I found it behind my neighbor's garage. They are all retired and will move to Florida soon. They would rather sell most things than spend money to transport them to the south.
I was eleven years old that year, and I was looking for a book about Mount Tai, or Clarence Malfoy's "Hauperon Castie" adventure epic, or Mickey Sparland's restricted novel. I found it all, but later I had to face the cruel reality. They are 50 cents each (even Kiss Me Deadly is exactly 1 dollar), while I only have 5 cents.
So I went on rummaging through everything and finally found the only book I could afford. The title of the book is Traveling with My Cat, and the author is Miss Priscilla Wallace. Not Priscilla, but Miss Priscilla. I thought miss was her last name for many years.
I turned over a few pages, hoping that there would be at least some pictures of half-naked indigenous girls hidden inside. There are no pictures in the book, only words. I'm not surprised; Somehow, I thought an author named Miss wouldn't post naked women in her book.
I think the book itself is too gorgeous and feminine for a boy who is training for Little League Baseball-the font on the cover protrudes from the surface, the title page of the volume is elegant, smooth and yellowish brown, the cover is wrapped in silky cloth, and there is even a bookmark tied with a smooth ribbon. Just as I was about to put it back, it turned to that page, which said: 12 1 limited printing of 200 copies.
This makes me treat it differently. I can have a real limited edition book with a nickel-how can I refuse? Before I took it to the garage, I honestly handed my nickel and waited for my mother to pick it out (she is always picky, but never buys it-buying is spending money, and she and my father never spend money on things that can be rented at a cheaper price or borrowed for free at a more cost-effective way).
I faced a big decision that night. I don't want to read a book called Traveling with My Cat, which was written by a woman named Miss, but I spent all my last five cents on this book-well, at least until I get my pocket money next week-and I have read my other books so many times that you can almost find traces of my eyes on them.
So I reluctantly picked it up and read the first page, followed by the second page-suddenly I seemed to be transported to the Kenyan colony, Siam (formerly known as Thailand) and Amazon. Miss Priscilla Wallace's description of things made me feel like I was there. When I finished reading a chapter, I felt like I was really there.
Those are cities that I have never heard of. Cities have exotic names, such as maracaibo, Samarkand (the eastern city of Uzbekistan in the Soviet Union), Addis Ababa (the Ethiopian capital), and some names like Constantinople (the port city of Istanbul in the northwest of Turkey). I can't even find them on the map.
Her father used to be an explorer, and there were explorers a long time ago. Her first few trips abroad were with him, and he undoubtedly let her appreciate the customs of those distant continents. My father is a compositor. I really envy her! )
I have some expectations that the chapter in Africa will be full of grumpy elephants and man-eating lions. Maybe Africa is-but that's not Africa in her eyes. Africa may have red fangs and claws, but for her, it reflects the golden morning light, and even some dark places are full of surprises, but they are not terrible.
She can find beauty everywhere. She described the 200 flower sellers lined up by the Seine River in Paris on Sunday morning, and also described a fragile flower blooming on the Gobi Desert. Somehow you knew that they were all as amazing as she described.
Suddenly, the buzzing alarm clock woke me up. This is the first time that I have stayed up all night. I put my books aside, dressed for school, and hurried home after school so that I could finish reading them as soon as possible.
I read it no less than six or seven times that year. I can even recite some paragraphs word for word. I fell in love with those distant foreign countries, and maybe a little author. I even wrote a book "Superstition" for her and sent it to "Somewhere, Silas Wallace, Spuri". Of course, it was returned.
Then, in the autumn, I fell in love with the novels by Robert A. Heine and Louis Flamel. A friend of mine saw traveling with my cat and made fun of my female cover and it was written by a woman, so I put it on the shelf and forgot it in the following years.
I have never seen the place full of surprises and mysteries that she described. I haven't done many things. I have never succeeded. I was never rich or famous. I have never been married.
As time goes by, I am over forty years old, and I am finally ready to admit that nothing unusual or surprising will happen in my life. I have written half a novel, but I never intend to finish it or publish it. I spent twenty years in vain looking for the person I love. This is only the first step; The second step, finding someone who loves me, may be difficult, but I have never taken the time to do it. )
I'm tired of this city, and I'm tired of associating with people who have never had success and happiness before. I was born and raised in the Midwest of the United States, and finally moved to Northwood, Wisconsin. The most exotic cities there are Manitowoc, Minokava and Wassau, far away from Macau and Marrakesh described in Priscilla Wallace's book and those splendid capitals.
My job is to become the copyright editor of a local weekly newspaper. For this newspaper, it is far more important to correctly introduce where to find restaurants or real estate advertisements than to correctly spell the names in news stories. This is by no means the most challenging job in the world, but I am satisfied with it and I don't want to look for any challenges. The dream of fame and fortune as a teenager has passed away with the dream of love passion as a teenager; In this undoubtedly year, I just want to live a stable life.
I rented a small house by an unnamed lake, about fifteen miles from the town. This is an old house full of charm: it has a retro porch, a swing almost as old as the house, a pier built for a boat I never owned and extending into the lake, and even a drinking trough for a horse raised by the owner of the cabin. There is no air conditioning in the room, but I don't really need it-in winter, I curl up by the fire and read the latest paperback horror novels.
It was a night in late summer, and there was a hint of Wisconsin chill in the air. I sat by an empty stove and watched a car chase through Berlin, Prague or other cities I would never see. At this time, I suddenly couldn't help thinking, will my future be like this: a lonely old man, sitting by the fire every night, reading popular novels to kill time, maybe with a blanket on his leg.
For some reason-maybe it's about tabby cats-I think of traveling with my cat again. I have never had a cat, but she has; She once had two cats, and they were always with her.
I haven't thought of that book for years. I don't even know if it is still there. But there is a puzzling reason that makes me have a strong impulse to find it and read it.
I walked into the guest room, which was full of glove boxes that I hadn't opened yet. There are about twenty boxes of books. I opened the first box, and then the second. I dug up bradbury, Asimov, Candler and Hammott, and went deeper. I found Ledram and Abbor and two worn-out novels by Zan Gray-and then, suddenly, it appeared, as elegant as ever. What I have is also my only limited edition book.
At this point, about thirty years later, I opened the book again and began to read. When I first read it, I was completely fascinated by it. Every detail in the book is as exquisite as I remember. Moreover, like thirty years ago, I forgot the time and read until dawn.
I didn't finish much work that morning. All I could think about was the wonderful descriptions in the book and my insight into the world that no longer exists-and then I began to wonder if Priscilla Wallace was still alive. She may be an old woman, but maybe I can rewrite that old book and finally send it.
At lunch, I went to the local library, determined to find out what other books she had written. But now I can't find anything on the shelf or in the card filing cabinet. It is a friendly old country library; It will take at least ten years to realize computerized query. )
I went back to the office and started searching for her on the computer. I found 37 different Priscilla Wallace. One is an actor in a low-budget movie. One teaches at Georgetown University. One is a diplomat in Bratislava (a city in south-central Czechoslovakia). One is a very successful ornamental poodle breeder. One is a group of young mothers of sextuplets in South Carolina. One is a crossword writer who serialized comics on Sunday.
So, just when I was sure the computer couldn't find her, the next line popped up on my screen:
"Wallace Priscilla was born in 1892 and died in 1926. He has a book: Traveling with my cat. "
1926。 This is too late for a book superstition, whether it was thirty years ago or now; She had been dead for decades when I was born. Nevertheless, I suddenly felt lost and resentful-resenting her untimely death, resenting those who were still alive in those years when she left, but never seeing the beautiful scenery she saw again.
People like me.
There's another photo. It looks like a copy of an old photo of Tan Xi. The photo shows a delicate girl with auburn hair and big black eyes, but it seems to me that there is a faint sadness. Or I'm just sad, because I know she died at the age of 34, and all her passions for life will go with her. I printed this page, put it in the drawer of my desk, and took it home at the end of the day. I don't know why I did it. There are only two sentences above. But in any case, a life-any life is worth more. Especially a person who can reach out from the grave and touch my life, a person who can make me feel that at least when I read her book, maybe the world is not as boring as I saw it.
That night, after I heated a cold dinner, I sat by the fire and started a trip with my cat, just looking through my favorite chapters. One of them is a majestic elephant procession marching against the snowy Mount Kilimanjaro, and the other is in the early morning of May, when she was walking in the garden of Versailles, she was attracted by flowers. Finally, there is a paragraph, which is also my favorite paragraph:
"There are so many beautiful scenery waiting for me to see and so many adventures waiting for me to do. Such a beautiful day makes me yearn for eternal life. My faith comforted me. I sincerely believe that no matter how long I leave this world, as long as someone opens this book and reads it, I will be reborn. "
This is indeed a comforting belief, absolutely more immortal than any belief I have ever pursued. I have never left any trace to let others know that I once lived here. Twenty years after my death, maybe thirty years at most, no one will know that I ever existed. That man named Ethan Owen-my name, which you have never heard of before, will undoubtedly never hear again-once lived, worked and died here. He tries his best to spend every day without causing any trouble to anyone, which is all his achievements.
Unlike her. Perhaps there are many similarities with her. She is neither a politician nor a woman warrior. No monument was erected for her. She wrote only one forgotten short travel story and died before she could write another. She has been dead for nearly three quarters of a century. Who remembers Priscilla Wallace?
I gave myself a sip of beer and started reading again. I don't know why, the more she describes the exoticism of those cities and the primitive wildness of those forests, the less exotic and savage she looks, and the more like an extension of home. The more I read, the less I understand how she did it.
I was interrupted by the noise on the porch. Damn raccoons, they are reckless every night, I think-but then I heard a clear meow. My nearest neighbor is also a mile away, which is far enough for a stray cat, but I think at least I can go out and have a look by myself. If it has a collar, I can call its owner. If not, at least I can get rid of it before it collides with the local raccoon.
I opened the door and walked onto the porch. There is no doubt that there is a cat, a white kitten with several brown spots on her head and body. I bent down to pick it up, but it stepped back.
"I won't hurt you." I said softly.
"He knows," said a woman's voice. "He's just shy."
I turned around and there she was, sitting on the swing on my porch. She made a gesture and the cat crossed the corridor and jumped on her lap.
I saw this face earlier today, staring at me from a photo of a tanned tin plate. I stared at it for hours until I remembered every outline of it.
That's her.
"It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" She said, I still stared at her gaping. "It's so quiet. Even the birds have gone to bed. " She paused. "Only cicadas are still awake, playing their symphonies for us."
I don't know what to say. I just stare at her and wait for her to disappear.
"You look pale," she said after a while.
"You look real," I finally said hoarsely.
"Of course," she replied with a smile. "I am real."
"You are Miss Priscilla Wallace. I must have spent so much time thinking about you that I began to hallucinate. "
"Do I look like an illusion?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I've never seen hallucinations before, so I don't know what they look like-unless they're all like you." I paused. "I think you are more beautiful than them. You have a beautiful face. "
She smiled at this. The cat was frightened and jumped up. She began to touch it gently. "I think you want me to blush," she said.
"Will you blush?" I asked, secretly hoping I didn't blush.
"Of course I will," she replied, "although I have always doubted it since I came back from Tahiti. What did they do there! " Then, "You were watching Traveling with My Cat, weren't you?"
"Yes, I am reading a book. That is my most cherished book since I was a child. "
"Is it a gift?" She asked.
"No, I bought it myself."
"That's really pleasant."
"The happiest thing is to finally meet the author who has brought me so much joy," I said, feeling like a clumsy child again.
She looked confused, as if she wanted to ask something. But then she changed her mind and smiled again. That smile is as lovely as I imagined.
"This is a very beautiful hut," she said. "Have you always lived by the lake?"
"yes."
"Is there anyone else living here?"
"Just me."
"You like being alone," she said. This is a statement, not a question.
"Not really," I replied. "That's the way it is. People don't seem to like me. "
Damn it, why should I tell her this? I can't help thinking. I never even admitted it to myself.
"You seem like a very nice person," she said. "I find it hard to believe that people will not like you."
"Maybe I'm exaggerating," I admitted. "Usually they just don't pay attention to me at all." I feel a little sick. "I don't want you to talk to me."
"You are lonely. You need someone to talk to, "she replied. "But I think what you need more is just a little confidence."
"Maybe."
She stared at me for a long time. "You look as if you are waiting for something terrible to happen."
"I'm waiting for you to disappear."
"Isn't that terrible?"
"No," I said at once. "It's terrible."
"Then why don't you accept the fact that I'm really here? If you are wrong, you will know soon. "
I nodded. "Yes, you are Priscilla Wallace, that's right. That's really her way of pleading. "
"You know who I am. Maybe you should tell me who you are, too? "
"My name is Ethan Owen."
"Ethan," she repeated. "This is a good name.
"You think so?"
"If I didn't think so, I wouldn't say so." She paused. "Should I call you Ethan or Mr Owen?"
"Please call me Ethan. I feel that I have known you all my life. " It feels like another awkward conversation has begun. "I even wrote you a book about superstition when I was a child, but it was returned."
"I like book superstition," she said. "I have never received a superstitious book. No one has ever written to me. "
"I'm sure hundreds of people want to write. They may just can't find your address. "
"Maybe." She said suspiciously.
"In fact, just today, I still want to send it again."
"Whatever you want to say, you can tell me directly." The cat jumped onto the porch. "Ethan, you must be uncomfortable leaning against the railing like that. Why don't you sit next to me? "
"Welcome," I stood up and said. Then I thought about it again. "No, I'd better stay here."
"I'm thirty-two years old," she said in a pleasant tone. "I don't need the care of my parents."
"Stay with me, you don't need it," I agreed. "Besides, I don't think we have any reason to need them."
"What's the problem?"
"Really?" I said. "If I sit next to you, some part of my hip may rub against you, or I may accidentally touch your hand. And ... "
"What else?"
"I don't want to find out that you are not here."
"But I'm really here."
"I hope so," I said. "But it's easier for me to believe this when I stay here."
She shrugged her shoulders. "As you wish."
"I realized my wish tonight." I said.
"Then why don't we sit here and enjoy the night breath and breeze in Wisconsin?"
"As long as you are happy," I said.
"I am very happy to be here. It makes me happy to know that my book is still being read. " She was silent for a moment, staring at the darkness. "What's the date today, Ethan?"
"April 17."
"I mean what year."
"In 2004."
She looked a little surprised. "It's been so long?"
"Since ...? "I said with some hesitation.
"Since I died," she said. "Oh, I know I must have been dead for a long time. I have no tomorrow, and my yesterday has become so long ago. But, the new millennium? That's too "-she seems to be looking for a suitable word-"too much. "
"You were born in 1892, more than a century ago." I said.
"How do you know?"
"I looked up your information on the computer."
"I don't know what a computer is," she said suddenly. "Do you know when I died?"
I know the time, but I don't know what happened.
"Then please don't tell me," she said. "I am thirty-two years old and have just finished writing the last page of my book. I don't know what will happen next. Maybe you shouldn't tell me. "
"All right," I said. Then, to borrow her words, "as you wish."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
Suddenly, the little white cat looked nervously into the yard.
"He saw his brother," said Priscilla.
"Maybe it's just a raccoon," I said. "They are troublemakers."
"No," she insisted. "I know his actions. It is his brother who is there. "
There is no doubt that I will hear a clear meow soon. The white cat jumped out of the porch and ran towards the sound.
"I'd better catch them before they get completely lost," Priscilla said, putting down his legs from the swing. "This happened once in Brazil and it took me almost two whole days to get them back."
"I'll go with you and wait for my flashlight," I said.
"No, you'll scare them. A flashlight is useless for them to run around in a strange environment." She stood up and stared at me. "You look like a nice guy, Ethan Owen. I'm glad we finally met. " She gave a wry smile. "I just wish you wouldn't be so lonely."
Before I could lie to her and tell her that I lived a rich life and was not lonely at all, she walked down the porch, into the yard and disappeared into the darkness. Suddenly I had a hunch that she wouldn't come back. "Will we meet again?" I watched her disappear from sight and shouted behind her.
"That depends on you, doesn't it?" Her answer came from the darkness.
I sat on the swing, waiting for her and her kitten to appear again. Finally, although the air was cold at night, I fell asleep. When I woke up, the morning sun had already sprinkled on the swing.
I'm alone.
It took me almost half a day to convince myself that what happened the night before was just a dream. This is unlike any dream I have ever had, because I remember every detail of it, every word she said and every action she made. Of course, she didn't really come to see me, but I couldn't help thinking of Priscilla Wallace, so I finally stopped what I was doing and started searching for more information about her with the computer.
There is no more information in her name except those two simple words. I tried to search "travel with my cat", but found nothing. I checked whether her father also wrote a book about his adventures; But he didn't write it. I even contacted several hotels where she stayed, alone or with her father, but none of them had such a long record.
I tried to trace from one clue to another, but nothing worked. History almost completely swallowed her up, just like it will swallow me up one day. Apart from that book, the only evidence I have about her existence is two short sentences on the computer, which add up to only a dozen words and two dates. No wanted man can disappear from the law as neatly as she did in front of the world.
Finally, I looked out of the window, only to find that night had fallen and everyone else had gone home. For a weekly newspaper, there is no such thing as changing shifts in the morning and evening. I stopped at a local restaurant, bought a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then went back to my lake house.
I watched the TV news at ten o'clock, then sat down and opened her book again, just to convince myself that she really existed. After a few minutes, I felt uneasy. I put the book back on the table and then went out of the room to get some fresh air.
She is sitting on the swing, where she sat last night. Next to it is another cat, a black kitten with white claws and eyes.
She noticed me looking at the cat. "This is too dazzling," she said. "I think he is as famous as his cat, don't you?"
"I think so," I said distractedly.
"The white one is smirking because he likes to be naughty everywhere." I didn't say anything. At last she smiled. "Which of them ate your tongue?"
"You're back," I finally said.
"Of course, I'm back."
"I am reading your book again," I said. "I don't think I've ever met anyone who loves life so much."
"There are so many things worth loving!"
"For some of us."
"They're right next to you, Ethan," she said.
"I'd rather see through your eyes. It's like every morning you are reborn to meet a new world, "I said. "I think that's why I keep your book, and that's why I always read it over and over again-sharing what you see and feel."
"You can feel it yourself."
I shook my head. "I like your feeling better."
"Poor Ethan," she said sincerely. "You have never been in love, have you?"
"I tried."
"That's not my problem." She glared at me curiously. "Have you ever been married?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't know." I decided to give her an honest answer as much as possible. "Maybe it's because they are not as good as you."
"I'm not that special," she said.
"You are for me. You have always been. "
She frowned. "I hope my book will add color to your life, Ethan, not ruin it."
"You didn't destroy it," I said. "You just make it more bearable."
"I was thinking ..." She mused.
"What?"
"Why am I here? This is really inexplicable. "
"Inexplicable is an understatement," I said. "It should be said that it is incredible."
She shook her head distractedly. "You don't understand. I remember last night. "
"Me too-I remember every second clearly."
"That's not what I meant." She stroked the cat absently. "I have never been called back before last night. I'm not sure. I thought maybe I would forget everything every time I was called back. But today I remember last night. "
"I'm not sure I understand what you mean."
"You can't be the only person who has read my book after my death. Or even if you are, I have never been called back, not even you. " She stared at me for a long time. "Maybe I was wrong."
"About what?"
"Maybe the reason why I was brought back here is not that I was read. Maybe because of you, you need someone so badly. "
"I-"I got excited, but immediately calmed down. For a moment, I felt that the whole world was still with me. Then the moon appeared from behind the clouds, and an owl on the left screamed and flew away.
"What's the matter?"
"I want to tell you that I am not alone," I said. "But that's a lie."
"There's nothing to be ashamed of, Ethan."
"There is nothing to brag about." Something about her made me say something I had never said to anyone, including myself. "When I was a child, I had high expectations. I will love my job and make a difference. I want to find a woman, love her and accompany her for life. I want to witness the places you described with my own eyes. However, year after year, I watched these hopes dashed one by one. Now I have settled down just to pay the bills and go to the doctor for regular check-ups. " I sighed deeply. "I think my life can be described as a completely shattered hope."
"You're going on an adventure, Ethan," she whispered.
"I am not you," I said. "I had hoped I was, but I'm not. Besides, there are no more wild places. "
She shook her head. "That's not what I mean. Love is also an adventure. You must risk getting hurt. "
"I'm already hurt," I said. "That's nothing at all."
"Maybe that's why I'm here. You won't be hurt by ghosts. "
No, I want to. I asked loudly, "Are you a ghost?"
"I don't think so."
"You don't look like it either."
"How do I look?" She asked.
"As cute as I thought."
"Times have changed."
"But beauty is eternal," I said.
"It's very generous of you to say so, but I must look very old-fashioned. In fact, the world I know must be very primitive for you. " She is full of energy. "This is a new millennium. Tell me what happened. "
"We used to walk on the moon-we also landed on Mars and Venus."
She looked up at the night sky. "the moon!" She said loudly. Then: "Why stay here when you can go there?"
"I am not an adventurer, remember?"
"What an exciting time you live in!" She said eagerly. "I always want to see what is behind the next mountain. You can see what is behind the next star. "
"It's not that simple," I said.
"But it can be done," she insisted.
"Maybe one day," I agree. "Not in my lifetime, but one day."
"Then you will die with regret," she said. "I'm sure I will." She looked up at the stars, as if imagining that she had flown among them. "Tell me more about the future."
"I know nothing about the future," I said.
"My future. Your gift. "
I tried to tell her. She is fascinated by hundreds of millions of people traveling back and forth in the air, almost all of them have their own cars, and train travel has almost disappeared in the United States. And the concept of TV broadcast made her more obsessed; I decided not to tell her how boring people's lives have become since TV appeared. Color movies, audio movies, computers-she wants to know all these. She is eager to know.