“Here, you give me a needle and cotton and I’ll mend that net of yours, while you go on with your unpacking. Dinner’s at one. Dr. Macphail, you’d better go down to the wharf and see that your heavy luggage has been put in a dry place. You know what these natives are, they’re quite capable of storing it where the rain will beat in on it all the time.”
The doctor put on his waterproof again and went downstairs. At the door, Mr. Horn was standing in conversation with the quartermaster of the ship they had just arrived in and a second-class passenger whom Dr. Macphail had seen several times on board. The quartermaster, a little, shriveled man, extremely dirty, nodded to him as he passed.
“But among white people, it’s not quite the same,” she went on, “though I must say I agree with Mr. Davidson, who says he can’t understand how a husband can stand by and see his wife in another man’s arms, and as far as I’m concerned I’ve never danced a step since I married. But the native dancing is quite another matter. It’s not only immoral in itself, but it distinctly leads to immorality. However, I’m thankful to God that we stamped it out, and I don’t think I’m wrong in saying that no one has danced in our district for eight years.”
It was nearly bed-time and when they awoke next morning land would be in sight. Dr. Macphail lit his pipe and, leaning over the rail, searched the heavens for the Southern Cross. After two years at the front and a wound that had taken longer to heal than it should, he was glad to settle down quietly at Apia for twelve months at least, and he felt already better for the journey. Since some of the passengers were leaving the ship next day at Pago-Pago they had had a little dance that evening and in his ears hammered still the harsh notes of the mechanical piano. But the deck was quiet at last. A little way off he saw his wife in a long chair talking with the Davidsons, and he strolled over to her. When he sat down under the light and took off his hat you saw that he had very red hair, with a bald patch on the crown, and the red, freckled skin which accompanies red hair; he was a man of forty, thin, with a pinched face, precise and rather pedantic; and he spoke with a Scots accent in a very low, quiet voice.
When I opened my eyes, I couldn’t remember anything. Who am I? Where is this place? What am I doing here? Do I know someone? I couldn’t answer any of those questions. All that I know is, I am a human, I used a gray t-shirt, black jeans, and I was alone right now. But, now that I think about it… I think this place is just an alley, so I walk toward the end of the alley.
At the end of the alley, there’s the main road, I hear a bustling sound, saw so many people, vehicle, and tall building. But I still can’t remember who am I or where is this place. I check what I had in me, and I found a wallet with $100 dollars in it, I guess it was mine. Except that, nothing else there. It was suck because if there was an ID card there, it will be easy to know who I am, maybe I’ll instantly get my memories.
The Little Prince is a book made by Antoine de Saint−Exupery in 1943. He dedicated this book to his best friend who lives in France.