Chapter I712Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjvLre0euhV
My name is Jefferson Anderson. In my young days, my friends and I would listen to stories from my grand-father. Whose stories are they? My grand-father’s of course. He was a great man, intelligent and strong, even at his old age. Now, my grand-father had a particularly unique job, he was a treasure hunter. He would go to ancient ruins to retrieve old artifacts and sell them to the highest bidders. It wasn’t an honest job but he sure loved it. He would tell us of all his stories. From the time when he was young to the time he had my mother in my grand-mother’s womb. As a child I wouldn’t question anything he did or said, it was all just fun and adventures.
That is until one fateful night. His old age had caught up to him. He died at the age of 98, damned shame he didn’t make it past 100. Surprisingly there was no time for grieve. Everyone who had loved him only said “what a shame”. At first I didn’t know what that meant as a 15 year old. I only remembered the times when he told me those amazing stories of his 7 years ago, in front of his fireplace with my friends.
But now, As I reached the age of 17 I had understood what they meant as “shame”. His achievements were nothing to be proud of. His glory as a treasure hunter had been shunned by archeologists all over the world. His decisions in selling to greed-filled illegal businessmen were questionable. “He could’ve become a world renowned treasure hunter” my grand-mother said, not shedding a single tear for her beloved. He had only left my grand-mother a note saying “give my journal to my little adventurer”. He had always wanted me to become an adventurer, much like himself, and I had promised him that I will. But as time passed away, so did that promise.
My family had a large company, they were in charge of historical restorations of old artifacts. As I finished attending university I had asked them for a job. Of course they were happy to have another family member controlling the company but I had refused such a high position. I was a quiet person. I had only wanted peace and quiet. Lucky for me the company had an astounding library. It was more of a mansion than a library, and it is usually empty.
A librarian’s life is not something to write about, but my days are just as interesting as any others’. Surrounded by time and by books made me a bookworm. Ranging from fiction to physics, there were many choices in what to read and before I knew it I’ve read almost half of the books inside the library. The company usually stocks the library every 2 months, usually the newest works or sometimes even old literatures that were excavated or restored.
Sometimes I receive calls from my childhood friends, Aaron Sylvester and Wyatt Smith. Mr. Sylvester was a brilliant man also, and like myself he was very fond of my grand-father. His uncle was my grand-father’s pilot, he usually flies with my grand-father to secluded areas and unmapped locations. They were very good friends my grand-father and his uncle, and so were we, even until we graduate.
Mr. Sylvester also promised that he would become an adventurer like my grand-father, and he actually did it more or less. He travels around the world looking for artifacts and donating them to museums, and the museum pays for his travels and living. It was as if he was working for the museum while in fact he was just a freelance treasure hunter. He was the positive man my grand-father failed to become. He would send me letters when he could not make a call, or when he actually could it would probably be somewhere deep in the woods or high up on mountains. He would also send me hats occasionally, he has some sort of obsession with collecting hats but because he’s always travelling he would send them to me and let me treasure it all.
His obsession of hats began when he saw his uncle’s picture of him in one of his great adventures with my grand-father. He said to Mr. Smith and I “I’m going to be just like my uncle in that picture! Standing mighty and brave wearing a neat hat just like that!”. And the funny thing is, he actually did that. Mr. Sylvester sent me a picture of him on the Alps wearing his uncle’s hat that he had given to Mr. Sylvester at the time of his death. That picture made me remember the things that we did in our childhood, the stupid misadventures we had on the riverbanks and on the hills. How we all would venture around and return with bumps and scrapes all over our bodies but we would have the biggest of grins on our faces and bags of shiny rocks and bugs we had collected as ‘artifacts’ of ancient society.
And from that very person I received a phone call. As I was reading a book the phone on my desk rang with a loud obnoxious ring. I picked it up, expecting someone from the company to inform me of the books that are about to be shipped here, but I was wrong. Mr. Sylvester was on the other end. His tone was one of happy and full of excitement.
“Andy!” he exclaimed.
From everyone who I know there are only two persons who call me by ‘Andy’, Mr. Sylvester and Mr. Smith. Both of them are reluctant to call me with Jeff unless their topic is very intimate. Even so ‘Jeff’ isn’t very common in their everyday life.
“Oh how have you been? It has been a while since we last had a conversation”
“Yes, indeed it has. So where are you now Aaron? Bangladesh? Phuket? Or perhaps Fuji?”
Whenever he makes a phone-call I would assume that he was in a city or maybe somewhere with satellite signals.
“Hah! I’m in town! I have something to talk to you about! Let’s get together tomorrow for lunch!”
I guess I was wrong. It’s rare for Mr. Sylvester to be in the city as there is not much adventure to be had in a concrete jungle like this. Nevertheless I was happy to be invited by such a dear friend whom I haven’t met in years for lunch.
“Really now? Well that’s quite rare an occasion, is it your birthday?”
Of course, it wasn’t. It was only September and his birthday wasn’t until November. But it still intrigued me on what it is that he was so eager to talk about.
“oh is it November already? Nevermind that, just come to the French café downtown and I’ll explain it to you”
What was it that he wanted to talk about. My mind wondered endlessly, that is until he uttered another sentence.
“and bring your grand-father’s journal with you! Oh and don’t forget to wear something nice for a change”
And he ends the call.
“….Something nice?”
I checked my current wardrobe. A white shirt topped with dark-blue sweater vest.
“Is this not…. Nice?”
I shrugged it off as a joke and continued reading my book.
“What is not nice about the way I dress?”
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