Winter in the Southern Hemisphere

The plane had begun its descent when Lu Yi’an checked his arrival card for the third time.

Name: correct. Passport number: correct. Flight number: correct.

The last question asked whether he was carrying food.

Yi’an stared at the box, then opened the list his mother had sent before he left home.

Cold medicine. Stomach medicine. Bandages. Power adaptor. Two pairs of thick socks.

No food.

But he remembered her crouching beside his suitcase while his father went downstairs to call the car. She had pushed something deep between two packing cubes. When he asked what it was, she said, Nothing. You might need it on the way.

The cabin announcement told everyone to raise their window shades and stow their tray tables. Yi’an caught only part of the English version, but the passenger beside him folded his tray away, so he did the same.

Then he ticked YES.

Better to explain too much than declare the wrong thing.

That was one of seventeen rules in his phone. Others included Confirm anyone’s identity before handing over your passport and Do not exchange too much cash at the airport. The final rule was only four words long in Chinese:

Don’t panic. Speak slowly.

He checked that his phone was still in flight mode, even though it could not have changed by itself, and turned off the screen.

Cloud thinned beneath the wing.

His first view of the southern hemisphere came through a window bisected by the wing: a river catching the sun. It bent through an unfamiliar green landscape, broad and silver, with low houses gathered along roads he could not name. The sky looked closer than the one at home. Bluer, too—an unreasonable, unobstructed blue.

Yi’an leaned his forehead against the cool window.

Only then did leaving become real.

This was not a move from his parents’ apartment into a university dormitory. It was not a train journey to another city. There was not a single road below him that he recognised. If his parents left home now, they could not reach him before nightfall. Not tomorrow, either.

He touched his phone, wanting to send his mother a message.

Almost there.

He stopped.

They had not landed yet. He would tell her when everything had gone smoothly.

The aircraft dropped through a pocket of air. His seat belt tightened across his stomach. A child near the front shouted with delight, and several passengers laughed.

Yi’an smiled too, although no one was looking at him.

He slid the arrival card into his passport, zipped both into the inside pocket of his jacket, and pressed a hand over them.

The wheels struck the runway, bounced once, and settled into a long roar of rubber and speed.

Phones woke throughout the cabin.

Message tones fell around him like a small, private rain. His own phone recovered its signal and began to vibrate.

Six messages from his mother.

Had he landed?

Remember the suitcase.

Other people had similar suitcases, so check the name before taking one.

Do not get into a stranger’s car.

A screenshot of the local weather.

And finally: Tell us when you arrive. Your father and I are still awake.

It was well past midnight at home.

Yi’an typed, Landed. Everything went smoothly and added a smiling face.

His mother called on video before he had time to put the phone away.

The image opened on half her face, swung past the ceiling light, and finally steadied. His father sat at the other end of the sofa with the television muted and the remote in his hand.

“You’ve landed?” his mother asked in Mandarin.

“Just now.”

“Everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine.”

“Is it cold? It’s winter there, isn’t it? I told you to keep your coat—”

Passengers were already standing. Overhead bins snapped open one after another, and the aisle clogged with bodies and luggage. Someone pulling down a case knocked the back of Yi’an’s seat.

He held the phone closer so his parents could see only his face.

“It isn’t cold,” he said. “There’s sunshine.”

His father spoke from outside the frame. “Have you reached the person collecting you?”

Yi’an glanced at the top of his screen. The driver’s message thread had not changed since yesterday. No reply to the message he had sent before landing.

“Yes,” he said. “We’ve been in touch.”

The lie came out so easily that it surprised him.

His mother did not notice. She began reminding him where to go after leaving the plane, not to lose anything, to be polite when he met his host. He had heard every instruction several times during the past week. Across nearly ten thousand kilometres, they sounded different.

“I know,” he said. “You two should sleep. I’ll message after I get my suitcase.”

“Call if anything happens.”

“What could happen?” He smiled. “Don’t worry.”

When the call ended, the driver’s thread returned to the screen.

Still no reply.

The queue began to move. Yi’an pulled on his backpack and followed it into the jet bridge, where cool air smelled of metal, disinfectant and somebody else’s perfume.

Every sign above him was in English.

He knew every word.

Together, they made him stop for two seconds.

People steered their wheeled cases around him. A flight attendant smiled and asked whether he needed help.

“No, thank you.”

That came out quickly. Perfectly.

She moved on.

Yi’an opened the airport map. The blue location dot jumped and settled somewhere he had not expected. He enlarged the map, reduced it, then rotated the screen.

Two minutes later, he confidently walked in the wrong direction.

Twenty metres on, a large sign informed him that he was heading towards TRANSFERS.

He stopped.

Rule seventeen arrived on time.

Don’t panic. Speak slowly.

Yi’an stood in the middle of the moving crowd for three seconds, then turned around with the expression of a man who had merely remembered something important behind him.

The arrows beneath the sign were perfectly clear. He had rotated the map and forgotten that the directions rotated with it.

Not an English problem, he decided. A map problem.

At immigration, the officer asked the purpose of his visit.

“Study.”

He had prepared for that question. The ease of the answer was almost disappointing.

The officer asked a second question.

Yi’an caught something that sounded like address and recited the full address of his homestay—street number, suburb and postcode without a single mistake.

The officer waited for him to finish.

“How long will you stay?”

“Sorry?”

The question came again, slower.

Yi’an gave the length of his visa, then added his course, his school and his expected graduation date, proving as thoroughly as possible that he had only misheard, not failed to understand.

The officer entered something on the computer and handed back the passport.

“All right. Welcome.”

“Thank you.”

Yi’an was several steps away before he realised the second question had contained nothing resembling the word address.

He did not turn back.

At baggage claim, black, blue and grey suitcases emerged from behind the rubber curtain as though one factory supplied the entire world. Yi’an stood close to the carousel and inspected every dark-blue case for a red strip of cloth tied to the side handle.

His father had complained when his mother tied it there.

“It’s ugly,” he had said.

“Ugly is easy to recognise,” she had replied.

She was right.

Yi’an saw the flash of red through three rows of people. He stepped forward, caught the handle and underestimated the weight. The moving belt pulled him sideways. A man beside him caught the bottom of the suitcase and lifted it clear.

“Thanks.”

“No worries.”

The man had already turned away.

Yi’an repeated the phrase silently. His textbooks had taught him you’re welcome. Here, apparently, no one worried about anything.

At the declaration channel, the officer looked at the tick beside FOOD.

“What have you brought?”

“I’m not sure.”

It was not an ideal answer.

The officer looked up.

“My mother put something in my suitcase. She said it was nothing, but it may be food. I saw her put it in, but I didn’t see what it was, so I declared yes.”

He became faster as he spoke. The officer listened, then pointed to an inspection bench.

“Open the bag, please.”

“Of course.”

His mother had packed the suitcase like a defensive engineering project. Clothes were divided by season. Medicines occupied a separate pouch. Socks filled the spaces inside shoes. A towel protected a glass cup. Even the power adaptor sat inside a washed plastic container.

The officer lifted a packet of cold medicine.

“Medicine,” Yi’an said at once. “For a normal cold. Nothing serious. I’m not sick now.”

“Okay.”

At the bottom of the case, between two sweaters, the officer found a clear plastic bag inside another clear plastic bag.

It contained four cooked eggs and two folded scallion pancakes. One egg had cracked during the flight, leaking dark marinade into the bottom of the bag.

A yellow sticky note was attached to the outside in his mother’s uneven handwriting.

Eat these if you get hungry on the way.

Yi’an looked at the bag and could not decide whether to explain the eggs or why a man in his twenties had crossed the world with food packed by his mother.

“Eggs,” the officer said.

“Yes.”

“You can’t bring these in.”

“I understand.”

“And this?”

“Pancake.” He reconsidered. “Chinese pancake. Not sweet. Flour, oil, maybe spring onion. I’m not completely sure.”

The officer glanced at him. “Your mother packed it?”

“Yes.”

Something moved at the corner of her mouth. She placed the food in a disposal container but peeled off the yellow note and handed it back.

“Next time, check before you fly.”

“I will.”

Yi’an folded the note once and put it deep inside his wallet.

As he zipped the case, his mother sent another message.

Did you find the food I packed? Don’t let yourself go hungry.

He looked towards the container being carried away.

I found it. It was good, he replied.

This time, he did not add a smile.

Outside arrivals, the glass doors opened onto wind and the smell of sun-warmed pavement. Yi’an searched the people holding signs once, then again.

No one held his name.

His first call to the driver went unanswered. The second rang until it disconnected. Before making a third, he checked yesterday’s message. Time, flight, exit and passenger name were all correct. The driver had promised to wear a blue jacket.

There were at least seven blue jackets near the exit.

Yi’an inspected them one by one. At the fourth, the wearer began to inspect him in return. Yi’an walked past with purpose and pretended he had been looking for the parking signs all along.

His phone finally rang beside the seventh blue jacket.

It was his host.

“Hello, Ian?”

He took a moment to recognise the name. He had entered it once on an application form and almost forgotten it since.

“Yes. This is Ian.”

She spoke quickly. Yi’an assembled the words he understood: driver, car trouble, sorry, unable to come, taxi, address.

“Okay,” he said. “No problem.”

There were several problems.

He did not know where the taxi rank was, how much the journey would cost, or when the prepaid collection fee would be returned. But he had already said there was no problem.

He opened his list and added an eighteenth rule.

Do not say “no problem” before understanding the problem.

The taxi fare was enough to pay for many meals. Yi’an watched the number on the card terminal for two seconds, entered it into his expenses before the driver had fully pulled away, then added two exclamation marks. One looked more professional, so he deleted the other.

The house was older than its photograph.

The timber walls were painted a pale grey that had faded unevenly. A wide roof shaded the veranda, and thick green plants crowded the front steps despite the winter sun. A small wind chime moved beneath the eaves, though Yi’an could not feel any wind.

The front door opened. A short woman with greying hair stepped out, glanced towards the corner as if confirming the missing driver was still missing, and looked at him.

“Ian?”

“Hello. Nice to meet you.”

She introduced herself. Yi’an heard the name clearly but could not immediately connect the sound to the spelling he had seen in her emails. He repeated it. She said, “Close enough,” and took his backpack.

“No, no, I can carry it.”

“I know. But I’m already holding it.”

He was not sure whether this was a joke, so he smiled in case it was.

The house smelled of timber, laundry powder and toast. Family photographs covered the hall, some faded yellow with age. Before Yi’an could study them, his host began explaining the rules.

Which kitchen things he could use. Which shelf in the refrigerator belonged to him. No washing machine at night. Do not take too long in the shower. Separate the rubbish. Put the green-lidded bin at the kerb on Wednesday morning.

Yi’an nodded and tried to remember everything.

“Understand?”

“Yes.”

He remembered the green lid.

His room was at the end of the hall. It held a bed, a desk and a wardrobe. Clean towels lay beside a sheet of paper bearing the Wi-Fi password.

The paper inspired immediate gratitude.

Letters. Numbers. Clear and motionless. No accent. No sudden increase in speed.

On the way back to the kitchen, his host passed a narrow staircase descending from the hall and closed the half-open wooden door beside it.

Yi’an caught a glimpse of steep steps vanishing into darkness. Cooler air moved through the gap, damp with the smell of earth.

“What’s down there?”

“Old cellar. Storage now.” She pushed the door shut. “The stairs aren’t safe. Don’t go down.”

Her tone was the same one she had used for the washing machine.

“Okay.”

There was no lock. Years of use had dulled the brass handle. Shallow scratches marked the bottom of the frame, the kind left by moving boxes or furniture.

Yi’an looked once and followed her to dinner.

She asked whether there was anything he could not eat. He thought she had asked what he wanted and answered, “Anything is fine.”

Dinner was roast chicken, potatoes and beans cooked very soft.

It was not bad. It was simply another thing he had to learn.

Halfway through the meal, heavy footsteps crossed the roof.

Yi’an looked up.

His host continued cutting a potato.

“Possum.”

“Person?”

“Possum.”

She showed him a photograph on her phone.

Yi’an nodded. He understood only that there was not a person on the roof.

In his room, he made a video for his parents. He showed the bed, desk, wardrobe and window, avoiding the drawer that would not close and the narrow bathroom.

“It’s good,” he said in Mandarin. “The room’s quite big. My host is very nice.”

His mother replied almost at once.

Looks good. Sleep early. Don’t stay on your phone all night.

His father messaged separately.

It’s normal to feel uncomfortable on the first day. Give it time.

Yi’an read the sentence twice. His father had probably noticed something, but fathers and sons did not always need to identify such things aloud.

He replied, Mm.

When he unpacked, the yellow note slipped from his wallet. He fixed it to the inside edge of the desk, where he would see it only when he opened the drawer.

Then he checked tomorrow’s route again. Bus time. Transfer point. Walking distance from the stop to the school. He created an expenses sheet and entered the taxi fare.

The figures aligned neatly on the screen.

If a thing could be arranged, it was not yet out of control.

At ten, he turned off the light.

The neighbourhood was not quiet. Leaves brushed the roof. An unfamiliar bird called at long intervals, sharp as a rusty hinge being turned somewhere in the dark. The refrigerator compressor sent a low vibration through the timber floor. The possum crossed his ceiling again and stopped directly overhead.

Yi’an lay awake, identifying each sound.

First night, he told himself.

It would get better.

At 1:17 a.m., he woke thirsty and walked into the hall.

A dim wall light had been left on. The old floorboards shifted beneath his feet. He tried to avoid the places that had creaked earlier.

As he passed the cellar door, something knocked once from the other side.

Thud.

Yi’an stopped.

The refrigerator was running. A branch brushed the outer wall. Nothing else moved.

Pipes, perhaps.

He took another step.

Thud.

The interval was too even.

Yi’an stood with his back to the door. His skin tightened along the nape of his neck. The house had pipes, foundations and an animal on the roof whose name sounded like person. Any of those explanations was more reasonable than someone knocking from inside the cellar.

He turned on his phone light.

The beam found the wooden door. The brass handle did not move. Darkness lay beneath the narrow gap.

Yi’an waited for a third knock.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

Nothing.

He almost laughed at himself. As he turned away, the phone light swept across a framed photograph and threw his pale reflection back at him.

He switched off the light and walked towards the kitchen.

The third knock came from beneath his feet.

Not behind the door. Deeper than the cellar, as though it had travelled through the foundations and up from the earth below the house.

Thud.

Yi’an looked down at the floorboards.