Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 658 Pi, the Indian Boy
June 3, 1884, New York, the editorial office of Harper's Weekly.

Editor-in-Chief Richard Watson-Gild stood behind his desk, holding the proofs of the latest issue of the magazine, a satisfied smile on his lips.

The cover design for this issue is very simple—a dark blue background with only two white letters, "Pi".

More importantly, there's a line of small print at the bottom: "[Lionel Sorel's latest masterpiece]".

Gilder knew that the name alone would be enough to double the sales of this issue of the magazine.

Over the past three years, Lionel Sorel has become a household name in the United States.

From "A Study in Scarlet" to "Pirates of the Caribbean," from "1984" to "Murder on the Orient Express," each of his works has caused a sensation.

In particular, last year, when "The Sinking of the Titan" was serialized in Modern Life, it was reprinted by Harper's Weekly in the United States.

Readers were moved to tears by Jack and Rose's love, shocked by the sinking of the giant ship, and mocked the decline of Britain.

And now, the French author has once again premiered his new work in Harper's Weekly, even earlier than in Paris—a huge victory for Gilles!

He put down the proof and said to the assistant editor, "Has the printing press confirmed it? They've ordered an additional 30,000 copies."

"Confirmed, editor-in-chief. The first batch of 50,000 copies has been loaded onto trucks and will be delivered to major bookstores tomorrow morning."

“Okay.” Gilder nodded. “Tell the distribution department to prepare for a reprint. I have a feeling that demand will be high this time.”

After the assistant editor left, Gilder walked to the window and looked down at the street.

Summer had arrived in New York; the sun was blazing, and pedestrians hurried along the streets. He recalled the night Lionel lit up his Dakota apartment in New York just over a month ago.

He was there at the time and witnessed firsthand how alternating current illuminated the entire block.

Now, Lionel has entrusted his new work to Harper's Weekly. Gilder believes this work will illuminate the American mind like a light bulb.

He returned to his desk, reopened the proofs, and read the preface he had written for the novel:

In this issue, we are honored to present readers with the latest work by Lionel Sorel.

This is a story about survival and redemption, and also a story about faith and truth.

The protagonist of the story is an Indian boy named "Pi" who miraculously survives a shipwreck, but his experience is far beyond what ordinary people can imagine.

We invite you to follow in the footsteps of investigator Pierre and uncover the truth told by this young man—no matter how unbelievable it may be.

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One day later, in a townhouse in Beacon Hill, Boston.

Sixty-year-old Abigail Adams Brooks was sitting in a rocking chair in the living room, wearing reading glasses, reading the Harper Weekly that had just been delivered.

She was a loyal reader of the magazine. Every Saturday morning at ten o'clock, the postman would deliver the magazine to her door, which was the moment she looked forward to the most each week.

Today is no exception.

When Abigail took the magazine, the first thing she saw on the cover was the two white letters "Pi". She paused for a moment, then noticed the smaller print below.

“Lionel Sorel?” she murmured to herself. “He has a new work again?”

Of course she remembered the name! Last year, when "The Sinking of the Titans" was being serialized, she followed every issue and cried several times over the love story of Jack and Rose.

Although her husband mocked her for "crying over a romance novel at her age," she didn't care.

A good story is a good story, regardless of age.

Abigail eagerly flipped through the magazine, skipping straight to the first page of the novel. She read the editor's foreword first.

“An Indian boy?” She frowned. “That’s interesting.”

She had certainly seen Native Americans—of course, every white American has seen Native Americans "more or less"—at least she hadn't seen photos or scalps.

Several years ago, when she went to Los Angeles, she saw Native Americans locked in cages on the train platform; they were still alive.

They wore strange clothes, their faces painted with black greasepaint, and sat silently in their cages like statues.

The husband said they were Native Americans on a "reservation" who had attacked a white settlement and were now captured and to be executed or sold.

She continued reading.

The novel begins with a first-person narrative by a Frenchman named Pierre.

He worked for the colonial government in French Guiana, was around thirty years old, and loathed everything there.

Although Abigail knew nothing about life in the colony, she could sense the sweltering, humid, and suffocating environment from Pierre's descriptions.

I've been in this place for seven years.

Seven whole years!

I don't even believe it myself when I say it.

What kind of place is Guyana? You Parisian gentlemen probably only know two things:
First, this is the largest penal colony in France; second, it is unbearably hot here.

Both of these things are true.

But what you don't know is that there's a third thing here—it's incredibly boring.

Heat and boredom mixed together are like mixing strong liquor and laxatives, leaving you feeling like you're soaking in a pile of shit in a daze.

Just like I am now!
What? You're saying I should just quit my job and go back to France?

Hey, I'm not a graduate of the Sorbonne or École Polytechnique, and I don't have a father who's a general.

In Guyana, I earn 210 francs a month; but in Paris, I only earn 150 francs.

If you don't work, you won't get paid; if you don't get paid, you can't drink; if you can't drink, you have to be sober and face this godforsaken place—you might as well be dead.

So every morning at seven o'clock, I would still get up, put on my coat properly, and walk twenty minutes to the colonial government office building.

Our office building is white, only two stories high, with columns like those in the Palace of Versailles, and a flagpole at the entrance with a tricolor flag flying.

The designers probably intended to create a French atmosphere, but now the columns are covered with colorful notices, making it impossible to see the original colors.

The content is nothing more than nonsense like "A prisoner escapes, a reward of fifty francs is offered" or "A merchant owes money and refuses to pay, so his goods are auctioned off to settle the debt."

My office is on the first floor, facing west. In the afternoon, when the sun shines, the whole room becomes an oven. Ice? Don't even dream about it.

The ice here costs 2 francs per pound, enough for me to drink all night.

My job is very simple: writing reports.

Shipping reports, immigration reports, prisoner statistics reports, inventory reports... reports of everything. All you had to do was sit at a table and fill the paper with ink.

Then the report is handed to the boss, who then hands it over to his boss, and eventually it will probably be locked in some cabinet and never be opened again.

Nobody really cared about those reports. Everyone who worked here knew that the sole purpose of the colony was to imprison criminals.

As for those figures, tables, and statistics, they were all created for Paris. We wrote whatever Paris wanted to see.

“Exiles, natives, corrupt officials… God, what kind of place is that?” she asked softly as she read Pierre’s incessant monologue in the novel.

Pierre then received a mission to go to the hospital to interview a shipwreck survivor—an Indian boy.

The boy could speak English, so Pierre, who had the best English, was sent.

Upon seeing this, Abigail smiled—this was a clever setup.

If the boy only speaks the indigenous language, the story cannot unfold; if he speaks French, it would be too much of a coincidence.

The English was both grammatically correct and relatable to American readers. Throughout the journey, Pierre complained to his partner, old Dupont, a seasoned veteran who only wanted to retire and return to France, completely ignoring Pierre's grievances.

The two met the boy at the hospital and learned that his name was "Pi".

This is the nickname his parents gave him. Since he is not yet an adult and has not made any outstanding contributions to the tribe, he does not yet have a formal name.

I sat by the hospital bed and opened my laptop. Pi lay on the bed, his eyes fixed on me and old DuPont, who was already starting to doze off.

"You can speak English. Who taught you?"

"I learned it from a white pastor."

"priest?"

"His name is Joseph McNeil. He's from Oregon."

I waited for him to continue.

Pi paused for a moment, then began to speak.

“That was when I was eight or nine years old. One day, my father took some men hunting. They encountered a bear. The bear was huge, taller than a person when it stood up. My father shot an arrow, but missed a vital spot. The bear pounced and pinned my father to the ground.”

He spoke slowly and used very simple words, but his grammar and accent were fine.

"At that moment, Mr. McNeil appeared. He was carrying a gun. He shot and killed the bear and carried my father back to the tribe. My father was badly injured and it took him six months to recover."

Why was Mr. McNeil there?

“He was preaching near the tribe at the time. He wanted to persuade us to believe in his God. But he never forced us. He just built a small wooden house outside the tribe, lived there, and occasionally came into the tribe to tell stories to the children and give medicine to the sick.”

What happened after your father recovered?

"My father thanked him for saving his life and asked him what he wanted. Mr. McNeil said he didn't want anything, he just wanted to stay in the tribe and continue his missionary work. My father agreed."

I nodded. The story sounded plausible enough. Missionaries liked to do this, even with cannibalistic tribes, they'd try to convert them to God.

How long did he stay in the tribe?

"Four years."

"Four years? He spent four years alone in an Indian tribe?"

"Yes. He learned our language. Our children love him because he always has stories to tell. Stories from the Bible, Noah's Ark, Moses parting the Red Sea, Jesus walking on water."

As Pi said this, the corners of his mouth twitched, as if he were smiling.

“I asked him then, ‘Is it true that Jesus walked on water?’ He said, ‘It is true.’ I said, ‘Then why can’t I walk on the river?’ He said, ‘Because your faith is not strong enough.’”

I couldn't help but laugh.

"Later he started teaching us English. He had a Bible in English. He said, 'If you learn English, you can read the Bible yourselves, without me having to read it to you.'"

How are you doing in your studies?

“I learned very quickly. Mr. McNeil said I was very talented. He encouraged me to read the Bible more and talk to him more. After four years, my English was as good as his.”

What happened to him afterward?

"He died. He died of illness. I was thirteen years old that year."

"Before he died, he left me that Bible. On the title page was written, 'To Pi, may you always remember that God is in the same story as you.'"

I looked at Pi. His face had been expressionless until he said those words, when he lowered his head.

"What about the Bible?"

"In the ship. It sank with the ship."

"What happened to your tribe after Mr. McNeil left? Why were you on that lifeboat?"

Pi remained silent for a long time. So long that I thought he wouldn't answer.

Then he said, “The white men came again and again. Some brought goods to trade for furs, some brought tools to measure land, and some brought guns to drive us away. My father always tried his best to get along with them and endured as much as he could.”

"How long will you endure this?"

"I endured it until last year."

What happened last year?

“They arrested us. My parents, me, and a dozen other people. We were locked in cages, transported to a small town called Eureka, and then sold to a circus.”

"circus?"

Barnum & Bailey Circus.

I wrote down this name.

"The Barnum Brothers Circus is very famous. The owner is named Phineas T. Barnum. He has a large museum in New York, full of strange and wonderful things. Giants, dwarfs, bearded women, horses that can do math. Now we've joined them—'Indian warriors from primitive tribes'."

Pi spoke calmly, but it made me feel a little uncomfortable.

"And then what happens when you get to the circus?"

"Put him in a cage. With the animals."

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Upon reaching this point, American readers also began to feel "a little uncomfortable" for the first time.

In a seminary dormitory in Boston.

Several young students sat around a table, passing around the same magazine.

“Did you read this passage? The pastor left the Bible with Pi and said, ‘God is in the same story as you.’”

"Could this be Sorel hinting at something?"

What does this imply?

"God and Native Americans are in the same story."

Someone chuckled softly: "Those old folks wouldn't agree with that."

In a bar in New York.

A burly man slammed his cup on the table: "What the hell is this? Is this some kind of Native American learning English? Did he learn it from a priest?"

The person next to him asked, "What's wrong?"

“My brother lives in the West. He says those Native Americans are all animals and can’t be taught anything.”

"So what's the deal with this pastor?"

"It's made up. Writers love to make up this kind of stuff to deceive people."

In a corner of the pub, a young man wearing glasses looked up: "You think it's made up? I've read reports in the New York Tribune that white pastors really did go to Native American tribes to preach. Some stayed for several years."

The tavern fell silent.

Then the burly man said, "So what? In the end, he was still sold to the circus."

The novel's subsequent descriptions made these Americans feel even more embarrassed.

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(End of this chapter)