On my last day in San Francisco, I noticed a “missing person” flyer at a subway station. It told the story of a man who had twice encountered the same girl on the subway but hadn’t had the courage to speak to her. After she got off, he regretted it, but he never saw her again. He had posted the flyer in the hope of finding her. The flyer read:
“Are you her?
We sat beside each other on the train.
Only after losing you did I realize my regret.
Now I can’t find you again.
Your smile was so sweet, it lingers in my heart.
Could we meet once more?
My phone number is 566-6842. My name is Keith.”
Yes, only after losing something do you realize its value. But when you try again, it’s often too late.
I asked the subway staff if I could post a similar flyer. They said I’d have to print it myself. Printing flyers would take time, and I was leaving for Hong Kong the next day. Instead, I wrote a note and stuck it to the missing person flyer. My note read:
Wild Weasel,Where are you?I came looking for you.When will we share angel hair pasta again?You said matter doesn’t disappear—It only transforms.Where have you transformed to?I’m searching for you.
I was sure Gao Hai Ming would know it was from me.
After returning to Hong Kong, I had dinner with Meng Meng, who had just returned from Thailand.
“Traveling to the ends of the earth to find someone—don’t you feel exhausted?” she asked me.
“A woman can do things for love that she never thought she could,” I replied.
“At least you have someone to search for, someone to hope for,” she said sadly.
I visited Gao Hai Ming’s home again and spoke to his mother. This time, she gave me two postcards—one sent from Venice and the other from the island of Capri near Naples, Italy.
“Maybe he’s still there,” his mother suggested.
In December, I took time off and traveled to Venice first. Venice was a hauntingly beautiful city, with many glass factories producing exquisite glassware.
“Can you make a Wild Weasel fighter jet out of glass?” I asked one shop owner, even drawing the design for him.
He shook his head. “That’s too complicated.”
I sat on a boat as it cruised through the lagoon, wondering if Gao Hai Ming might be here.
I asked the boatman, but he said he hadn’t seen anyone like him.
I knew he wouldn’t just disappear.
After leaving Venice, I traveled to Capri. It was a beautiful little island, dotted with small houses and surrounded by crystal-clear waters.
I lingered on the beach, bought a bottle of mineral water, wrote a note, and slipped it inside the bottle before tossing it into the sea. Who knows—maybe Gao Hai Ming would find it on some deserted island.
I could only let my thoughts drift. Perhaps he had already fallen in love with another woman. Maybe he had found that bright blue he had been searching for—something that couldn’t be found in this world, not even in the waters of Capri.
Leaving Capri, I went to Prague, the city from which he had sent one of his postcards.
Winter in Prague was freezing. Snow swirled endlessly, and the temperature was a bitter -9°C.
I stayed at a hotel near Charles Bridge.
It was Christmas Eve. I spent the day wandering around St. Mark’s Square but didn’t see him. In a small alley, I stumbled upon an Italian restaurant. Near the entrance, a couple was enjoying plates of angel hair pasta.
I stepped inside, my ears and nose numb from the cold.
I ordered a plate of angel hair pasta, and only now did I realize how delicious it was.
“Has a Chinese man ever come here to eat angel hair pasta?” I asked the beautiful waitress.
“Yes, there was a Chinese man who came here every week for three weeks straight,” she said.
“What did he look like?” I pressed her.
“He was small, with naturally curly hair and very pale skin. He looked to be around 31 or 32 years old.”
So he was now 31 or 32. It had been two years since he left, so he would be that age.
“When was this?”
“It was last year. He really loved the angel hair pasta here.”
I handed her a note. “If you see him again, please give him this.”
“Who is he to you?” she asked.
“He’s the person I miss the most,” I replied.
I left the restaurant and returned to my hotel.
From my suitcase, I took out the giant Christmas stocking that Gao Hai Ming had given me. Crawling inside, I went to sleep.
I fell asleep with hope.
But when I woke up, he wasn’t there.
Another Christmas had passed, and he still refused to see me.
I became increasingly convinced that on this very day last year, he had been in that room on Mount Fuji. I had felt the lingering warmth he left behind.
It was I who had driven him away. How could I blame him? People who love science are often stubborn.
Two substances, if their temperature, energy, and position align, will react. And so, I waited, foolishly and patiently.
Whenever I woke in the middle of the night, I was gripped by fear. Was Gao Hai Ming still out there? Or had he already ceased to exist, transformed into a speck of dust that occasionally rested on my shoulder?
I couldn’t bear to brush away the dust on my shoulder.
Where, at the ends of the earth, could he be?
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