Konrad and Alexandra (PDF) - Rolf Gross

somewhat, his back was still bent, but neither it nor his hands gave him any pain.Alexandra controlled her euphoria carefully: she had succeeded in curing the man—it was a miracle after all! To preventbeing mobbed by people seeking help, Alexandra sternly ordered the man to keep strict silence about this dramaticevent. He was a simple person, so she did the frivolous thing of putting the fear of a relapse into him should the word ofhis cure spread.Alexandra called skeptical Helena to witness the positive changes in the man’s joints and posture. Helena, very pensive,shook her head.In the following months Alexandra tried to cure other patients in this manner but made the discouraging discovery thatshe was successful only half the time. The cases were similar, all involved arthritic swellings. Sometimes the inflamationreceded and sometimes nothing happened at all. She could not explain why. The intensity of her involvement seemedthe same, her exhaustion too. However, whatever improvement she did get seemed permanent, at least for the weeksshe had been trying this method.Perhaps, she thought, I don’t love them all equally. That would be the simplest explanation. But maybe other unspecifieddissimilarities existed between these cases. For a long time the old man remained her greatest success.55.Konrad's Return to St. Petersburg1912Putuo Shan Dao, 15 December 1911Beloved woman,I can hardly believe it, we did reach the island of Putuo Shan! From the city of Ningbo we took a boat, which wascrowded with pilgrims and weekend tourists. We were the only foreigners and were automatically put into the first classwhere 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 liveon this island?" She giggled. "Do you notice? These are expensive ladies of easy virtue. They are on a weekend trystwith these businessmen." It was obvious that she was right: Putuo Shan was a favorite weekend destination for touristsand Buddhist pilgrims alike. The pilgrims populated the lower decks and were easily recognizable by the large yellowpilgrims’ bags they carried.We soon found that the island is an idyllic paradise of old trees, fish restaurants, wine cellars and Ch'an monasteries. Anostalgic, beautiful place. The China I had dreamed of, which no longer exists elsewhere.For an hour the boat took us down the Ningbo river through meadows and harvested rice paddies, deliver us eventuallyinto 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 sunwas low and flooded this picture with warm ligh:. A hand-colored engraving from an old edition of Marco Polo’s travels.Putuo Shan Dao, "Mount Putuo Island," named after the minor mountain on the island which was crowned by a mastwith 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 lightcoming from the open door of the hostel. Only their yellow shoulder-bags and faces were visible. A flight of stairsbetween yellow-painted walls overhung by Chinese elms finally led us into a large interior courtyard with a huge Gingkotree in the center. Unexpected electrical lighting, a three-story hotel, in the dining room sat our acquaintances from thefirst 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 roomthe kitchen had closed. Chinese hotels offer meals at pedantically precise times. The personnel shrugged. "Eat in thevillage!"In a most frivolous mood we returned to the streets of the nocturnal village. A fleeting impression of being in France, itmust have been the unusual multi-story stone houses. We came across a big trough, the village laundry, deserted175