The Winter Station Page 11

  Noting Boguchi’s quizzical expression, Messonier avoided his eyes and slowly dredged his spoon through the thick okroshka in the bowl.

  A yellow wine, huang-jiu from Shaoxing, was poured as a concession to the Chinese, but the Russians ignored it for quantities of vodka. The entrées were elegant and substantial: sturgeon in champagne sauce, partridge fattened on juniper berries, roast saddle of goat, suckling pig with cream and horseradish. Strong punch marked the introduction of lighter fare, cucumber salad and cauliflower with sauce Polonaise. Dessert was a towering babka yablochnaya.

  The Baron murmured praise for the dinner and introduced himself to the translator Zhu Youjing and Dr. Iasienski.

  The waiter inserted a tray of fruit ices between them. The hours-long dinner was nearly finished.

  Afterward, the Baron waited patiently with other officials for an introduction to Dr. Wu. Up close, the doctor was very boyish in a collared jacket and trousers tucked into high leather boots. Vodka had made the Baron careless and he automatically addressed Dr. Wu in Chinese, a standard pleasantry of welcome. The translator Zhu Youjing quickly answered but Wu had lost face in front of officials and his cheeks flushed. The Baron hastily apologized in Chinese and then awkwardly in English.

  Cold-eyed, Wu accepted his apology. “We can speak in English, German, or French, as you wish, Baron.” They agreed to meet again the following week.

  The Baron joined his hands in front of his chest and bowed slightly, making the gongshou courtesy.

  “I will make arrangements for your meeting, as Dr. Wu is very busy.” His translator’s Russian was excellent, his r sonorous.

  The Baron noticed Messonier edging his way toward a blond woman in the group gathered around two polite young men, medical students from Peking Union Medical College, a missionary institute.

  Wang, the tallest junior doctor, was clearly excited to discuss his first assignment in Kharbin. “We’ll monitor arriving and departing passengers at Central Station, where we’re most useful. We watch for those who seem uneasy or sick, check their symptoms, and take their temperature.”

  Several men praised their sacrifice.

  “Sacrifice?” The second young man’s face creased with worry until a waiter approached with glasses of vodka on a tray.

  Someone asked him about the sanitary measures in the train station.

  He looked blank until Wang broke in. “Thermometers will be sterilized in alcohol after each use.”

  “You’ll need rubber gloves and hot water. A mask. Memorize shidan suan, the word for carbolic disinfectant.” The Baron’s voice was gentle. “You’ll be at risk, exposing yourself to so many people day after day.”

  “Especially the many foreigners at the station. The dirty Chinese.” A Russian drunk spoke from the crowd.

  Dr. Wu didn’t change expression at this insult and Messonier looked at him in surprise.

  “Anyone can carry an illness. Anyone can be infected.” The Baron challenged the speaker, who was drunker than the others. “No weapon or shield can protect you.”

  “Not true. Imperial Russia protects you. Every measure is taken to safeguard your health. No need to be concerned.” Dr. Iasienski addressed the two young Chinese doctors but his eyes were on the Baron. A warning.

  “You see? Your safety is guaranteed by one of Kharbin’s highest medical authorities.” The Baron’s gesture was expansive and mocking. Possibly at this point, some of his colleagues marked him as insufficiently loyal.

  The blond woman addressed Dr. Iasienski. “I’m Dr. Maria Lebedev. Is there a report about the exact dates and the pattern of contagion, since the train stations are under surveillance?” The pale braids circling her head were harshly sculpted by electric light from the sconce.

  “Only vigilance and caution will subdue the beast,” said Dr. Iasienski, then added, “God willing.”

  Messonier cleared his throat but Dr. Maria Lebedev ignored him. “I assume an official report will be distributed at our first general meeting?”

  “Let’s not review medical issues here. It’s inefficient gossip after a banquet,” interrupted Khorvat.

  “The most accurate information sometimes comes from unofficial sources.” Dr. Maria Lebedev smiled at Khorvat. Because women’s opinions were generally ignored, only a woman would dare challenge the general.

  The Baron resisted the urge to kiss her hand.

  An awkward silence as they waited for Khorvat’s response until Messonier spun a comment. “Dr. Lebedev just arrived from Switzerland. A volunteer.”

  Khorvat’s voice boomed. “Welcome, Dr. Lebedev. Impressive that you wish to immediately begin work.”

  “The situation seems to require immediacy.” She didn’t back down.

  “We are absolutely ready if a crisis should arise.” Khorvat’s eyes flickered over their faces to see who dared disagree. They were silent and only the slightest movements, a hand in a pocket, an exchange of glances, betrayed their unease.

  Messonier’s thin laugh. “I’d best go home and prepare for battle.”

  “Or prepare a last will and testament. Depending on your faith,” Iasienski joked.

  “No. That would be bad luck.” Dr. Maria Lebedev touched Messonier’s arm.

  When Khorvat was alone, waiting for a servant to bring his coat, the Baron approached him. “Dr. Wu is very young. But spirited.”

  Khorvat was benevolent after vodka and his favorite caviar. “Wu has Alfred Sze from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs as a supporter. Sze has Grand Councillor Na Dong as his patron. They can speak directly to the throne in Beijing. Although we’ll see if it’s an aid or a hindrance. The Chinese dream that they can battle an outbreak of plague alone. They don’t recognize the peril of their position. If they don’t stop the plague, Russia and Japan will help them.”

  “With their armies?”

  “There are many kinds of help. But the important thing is that Dr. Wu cooperates with us.”

  “He will be embraced by the hospital. We’ve always been understaffed.” Not the correct answer but vodka would smooth over the general’s memory.

  * * *

  The Baron heard indistinct voices, a pattern of orders and acknowledgments, as he entered the magistrate’s audience hall. The dao tai, who represented the Qing imperial government, was a hunched silhouette in an elaborately carved chair, his jacket stiffly embroidered with waves and twisting figures of beasts, their intricate rainbow colors diminished in the hall’s light. Attendants stood beside his chair.

  As a mark of respect for the dao tai, the Baron had pulled his sleeves down over his hands and made the courteous gongshou bow. The dao tai, unblinking, registered no surprise as the Russian made the usual courtesies in Chinese. He was allowed to continue.

  “Your Honor, a mysterious illness has taken the lives of several Chinese. I beg permission to inspect inns, homes, and eating places in Fuchiatien to find others suffering from the sickness.”

  The dao tai nodded and slumped forward. His attendants glared at the Baron as if this discourtesy were his fault. The dao tai abruptly jerked his head up again. “Will the sick receive treatment?”

  “Yes. They will be taken to the Russian hospital.” If the dao tai refused the request or asked for time to consider it, Russian soldiers would probably conduct an inspection without permission. The dao tai would be foolish to risk losing face for the sake of a few poor laborers. Possibly he expected a bribe.

  The Baron continued his role as a supplicant. “The situation needs your strength and wisdom.” He believed these words at the moment they were spoken. “We also ask for doctors to monitor passengers departing and arriving at Central Station. We must be vigilant.” This request was purely a courtesy, as CER trains were owned by Russia and their soldiers would enforce inspection at the station.

  Unfocused, the dao tai blinked and slumped deeper in his chair. The Baron realized he was an addict. Opium. The wait for his reply could be lengthy. He shuffled his feet.

  What was he
doing in this role? Standing between two corrupt systems, a negotiator like his father, the diplomat. No escape from family or the past, even here in Manchuria. He’d sworn to avoid situations where he would represent the government, the instrument of empire.

  The dao tai’s soft voice offered an agreement. With the slightest motion of his hand, he granted the Baron and those he represented power over his most vulnerable subjects. Letters of agreement would be exchanged with Russian officials to permit inspection of Fuchiatien. Men could disappear in the space between the two countries.

  Perhaps this agreement would allow the Baron to save a few unfortunates. He was the worm in the bud, a broken thread in the official fabric. Perhaps his father had also recognized his own helplessness.

  Afterward, the Baron met Chang in a teahouse on Kitayskaya Street in the Pristan quarter. The place was crowded and its smell of damp shearling, sweat, and burning wood was familiar.

  “Yes, better now.” Chang rubbed his jaw, a gesture to soothe his nerves. His fur hat leaked moisture from its dusting of snow onto the table next to the Baron’s cup. “My droshky got stuck. Tipped at an angle in the snow. I was dumped out. I walked from Novotorgovaya Street here to the chaynaya teahouse. The snow wasn’t cleared away even in front of the stores. Would have been easier for longer legs.”

  “I’ll order tea for you.” The Baron gently waved in a waiter’s direction and turned back to Chang, his face displaying his concern.

  Chang continued talking as if he hadn’t heard the Baron’s offer. “Sunlight glared off the ice in the harbor, so the street was blinding white. Then I see a hand sticking up from the snow. Right in front of me. This close.” His arm stretched across the table. He spoke quickly, an exorcism to free himself of the experience. “I started shaking. The hand was so white I could hardly see it against the snow except for its shadow. And blue fingernails.”

  A waiter shoved the teapot on the table between them and hurried away.

  “Doctor, do you have anything to help me sleep tonight?”

  “Perhaps.” The Baron automatically checked the teapot, stalling for time while his thoughts raced. He imagined locating the buried corpse, testing it for plague, presenting his discovery to doctors in the hospital. “You didn’t touch the hand? The corpse?”

  “I wouldn’t have touched the hand even with a shovel.”

  “I’ll file a report. Can you remember the location of the body?”

  Chang was gratified by the Baron’s serious attention to his story. “Between Kommercheskaya and Kitayskaya Streets. Tell me what you’ll report.”

  “A body was found.” The wooden table was so rough that the teapot scraped as the Baron pushed it across to Chang.

  The dwarf was puzzled. “That’s your report?”

  “It’s enough to launch a search for the body. Once it’s found, the cause of death can be determined.”

  “The mysterious sickness?”

  The Baron was careful. How to warn without alarm. “A meeting has been called tomorrow for the entire medical staff. I’ll have more information. What steps will be taken. What I can do.”

  “I’m not a fool.”

  The Baron’s nervousness stopped words in his throat. “I’m told there’s no need for alarm. I’ve told my wife the same thing. Has anything changed at Churin’s?”

  Chang frowned. “Churin’s store wishes everything to appear the same during this crisis so shoppers have confidence to spend money. So I remain at the door.”

  “I hope they’ve increased your pay.”

  “I’ll probably die before I’m paid. But what are my chances of meeting someone with plague? I hear gossip. Terrible rumors about unexplained deaths.”

  The Baron tightened his grip on the cup. “Ask your fortune-teller.”

  “I may start to cross myself each time I open the door for someone at Churin’s. Ask for a blessing. But I’m lucky to work. I wait inside the warm store, step outside only to open the door for a shopper. I keep my distance. There’s plenty of fresh Manchurian air between me and the customers. But the rich are probably healthy.”

  “Anyone could be infected. Beggars, officials, newspaper sellers, the elegant Polish woman who sells fur coats. They’re all dangerous.”

  “You’re dangerous.”

  The Baron felt Chang’s words had the weight of stone. “God have mercy, yes. I know. I’m afraid to leave Li Ju alone or send her away.”

  “Li Ju knows your indecision. Chinese women are superior judges of character. They gossip and observe, since they’re mostly restricted to the home.”

  The dwarf had wild tales and a wealth of superstitions from his patchwork life. The Baron had once dismissed him as an exaggerator but now eagerly sought his opinion. He laid the template of Chang’s words against his knowledge of his wife like transparent paper to see if it was true. Li Ju grew up under care of the sisters at the Scottish mission. Perhaps they had instilled in her shyness, a sense of not-belonging, a lack of place that was like homesickness. She usually deferred to his decisions. Surely plague wouldn’t choose her as a victim. She’d achieved happiness after a struggle.

  “Tomorrow at noon I’ll burn mugwort in my courtyard. Mugwort drives away devils that bring misfortune.” A belief gathered on Chang’s travels.

  “Devils may need something stronger than a burning herb.”

  “No.” Chang lifted the teapot lid and inhaled. “What’s in here? Silver Needle tea. Possibly baohao yinzhen? Needs another minute to brew. Listen to me. I’m proof that these charms work. If I had been born a girl, with my short legs, I would have been drowned. I was nearly drowned anyway. Fortune rescued me. And now I’m in uniform at Churin’s every day. A gentleman’s job. My hands are clean.”

  “Truly good fortune. But have you noticed anything unusual?”

  “People seem cautious these days. A woman told me that her husband told her to avoid crowds. No shopping. But she does as she pleases when he’s away. She likes to spend his money. She knows her value.”

  “There are so few women in Kharbin.”

  “Women are a problem. Did you hear that the wives of Russian officials complained about the prostitutes on the train? Somewhere between St. Petersburg and Transbaikalia, the wives refused to sit in the same car with them. Maybe it was the women’s conversation? Or their perfume? So now unmarried women who travel to Kharbin sit separately from the married women on the train.” Chang grinned. “Russians scorn the Chinese. Now they scorn unmarried women. Russians are very cautious citizens.”

  In the room behind them, men began to shout at each other.

  The Baron raised his voice. “Russians also hate the Japanese.”

  “Wise choice. You may pour the tea.”

  The Baron carefully filled two cups. “Russians weren’t wise enough to avoid battle with Japan six years ago near Vladivostok. Now we have hundreds of Russian veterans wandering our streets, still carrying guns. Trying to live on miserable pensions.”

  “I’ve seen them. I see everyone come and go from Churin’s. Watching is my work. I know when someone will sneer, mock me, when a hand will become a fist. I have my own revenge for these betrayals.” He delicately sniffed the steaming liquid in the cup. “I used to be stopped by people who thought I was a child, a boy, because of my size. Men called to me. I would skip, wave, pick up stones to toss like a child to lure them. I admit I was excited. I allowed men to follow me, then I’d shout at them in a deep voice. Or whirl around to show my face to see them jump. To frighten them. They learned a lesson from me.” His expression was mocking. “Although some men were furious at being tricked and threw things, chased me. I never walk on an empty street. Mercy, no. Some men did pay me. Their guilty coin.”

  The Baron was troubled by the other man’s—what? Calculation?

  Chang stared at the Baron, slightly reluctant to continue. “I had the idea to punish these men. Let them get close, then a little flick with a knife. Maybe my lesson would save a child from a bitter experience.
You understand?”

  “If you arrive bleeding in my office, no questions will be asked.”

  “Don’t tell me to be careful.”

  “Never.”

  Chang leaned forward. “I’m certain I was approached by a Russian official. I recognized him a few days later when he walked into Churin’s.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “It’s difficult not to notice me.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Everyone looks tall to me. He had a pale mustache. A fur hat. About your age.”

  The Baron felt his face fold into sorrow. What could be done? Kharbin was a city of men, not mothers. “Every week, the ferries deliver women and children to their new masters, who meet them at the wharf. The newspaper reports this slave dealing but there are no arrests. No protests. Nothing boils.”

  “Change has a fixed path. The poor slaves met their fate.” Responding to the Baron’s expression, he said, “There’s another old saying: Life commands us to climb a mountain of knife blades.”

  “Yes.” The Baron’s fingers pressed against the teacup but he didn’t feel its comforting heat, his thoughts elsewhere, mind separated from body.

  * * *

  The Baron watched the hands and face of Dr. Wu Lien-Teh across the table in the hospital conference room, trying to anticipate the man’s strategy, waiting to see how he was revealed by fleeting expressions and movements. Wu rested his folded hands on the table, a schoolboy’s gesture. It was traditional etiquette for the Chinese to show their hands with great discretion. The Baron was ashamed of his judgment, his immediate assumption of superiority. Gazing around the table, he knew several of the other doctors—Zabolotny, Lebedev, Messonier, Mesny—were locked into an unspoken alliance against Wu, the foreign interloper. Their shared hostility was clear as ripples in water.

  They hadn’t anticipated China would appoint their own representative as health commissioner to manage the epidemic. It was unprecedented. Dr. Wu had been given unusual power and then inserted it between them at the Russian hospital. But his youth, inexperience, and the fact that he wasn’t fluent in Mandarin or Russian reassured them that he was a puppet figure, someone to dismiss, work around. Wu had stepped into a cold winter.