Konrad and Alexandra (pdf) - Rolf Gross

Konrad's Return from China
St. Pertersburg 1912
Putuo Shan Dao, 15 December 1911
Beloved woman,
I can hardly believe it, we did reach the island of Putuo Shan! From the city of
Ningbo we took a boat, which was crowded with pilgrims and weekend tourists. We
were the only foreigners and were automatically put into the first class where we found
ourselves in the company of distinguished-looking older businessmen and exalted much
younger ladies, many in Western clothes.
Wei-ji, our Chinese guide, looked at this crowd for a while and then whispered. "Mr.
Konrad, what monks did you say live on this island?" She giggled. "Do you notice?
These are expensive ladies of easy virtue. They are on a weekend tryst with these
businessmen."
It was obvious that she was right: Putuo Shan was a favorite weekend
destination for tourists and Buddhist pilgrims alike. The pilgrims populated the lower
decks and were easily recognizable by the large yellow pilgrims’ bags they carried.
We soon found that the island is an idyllic paradise of old trees, fish restaurants,
wine cellars and Ch’an monasteries. A nostalgic, beautiful place. The China I had
dreamed of, which no longer exists elsewhere.
For an hour the boat navigated down the Ningbo river past docks and
warehouses and later through meadows and harvested rice paddies, to take us
eventually into a sea colored yellow by the silt of the Jangtse river.
Junks with red, brown, and yellow Chinese sails crossed between the many
islands of the Jangtse archipelago. The sun was low and flooded this picture with warm
ligh. A hand-colored engraving from an old edition of Marco Polo’s travels.
Putuo Shan Dao, "Putuo Mountain Island," named after the minor mountain on
the island which was crowned by a mast with colored flags and banners. We landed in a
sandy bay, a rickshaw took us from the pier to the island village.
It had become dark. We walked along cobblestone streets, between medieval
stone houses, trees, illuminated scenes, people eating in a basement tavern, a group of
pilgrims negotiating accommodations with an inn owner in the wan light coming from the
open door of the hostel. Only their yellow shoulder-bags and faces were visible. A flight
of stairs between yellow-painted walls overhung by Cryptomerias finally led us into a
large interior courtyard with a huge Gingko tree in the center. Unexpected electrical
lighting, a three-story hotel, in the dining room sat our acquaintances from the first class
with their girlfriends.
"Ah," laughed Wei-ji, "here are the monks!"
She negotiated two rooms, one with a balcony for us, a cheaper one for herself.
When we returned to the dining room the kitchen had closed. Chinese hotels offer
meals at pedantically precise times. The personnel shrugged. "Eat in the village!"
In a frivolous mood we returned to the streets of the nocturnal village. A fleeting
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