by Hon Lai Chu, translated from Chinese into English by Andrea Lingenfelter

Everybody knew W by the way he walked, like the letter "Z".

Actually, it wasn't just his gait, that distinctive way of moving, that set him apart from the crowd. There was also the process he used to cultivate and cook his food. Some people said he understood soil and food, while others said he could see inside people to their organs and viscera and spot what was missing. Others still said that he was a scheming politician whose plan was to gain people's faith in order to bamboozle them, and that his ultimate goal was not just merely to capture people's hearts but also to obtain land rights. The agriculture class he started had used education as a vehicle for planting seeds in people's brains and was a poker-faced declaration of war on landowners.

"In any case, he belonged to that minority of people who look like the letter Z when they walk." Even among those who had serious misgivings about W's ongoing efforts to win people over, the moment someone brought up W's idiosyncratic gait, there would ensue a pregnant and admiring silence. This place had never before seen anyone who could walk down the street with such conviction. By this I mean that practically everybody else had chosen the same way of walking, ramrod straight and speeding along as if chasing a gazelle. Sometimes I really wish I knew why they all rush around like they're in a walking race, when there's nothing in front of them but a vague landscape—either a cluster of bobbing heads, or else a bunch of utterly expressionless windows atop some piece of architecture.

There were people who went so far as to say that W was a god, particularly those who'd eaten the food he cooked. Adopting a playful tone, they would reveal something that no one else dared admit: not whether or not they thought W possessed greater abilities than ordinary people, but rather that they were just too exhausted to give serious thought to anything and were thus easily captivated by anyone or anything with a tinge of the occult.

"If he's not a god, then why won't my palate let me forget him?" T, who had fallen into a vortex of depression after visiting W's restaurant, told me this at a group meal. By that point, T had become as spindly as the last barren limb of winter.

Sometimes I too yearned to close my eyes for a moment and let those people's words waft around inside my head.

***

"You should eat a lot," W said to me. His tone was hard to resist. In the restaurant (which was actually W's house, as he'd remodeled his home into an establishment that offered food to the public), sunlight had climbed up to fill all of the window and was eyeing us so hungrily and greedily that it threatened to see right through our skin. Apart from me, there were no other customers. W said that most people eat quantities in excess of what they need, but the more they eat, the more famished they feel, and their stomachs feel like bottomless pits. "On the other hand, people who refuse to eat experience a growing sense of fullness, and they no longer need connections or interactions with the outside world. Ultimately, food is simply a bridge that links us to the outside world," W said.

I told him I wasn't there for a cure. "I'm just curious about the food you cook." I was looking for a tactful way to keep him from going on and on about his theories.

But he was undeterred and pressed on with an endless stream of detailed explications of the key points of his ideas. It wasn't until long after that I realised that this patter had been part of the menu he'd designed for me, and it didn't matter whether I liked it or not. I'd made a reservation, and guided by the principle that one doesn't waste food, I would consume it all.

"If you want your food to be truly digested inside your body, it's not enough for you simply to eat it." He continued: "You must simultaneously be food yourself and be ingested into someone else's stomach. In this way, you and the person who consumes you will both be nourished."

"Yes, but if I've been eaten, wouldn't I disappear? I wouldn't be me anymore."

I sensed the absurdity of what W was saying, but I wanted to preserve the polite atmosphere. It seemed that this was the only way to keep everything around us from imploding.

"No, that won't happen," he reassured me with a smile. "Everyone who's been eaten will become an even better person." When he smiled, his eyes looked like a pair of fish floating on his face, but before long they swam off in another direction.

***

Closing my eyes didn't have any effect on real life, though sometimes it did bring me a sort of happiness. Every now and then, when I was riding the bus to W's restaurant, I'd run into friends who had known me a long time, and they would all say I'd changed, that I looked like an apple, newly fallen from a tree and not yet spoiled, but gleaming in a way suggesting that little flies might soon emerge from its shiny surface. I thought this was because I could hold to some simple beliefs, which firmly repressed whatever thoughts might have brought everything down.

Each time I went to the restaurant was time spent alone with W. He would close all the windows and pull down all the blinds so that we couldn't see the shifting light and shadows, and time seemed to stand still. Clouds of aromatic steam filled that white house: a vat of chicken soup that had simmered overnight; a platter of tomatoes, basil and potatoes; a tureen of chestnut, thin dried tofu rolls and braised pork ribs; grouper steamed with ginger and scallions; or perhaps tofu braised with fennel. "Your deficiency is in your liver. As a result, you get stuck for long periods in these gloomy funks," he said. I told him repeatedly that this was not true, that I was usually quite cheerful and upbeat, but I gradually stopped arguing, because disputes would have frittered away what little light remained in that room.

When we had eaten all the food on the table, W would take me into a dark room. It was as quiet as the airless depths at the bottom of the sea. Then he would suck on me like a fish, which made me feel as though I truly was a blade of sea grass or a branch of coral waving in the current.

After the time reserved for lunch had passed, he would see me to the bus stop, always with these words: "You're not missing anything, right?" I would smile in assent. I couldn't possibly tell him, or perhaps it was difficult for me to admit to myself that I was weakening, and that my frailness was exceedingly close to pure joy. If I could just lie in bed and not get up, I would eventually turn into a pile of dry bones, which would nourish the soil.

***

They brought me to the hospital, and when I woke up, the doctor asked me: "When did you lose your left kidney?"

"You couldn't find my left kidney?" I finally recognised something I thought had happened to someone else.

"Did you donate it?"

"Not that I remember," I said. My lips were getting chapped.

So I gave W a call, and before I could say a word, he asked me when I was going to come to his restaurant again. He was very hungry, he said, and he couldn't last much longer.

"Why did you steal my kidney?" I knew that if I didn't find out exactly what had happened, I would never again be able to eat anything he cooked.

"Because you wouldn't have given it to me voluntarily," he confessed. "In the course of their life, every stingy person is bound to run into at least one thief." He laughed smugly, as if ever so pleased with his turn of phrase.

I put down the phone and pressed it to my heart. After a while it had warmed up.

From then on, whenever I felt like telling someone about my missing kidney, without realising it I would start walking like the letter Z, but I wasn't the only person walking that way. When I opened my eyes, I saw grey specks floating in the air, a seashore blanketed with discarded objects, a sky like a gigantic cage and a beggar willingly cutting off his own limbs. I also saw that at busy times of day, there were people walking like Z's on every street.

***

At the end of my sick leave, I returned to the office. Lowering my voice, I asked the coworker at the neighbouring desk: "When did it all start to happen around here, these changes, including changes in how people walk?"

My colleague gave me a meaningful smile: "It's always been like this here, nothing's changed at all." With that he turned away and buried his head in a pile of documents. The room was swollen with the sound of fingertips tapping on keyboards, and the sound was like a wall, rising rapidly from the ground until it reached the sky.
 

失竊的腎

W以「之」字型的走路方式，為大眾所認識。

其實，不但是他的步伐，呈現跟大部分的人相反的姿態，還有他種植和烹調食物的過程。有人說，他懂得泥土和食物，另一些人說，他能透視客人的內臟和器官正在欠缺什麼，但也有人說，他其實是個儲心積累的政治家，打算用一種令人不解的方式，換取公眾的信任，而他最終打算取得的不止是人的心，還有土地的擁有權。他所倡議的耕作訓練班，就是透過教育在人的腦袋內播下種籽，向土地的持有者不動聲色地宣戰。 

「無論如何，他是少數以之字型走路的人。」即使他們對W的企圖始終抱持強烈的懷疑，可是當有人提出W這項令人難以忽略的特質，便會引起一種由讚嘆而來的非常豐滿的沉默。這裡從沒有一個人，具有真正的走路的勇氣，我的意思是，幾乎每個人都採取相同的步行方式，像一根筆直的線，速度像在追趕一頭羚羊，有時，我想弄清楚他們像競步一般慌張，到底是為了什麼，可是他們的前方，往往都是一片無法看清的風景，不是另一批聳動的頭顱，便是建築物之上毫無表情的窗子。

甚至有人說，W是神，尤其是，吃過他做的菜的人，他們以玩笑的語氣，透露出一種沒有人敢於承認的想法，不是究竟W是否具有高於世人的能力，而是，他們已經疲累得不願認真地思考任何事，才會沉迷各種具神秘色彩的人和事。

「如果他不是神，怎麼可能，我會因為自己的舌頭而再也無法忘掉他？」到訪W開設的餐廳後，便陷入了憂鬱漩渦裡的T在一次聚餐中對我們說，那時候，他已經消瘦得像冬天最後一根枯枝。

有時候，我也渴望能暫時關上眼睛，因此讓他們的話在我的腦裡迴蕩。

「你要吃很多。」W以一種難以拂逆的語氣對我說。在那所餐廳內（其實那是W的房子，他把自己居住的地方，改建成一所對外開放的提供食物的場所），陽光爬滿了所有的窗子，像一種虎視眈眈的目光將要穿透我們的皮膚。在那裡，除了我，再沒有別的客人。他說，大部分的人都吃下超過身體所需要的份量，於是，繼續進食，便會愈來愈飢餓，空腹感像一個深淵。「可是，愈是拒絕進食的人，他們的飽足感愈強，如此，他們再也不需跟外界產生任何接觸或溝通。畢竟食物就是通向外界的橋樑。」W說。

我告訴他，我並不是為了治療而來。「只是對於你做的菜感到好奇。」我希望以一種婉轉的方式阻止他繼續他的理論。

他卻沒有因此而停止，反而滔滔不絕對詳細解釋他的觀點和論據。很久以後，我才明白，那是他為我設計的餐單的一部分，不管是否喜歡，我已作出了預訂，基於不可浪費食物的原則，我也一併吃下了它。

「假設想要食物在身體內真正被消化，那麼，只是進食並不足夠，」他說：「你必須同時作為食物被另一個人吃進肚子裡，你，以及另一個吃掉了你的人，才會同時得到滋養。」

「那麼，我被吃掉後，不是就會消失了嗎？我就不是我了。」

我感到W話裡的荒謬，可是我還是想要保持一種禮貌的氣氛。似乎唯有如此，四周才不致突然崩塌。

「不會。」他笑著保證：「曾經被吃過的，都會進化成更好的人。」他笑起來的時候，眼睛像兩尾懸浮的魚。不久後，魚就游向另一個方向。

把眼睛關掉，並不會為實際生活帶來任何影響，有時候，那甚至帶來一種單純的快樂，以至，那些認識我已久的朋友，某次在我乘車前往W的餐廳時，在車廂內碰到我，都說我變了，變得像一個剛剛從樹上掉落的蘋果，在爛熟之前，發出一種燦爛的，幾乎能蜉化出蟲子的亮光。我以為，那是因為那時候，我可以單純地相信著一些事情，嚴格地壓抑著推翻一切的念頭。

每次我到達那所餐廳，都是我跟W獨處的時光。他會關上所有窗子，拉下所有的窗簾，我們無法看到日影的轉移，時間彷彿從不曾流逝。在那所白色的房子裡，食物的香氣在蒸騰，一窩熬了一整個夜裡的雞湯，一碟蕃茄羅勒葉馬鈴薯，一盆粟子腐竹燘排骨，一尾清蒸石斑，或，茴香煮豆腐。「你的缺失在於肝藏，使你長久徘徊在鬱鬱不歡的狀態。」他說。我多次說出，這並非事實，在大部分的時候，我愉悅而自足，可是我漸漸不再反駁，因為爭吵會消磨屋內僅餘的光線。

當我們吃光了桌面上所有的食物，W便會帶我走進一個幽暗的房間裡。那裡安靜得像沒有空氣的深海底部。然後，他便會以一尾魚的方法吸吮我，使我感到，我其實是一根海草，或，在水底隨著水流晃動的珊瑚。

當預約的午餐時間過去了以後，他送我走到車站時都會說：「你並沒有失去什麼，對嗎？」我便會以微笑表示認同。可是我沒法告訴他，或許也難對自己承認，我漸漸虛弱，虛弱得非常接近純綷的快樂。要是我可以一直躺在床上，便能直接化成一堆白骨，滋養泥土。

他們把我送到醫院去，當我轉醒過來，醫生問我：「你是在什麼時候失去左邊的腎？」

「我的左腎不見了嗎？」我竟然覺得，那好像發生在另一個人身上的事。

「你曾經把它捐贈給任何人嗎？」

「我不記得我這樣做過。」我說。嘴唇便漸漸乾燥起來。

於是我撥了一通電話給W，在我說出任何話之前，他問我何時會再到他的餐廳，他說他很餓，快要支撐不住。

「你為什麼偷去了我的腎呢？」我知道，要是不弄清楚這件事，就沒法再去吃他所做的菜。

「因為你不願意自願給我。」他直認不諱：「每個吝嗇的人，都會遇上至少一名盗賊。」他得意地笑了起來，似乎非常滿意自己的說法。

我放下了電話筒，把它貼近我的心臟，時間久了，便溫熱了起來。

以後，當我想告訴任何人，我那顆丟失的腎臟時，便會不自覺地以之字型的方式走路，但我並非唯一這樣做的人。當我睜開了眼睛，看到空氣中飄浮著灰色的粒子，海岸上佈滿了被丟棄的廢物，天空像一個巨大的籠子，乞丐自願地割下自己的肢體，我也看見，在繁忙時間的街道，到處都是以之字型的方式走路的人。

病假結束之後，我回到辦公室，低聲問鄰座的同事：「是在什麼時候開始，這裡的一切，包括人們步行的姿勢，都開始出現改變？」