Winter Night
Ai Wu

It was a coldwinter night. The street was deserted. I stood alone under a tree with anentanglement of bare branches overhead, waiting for the last bus to arrive. Afew paces off in the darkness there was a shadowy figure squatting against thewall, but he turned out to be a tramp. The street was lined with fine houses,their illuminated windows beaming quietly towards the dark blue sky. It was icycold with a gust of strong wind howling around. A couple of withered leaves,still clinging to the branches, rustled mournfully from time to tithe. Theshadowy figure, taking a copper coin from me with thanks, straightened up toattempt a conversation with me.

"It's reallycold here," he complained. "Itcouldn't be colder anywhere else ....What do you think, sir?"

Seeing that he wasnot too nasty an old man, I readily responded: "It must be colder in thecountry, I'm afraid."

"No,no," he disagreed and began to cough, his words stuck up in his throat.

"Why?" Iasked. "In the country when it frosts, you always find the roofs and thefields turning white in the morning, but you don't see that here on thestreets."

He patted hischest to ease off his coughing and went on excitedly: "True, true... it's cold in the country,but when you get into somebody's straw stack, you are warm again at once....But this street, humm, what a terrible place! In the mountains, it's evencolder, but when they have a fire in the house with the whole family sittingaround it, wow, it's heaven!"

Then he began torelate to me the adventures of his younger days-travelling alone in winternights through the mountains in the south. As I was interested in stories aboutwanderers and since the bus had not arrived yet, I encouraged him to go on.

"When you endup in the mountains at night," he said, "and if you are a decentperson, you can always turn to the place where there is a light flickering anda dog barking. You push open the bramble gate under the shade and walk inwithout hesitation. Part the people, men or women, around the fire with yourhands and you bring yourself -- a cold and wet man with dew-among them.Immediately your nose is filled with the aroma of hot tea and roast sweetpotatoes. When you look round you see friendly faces smiling at you; there isno hint of anything like blame for what elsewhere might be considered asbrusqueness. Scarcely have you begun to tell them where you come from when acup of hot and strong tea is handed over to you. Grandma will tell hergranddaughter to feed the fire with more wood, saying that the guest needs morebeat to warm up. When you are recovered from cold and fatigue, you tend totease the baby, stroking his chin, giving a gentle pinch to his cheek or makinga face to provoke him to gurgle. The delighted young mother will encourage herbaby to share his sweet potato with you. The baby will then break it in two andthrust one half into your hand. If you intend to stay overnight, you will beentertained with all possible hospitality. If you've just dropped in to warm upand then go on your way, they will see you off at the gate, saying 'Please dodrop in on us again on your way back. ' "

In the middle ofhis babbling another gust of wind brushed by and the old man began to coughagain. I was so intrigued by his story that I did not feel the cold any more.Suddenly he grabbed my hand, forgetting that we were strangers, and asked:

"Sir, couldyou tell me why the people here even do not allow a countryman in to warm hishands? They must've got bigger fires in their houses. Look at their brightwindows. . . "

The bus camerumbling up. Withdrawing my hand from his, I answered at the top of my voice

"Because theyare more civilized than the mountain people. . . "

With that I jumpedonto the brightly-lit bus which started moving on, leaving the old man behind.But the little houses with flickering oil lamps in the remote mountains and theintoxicating warmth and friendliness of their inhabitants left a deep impresson my memory.