way, this is upsetting.But I believe that, based on the real understanding of the human beings that exist between us, Kamantan knows in his heart that I see through these tears of regret, without the slightest overestimation. In fact, he himself does not so much see the tears as coaxing Rather, it is a ritual performed in front of a higher authority. Kamantan declared himself a Christian.I don't know what he meant by the term.Once or twice I tried to cross-examine him, but he replied that he believed what I believed; what was more, he said that I must know what I believe, and that being the case, I would never ask him again. It's pointless.I think it's not just a subterfuge, but a confession of his faith in a way.He placed himself under the God of the white man.In the work of ministering, he is ready to carry out any order, but disdains to inquire whether the system of work is justified, which is just as likely to prove irrational as the white man's own system. Sometimes when my conduct contradicted the teachings of the Church of Scotland to which he had converted, he would ask me who was right and who was wrong. It's amazing how unprejudiced the natives are, because you'd expect to find ignorant taboos among savages.I think the reason is that they are not unfamiliar with various ethnic groups and tribes, and it also depends on the frequent human contacts in the African region, first of all, the ancient ivory traders and slaves. Our era is the era of immigrants and hunters who hunted big animals.Almost every native, down to the little shepherd boy on the steppe, has had face-to-face encounters in his years with a range of different peoples, from Sicilians to Eskimos, English, Jews, Boers, Arabs, Somalis , Indians, Swahili, Maasai, and Kavelodo, among others.With the continuous acceptance of various foreign ideas, the aborigines became cosmopolitan people, not country bumpkins, provincials or missionaries who grew up in a uniform society and developed a fixed set of ideas.Most of the misunderstandings between whites and aborigines stem from this. It is a risky experience to represent Christianity to Aboriginal people in your own name. There was a young Kikuyu named Kitau.He is from Kikuyu Nature Reserve and works as a servant in my house.He is an observant, thoughtful, careful servant, and I like him very much.Three months later, one day he begged me to write a letter of recommendation for him to my old friend Sheikh.Ali.Compare.Salim Mombasa Coastal County Magistrate.Kitau saw this man in my house.Now he said he would like to work there.I was not happy that he had just gotten used to the routine of the house and left in such a hurry.I told him I would rather give him a raise.No, he said he didn't leave for a higher salary, but because he couldn't stay any longer.He told me he was determined.As early as in the nature reserve, he made up his mind to either believe in Christianity or become a Muslim, but he still didn't know which one to believe in.For this reason, he came to work on my estate, because I am a Christian.He worked in my house for three months, examining the conduct and habits of Christians.He was going to work with Ali for another three months to investigate the situation of Muslims before making a decision.I believe that even the bishop should have felt the same way as I did when this happened: my God, Kitau, he should have told me when he came here. According to traditional concepts, Muslims do not eat any meat slaughtered by outsiders.When you go hunting, this becomes a problem: you can only bring a small amount of dry food, and the food of the servants depends on the prey you hunt.You hit a gazelle, and your Moslem servant flies up to slit the gazelle's throat with his own hands before it dies.You stare into their burning eyes, feeling extremely uneasy inside.If you see them standing still, with arms and heads hanging down, that means the antelope died before they cut, and you must find another, or your porters will starve. In the early days of World War II, I was traveling in an ox cart, and the night before I set out, I happened to meet Mohammad Al-Muhammad in Kigabe.Sherif.I asked him if he could spare my servants by law until we got back from shooting. Sharif is young, but wise.He talked to Farah and Ismail and declared: This lady is a disciple of Jesus.She shoots saying or at least saying in the name of God in her heart which makes her bullets as clean as an orthodox muslim knife.On this trip, you guys get to eat what she beats. The predominance of Christianity in Africa was weakened by intolerance among the churches. When I was in Africa, every Christmas Eve, I used to ride to a French church to attend midnight mass.Usually the weather is very hot at this time.As you walk through the belt of acacia trees, you can hear the melodious sound of church bells in the distance in the fresh, sweltering air.When you arrive at the church, there is a cheerful, lively crowd all around, the French and Italian shopkeepers from Nairobi with their families, and the nuns from the convent all present.Crowds of natives in brightly-hued attire crowded together.The magnificent cathedral is lit with hundreds of candles, reflecting the stained glass paintings made by the priests. On the first Christmas after Kamantan came to my house, I told him that as a member of the church, I would take him to go to mass together, and I described to him in a priestly tone all the beauties that can be seen there landscape.Kamantan looked excited and put on her best clothes.But when the car came to pick us up at the door, he turned back anxiously and said he could not go with me.He refused to reveal the reason to me, and avoided my questioning.Yes, he couldn't go, he found out that I took him to the French Church, and the Scotch Church had severely warned him not to associate with it when he was hospitalized.I told him it was all a misunderstanding and he had to come with me right away.Before I could say a word, he suddenly became stiff like a stone in front of my eyes, almost passed out, rolled his eyes, and his face was covered with cold sweat. No, no, Mshab, he murmured, I will not go with you.In the cathedral, I know, there is a mushab who is very bad. I was very sad when I heard this, but I thought I should take him, because the Virgin Mary could open his mind.Inside the church is a life-size statue of the Virgin in blue and white.Aborigines are generally very impressed with statues, although paintings are unimaginable to them.So, I promised to protect him, and then I took him into the car.His worries evaporated as he followed me into the church.This happened to be the first Christmas Mass held by a French church.There is also a huge statue of Jesus born in the church, a shrine and the family of the Holy Spirit, just shipped from Paris, bathed in the shining stars of the blue sky.Surrounding the statue are more than a hundred toy animals, a wooden ox, and a white cotton-wool lamb, all without regard for their size, which must have stirred ecstasy in the Kikuyu. After Kamantan converted to Christianity, she was no longer afraid of touching the dead body. Before that, he was afraid of death.When the patient was carried on a stretcher to the terrace in front of my house, where the unfortunate patient died, he did not lend a helping hand to carry the dead man back, nor did he retreat with the others to the lawn.He stood motionless by the side of the road, like a small black monument.I don't understand why the Kikuyu, who are not afraid of death, dare not touch the corpse at all, while the white people who are afraid of death dare to move the corpse.Here again, you get the sense that they are very different from us in real life.All farmers know that this is one area where you have difficulty dominating the natives.If you can give up the idea at once, you can no doubt save a lot of trouble, because the natives really would rather die than change their ways. But today, the sense of fear has disappeared from Kamantan's heart, and his relatives and friends are afraid of the dead, and he also scolds him.He even showed off on set to show off his God-power.Occasionally, when I have the opportunity, I also test him.During the days at the manor, he and I carried the dead three times.One is a Kikuyu girl who was run over by a bullock cart outside my house, the second is a Kikuyu boy who was crushed to death while cutting down trees in the forest; After working hard, he died there again.He is my fellow countryman, this old Denmark who is blind for two days, named Knudsen.That time in Nairobi, he stumbled up to my car, introduced himself, and begged me to give him a house on the estate because he had no place in the world.At that time, I was laying off the white staff in the coffee garden, and there was an empty bungalow that I could rent to him.He settled down at the estate, where he lived for six months. In the manor on the plateau, he can be described as a unique figure.He is a true creature of the sea, as if we were an albatross with its wings broken.He was worn out by life, sick and drunk, stooped, his red hair turned white and turned into a strange color, as if ashes had fallen on his head, or as if he had been soaked in salt, Show a little piebald.But the flames that shot out from his body could not be covered up or suppressed by any ashes.He was born in Denmark to a family of fishermen, worked as a sailor, and became one of the pioneers of African expeditions, whatever the wind that brought him. Old Knudsen had tried many careers in his life. Compared with him, he preferred to deal with water, fish, and birds, but he couldn't get any of them right.He once told me that he had run a very good fishing business on the shores of Lake Victoria.Stretching for dozens of miles, with the best fishing nets in the world, and a motorboat.But in World War II, he lost everything.Among the tragedies he recalled, the saddest was a fatal misunderstanding, or the betrayal of a friend.I don't quite know which one it was, because he told me the story many times, and almost every time it was different.Every time he talked about this, old Knudsen felt extremely heavy.In any case, some of his stories were true.In compensation for his loss, the government paid him a pension of one shilling per day while he lived in the manor. All of this is what he told me when he came to visit me.He was uncomfortable in his hut and often came to me to relax.The native kids I sent to wait on him ran away from him time and time again.From time to time, leaning on his cane, he staggered and plunged into the children, frightening them.But when he was in high spirits, he would often sit on my balcony and sing Danish folk songs to me while drinking coffee, looking very energetic.It was a pleasure, both for him and for me, to speak the Danish vernacular.We exchanged ideas about what happened at the manor, even if it didn't matter, just for the pleasure of talking.But I don't always have patience with him, because once he starts talking, it's hard to cut it off.He sat down and didn't want to leave.In daily communication, it is not difficult to imagine him as an ancient navigator or the protagonist in "The Old Man and the Sea". He weaves fishnets, which can be described as exquisite. He claims that they are the most exquisite fishnets in the world. In the small bungalow on the manor, he weaves leather whips.He bought a hippopotamus skin from a native or a farmer on the Ivancia Lake, and if he was lucky, he could make fifty whips.I still keep a riding whip he gave me, which is exquisite and practical.His work made the surroundings of the bungalow smell as foul as the nests of some carrion birds.Later, when I dug a pond in the manor, I always saw him standing by the pond, lost in thought, his figure reflected in the water, like a seabird in a zoo. Old Knudsen was hollow-chested and frail-looking, but he had the heart of a wild child.Simple, irascible, reckless, burning with a belligerent flame.He is domineering and a romantic fighter.He was also, in his own way, a great hater: he hated and raged at almost everyone he came into contact with, at every airport.He called the gods to send fire and sulfur rain on these people, and in our Danish parlance, painted the devil on the wall to make the enemies terrified.Whenever he could provoke a quarrel, he was very happy, like a little boy teasing two dogs or a dog and a cat.What is daunting and unforgettable is that he has gone through long and difficult years, and was finally washed by the torrent of life on a quiet small river beach. He should have folded his sails to support his life, but he is still childlike for his status and adversity. Indignant, speak out!I am in awe of this, and I think of the furious fighters in Norse legends. He never talked about himself except referring to old Knudsen in the third person, and he never stopped showing off and boasting. There is nothing in the world that old Knudsen cannot do, and there is no road that old Knudsen cannot pass. Mori knocked down.To others he was an extreme pessimist, who foresaw the inevitable and catastrophic consequences of their actions, and to himself a fervent optimist.On his deathbed, under my promise to keep his secret, he revealed a grand plan to me.The execution of this plan would make old Knudsen a millionaire at last, to the disgrace of all his enemies.He told me that he would salvage tens of thousands of tons of guano from the bottom of Lake Ivancia that had been accumulated by waterfowl since Genesis.As a last great effort he had trekked from the estate to the lake, to survey and work out the details of his great plan.He died suddenly and forever in the mysterious light of his ambition.The plan contained everything he loved most: deep water, birds, hidden treasures.All of these are so real that they even exude the magical atmosphere of an indescribable woman.At the apex of this longing, his mind's eye saw old Knudsen holding the Trident of Poseidon, with the conquered waves under his feet.As for how to get the guano out of the lake, I don't remember if he ever told me. Old Knudsen's great adventures and achievements, his superiority in everything he told me all this clearly carried all the old people's weaknesses and inadequacies.You feel, then, that you are dealing with two very different individuals, and from the background rises the gigantic figure of old Knudsen, invincible victor, hero of exploration; The figure of the stooped, senile servant who kept telling me stories about old Knudsen.This little, humble old servant carried out the mission of old Knudsen in his life: to maintain and praise the majesty of old Knudsen until his last breath.He was the only one who had ever really seen old Knudsen except God, so after his death the renegade ceased to exist in anyone's mind. Only once did I hear old Knudsen speak of himself using first-person pronouns.That was two months before his death.He suffered from a very serious heart attack and eventually died of it. I didn't see him at the manor for a whole week, so I went to visit him in his little bungalow.Amidst the stench of hippo skin, I found him lying on the bed in an empty, filthy room.His face was ashen, and his eyes were deeply sunken.I talked to him, but he didn't answer or make a sound.But after a long time, when I got up to leave, he suddenly said softly and vaguely: I am very sick.At this moment, old Knudsen would never fall ill and be conquered without hearing old Knudsen's eloquence.This is the only time that he, as another human being, his servant, is allowed to express his own personal suffering and sorrow. Old Knudsen was so bored with the manor that he often locked the cottage and went out, disappearing from our view.I guess it's probably because he got the news that some other pioneers from the glorious past have come to Nairobi.He would go away for a week or two, until we were about to forget he existed, and then he would come back, so emaciated and tired that he could hardly drag his frail frame or unlock the door.Then, he was alone for a few days.I am sure that, in these days, when he is afraid to see me, he must think that I disapprove of his leaving without saying goodbye, and that I will use his infirmity to overwhelm his spiritual superiority.Old Knudsen, although he always sang the sailor's pride and loved the waves of the sea, deep down in his heart, he distrusted women very much, regarded them as enemies of men, and believed that their nature and principles were to stop him. life adventure. On the day of his death, no one had seen him for two weeks, and no one in the manor knew whether he had returned from his absence.But this time it was evident that he himself had made up his mind to make an exception, for he had collapsed and died on a path through a coffee garden on the way to my house.When Kamantan and I went to the grassland to pick mushrooms in the evening, we found him lying in the short grass that had just grown on the road. It was April, the beginning of the heavy rainy season. To be exact, Kamantan discovered him.Among all the natives in the manor, Kamantan was the only one who sympathized with him and even cared about him, which could be described as unusual among ordinary people.Kamantan often offered to bring him eggs, and supervised the little servant who served him in case it slipped away. The old man was lying on his back, his hat rolled on one side as he fell, and his eyes were not fully closed.He was dead, but he looked so full and plump.Ah, old Knudsen, you've found your home at last, I thought. I want to carry him to his bungalow, but I know it won't help to call the Kikuyu next to me or working in the nearby shamba to help, and when they figure out why I called them, they will immediately run away.So I told Kamantan to run back quickly and get Farah to help me.Kamantan remained motionless. why did you let me run away Well, you understand, I replied, how can I lift the old gentleman by myself?You Kikuyu are fools, you dare not even lift a dead man. Kaman revealed a silent sneer: Mushabu, you forgot again, I am a Christian. As he spoke, he lifted the old man's feet, and I raised my head and walked towards the old man's bungalow.We stopped from time to time, put the old man down, and rested our feet.Kamantan straightened up and looked directly at old Knudsen's feet.That look, I think, is entirely learned from the Church of Scotland. After placing the old man on the bed, Kamantan walked around the room and went into the kitchen, trying to find a bath towel to cover the old man's face, but he only found an old newspaper to cover it.Christians do this in hospitals.he explained. For a long time Kamantan seemed to be exceedingly content to think of my ignorance in the matter.Sometimes when he and I were working in the kitchen, he would burst out laughing out of excitement.Do you remember, Mushab, he said, that time you forgot that I was a Christian and thought I was afraid to help you carry the old man's body. After Kamantan became a believer, he was no longer afraid of snakes.I've heard him brag to other boys that a Christian would step on a snake's head any time he wanted, squash it flat.I did not see him do this, but once, when a bellied viper appeared on the roof of the cook's room, I saw him standing quite close to the house, with a composed expression and his hands folded behind his back.All the indigenous children in my family spread out like straw blown by the wind, forming a big circle, screaming in their mouths.法拉赫進屋取來我的獵槍，把鼓腹蛇打死了。 事後，餘波平息，賽愛思的兒子尼約萊問卡曼坦：卡曼坦，你為什麼不踩住毒蛇頭，踩扁牠？ 因為牠在屋頂上。卡曼坦答道。 有一次我想試一試用弓箭射擊。我體質健壯但很難拉開法拉赫給我弄來的硬弓。經過多日的練習，我終於成了一名出色的射手。 那時卡曼坦還很小，常看著我在草地上彎弓射箭，似乎對我擺弄這玩藝疑慮重重。一天，他終於開口了：你拉弓射箭，還配當基督教徒麼？我想基督教的方式是用來福槍。 我打開《聖經》，指著哈加兒子的故事插圖：上帝和這位少年在一起，他長大了，住在曠野裡，成了一名射手。 好，卡曼坦說，他跟你一樣。 卡曼坦診治土著病人和醫治病獸都有一套。他曾從獵犬腳上取出過無數破碎的木頭、玻璃硬片，還曾醫好了一條被毒蛇咬傷的狗。 有一段時間，我在家裡養著一隻斷了一隻翅膀的鸛。牠堪稱從容勇敢的角色；牠在各個房間裡穿行，到了我的臥室，便投入一次次的決鬥；時而與掛在牆上的短劍，時而與鏡子裡的自己。牠跟著卡曼坦進進出出，使人不能不信服，牠是在有意識地模仿卡曼坦呆板的步態。他們的腿幾乎一樣細。土著小孩很善於發現這種滑稽的模仿，見到他和牠一起過來，便高興地叫喚。卡曼坦知道這種玩笑，卻從來不太計較別人對他的捉弄。逢到這種時候，他就吩咐孩子們去泥沼地捉青蛙給鸛吃。卡曼坦也是羚羊魯魯的總管。 羚羊魯魯 魯魯從樹林裡來到我家的時候，卡曼坦早已從草原來到我的莊園，進入我的生活。 莊園的東面，是恩戈森林保護區。那時候保護區裡幾乎都是原始林子。說心裡話，把古老的林木砍倒，換種桉樹之類，是一件悲傷的事。古老的森林可以成為奈洛比的一個風情獨特的勝地。 非洲的原始森林是一塊神祕的土地。你騎著馬進入這古老的織錦深處，有的地方有些褪色，有的地方因年深而黯淡，而奇妙的是綠蔭如此濃密。在那裡，你見不到太陽，只是陽光穿過樹葉，玩著種種遊戲。灰色的真菌如一縷縷長長的鬍鬚低垂在樹上，蔓藤縱橫交錯，互相盤繞。這一切給原始森林平添一層玄妙、幽眇的氛圍。每逢禮拜日，在莊園裡無事可做，我常與法拉赫騎馬到這裡來，坡上坡下盤桓漫遊，間或跨越一條條曲曲彎彎的林間小溪。林子裡的空氣清涼似水，洋溢著植物的芳馨。當大雨季初臨，藤葛盛開鮮花之際，你騎著馬穿行在一團團繚繞的花香之中。有一種非洲月桂樹，它那乳白色的細小花朵有點粘手，散發出極為濃烈的甜香味，猶如紫丁香及峽谷裡的野百合。隨處都可以見到一節節空心樹幹用皮繩掛在枝杈上，這是吉庫尤人為了採蜜而吸引蜜蜂作蜂房用的。有一次，我們從林子裡剛拐出來，便見到一頭掛毯似的花豹橫臥在道路上。 這裡，在地面的上空，聚居著一個喧鬧而不知疲倦的家族小灰猴。只要一群猴子走過林間道路，那裡的空氣中便久久地彌漫著牠們的氣味乾燥、腥臊、耗子般的氣味。你繼續向前行進，會突然聽到頭頂上嗖嗖的匆匆的跑動聲，那是猴群在趕路哩。如果你停在原處，靜候一會兒，你會瞥見一隻猴子正端坐樹上。再過片刻，你又會感到周圍整個林子都活躍起來了，這夥大家族像果實懸掛在枝頭。光線或明或暗，牠們有的呈灰色，有的呈青黑色。牠們發出一種奇特的聲音，就像出聲的響吻，緊接著一小陣咳嗽。如果你在下面模仿這種聲音，便可以看見群猴親昵地左右搖晃著腦袋。可是你若突然一動，那麼一瞬間，牠們便都逃散了。你只能追逐著那漸漸減弱的窸窸窣窣的聲響，眼睜睜地看著牠們在樹頂上撥開枝葉奪路而去，像一群魚竄入波濤之中，消失在林木深處。 一個炎熱的中午，在恩戈森林，我穿過茂密的樹叢，在狹窄的小道上，還見到了極為罕見的大野豬。牠從我跟前倏然掠過，帶著牠的母豬與三隻小豬，整個家族就像黑紙的剪影，形狀相同，大大小小，背後是一片陽光照射的綠色。這是絕妙的景致，像森林池塘中的倒影，又像千年之前發生的奇景。 魯魯是一隻小羚羊，屬於南非羚羊種。這個品種也許是非洲羚羊中最漂亮的。牠們比歐洲黇鹿略大一些，棲息在樹林或灌木間，性情羞澀，四處流動，不像平原羚羊那麼常見。恩戈山及其周圍地域卻十分適合這種羚羊居留。你若是在山地野營，清晨或黃昏出去行獵，常會見到牠們從灌木叢中竄出來，閃進林間通道，在陽光下，牠們的皮毛閃著紅銅似的光澤。雄羚羊有一對奇妙的旋角。 魯魯是這樣成為我家的一個成員的 一天早晨，我坐馬車從莊園去奈洛比。前不久，我的碾麵廠失火燒毀，我得一次次進城打官司，索取保險賠償。那個清晨，我腦子裡裝滿了數字與估算。當我沿著恩戈路行進時，路邊有一小群吉庫尤兒童朝我呼喊，循聲望去，他們舉起一隻小小的羚羊給我看。我知道他們一定是在野地裡發現這頭小羚羊的，現在他們是想將牠賣給我。可奈洛比那頭的約會我已經遲到了，哪還有心想這類事，於是繼續趕路。 等我傍晚從城裡歸來，路過老地方時，又聽到那熟悉的呼叫，那夥孩子還在那裡，顯得有點疲乏、失望。他們也許整整一天都在想法把小羚羊賣出去，此刻，更是急不可捺，要在太陽下山前達成交易。他們把羚羊舉得高高地引誘我。但我在城裡待了整整一天，保險金又遇到一些麻煩，所以顧不得停下來搭話，只是揚長而過。回到家裡，我也沒想這些，吃了晚飯便上床了。 可是，我剛合上眼，就被一種恐怖感驚醒。那些男孩和小羚羊的形象此時已紛紛匯聚成形站立在我面前，那麼清晰，像畫出來似的。我起身坐在床上，驚駭得像有人要掐死我一樣。我想，那在牠的捕捉者手裡的小羚羊該怎樣了呢？那些孩子整整一天冒著酷暑站在路邊，將小羚羊雙腿交叉高高舉起。小羚羊還小，不能自己覓食。我自己一天路過兩次，既像祭司，又像利未人【註】，根本不顧及小羚羊。而此刻牠在哪裡？我惶惶然起床，把所有的僕人叫醒。我命令他們，必須找到這隻小羚羊，早晨給我送來。他們馬上開動腦筋。有兩個小僕人那天曾同我坐在一輛車裡，對外面的孩子與羚羊也都沒在意。可現在他們站了出來，詳詳細細地告訴別人時間、地點和那些小孩的家庭情況等。那是一個月色皎潔的夜晚，我的僕人們都走出屋子，分散在田野裡，熱烈地議論著。我聽到他們在計較一個事實：如果找不到羚羊，誰都保不住飯碗。 【註】利未人：古以色列人的一個支派，在公共禮拜上從事祭司以下的次要工作。 第二天一早，法拉赫給我送早茶時，朱瑪跟進來，雙臂抱著小羚羊。那是一隻雌羚羊，我們給牠起了個名字魯魯，據說是斯瓦希里語，意即珍珠。 那時候，魯魯才只有貓那麼大，長著一雙又大又文靜的紫色眼睛。牠的雙腿那麼纖細伶仃，以致使你擔心牠一蹲一起時，怎能經受得住一屈一伸。牠那光滑如絲綢的耳朵，極富表現力。牠的鼻子黑亮亮的，猶如長在地下的塊菌，而那小巧的蹄子又活脫帶有舊私墊裡中國小姐的風彩一雙玲瓏的纏足。抱著這樣完美無瑕的藝術品乃是罕有的機遇。 魯魯不久便適應了這房子和房子裡的人，牠的行為舉止如同在自己家裡一般。在最初的幾個星期裡，房間裡的打蠟地板成了牠生活中的難題。牠一離開地氈，前後腿便往四面滑，看似岌岌可危，牠卻毫無懼色。後來，牠學會了在光溜溜的地板上走路，發出一種連續的就像生氣地敲桌子的聲音。出奇地整潔、有條理，是牠的習性，牠又像小孩那樣任性，可當我阻止牠幹那些牠想幹的事時，牠的行為似乎在說：和為貴。 卡曼坦用奶瓶餵牠，夜間還得將牠關在屋裡。天黑後，豹子常在我住所四周出沒，我們要非常小心地照管魯魯。牠跟卡曼坦的關係很不錯，老跟在他後面。卡曼坦不贊成牠幹什麼事情時，牠常常用小小的腦袋往他的腿上抵撞一下。牠是那般漂亮，當你看到牠與卡曼坦在一起時，你會情不自禁地把牠和他視作美與善的絕妙的新圖解。正因為這出眾的美與瀟灑，魯魯在我家為自己贏得了支配的地位，每個人都很敬重牠。 在非洲，除了蘇格蘭獵犬外，我從不養其他種類的狗。再沒有比蘇格蘭大獵狗更忠實、更通人性的狗了。牠們一定與人類相處幾百年了，深諳我們的環境及生活，懂得怎樣在其中周旋。你還能在古代繪畫和花毯中找到牠們的形象，牠們的容貌、舉止隨著環境多見變化，但始終帶有某種封建氣息。 我的第一條蘇格蘭獵犬名叫達斯克，是我新婚時收到的禮物。我一開始非洲生活可以這麼說，在五月花輪船上牠就伴隨著我。牠生性活潑、慷慨。在二次大戰開始的幾個月，我為政府搞運輸，牠總跟著我隨牛車穿越馬賽依保護區。可惜兩三年後，牠被斑馬傷害致死。那時魯魯已來我家，我還養著達斯克的兩個兒子。 蘇格蘭大獵犬對於非洲水土、非洲土著都能適應。這也許應該歸功於海拔高地賦予這三者的主旋律，大獵犬在蒙巴薩的海平線上就顯得不諧調。高原上雄奇、寥闊的風景線，有了山巒，有了草原，有了江河，倘若沒有大獵犬，似乎就不是完美的。大獵犬都是狩獵能手，雖然嗅覺比靈（左犬右是）更靈，卻主要憑視力捕捉動物。觀賞兩隻大獵犬合作捕獵，是極為新奇的事。我騎著馬，帶牠們闖入野生動物保護區按規定是不允許的。在那裡，牠們會驚擾一群群獅子、角馬，在草原四處快跑，就像天上所有的星星在空中東躥西跳。我在馬賽依區打獵，只要身邊有大獵犬，從未漏掉過一隻擊中的動物。 牠們在原始森林裡也顯得很美，深灰的身影鑲嵌在一片暗綠的樹蔭下。有一條大獵犬，單槍匹馬咬死一隻龐大的雄狒狒。在格鬥中，牠的鼻子被狒狒咬穿了，使其高貴的氣質受到了損傷。然而，莊園裡每個人都視之為光榮的傷疤，因為狒狒是害人之獸，土著深惡痛絕。 大獵犬很聰明，知道僕人中誰是穆斯林，不得接觸狗類。 我初到非洲時，有一個索馬利亞扛槍夫，名叫伊斯梅爾，他過世時，我還在非洲。他是舊時扛槍夫之一，如今沒有這種職業了。他是那些本世紀初的狩獵行家培養出來的那時非洲是真正的行獵樂土。伊斯梅爾對文明的了解全限於獵場，他講的是行獵世界的英語，對我的獵槍，無論新式老式都能評論一番。他返回索馬利亞後，曾給我來過一封信，收信人寫的是母獅布里克森，信的開頭是尊敬的母獅。他是一個道道地地的穆斯林，一輩子都不肯與狗接觸，這給他的職業生活造成不少麻煩。但他對達斯克例外，從不計較我把牠裝在一輛騾車上，他甚至允許和牠同住一個帳篷。他說這是因為達斯克認得出穆斯林，不會碰他、摸他的。實際上，伊斯梅爾是讓我確信達斯克一眼能看出誰是真正的穆斯林。他曾對我說：我現在知道了，達斯克與你屬一個種族，他總是對人歡笑。 魯魯在我家的權利和地位，現在連我的大獵犬都明白。這兩位行獵大將的傲氣，在魯魯面前化為烏有了。牠們在自己最愛待的牛奶盆前、火爐前受到魯魯的排擠。我在魯魯的頸圈上繫了一隻小鈴鐺，有一度，獵犬們一聽到叮鈴聲從別的房間傳來，就會順從地從爐前溫暖的地方爬起來，躺到其他地方去。當然，魯魯的舉止風度優雅、灑脫，也實在無與倫比。牠走來，臥下，完全像一位姿容秀美的大家閨秀，嫻雅地提一提拖地的長裙，落落大方地坐下。牠以彬彬有禮、略帶挑剔的神采喝著牛奶，彷彿為女主人過分的恩寵而有一點不安。牠總是要人搔牠的耳背，那種富於自制的神態，就像年輕的妻子嬌嗔地任丈夫撫愛。 魯魯長大了，像一枝充滿朝氣的可愛的花朵，亭亭玉立。牠苗條而又豐腴，從鼻子到腳，透出一種難以置信的美。牠的形象就像是海涅一首詩的工筆插圖：恆河水畔，有一群聰敏、溫柔的小羚羊。 但魯魯並非真正溫柔，其內心隱藏著所謂的邪魔。牠具有最典型的女性特徵，全副身心地進行自衛，以保護自己的完美無缺，同時又全力以赴，決意進攻。牠對抗誰？對抗整個世界，如果我的馬惹牠不高興，牠的情緒會失去控制，一頭撞過去。我記得漢堡的海根貝克老人曾說過，在所有的動物中，包括食肉類，鹿是最不可靠的動物。你可以信任花豹，但你若是對牡鹿不備戒心，則或遲或早會遭到牠從你背後發起的襲擊。羚羊魯魯有的也正是這種氣質。 魯魯是我家的驕傲，即使當牠的行為如一個真正不知恥的風騷娘們那般。儘管我們嬌生慣養牠，也未能使牠高興。有時，牠一連幾小時或整個下午外出。有時，她中了邪一樣，對環境的不滿達到了高潮。為了尋求自己心靈的滿足，牠會在房前草坪上跳起武士舞，就像撒旦跟前轉圈狂舞的祈禱者。 啊，魯魯，我心潮起伏，我知道你出奇地健美，你能躍過你自己的高度。而此刻你是在向我們發怒，希望我們都死去。實際上，只要你下得了手，我們一定會死的。但使你煩惱的不是你此刻想像的那樣：我們設置了過高的障礙讓你跳躍。我們又怎麼可能那樣做呢，你是偉大的跳高能手啊。事實是我們任何障礙都沒設置。偉大的力量在你體內，魯魯，種種障礙也都在你的身上。關鍵是時機尚未到來。 一天傍晚，魯魯沒有回家。我們在外面找了整整一週都沒找到。這對我們所有的人無疑是一個沉重的打擊。我們張貼了布告，可別人家也沒見到牠。我想到了河邊的豹子。一天晚上，我向卡曼坦說起了豹子。 他照例停頓了一會，沒回答我，大概在消化我所缺乏的洞察力。幾天後他才來找我談這件事：你相信魯魯死了，姆沙布？ 我不願說得如此直率，只是告訴他我奇怪魯魯為何久久不歸。 魯魯，卡曼坦說，牠沒死，但牠嫁人了。 這是個驚人的喜訊，我問他是如何得知的。 嗯，是的，他說，牠結婚了，牠與牠的波瓦拿【註：斯瓦希里語，意即先生、丈夫、主人譯者】一起住在森林裡。不過牠沒有忘記我們。早晨牠常回到這裡來。我在廚房後頭的地上給牠撒了一些玉米粒，在太陽出來時，牠從樹林那邊回來吃玉米。牠的波瓦拿跟牠一起來，但怕見人，波瓦拿跟這裡的人不熟，站在草坪另一頭的大白樹下，始終不敢接近我們的房子。 我吩咐卡曼坦下次見到魯魯來時叫我。沒過幾天，日出前他來叫我出去。 那是個可愛的早晨，我們等候的時候，最後一些星星消失了。天空一碧澄澄，而我們周圍的世界仍是一片暗淡，分外寂靜。草是潮溼的，樹下的坡地上閃著露珠，猶如發出淡光的銀子。早晨的空氣帶著寒意，臉上感到些許刺痛，這要是在北歐，就意味著快要霜凍了。不管你有多少回經驗我想這仍然是難以置信的，在這涼意與樹蔭之中，再過一兩小時，太陽的炎熱、天空的光亮都會令人忍受不了。灰濛濛的霧籠罩山巒，勾勒出奇異的形狀。這時候，野牛若在山邊吃草，就像在雲裡一樣，這是十分寒冷的。 我們頭上的天穹漸漸地變得透明，就像一隻盛著葡萄美酒的酒杯。剎那間，山頂輕輕地披上了第一束陽光。慢慢地，隨著地球向太陽轉過去，山腳的草坡變成一片瑰麗的金黃，馬賽依樹林顯得低矮了。河岸這一邊，高樹的頂端塗上了深褐色。此刻正是樹林裡的野紫鴿騰飛的時候，牠們在河彼岸巢居，飛到我莊園的林子裡尋覓野栗子。牠們一年只有短短一段時間棲息在這裡；這些野鴿子來得出奇地迅捷，簡直像空中鐵騎發動的襲擊。我奈洛比的朋友們常到莊園來，趁早晨打野鴿。為了在太陽剛剛升起時趕到這裡，他們常很早出發，到達時車燈還亮著哩。 佇立在清澈平靜的樹蔭下，眺望金色的山巒、明淨的天空，你會得到一種感覺：實際上你行走在海底，水流從身邊淌過去，你仰望著大海的表層。 一隻鳥開始鳴叫。接著我側耳聆聽，在樹林不遠處，傳來鈴鐺的叮鈴聲。啊，喜從天降，魯魯回來了，回到牠的老地方了！牠近了，更近了，我能從牠的節奏中獲悉牠的動作；牠走走，停停，又走走，停停。拐過一所茅屋，牠奇蹟般出現在我們眼前。見到羚羊離房子這麼近，我們一下子變得興奮難抑。此刻，魯魯一動不動地站在那裡，似乎對見到卡曼坦有足夠的思想準備，而見到我卻感到意外。但牠沒離去，牠望著我，不害怕，沒有任何對過去小小衝突的記憶，也忘記了自己不知感恩而不辭而別的行為。 樹林裡的魯魯，自強自立，層次更高了。牠的心靈發生了變化，具有一種占有感波瓦拿。假設我偶爾認識一位流亡之中的年輕公主，當時她還是一個王位的覬覦者，而後來我再遇見她時，她已經獲得了她的權利，成為名副其實的王后。我與魯魯的重逢正帶著這種色彩。當年路易斯．菲力浦國王宣稱法國國王對奧林斯公爵不記恨，而今魯魯並不比路易斯更具有內疚之情，牠現在是徹頭徹尾的魯魯了。進攻精神在牠身上已消逝，牠進攻誰？為什麼要進攻？牠安穩地自立於神聖的權利。牠完全記得我，並不感到可怕。牠凝視我約有一分鐘，那紫色的朦朧的雙眼，十分冷峻，一眨也不眨。我想起來了，唯有上帝或聖母才不眨眼。我感到自己面對的是牛眼海拉。牠從我身旁走過，輕輕地勾了一片草葉兒，又向前躍了一小步，繼續往廚房後院走，那兒的地上有卡曼坦撒的玉米。 卡曼坦用手指碰了一下我的臂膀，接著指向樹林。順著他指的方向，我看見一棵高高的野栗樹下，有一隻雄羚羊像一幅茶色的小剪影襯在林子的邊緣長著一對漂亮的旋角，紋絲不動，木樁般立在那裡。卡曼坦觀察牠一會兒，笑了起來。 你看這兒，他說，魯魯向牠的波瓦拿解釋，房屋那邊沒有什麼可怕的東西，但雄羚羊仍不敢過來。每天早上，牠想，今天一定要走近一些，可是一見到房子、人群，牠又像肚子裡落下一塊冰冷的石頭，這是士著世界的習語，常用來形容莊園農活的棘手於是，便又停留在樹下。 很長一段時間，魯魯一清早來到我的宅子，牠那清脆的鈴鐺聲諭示太陽出山了。我常假寐以待，傾聽著牠的鈴聲。有時候一兩個星期不見牠來，我們很掛念牠，便開始打聽誰進山裡打過獵。可不久我的僕人又通報：魯魯來了。就像是出嫁的女兒回娘家一般。我幾次見到樹叢中雄羚羊的剪影。卡曼坦是對的，牠還沒有足夠的勇氣一直走到房子跟前來。 一天，我從奈洛比歸來，卡曼坦正在廚房外瞭望。他迎過來，神色激動地告訴我魯魯來了，而且帶著牠的托托小羊羔。幾天後，我也幸運地在僕人的茅屋外遇見魯魯。牠很警覺，不許人們靠近，足下有一隻小小的羊羔，其動作之緩慢、美妙，恰好與我們初識時的魯魯一模一樣。那天正值大雨季結束不久。在那些熱季的日子，每逢黎明和下午，總能見到魯魯在住宅附近。有時連中午牠也來，在茅屋的蔭涼處休憩。 魯魯的小羊羔不怕獵犬，任牠們上下嗅聞。但牠還不習慣與土著或我接觸。要是我們試圖想抱抱牠，母子倆會迅即離去。 魯魯由於一度較長時期地離開我們，再不會靠得我們很近，讓我們撫摸牠了。但在其他方面，牠仍是友好的；牠理解我們想看看羚羊羔的願望，也願意接受一節餵牠的甘蔗。牠會走到餐廳敞開的門前，若有所思地張望朦朧之中的房間，但再沒有跨進過門檻。那時牠已丟失了小鈴鐺，來來往往，悄然無聲。 我的僕人請求我允許他們把魯魯的托托抓回來，像當初收養魯魯那樣餵養牠。但我總覺得，這樣會糟蹋魯魯對我們的君子式信任。 我還覺得我家與羚羊之間的自由聯合乃是罕見的、彌足珍貴的事。魯魯從野性世界來到這兒，是來表示對我們的友好的懷念。牠將我的屋舍當作非洲自然景觀之一，所以沒有人能辨別在什麼地方，一種景觀消逝，另一種景觀開始。魯魯知道森林裡的野豬窩在哪裡，也曾見到過犀牛交配。在非洲，有一種杜鵑鳥，每當熱季的正午在森林深處鳴唱，就像世界心臟的鏗鏘有聲的搏跳。無論是我，還是我認識的任何人，都一直無緣見到這種杜鵑。沒人能告訴我牠的模樣。但是魯魯也許曾在細長的、綠色的鹿徑上行走，頭頂的樹杈上正好有杜鵑棲息。那時我正在讀一本書，寫的是中國古代女皇的故事，其中說到生了皇子後，這位年輕的葉赫那拉氏衣錦還鄉。她從紫禁城出發，坐在金色、綠色相間的轎子裡，好不威風。我想，我的莊園現在也酷似年輕女皇的娘家了。 兩隻羚羊，一大一小，整個熱季都在我房舍周圍閒逛，有時間隔兩三個星期，有時天天見到。在下一年雨季開始時，僕人們告訴我，魯魯這回又帶了一個新生的羊羔來，我沒見到，因為那時牠們回來，距我家較遠，但後來我在林子裡見到了牠們娘兒三個。 魯魯及其家庭與我家的關係持續了好多年。這些羚羊常在鄰近我宅子的地方，牠們在樹林裡進進出出，似乎我的莊園是野生動物園的一個省份。牠們來的時間，絕大多數是落日之前。開始，牠們走進樹叢，像精巧暗淡的投影，背景是深綠色。而當牠們步出樹叢，來到草坪，在夕照下覓食時，牠們的皮毛又如紅銅般閃光。其中之一便是魯魯，牠走得更近，步態安閒，車輛駛來或窗戶打開時，牠會豎起耳朵傾聽；獵犬也辨別得出牠來的動靜。隨著歲月的推移，牠的皮色漸深。一次，我與一個朋友駕車來到房前，見到三隻羚羊在平臺上圍著鹽巴我撒在那裡給母牛食用的。 令人稱奇的是，除了那隻大雄羚羊魯魯的波瓦拿站在野栗樹下，昂著頭以外，來這裡的沒有一隻雄羚羊，似乎我們在與森林中的母系氏族打交道。 本殖民地的獵手和自然學家們對我們的羚羊頗感興趣，野生動物監察官專程驅車前來看望牠們，他還真見到了。一位記者採寫了牠們的通訊發表在《東非旗幟報》。 魯魯及其一家來與我們作伴的那些歲月是我在非洲生活中最愉快的時光。出於這個原因，我終於將自己與森林羚羊的交往視為上天的一種莫大的恩惠、非洲友誼的標誌。整個山野都處於這種溫馨的氣氛之中，吉祥的兆頭，古老的契約，還有那首歌： 快來，快來 我的愛， 隨你喜歡 美麗的牡鹿還是 飄香的山坡上 年輕的雄鹿。 我在非洲的最後幾年裡，魯魯和牠的家屬越來越少見了。在我離開非洲的前一年裡，我認為牠們已有很久不曾來過了。世事變了。我莊園南邊的土地分給了農戶，森林砍伐、清理了，一幢幢房子蓋起來了。許多新來的移民都是些癮頭很大的運動家，來福槍聲在田野裡迴蕩。我相信野生動物搬向西邊，進入了馬賽依保護區的樹林裡。 我不知道一隻羚羊能活多久，也許魯魯死了很久了。 在黎明寧靜的時光裡，我時常，幾乎總是夢到我聽到了魯魯清脆的鈴聲，在我的睡眠裡，我的心歡樂地搏動。我醒來，期望十分離奇而又甜美的事情發生快快發生，馬上發生。 當我這麼躺著，思念魯魯時，我不知在牠的生涯裡，會不會夢到過鈴鐺。在牠的心境裡，是否掠過人與獵犬的畫面，就像水上的倒影那樣。 如果我會唱非洲的歌我想唱那長頸鹿，以及灑在牠背上的新月；唱那田中犁鏵，以及咖啡農淌汗的臉龐；那麼，非洲會唱我的歌麼？草原上的空氣會因我具有的色彩而震顫麼？孩子們會發明一個以我的名字命名的遊戲麼？圓月會在我旅途的礫石上投下酷似我的影子麼？還有，恩戈山上的蒼鷹會眺望、尋覓我的蹤影麼？ 自從離開非洲後，我一直沒聽到魯魯的音訊，但我有卡曼坦的音訊，其他非洲僕人的音訊。此刻接到卡曼坦最後一封來信還不到一個月哩。連這些來自非洲的信件，都好像是以一種奇異、虛幻的方式抵達我這裡的，與其說是現實裡的消息，毋寧說像影子或海市蜃樓。 卡曼坦不會寫字，也不懂英語。當他或者我的其他僕人打算告訴我一些近況時，就去找專職代客寫信的印度人或土著，告訴他們要寫什麼。他們坐在郵局門口的寫字桌前，桌上鋪著紙，放著鋼筆和墨水。他們也不大懂英語，而且很難恭維他們懂得寫作，但他們自信能勝任代人寫信。為了炫耀他們的技巧，不惜在信中添加一系列的華麗詞藻，使得信件艱深難以讀通。他們還有個癖好，喜歡用三、四種不同的墨水書寫。不管其動機如何，給人的印象是他們缺少墨水，只好把不同顏色的墨水瓶底最後一滴墨水都吸出來。經過這些非凡的努力，寫出來的信件就像來自古希臘特斐爾城的神諭。我收到的這些信自有深度，你會感到這