Late one night in December, amid slush and snow, my train finally arrives at Hankou Railway Station. Outside the usual mob of rickshaw drivers fight each other for who will carry the wealthiest patrons. Bloodcurdling oaths splatter the skies. Just like Beijing, I reflect, and feel oddly at home.
I have little money and virtually no baggage so I walk down the packed streets and across the Bund – crowds everywhere and wounded and soaking wet soldiers lying in rows on the cobbles.
I catch a junk to ferry me across to Wuchang. The passengers board and we edge out into the Yangtze, through the other shipping, past the line of foreign gunboats, then the current snatches us and we whirl downstream past the foreign banks, treacherous undercurrents in the water boiling to the surface and swirling out in huge black circles. I look down, I think of my wife, plunge into its depths. I can smell her, she is so close to me, lost to me. Without even taking out her Indian scarf I can smell her body, her whole body, pungent, in love. I shake myself, fight it off, look around me. The rowers are doubling their stroke, standing to their oars facing forwards, stamping on the wooden deck and chanting ‘Hey Yah, Hai-yah.’ We gain a favourable cross-current and they rest on their oars as the boat drifts diagonally towards the lighted other shore. As we glide between the moored boats towards the quay they ship their oars and light their cigarettes. A gangway is run ashore and we are immediately invaded by piratical-looking coolies clamouring for our baggage. Mercifully I don’t have any but get roundly cursed for it all the same. Most of the curses I do not understand. A mental note – I must learn the local dialects as soon as possible, so I can curse back and so I can give my students a new world to discover.
On land I ask for directions and walk to the campus. One of Feng Yuxiang’s aides shows me to my room. It is very neat, very tidy. Almost immediately I fall asleep.
The next morning I awake to a room full of light. I hurry to the window, look outside. I see a quiet courtyard. In its centre grow the unmistakable boughs of a red persimmon tree. Snow hangs from its branches like spring blossom. The first thing I must do in the morning is hurry to the central post office and see if there are any letters for Wu Lei.