The platform is deserted. In the distance the locomotive spouts jets of steam, a sickly-pale spotlight wavers in the rising fog. From the long shadow of the train comes the clanging ring of small hammers.

Night, flowing gently along the breeze.

The old ticket-collector leans against the railing, napping. On his chest a loose brass button quivers a little. He stretches, pulls a fob-watch from his pocket. "Huh, late again, the loafers." He turns the ticket over and over, then gives a long yawn and hands it back. "I've been to Peking … Tian Qiao, Dazhala'r, the flower market … it's nothing, nothing. "

I give him a cigarette. "When were you there?"

"In '34." He strikes a match, sheltering it from the wind with his hand, the flare jumping from between his fingers to his forehead. He inhales greedily. "That year I'd just got myself a wife. Went shopping for a bit of printed cotton and stuff."

A sweet, greasy smell of mildew and decay wafts about the little station square. There's a big cart stopped in the light from the waiting-room doorway. The shaft-horse snorts from time to time, sniffmg about on the ground. The driver lies sideways across the top of the cart, one foot dangling down. I put down my bag, light a cigarette and throw the match into a pitch-black puddle nearby.

There are no streetlights, no moon, along the ", road, only a faint gleam from somewhere reflected on the narrow blades of grass in the ditches by the H road side. Suddenly, from behind some rustling sunflowers, a lighted mud-brick house flashes into view. It stands all alone in a vegetable patch. A bunch of red peppers hangs on the door, very distinct in the light.

I change my bag from one hand to the other and walk up.

"Excuse me." I knock on the door. "Could you give me a drink of water?"

Not a sound.

I knock hard. "Excuse me—"

A scratching noise. I sense someone standing behind the door, trying not to breathe. At length the door opens. The outline of a young woman's face is caught in a faint ray of light, surrounded by translucent strands of hair … how weird!

"I'm sorry , I've just got off the train, it's a long way to the factory and I'm terribly thirsty …" I explain awkwardly. The shadows gradually fade; I see a pair of large, watchful eyes.

She gestures with her hand. "Come in."

The room is furnished very simply, the wallpaper peeling in places. On the table stands a photograph of a little girl mounted in a glass holder, a pen and blue notebook lying carelessly SI beside it.

"Sit down." She points to a stool beside the door. With one hand held behind her back she retreats a few steps and sits down on the bed opposite. The light falls across her face. I am struck dumb: what a beautiful girl.

"Pour it yourself, the thermos flask and the cup are on the box beside you." She opens the blue notebook, her other hand still held behind her back.

The water is scalding hot. I blow on the steam and ask: "Do you live here by yourself?"

She raises her eyes, stares at me, after a time nods abstractedly.

"Just been sent back from the countryside?"

"What?"

I repeat my question.

"A year ago."

"Which production team were you in before?

She raises her eyebrows in surprise. "Anything else you'd like to know?"

I am taken aback for a moment, then smile. "Yes. For instance, what's that in your hand?"

"You must have been brought up on the One lndred Thousand Whys." She produces a glinting dagger from behind her back and lays it on the table.

"On the contrary, I wasn't at all studious when I was young."

She betrays a sarcastic little smile. "So you're starting now."

"That's right."

"Hurry up and drink your water." She frowns, waves her hand impatiently, the dagger traces flashing curves in the air.

Silence.

She taps softly on the table with the knife handle, now a fast, now a slow rhythm. She bends her head, as if the sound contains a unique significance. Clearly she is following some habitual train of thought … Then, with a bang, she throws the dagger down on the table, goes to the window and opens it: a little poplar stretches its he Isters of glistening triangular leaves towards the window, leaping joyfully at her shoulder, as if welcoming its long-awaited mistress.

I watch her figure from behind, the cup in my hand shaking. Perhaps I should say something, break this awkward silence, break the barriers of sex, experience and darkness. Perhaps we are in some way connected by fate; but these relationships are always so fragile, so easily missed.

The little girl on the desk smiles mischievously, calls to me silently.

"Is this a photo of you when you were small?" I cannot help asking.

She seems not to hear, her arms folded as before, staring out the window. What can she see? Night, fields, trees … Or is there only the dark, the boundless dark. I ask again. This time I realize how unwelcome my questions are.

Her slender shoulders rise and fall slightly. Suddenly she turns, staring at me coldly, even with a touch of hostility. "You have no tact at all … Don't you know how to respect other people's ways? You've finished your water. Now go, I need some peace."

I rise to my feet. "I'm sorry to have bothered you. Thank you."

She nods, and in that instant I see the glistening of tears.