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451 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 1988
When the whistle of my approaching train blew I took off my sheepskin mittens, my scarf, and the winter hat I had bought for this cold place. I handed them to Mr Tian.
“I won’t need them in Dalian”, I said.
Mr Tian shrugged, shook my hand, and without another word walked off. It was the Chinese farewell: there was no lingering, no swapping of addresses, no reminiscence, nothing sentimental. At the moment of parting they turned their back, because you ceased to matter and because they had so much else to worry about.
On these one-day railway trips, the Chinese could practically overwhelm a train with their garbage. Nearly everyone on board was befouling the available space. While I sat and read I noticed that the people opposite, after only a few hours, had amassed on their table…… duck bones, fish bones, peanut shells, cookie wrappers, sunflower seed husks, three teacups, two tumblers, a thermos, a wine bottle, two food tins, spittings, leavings, orange rinds, prawn shells and two used nappies.
They could be very tidy, but there was also something sluttishly comfortable about an accumulation of garbage, as though it were a symbol of prosperity.
It was 5.30 on a Harbin morning, the temperature at minus thirty-five Centigrade and a light snow falling – little grains like seed-pearls sifting down in the dark. When the flurry stopped the wind picked up, and it was murderous. Full on my face it was like being slashed with a razor…. The wind dropped by the cold remained. It banged against my forehead and twisted my fingers and toes: it burned my lips…I entered the station waiting-room and a chill rolled against me, as if my face had been pressed on a cold slab.
This valley was steep and cold, and half in darkness it was so deep. A river ran swiftly through it with birds darting from one wet boulder to another. ….
When we emerged from this valley we were higher, and among steep mountainsides and bluer, snowier peaks. We travelled along this riverside in a burst of evening sunshine…The valley opened wider, became sunnier and very dry; and beyond the beautiful bare hills of twinkling scree there were mountains covered with frothy snow….In the distance was a red and white building, with sloping sides – the Potala, so lovely, somewhat like a mountain and somewhat like a music-box with a hammered gold lid.
I had never felt happier, rolling into a town.