Arthur Rimbaud did not waste his time working in Japan.
Modelling was a temporary job; his goal was to embark on new adventures in the 21st century! To achieve his goal as quickly as possible, after naturalising as a Japanese citizen, he taught himself Japanese and modern English, and while looking up words in the dictionary, he also learned the difficult-to-pronounce Chinese characters of neighbouring countries.
His language talent had always been excellent, but he lacked the appropriate environment to hone it.
Before his journey, he already knew French, English, Latin, some German, and Dutch. Thanks to his excellent Latin skills, he dared to send poetry to Napoleon's third son at the age of fourteen. After entering the Paris literary scene at seventeen, he was constantly mocked for his coarse accent and rural origins, but he spent a year transforming his accent.
In the second half of 2013, Arthur Rimbaud had completely grown tired of his life as a magazine photographer, a profession where he felt like a puppet controlled by the photography studio—it was terrible.
He used the excuse of missing his hometown to arrange for a visa and bought a plane ticket back to France.
Before leaving, he bought flowers and fruits to visit someone.
The nurse who had believed his story of amnesia had since married, and she was overjoyed to see him, introducing him to her husband and children.
Atir Lambo, who had been prickly at the magazine, awkwardly put on his shoes, entered the room, and shyly listened to the nurse's concerned questions. The 22-year-old blond young man looked like a handsome young boy being cared for by a foreign sister.
"My job is stable, and my income is enough to live on. I seem to remember some things about my hometown, and I'm about to return to France to find my relatives." Arthur Rimbaud was deeply grateful to her, as it was thanks to the nurse's help that he was able to escape his illegal immigrant status under the disaster and find a place to stay in Japan.
When he was at his most difficult, someone had reached out to help him, warming his heart.
Hosokawa Aiko's husband felt a sense of crisis at the sight of this rare handsome young man. While soothing the child, he casually asked, "Mr. Rimbaud, I've also travelled to France for a while. Which beautiful city are you from?"
Arthur Rimbaud thought of his hometown and felt a pang of pain. He had come to a world a century later, and if his mother and sister received news of his death, they would be heartbroken.
"It's not a big city," Arthur Rimbaud said flatly. "It's a small town with a rural landscape, surrounded by farmland, called 'Charleville.'"
Mr. Hosokawa had clearly never heard of the place.
However, Hosokawa Aiko's eyes lit up. She had loved reading since she was young and was familiar with literary works, and she had heard that Charville was the birthplace of a famous poet.
"Oh, you have a connection with that French poet."
With the same name and background, Ms. Hosokawa once thought the other person was like the poet Rimbaud from the movies, possessing the extraordinary beauty of Leonardo and an insatiable curiosity beyond that of ordinary people, constantly asking her questions even while lying in bed.
"It's different," Arthur Rimbaud declared firmly. "I hate poetry!"
After breaking up with Paul Verlaine, his interest in poetry plummeted. After completing his final work, he distanced himself from the European literary scene.
Arthur Rimbaud explained, "My dream is to be a war correspondent, a mercenary, or at the very least a sailor. I don't like sitting around writing."
Saeko Hosokawa was stunned; this young man was too unique.
Saeko Hosokawa studied his expression; his vibrant demeanour was uplifting, unlike the pale, weak figure lying in bed, always gazing out the window. No nurse dislikes a patient who, after recovering, knows how to express gratitude.
"Thank you, Miss Saeko. I'll come visit you whenever I have time."
Arthur Rimbaud once again revealed his habit of making empty promises. In reality, he had no plans to return to Japan anytime soon, and the next time they would meet was unknown.
Aiko Hosokawa tolerated Arthur Rimbaud's evasive gaze and smiled.
"Then I will await Mr. Rimbaud's visit."
"Wishing you a safe journey, sir."
No matter who you are or what secrets you hide, your confident demeanour is like the sun, with an endless ocean hidden in your eyes.
I wish to see your eternal brilliance, illuminating others.
Artur Lambeau couldn't sit still for long and made an excuse to leave. Without good coffee, he couldn't chat with Japanese people who had nothing to talk about for an entire afternoon.
After seeing the guest off, Mr. Hosokawa returned to find his wife staring blankly at a signed card tucked among the fruits. "What's wrong, Aiko?"
Aiko Hosokawa took the signed card, placed it over her heart, and was overcome with excitement.
"It's Arthur Rimbaud's signature!"
The identical handwriting, even if imitated, satisfied the literary enthusiast's passion.
Who wouldn't want to live like Rimbaud—participating in a revolution in youth, experiencing a passionate love affair, unleashing one's talent, travelling the world in one's youth, walking across Europe, enduring the hardships of war and extreme weather in middle age, returning to one's hometown, and even at the end of life, transcending the bonds of the flesh and yearning to set sail once more.
Not only are there few people like Rimbaud in the 19th century, but in the 21st century, while people can openly pursue freedom, few rise to fame from humble beginnings.
A meteor is a meteor.
Because its light, though fleeting, is remembered.
France, Charleville has been renamed Charleville-Mézières, merged with another region, but the local train station retains its original site. This was the starting point for Arthur Rimbaud's departure from home and pursuit of his dreams.
Arthur Rimbaud returned to France, first going to Paris, then taking a train to Charleville, like a foreigner visiting France, looking around in wonder.
With his blond hair and blue eyes, he attracted the attention of many people along the way.
He got off the train, walked around the station, and childishly ran alongside the train for a while, but he could no longer see the steam trains belching black smoke.
At sixteen, he ran away from home from the Charleville train station, unable to afford the 13-franc ticket fee. After evading the fare, he was arrested and sent to the Mazas Prison, but was released on bail thanks to a letter from his teacher. That kind-hearted teacher, Georges Issambourg, has since been consigned to history.
Arthur Rimbaud spread his arms wide, embracing the city he had once fled.
"Train tickets have gotten so expensive."
In the late 19th century, the franc was a valuable currency. One franc could feed a person, eight francs could buy a gun in Belgium, and ten francs could cover a day's stay in a high-end hospital.
Strolling around, Arthur Rimbaud moved between old and modern buildings, with light and shadow falling on him like the mottled traces of time. He reached out to catch the light spots and walked back to his hometown on the smooth roads where the past could no longer be found.
The house was still there.
The farmland was gone.
The city's buildings blocked the distant mountains, proving the changes in the world.
Artur Rimbaud, who had to follow his family to farm every year, was disoriented. Seeing the house turned into "Rimbaud's Former Residence," Artur Rimbaud, now homeless, asked passersby living there about "Rimbaud's" grave.
Artur Rimbaud found "his own" grave and the graves of his relatives buried beside him—his mother and sister were all there. The cemetery looked cold and desolate, with mostly grey and white tombstones. Their family's tombstone was white, easy to distinguish, with a cross carved on it, symbolising their faith in Catholicism.
Artur Rambo, who did not believe in religion, stood before the tombstone, staring blankly at the cross.
The tombstone bore his full name and the date of his death.
He died at the age of 37 in the year 8591.
He couldn't understand why Arthur Lambeau, who had never believed in God his entire life, had converted to Christianity on his deathbed. Was it to go to heaven after death, or... to atone for his sins, hoping to reunite with his family after death?
"Mother, sister."
Arthur Rimbaud's tears fell with a "plop."
He was completely homeless now.
Perhaps this was the price one paid for pursuing freedom.
When he saw someone placing flowers at the tombstone, he couldn't help but chuckle. It seemed that even after all these years, someone was still willing to pay their respects to him. He glanced around cautiously. Good, the cemetery was empty. He ignored the modern surveillance cameras, climbed over the black fence, and before anyone could stop him, he focused on wiping the tombstone clean.
He hadn't bought flowers, so he took some wildflowers he'd picked by the roadside from his pocket.
"I've come to see you."
Artur Lambeau choked out.
Tears blurred the dust on the tombstone, and he carefully wiped it clean.
"I'm sorry."
"Mother, I'm just a bad child of the Rimbaud family, always running around and never coming home. I must have hurt you just like that 37-year-old 'me' did."
"Though we don't seem to be the same person, I'm only 22. It's okay; I'll slap myself as if you were scolding me."
"I've parted ways with Verlaine. This time, it's for real."
"He's dead."
"You see, I can't be with a dead man. He was indecisive in life, always thinking about his wealthy wife and blood-related children. Now he doesn't have to worry anymore. He's gained freedom, and I live in a world he'll never see."
"This era is changing every day. My eyes can't keep up. Even without leaving the house, I need a long time to learn the common knowledge that everyone else understands."
"Mother, this world is so beautiful..."
"I lost everything and gained a new life. You no longer need to worry about my future. I will strive to live on my own..."
"I love you."
Arthur Rimbaud bent down and kissed the cold white marble.
The French cemetery administrator's lack of diligence gave him the opportunity to say goodbye to his family.
Hmm, no wonder we're French!
He was right to choose August, when everyone takes a long holiday, to come to France!
...
There were few locals on the streets of Paris.
Tourists whispered among themselves, discussing France's current economic downturn in August.
The residential areas were extremely quiet.
Traditional French families had either gone on holiday or stayed home to rest. The business owners who continued to operate were truly hardworking bees.
After visiting his family, Arthur Rimbaud hypocritically went to Paul Verlaine's grave, glancing at it from afar. He dared not approach it, afraid that it would stir up his feelings for Paul Verlaine, after all, their connection had long since been severed.
He had someone send a blade of grass to Paul Verlaine's tombstone.
Was it a joke?
Was it melancholy?
He couldn't tell what emotion was piling up in his heart.
Having fulfilled his wish, Arthur Rimbaud found himself in France, feeling a sense of fear, an indescribable loneliness enveloping his body and soul, often causing him to zone out for no apparent reason.
The French bakery closed in the afternoon.
He had no choice but to buy a map and bread at the supermarket, where the cashier struck up a conversation while ringing up his purchase.
"Sir, which country are you from? Your French is very fluent."
"..."
Arthur Rimbaud dropped the map he was holding.
"Which country do you think I'm from?" Arthur Rimbaud forced a smile, but the French shop assistant didn't notice and casually said, "Switzerland? Belgium? I feel like you look a bit like an Englishman or a German."
Artur Rambo took a fierce bite out of the bread.
"I'm African!"
The French shop assistant was speechless, glancing at him and guessing he was a later immigrant. "Sir, the total is 10 euros and 50 cents. Please swipe your card."
Artur Rambo muttered, "That's expensive."
Before coming, he had checked the exchange rate between the euro and the franc, which was around 1:0.9.
He asked again, "Why don't you accept francs?"
The French shop assistant replied casually, "Sir, the franc has not been in circulation here since 2002. The government recommended that everyone exchange their francs for euros."
Artur Lambeau's eyes dimmed.
The franc had ceased to circulate in France but was still in use in countries like Switzerland.
It was absurd.
Why were other countries' currencies like the pound and the dollar still thriving?
After swiping his card, Arthur Rimbaud hurriedly left the supermarket, feeling out of place in the French environment. Even the most beautiful international city couldn't dispel that suffocating feeling.
Damn it!
Everyone here treats me like a foreigner!
In a fit of anger, Arthur Lambeau went to the recruitment office to sign up as a foreign mercenary.
Being a mercenary was one of his dream careers, and as far as he knew, France was the only country that officially recruited mercenaries from abroad. Mercenaries who joined were protected by an international convention, and those who survived five years of service could, with some effort, obtain French citizenship.
Recruitment requirements: foreign nationality, proficiency in French or English, meeting intelligence and physical fitness standards, strong learning ability, and willingness to undertake high-risk, high-mortality missions.
Mercenaries could enjoy France's welfare system.
Artur Lambo felt confident he met the criteria! This profession was specifically created for him, as he wanted to renounce his Japanese nationality and return to Europe. In the online information he searched, French mercenaries were deployed to conflict zones, with higher wages in more chaotic areas. In Djibouti, Africa, wages could reach 2,800 euros!
Moreover, foreign mercenaries were established as early as 8531 and are affiliated with the French Army. Arthur Rimbaud felt a sense of familiarity with this and decided to pursue his dream.
"They said that those who join the mercenaries cannot use their real names in the first year and must use a pseudonym. I've decided—I'll call myself Baudelaire!"
As applicants, everyone must undergo a physical examination.
Whether the men were skinny or muscular was immediately obvious. Arthur Rimbaud showed no hesitation, confidently stripping off his clothes.
His physical fitness was outstanding. Though his muscles weren't very prominent, he had worked on the farm with his family and travelled across Europe on foot, capable of running and jumping with boundless energy—far superior to those who couldn't lift a finger or carry a load.
He was handsome from head to toe.
Glances were cast his way from all around, secretly observing Arthur Lambeau. The instructors' dark faces flushed slightly, and they smacked their lips.
A handsome, fiery young man like him could thrive anywhere.
"What nationality are you?"
"My ancestors were French soldiers! I'm here to join the French army!"
Artur Lambeau spoke sweetly.
French is the best passport in France.
On the death benefit form, Artur Lambeau wrote the name of Aiko Hosokawa. Thinking that this money might trouble the nurse's conscience, he pondered and decided to donate half of it to the Lambeau Museum in Charleville.
[After I die, please help repair the Rambo family tombstone.]
...