AUTHOR'S NOTE

This book was born as I was hungry. Let me explain. Inthe spring of 1996, my second book, a novel, came out inCanada. It didn't fare well. Reviewers were puzzled, ordamned it with faint praise. Then readers ignored it.
Despite my best efforts at playing the clown or the trapezeartist, the media circus made no difference. The book didnot move. Books lined the shelves of bookstores like kidsstanding in a row to play baseball or soccer, and mine wasthe gangly, unathletic kid that no one wanted on theirteam. It vanished quickly and quietly.
The fiasco did not affect me too much. I had alreadymoved on to another story, a novel set in Portugal in 1939.
Only I was feeling restless. And I had a little money.
So I flew to Bombay. This is not so illogical if yourealize three things: that a stint¹ in India will beat therestlessness out of any living creature; that a little moneycan go a long way there; and that a novel set in Portugalin 1939 may have very little to do with Portugal in 1939.
I had been to India before, in the north, for five months.
On that first trip I had come to the subcontinent completelyunprepared. Actually, I had a preparation of one word.
When I told a friend who knew the country well of mytravel plans, he said casually², "They speak a funny Englishin India. They like words like bamboozle³." I remembered hiswords as my plane started its descent towards Delhi, so theword bamboozle was my one preparation for the rich, noisy,functioning madness of India. I used the word on occasion,and truth be told, it served me well. To a clerk at a trainstation I said, "I didn't think the fare would be soexpensive. You're, not trying to bamboozle me, are you?" Hesmiled and chanted, "No sir! There is no bamboozlementhere. I have quoted you the correct fare."This second time to India I knew better what to expectand I knew what I wanted: I would settle in a hill stationand write my novel. I had visions of myself sitting at atable on a large veranda⁴, my notes spread out in front ofme next to a steaming cup of tea. Green hills heavy withmists would lie at my feet and the shrill⁵ cries of monkeyswould fill my ears. The weather would be just right,requiring a light sweater mornings and evenings, andsomething short-sleeved midday. Thus set up, pen in hand,for the sake of greater truth, I would turn Portugal into afiction. That's what fiction is about, isn't it, the selectivetransforming of reality? The twisting of it to bring out itsessence? What need did I have to go to Portugal?
The lady who ran the place would tell me stories aboutthe struggle to boot the British out. We would agree onwhat I was to have for lunch and supper the next day.
After my writing day was over, I would go for walks inthe rolling hills of the tea estates.
Unfortunately, the novel sputtered⁶, coughed and died. Ithappened in Matheran, not far from Bombay, a small hillstation with some monkeys but no tea estates. It's a miserypeculiar to would-be writers. Your theme is good, as areyour sentences. Your characters are so ruddy with life theypractically need birth certificates. The plot you've mappedout for them is grand, simple and gripping. You've doneyour research, gathering⁷ the facts – historical, social,climatic, culinary – that will give your story its feel ofauthenticity. The dialogue zips along, crackling with tension.
The descriptions burst with colour, contrast and tellingdetail. Really, your story can only be great. But it all addsup to nothing. In spite of the obvious, shining promise of it,there comes a moment when you realize that the whisperthat has been pestering⁸ you all along from the back ofyour mind is speaking the flat, awful truth: it won't work.
An element is missing, that spark that brings to life a realstory, regardless of whether the history or the food is right.
Your story is emotionally dead, that's the crux⁹ of it. Thediscovery is something soul-destroying, I tell you. It leavesyou with an aching hunger.
From Matheran I mailed the notes of my failed novel. Imailed them to a fictitious¹⁰ address in Siberia, with a returnaddress, equally fictitious, in Bolivia. After the clerk hadstamped the envelope and thrown it into a sorting bin¹¹, Isat down, glum¹² and disheartened. "What now, Tolstoy?
What other bright ideas do you have for your life?" I askedmyself.
Well, I still had a little money and I was still feelingrestless. I got up and walked out of the post office toexplore the south of India.
I would have liked to say, "I'm a doctor," to those whoasked me what I did, doctors being the current purveyorsof magic and miracle. But I'm sure we would have had abus accident around the next bend, and ‘with all eyes fixedon me I would have to explain, amidst the crying andmoaning of victims, that I meant in law; then, to theirappeal to help them sue the government over the mishap¹³, Iwould have to confess that as a matter of fact it was aBachelor's in philosophy; next, to the shouts of whatmeaning such a bloody¹⁴ tragedy could have, I would have toadmit that I had hardly touched Kierkegaard; and so on. Istuck to the humble¹⁵, bruised¹⁶ truth.
Along the way, here and there, I got the response, "Awriter"? Is that so? I have a story for you." Most times thestones were little more than anecdotes¹⁷, short of breath andshort of life.
I arrived in the town of Pondicherry, a tinyself-governing union Territory south of Madras, on thecoast of Tamil Nadu. In population and size it is aninconsequent part of India – by comparison, Prince EdwardIsland is a giant within Canada – but history has set itapart. For Pondicherry was once the capital of that mostmodest of colonial empires, French India. The French wouldhave liked to rival the British, very much so, but the onlyRaj they managed to get was a handful of small ports.
They clung to these for nearly three hundred years. Theyleft Pondicherry in 1954, leaving behind nice white buildings,broad streets at right angles to each other, street namessuch as rue¹⁸ de la Marine¹⁹ and rue Saint-Louis, and kepis,caps, for the policemen.
I was at the Indian Coffee House, on Nehru Street. It'sone big room with green walls and a high ceiling. Fanswhirl above you to keep the warm, humid air moving. Theplace is furnished to capacity with identical square tables,each with its complement²⁰ of four chairs. You sit where youcan, with whoever is at a table. The coffee is good andthey serve French toast. Conversation is easy to come by.
And so, a spry, bright-eyed elderly man with great shocksof pure white hair was talking to me. I confirmed to himthat Canada was cold and that French was indeed spokenin parts of it and that I liked India and so on and soforth – the usual light talk between friendly, curious Indiansand foreign backpackers. He took in my line of work witha widening of the eyes and a nodding of the head. It wastime to go. I had my hand up, trying to catch my waiterseye to get the bill.
Then the elderly man said, "I have a story that willmake you believe in God."I stopped waving my hand. But I was suspicious. Wasthis a Jehovah's Witness knocking at my door? "Does yourstory take place two thousand years ago in a remote cornerof the Roman Empire?" I asked.
"No."Was he some sort of Muslim evangelist? "Does it takeplace in seventh-century Arabia?""No, no. It starts right here in Pondicherry just a fewyears back, and it ends, I am delighted to tell you, in thevery country you come from.""And it will make me believe in God?""Yes.""That's a tall order.""Not so tall that you can't reach."My waiter appeared. I hesitated for a moment. I orderedtwo coffees. We introduced ourselves. His name was FrancisAdirubasamy. "Please tell me your story," I said.
"You must pay proper attention," he replied.
"I will." I brought out pen and notepad.
"Tell me, have you been to the botanical garden?" heasked.
"I went yesterday.""Didyou notice the toy train tracks?""Yes, I did.""A train still runs on Sundays for the amusement of thechildren. But it used to run twice an hour every day. Didyou take note of the names of the stations?""One is called Roseville. It's right next to the rosegarden.""That's right. And the other?""I don't remember.""The sign was taken down. The other station was oncecalled Zootown. The toy train had two stops: Roseville andZootown. Once upon a time there was a zoo in thePondicherry Botanical Garden."He went on. I took notes, the elements of the story. "Youmust talk to him," he said, of the main character. "I knewhim very, very well. He's a grown man now. You must askhim all the questions you want."Later, in Toronto, among nine columns of Patels in thephone book, I found him, the main character. My heartpounded as I dialed his phone number. The voice thatanswered had an Indian lilt to its Canadian accent, lightbut unmistakable, like a trace of incense²¹ in the air. "Thatwas a very long time ago," he said. Yet he agreed to meet.
We met many times. He showed me the diary he keptduring the events. He showed me the yellowed newspaperclippings that made him briefly²², obscurely famous. He toldme his story. All the while I took notes. Nearly a yearlater, after considerable difficulties, I received a tape and areport from the Japanese Ministry²³ of Transport. It was as Ilistened to that tape that I agreed with Mr. Adirubasamythat this was, indeed, a story to make you believe in God.
It seemed natural that Mr. Patel's story should be toldmostly in the first person – in his voice and through hiseyes. But any inaccuracies or mistakes are mine.
I have a few people to thank. I am most obviouslyindebted to Mr. Patel. My gratitude²⁴ to him is as boundlessas the Pacific Ocean and I hope that my telling of his taledoes not disappoint him. For getting me started on thestory, I have Mr. Adirubasamy to thank. For helping²⁵ mecomplete it, I am grateful to three officials of exemplaryprofessionalism: Mr. Kazuhiko Oda, lately of the JapaneseEmbassy in Ottawa; Mr. Hiroshi Watanabe, of OikaShipping Company; and, especially, Mr. Tomohiro Okamoto,of the Japanese Ministry of Transport, now retired²⁶. As forthe spark of life, I owe it to Mr. Moacyr Scliar. Lastly, Iwould like to express my sincere gratitude to that greatinstitution, the Canada Council for the Arts, without whosegrant I could not have brought together this story that hasnothing to do with Portugal in 1939. If we, citizens, do notsupport our artists, then we sacrifice our imagination onthe altar of crude reality and we end up believing innothing and having worthless dreams.

1 stint   

v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事

参考例句：

• He lavished money on his children without stint.他在孩子们身上花钱毫不吝惜。
• We hope that you will not stint your criticism.我们希望您不吝指教。

2 casually   

adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地

参考例句：

• She remarked casually that she was changing her job.她当时漫不经心地说要换工作。
• I casually mentioned that I might be interested in working abroad.我不经意地提到我可能会对出国工作感兴趣。

3 bamboozle   

v.欺骗，隐瞒

参考例句：

• He was bamboozled by con men.他被骗子骗了。
• He bamboozled Mercer into defeat.他骗得默瑟认了输。

4 veranda   

n.走廊；阳台

参考例句：

• She sat in the shade on the veranda.她坐在阳台上的遮荫处。
• They were strolling up and down the veranda.他们在走廊上来回徜徉。

5 shrill   

adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫

参考例句：

• Whistles began to shrill outside the barn.哨声开始在谷仓外面尖叫。
• The shrill ringing of a bell broke up the card game on the cutter.刺耳的铃声打散了小汽艇的牌局。

6 sputtered   

v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的过去式和过去分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出

参考例句：

• The candle sputtered out. 蜡烛噼啪爆响着熄灭了。 来自《现代英汉综合大词典》
• The balky engine sputtered and stopped. 不听使唤的发动机劈啪作响地停了下来。 来自辞典例句

7 gathering   

n.集会，聚会，聚集

参考例句：

• He called on Mr. White to speak at the gathering.他请怀特先生在集会上讲话。
• He is on the wing gathering material for his novels.他正忙于为他的小说收集资料。

8 pestering   

使烦恼，纠缠( pester的现在分词 )

参考例句：

• He's always pestering me to help him with his homework. 他总是泡蘑菇要我帮他做作业。
• I'm telling you once and for all, if you don't stop pestering me you'll be sorry. 我这是最后一次警告你。如果你不停止纠缠我，你将来会后悔的。

9 crux   

adj.十字形；难事，关键，最重要点

参考例句：

• The crux of the matter is how to comprehensively treat this trend.问题的关键是如何全面地看待这种趋势。
• The crux of the matter is that attitudes have changed.问题的要害是人们的态度转变了。

10 fictitious   

adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的

参考例句：

• She invented a fictitious boyfriend to put him off.她虚构出一个男朋友来拒绝他。
• The story my mother told me when I was young is fictitious.小时候妈妈对我讲的那个故事是虚构的。

11 bin   

n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件

参考例句：

• He emptied several bags of rice into a bin.他把几袋米倒进大箱里。
• He threw the empty bottles in the bin.他把空瓶子扔进垃圾箱。

12 glum   

adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的

参考例句：

• He was a charming mixture of glum and glee.他是一个很有魅力的人，时而忧伤时而欢笑。
• She laughed at his glum face.她嘲笑他闷闷不乐的脸。

13 mishap   

n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸

参考例句：

• I'm afraid your son had a slight mishap in the playground.不好了，你儿子在操场上出了点小意外。
• We reached home without mishap.我们平安地回到了家。

14 bloody   

adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染

参考例句：

• He got a bloody nose in the fight.他在打斗中被打得鼻子流血。
• He is a bloody fool.他是一个十足的笨蛋。

15 humble   

adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低

参考例句：

• In my humble opinion,he will win the election.依我拙见，他将在选举中获胜。
• Defeat and failure make people humble.挫折与失败会使人谦卑。

16 bruised   

[医]青肿的，瘀紫的

参考例句：

• his bruised and bloodied nose 他沾满血的青肿的鼻子
• She had slipped and badly bruised her face. 她滑了一跤，摔得鼻青脸肿。

17 anecdotes   

n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 )

参考例句：

• amusing anecdotes about his brief career as an actor 关于他短暂演员生涯的趣闻逸事
• He related several anecdotes about his first years as a congressman. 他讲述自己初任议员那几年的几则轶事。 来自《简明英汉词典》

18 rue   

n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔

参考例句：

• You'll rue having failed in the examination.你会悔恨考试失败。
• You're going to rue this the longest day that you live.你要终身悔恨不尽呢。

19 marine   

adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵

参考例句：

• Marine creatures are those which live in the sea. 海洋生物是生存在海里的生物。
• When the war broke out,he volunteered for the Marine Corps.战争爆发时，他自愿参加了海军陆战队。

20 complement   

n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足

参考例句：

• The two suggestions complement each other.这两条建议相互补充。
• They oppose each other also complement each other.它们相辅相成。

21 incense   

v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气

参考例句：

• This proposal will incense conservation campaigners.这项提议会激怒环保人士。
• In summer,they usually burn some coil incense to keep away the mosquitoes.夏天他们通常点香驱蚊。

22 briefly   

adv.简单地，简短地

参考例句：

• I want to touch briefly on another aspect of the problem.我想简单地谈一下这个问题的另一方面。
• He was kidnapped and briefly detained by a terrorist group.他被一个恐怖组织绑架并短暂拘禁。

23 ministry   

n.(政府的)部；牧师

参考例句：

• They sent a deputation to the ministry to complain.他们派了一个代表团到部里投诉。
• We probed the Air Ministry statements.我们调查了空军部的记录。

24 gratitude   

adj.感激，感谢

参考例句：

• I have expressed the depth of my gratitude to him.我向他表示了深切的谢意。
• She could not help her tears of gratitude rolling down her face.她感激的泪珠禁不住沿着面颊流了下来。

25 helping   

n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的

参考例句：

• The poor children regularly pony up for a second helping of my hamburger. 那些可怜的孩子们总是要求我把我的汉堡包再给他们一份。
• By doing this, they may at times be helping to restore competition. 这样一来, 他在某些时候,有助于竞争的加强。

26 retired   

adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的

参考例句：

• The old man retired to the country for rest.这位老人下乡休息去了。
• Many retired people take up gardening as a hobby.许多退休的人都以从事园艺为嗜好。