Great Adventurer: Journey to the Classics 3

Author: None
Publisher:
Publish Date: None
Features: Decades ago, he died in a violent riot. Now, it was time to bid farewell to this land. His lease on this tiny refuge had also expired, waiting only for the final ceremony. What was from the dust would return to the dust. When the American journalist got off the car beside the rusty iron gate, the scorching tropical sun emitted a wave of white-hot heat, steaming the white walls of the chapel and the black cross beside it. He hastily handed the driver a bill and strode across the street. The flower vendors by the roadside had already begun to work, and women in black veils rushed to buy bunches of small flowers. The thick, black veils seemed to truly shield their profound sorrow from the scorching sun. The small beggar also gathered around, his large black eyes set in hollow sockets, his swollen abdomen filled with hunger. Dozens of black claws fought over the few coins he had dropped along the way.
But as soon as they entered the cemetery, all the noise was filtered out, as if some ghost had shut off the outside world entirely. A man who looked like an administrator reluctantly left the small office and walked toward him. "Excuse me—Mr. Reed—where is section?" the journalist asked. He seemed to see a flicker of surprise on the administrator's face. "Keller Street, Eighth Block," the journalist replied with a smile and entered the cemetery. The afterlife still followed the rules of the living, with the dead living in streets and apartments too! But why was the administrator surprised? He had originally been in the lobby of a new hotel, following his habit of reading the local newspaper whenever he arrived in a new place. Finally, he found it—a small notice with only four lines, buried among countless large advertisements, easily missed and easily deceived.
The path led to an elegant private cemetery. He read the names on the tombstones in a daze: Romains, Sandos, Obalon. Even under the bright sunlight, a faint chill seemed to rise from behind the stones, making his collar damp and his body cool. The path gradually widened. On the left were vast burial grounds filled with many forgotten and neglected graves. A few pieces of concrete, a thin layer of soil, unattended and unremembered, gradually weathered into part of nature. On the right were the apartment buildings—the upscale residential area for the dead. Each building was large, with Spanish-style roofs tiled in red. Two stories high, twelve meters wide, three meters long, divided into small units of fifty centimeters by fifty centimeters with concrete partitions. The names and dates of death of the residents were carved beneath the small crosses.
He looked up at the building. A sign hung on a prominent pole: Keller Street, Apartments. Still a long way to go! The heat gradually approached, and he loosened his tie and quickened his pace. Time was running out, and he didn’t want to be late. At first, he thought he had come to the wrong place because there was no one in sight. But after checking the street sign and the time, everything was correct! He took out the newspaper again and confirmed it was right. He sighed softly, lit a cigarette, and told himself this was in South America, a place without a sense of time.
He began to stroll along the buildings, reading the names on the small plaques. Finally, he found what he was looking for near the eaves in the southwest corner. Instinctively, he dropped his cigarette, took off his hat, and stared at the words on the wall. Two lines crossed beneath the cross: Reed—1955—October 5th. After a long moment, a rumbling sound came from behind him—the wheels of a cart rolling over cobblestones. He turned around to see a donkey, listless and weary, pulling a dilapidated covered wagon. In the wagon sat a man in tattered khaki work clothes, while another nearby wore a grayish-black coat, a black hat, and a collar on his neck already yellowed from sweat. A worker with a pointed shovel was walking slowly beside the cart.
The cart lurched to a stop. The black-clad man got down clumsily, took out a white paper from inside his coat, glanced at it, murmured something, and searched the wall until he stopped in front of the journalist. He then realized they were here to remove the coffin. The black-clad man signaled the worker in the cart to bring a wooden ladder, set it against the wall, and instructed the worker to climb up. The man on the ladder crouched against the wall, searching very carefully.
Reed—Reed His voice echoed against the wall, sounding unusually hollow. Finally, he nodded and said with satisfaction, "Reed!" The worker with the pointed shovel also spat happily on the ground and cursed, "Reed!" The man on the ladder took the shovel, assumed a stance, swung his arms, and the metal tool flashed in the sunlight.
A loud "Whoosh!" echoed as colorful sparks flew from the stone. The black-clad inspector looked impatient, his eyes darting around as if waiting for the journalist to speak first. "Are you from the authorities?" the journalist asked cautiously in Spanish. "Yes!" the inspector shrugged. "But—how—" His Spanish was too weak to continue, so he asked, "Do you speak English?" "Of course!" the inspector said proudly. "Do I need to assist you?" The journalist breathed a sigh of relief. "I saw the notice in the newspaper and thought there might be others here—" "No one else is coming!" the inspector said. "But—who posted the notice? Someone must have! Besides, he was quite famous!" "The notice was posted by the authorities. The time to claim the body has long passed, and this spot is reserved for someone else. There aren’t many cemeteries in this big city!" "I know. But—really no one else? His family? Friends? He had many friends!" The inspector’s eyes seemed to mist over. "The dead have no friends."
The man on the ladder called out, and they both turned to look. He had broken through the concrete, revealing the original wooden coffin inside. He lowered the shovel, brushed away the with his hand, and reached inside to pull it out. The journalist turned back to the inspector and asked, "What will you do next?" "Burn it, quickly! It’s mostly bones anyway." "And then?" the inspector shrugged. "Since no one has claimed it, the ashes will be sent to a new landfill in the marshes."
The coffin had been placed on the ground. The inspector walked over, brushed away the dust from the lid, revealing a metal nameplate, and glanced at the paper in his hand. "That’s right!" he said. He looked up at the journalist and asked, "Would you like to see?" The journalist shook his head. "Then, I don’t mind, I suppose? Because if no family pays, the workers have the right—" "I understand," the journalist said quickly.
Two workers began to open the coffin, and he quickly turned away, lighting a cigarette. He heard the workers counting their "haul" and discussing how to divide it, followed by some muttered curses, and finally the sound of the lid being put back in place and nails hammered in. The inspector came over to him and said, "They’re disappointed. There are only a few gold teeth and this ring that’s worth anything."
P1-3