Détruisez le mal

Chapitre 17

Dear friends.

Go to Lijiang (1)

Life is unpredictable.

As my ancestors said: Man proposes, God disposes.

However, now that I am a ghost, I fear that fate is no longer on my side.

According to the plan for this trip to Yunnan Province in China and the Kingdom of Lanna in the heart of Asia: more than ten of my friends who love art, are wealthy, intelligent, and pampered will travel in China for a week and arrive in the Kingdom of Lanna at Christmas.

As I boarded the flight from San Francisco to China with my friends, I was suddenly filled with a strange excitement—I was returning to my homeland once again. The beautiful landscape remained the same, but things had changed. How many people would still remember me?

Of course, this was also the first time I had ever flown for free—airlines can't charge a ghost a ticket.

No one saw me enter the cabin, and I sat down in an empty seat to my left and right, listening to my friends' conversations and thoughts.

After more than ten hours, we arrived in Shanghai, China.

This is the city where I was born and spent my childhood. I will never forget everything about it, even the air is fragrant, it smells like home.

Unfortunately, I have become a ghost.

After several transfers and a brief visit, we arrived in Lijiang, Yunnan, on December 20th, a land known as "the land of colorful clouds."

The best local guide came to greet us, the same one I had led the last time—Mr. Qin Zheng, a strong young man dressed in designer jeans, Nike sneakers, and a sweater with the "Harvard" logo. My friends were all surprised: he was dressed so Westernized that if it weren't for his Chinese accent, he would have been one of us.

Looking out the window of the air-conditioned bus, my friends and I saw distant snow-capped peaks. Every time I see them, it feels as fresh and mysterious as the first time I see them, just like Nalan Xingde's poem, "If only life were as beautiful as the first time we met." In fact, my life is just like that.

Vera wore a necklace, bracelet, and anklet of ethnic minorities, which jingled with the bumps of the car. She wore an oversized, belted long-sleeved dress; though she wasn't fat, she was very tall and had a large frame. Ten years ago, when she turned fifty, she decided to prioritize comfort in her clothing. She wore a scarf with an African pattern of her own design draped over her shoulders. Her hair was dyed brown, cut short, and she wore a stretchy hat.

Next to Vera was the new tour leader, Benny, who loudly read aloud a note I had attached to the itinerary months ago: "Many people think of Lijiang as a fictional city like Shangri-La in James Hilton's novel Lost Horizon..."

Vera chuckled as she thought of me, but her eyes were filled with tears, which she quietly wiped away with her scarf.

I admit I'm a bit self-pitying. Since my death, I've gradually become accustomed to being constantly moved, yet I'm unable to perceive my entire life. Now, through others, I'm increasingly feeling the breadth, volume, and density of my own life. Am I more inspired than the six disciples Shakyamuni Buddha accepted before his enlightenment?

Do I possess divine eyes and ears, able to see through other people's thoughts? But what good would that do? They wouldn't hear me. They wouldn't know I was with them. They wouldn't hear my vehement objections, my protests against their changes to my planned itinerary.

They don't understand my annotations yet. For example, regarding Shangri-La, I originally intended to discuss the different meanings of "Shangri-La." Of course, that's a cliché used to lure guests; it's the same everywhere, from the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau to Lake Titicaca—all are high-altitude paradises.

Shangri-La: An ethereal beauty, intangible and incredibly precious.

These words have a magical power when spoken to tourists: "Rare, remote, primitive, unique!" If the service is poor, blame the high altitude.

I should also bring geographical information written by the botanist Joseph Rock, who, while working for National Geographic in the 1920s and 30s, discovered a vast green valley deep in the snow-covered Himalayas, as described in his 1931 article. Some of the inhabitants there are said to be over 150 years old (some of the mentally unstable elderly people I met in the nursing home also claimed this).

James Hilton must have also read Locke's article, because he used the same description shortly afterward when writing about the mysterious Shangri-La.