You will live this kind of life here.
Because you have no other choice.
Drinking, having sex, and... self-righteous melancholy, and enough money to immerse yourself in oblivion every night.
But me.
I am here because I want to be here.
—Arthur Rimbaud, "The Total Eclipse of the Heart."
Two years later.
In a private cinema in Japan, models from Calm Magazine gather for a party.
Everyone opens beers to celebrate, the noise is chaotic, or they flatter the magazine's editor-in-chief. The projection screen plays the latest Hollywood film starring Leonardo DiCaprio, "The Great Gatsby."
Compared to the young editor-in-chief, the greasy president, who held a higher position but had a chaotic private life, smiled cheerfully, completely unconcerned that the models actually admired the editor-in-chief more. The president's gaze, intentionally or unintentionally, turned to the other side, where, in the corner where the men and women were gathered, sat a person watching the film quietly.
The person was leaning sideways, with their palm supporting their cheek, making it difficult to discern their expression, but it was clear they were watching the film intently. The young man appeared to be in his early twenties, with a typical European appearance, featuring naturally blonde hair that fell past his ears. His messy, tousled shoulder-length hair had been styled by a professional to create a fashionable layered look. Among the models present, none could match the "star quality" of this indifferent young man.
However, it was regrettable that his fair skin had not been well maintained, with uneven pigmentation, requiring makeup to conceal the sun-damaged skin and a few playful acne spots.
Mr. Imamura's gaze grew deep, and there was a hint of unhidden affection for the young man.
He was a newcomer to the modelling industry who had joined last year.
There was no doubt that this unique charm could carve out a path in the highly competitive entertainment industry.
The man picked up a can of beer, walked over, and asked, "Do you like watching movies so much?"
The blonde youth spared him a glance, his beautiful eyes fixed on the screen, reflecting the shimmering blue of shallow ocean waters under the movie's lights. He was watching the film adaptation of *The Great Gatsby*, but refused the drink offered to him, casually replying, "I'm just interested in Gatsby."
President Imamura was struck by a thought: "Gatsby is a wealthy man from New York. Are you interested in wealthy men?"
The blond young man finally turned his face slightly, revealing a striking beauty reminiscent of Hollywood superstar Leonardo DiCaprio.
Arrogant and defiant, he could evoke inappropriate thoughts in others of the same sex.
"You're so boring. What are you implying?"
Upon closer listening, Mr. Imamura could tell that the other person's spoken Japanese had improved significantly. Compared to a year ago, when he spoke one word at a time, his Japanese proficiency had improved markedly.
"No." Mr. Imamura pushed his beer can aside. "Rampo-kun, why don't you sit here and have a drink?"
Japanese people always have a knack for forcing people's names into Japanese names.
"I'm not drinking." The blond young man mocked the president, but his posture was quite casual, his eyes following the movie protagonist's every move. "I'm afraid that if I drink, I'll wake up in someone else's bed the next day, with my legs spread open, and someone will take photos or videos of me. You've always wanted to sleep with me, haven't you?"
He didn't change his posture, suddenly leaning his face close to President Imamura, forcing him to hold his breath.
The Frenchman's good looks were soul-shaking; even the most beautiful faces in the world couldn't compare.
"I won't let you have me, you fat pig."
"..."
Imamura's face twitched.
Having experienced the Frenchman's bluntness, he was still startled by it, completely at odds with the national character of his own country.
If it were anyone else, Imamura would have already lost his temper; how could he tolerate a little model slandering him like this? Unfortunately, facing Rambo, he felt like surrendering. The more he was scolded, the more excited he became, stammering, "I didn't think that—well, I did think about it once or twice, but Rambo-kun didn't agree, and I couldn't force you."
Mr. Imamura pretended to be humorous and said, "Rambo-kun, you've learned Japanese swear words too well."
Having stayed in Japan for two years, fabricated his background, and quickly integrated into the 21st century, Arthur Rambo snorted. The first things he learned were always the things bad boys liked. He despised the other man's sleaziness. If the other man hadn't had a shred of self-awareness and tried to learn some gentlemanly manners to pursue him, he would have run away long ago.
"This celebrity—" Arthur Rambo thought for a moment, "Can you arrange for me to meet him?"
President Imamura froze, pointing at the movie screen, "Leonardo?"
Arthur Rambo nodded, his eyes brimming with laughter.
Imamura almost lost himself in the beauty, forgetting his own worth. It must be said that the blonde Frenchman before him bore a striking resemblance to the young Leonardo DiCaprio who once played rebellious teenagers, possessing the same intense personal charm.
Imamura: "I'm afraid I can't help you."
Arthur Rimbaud's expression turned cold in an instant, no longer looking at him. "Oh."
Imamura was unwilling to give up, rarely hearing the other party make a request. "Why do you want to meet him?"
Arthur Rimbaud casually replied, "I'm his fan."
Imamura calculated his connections and gritted his teeth to promise, "Although we can't meet privately, I can take you to see him in person. Getting an autograph shouldn't be a problem."
Artur Lambeau was indifferent: "No need. This private cinema is a good place to watch movies."
Imamura, the president, agreed readily: "I'll give you my membership card."
Artur Lambeau immersed himself in the world of the film and said nothing more.
The jealous whispers of the models and the chaos of the world were drowned out by the glitzy film.
The evening gathering dispersed, but Arthur Rimbaud did not leave. He used President Imamura's membership card to stay all night. He locked the door to the movie room, turned off all the lights, picked up the remote control, and lay on the sofa to enjoy the convenience of high-tech living.
He selected an old film starring Leonardo DiCaprio from 1995.
— *The Heart of the Full Eclipse*.
The film tells the story of the 19th-century poet Arthur Rimbaud meeting Paul Verlaine.
His mind swayed with Leonardo's performance.
Both joyful and sorrowful.
If someone were to see him, they would notice that the blonde youth with his head resting on his arm resembled not Leonardo, but the protagonist of *The Heart of Darkness* that Leonardo portrayed—Arthur Rimbaud, who left home at sixteen, met Paul Verlaine at seventeen, and bid farewell to the literary world at nineteen.
At the end of the film, corresponding to the beginning of the story, Rimbaud's sister came to Paul Verlaine to destroy her brother's overly vulgar poetry collection and informed him of his brother's death. Paul Verlaine pretended to agree, then tore up the other person's business card and sat motionless at the table with a glass of absinthe.
Paul Verlaine poured himself a glass of absinthe and began to hallucinate.
The living Rimbaud sat across from him, looking as young as he did at nineteen, before he left.
"Tell me you love me."
"You know I like you very much," Rimbaud asked him, "do you love me?"
"Yes."
"Then put your hand on the table."
Rimbaud repeated this twice amid Paul Verlaine's confusion and fear.
Rimbaud said, "Palm up."
Paul Verlaine obeyed, slowly turning his hand over, his eyes filled with sadness and sorrow. Because Paul Verlaine had done this before, and Rimbaud had stabbed his palm with a restaurant knife.
But in the hallucination, it was different; this scene from history did not repeat itself.
[Rimbaud]'s fruit knife gently glided across Paul Verlaine's palm, leaving a kiss, no longer harming the man he loved.
The kiss replaced the harm.
Love replaced the excruciating pain.
[Rimbaud] smiled at him in the end, happily, with no wedding ring on his finger.
Paul Verlaine did not cry, but his eyes were filled with tears.
After the 37-year-old Rimbaud died, Paul Verlaine felt immense despair. He dreamed of Rimbaud every day, thought of their beautiful past every day, and immersed himself in Rimbaud's final work, "A Season in Hell."
The film reimagines the events of the 19th century, elevating them to add colour to this love story that the world did not accept.
"His memory shines upon me like the sun, never fading."
——Paul Verlaine.
Though many scenes are fictionalised… those outside the film watch the story coldly, wiping their cheeks as tears fall silently.
"Why am I crying for this person again?"
"I shouldn't be crying."
"At thirty-seven, I wouldn't be moved by him; I just want to set sail again, to chase the sun in the distance."
"Is it my youth that prevents me from seeing the truth?"
"I've read historical records: Arthur Rimbaud had his right leg amputated due to a tumour, became disabled, and died in Marseille at thirty-seven."
"Verlaine divorced his wife and gradually lost his mind, living in poverty until he was fifty-one. Before his death, he became famous and was hailed as the King of French Poets. He must have been quite proud. Without me, he took in a nineteen-year-old student as his lover. The lover died of typhoid fever a few years later, and he wrote twenty-five poems for her, which were included in the poetry collection *Love*…"
"Later, he lived with two old prostitutes, who supported themselves by selling his poems. That was his heart-wrenching love story."
Arthur Rimbaud couldn't help but sneer when he thought of Paul Verlaine's later life.
Paul Verlaine had the nerve to say, "After he died, I dreamed of him every night. He was my great and glorious sin."
Arthur Rimbaud's breathing became rapid, he was furious, his body curled up on the sofa, his chest felt nauseous, his arms trembled as he reached for his trouser pocket, but he forced himself to stop. In those days, both nobles and commoners in Europe took pride in smoking tobacco soaked in cannabis, using it as proof of their wealth.
"I can't make the same mistake again…" Arthur Rimbaud seemed to see his sickly self from history, his eyes vacant, "My body will break down."
At seventeen, shortly after meeting Paul Verlaine in Paris, he had developed bad habits, being persuaded to drink absinthe and smoke questionable cigarettes. Arthur Rimbaud had tried to quit, but the agony was too much, causing him to suffer from insomnia and excruciating headaches. It wasn't until the 21st century that he managed to resist mentally.
This era was brimming with new things, and knowledge seemed to be freely available. Arthur Rimbaud became obsessed with it.
The desire to explore the world satisfied Arthur Rimbaud's inner longing.
"I don't want to die too soon. I don't want to lose my limbs—I haven't been to Africa yet, to see the Ethiopia that made 'Arthur Rimbaud' linger there."
Arthur Rimbaud's face was deathly pale, his teeth clenched, tossing and turning restlessly on the four-seater sofa. His shirt was rolled up, revealing his white waist. He was dying of curiosity about Africa—how could such a scorching place attract "himself"?
After the film ended, it automatically replayed.
Listening to the dialogue from their first meeting in *Total Eclipse of the Heart*, Arthur Rimbaud clutched his head, his shoulders trembling, like a bird tormented in the cage of memory.
A Japanese waiter knocked on the door and whispered, "Sir? Are you all right?"
The response was a French curse intermixed with sharp gasps.
"Get out!"
The voice was unusually shrill.
The waiter then left, flushed and flustered, hearing low gasps and sobs from inside the room.
It was as if something unimaginable had happened inside.
The waiter thought to himself: If I didn't know there was only one person inside, I would have believed that this gentleman was watching a pornographic film.
The focus was not on the content of the film, but on the guest in the room, who was extremely charming, like a Hollywood star who could make anyone lose their mind.
By three o'clock in the morning, Arthur Rimbaud, who had been physically and mentally exhausted, fell asleep. His phone slipped from his hand and fell onto the carpet, the screen lit up briefly, displaying news about famous people who had contracted syphilis in history.
Among them were Oscar Wilde, and possibly Rimbaud and Verlaine.
The next day, Arthur Rimbaud, fearing he might have a sexually transmitted disease, went to the hospital for a check-up using his newly reissued ID after the tsunami.
The results of the targeted examination—no syphilis.
Arthur Rimbaud collapsed onto a public chair and laughed heartily.
"That was close."
Fortunately, Verlaine hadn't pushed him to the brink yet.
Fortunately, during the Paris Commune, he hadn't let those drunken French soldiers have their way with him. There were a few times when he nearly was raped, leaving him terrified and anxious, forced to pretend to go along with them during the day.
Those filthy bastards.
The next moment, Arthur Rimbaud wore a mocking yet sorrowful smile.
"This time, you'll go to hell before me, my virgin."
"I'll live on."
Paul Verlaine, at fifty-one, was destitute, suffering from diabetes, ulcers, and syphilis, and died from pulmonary haemorrhage.
And Arthur Rimbaud, at twenty-two—
Full of life.
...