The Winter Station Page 15

  The young woman persisted. “Obviously, goggles would offer better protection?”

  “The problem with goggles is that there are no goggles.” Broquet was exasperated.

  A sympathetic murmur from the audience. “A shipment of goggles will arrive very soon,” Zabolotny calmly announced from his seat onstage. “We’re under enormous pressure to analyze plague bacilli and conduct experiments during this crisis. Small animals, rats and guinea pigs, had their eyes dusted with powdered dry bacilli to see if airborne particles can cause infection. It’s one of many experiments. Few doctors have ever faced such an enormous challenge without properly equipped laboratories.”

  Another question from the audience. “The masks protect medical staff but how do we stop the sickness spreading between patients?”

  “We’re not certain at what point infected patients are contagious. Many facts are still unknown.”

  “I have proposed that all patients wear masks,” Zabolotny answered. “Let the burden be on the sick. Gauze can be draped over patients’ heads to catch discharge and sputum when they sneeze and cough. This is standard in India.”

  “But there’s a shortage of gauze.” Broquet stared at Zabolotny, challenging him to defend his proposal. “Here’s another option.” He waved two long strips of fabric as if deflecting attention from his previous ill-judged comment. “This mask is so simple a child can make it from two pieces of fabric.” He spread the cloths flat on the table. “First, fold a three-foot-long strip of thin wool inside a piece of gauze of the same length. Cut three small slits at each end so it’s less bulky. Cut two holes for the eyes in the center of the strips. Dr. Zabolotny, allow me to demonstrate on you. Hold very still, please.”

  Peevish, Zabolotny stood while Broquet wrapped the fabric strip over his eyes and across his face, tied it at the back of his head.

  Broquet continued, “A second fabric strip goes over the top of the head to hold it in place. There we are.”

  His head clumsily wrapped in the bandage mask, Zabolotny stepped from behind the table, stumbling slightly, as his vision was impaired, to face the audience and make a stiff mocking bow to applause.

  Broquet gestured for quiet. “These cotton masks are contaminated after exposure to the patients. Burn them after use.”

  In the first row, a middle-aged man raised his arm for attention. “I need more information to better understand the situation. What’s the time span between infection and the appearance of symptoms? How do we know when it’s necessary to wear a mask?”

  Zabolotny awkwardly loosened the cloth strips from his head, and they dangled around his neck. “We believe it’s only a day or two at most between infection and the first symptoms. But no facts are definite yet.”

  Another questioner: “Does the treatment begin when the infected patient is admitted? How long does it delay the onset of symptoms?”

  “Records of patients are still being compiled.” Zabolotny was increasingly restless and batted at the hanging cloth strips.

  “What is the patients’ recovery rate, Dr. Zabolotny?” The audience hushed.

  Broquet answered for him. “We don’t know.” His face was shiny with sweat, and his voice rose. “Recovery isn’t a word that we use. I’ll speak plainly. You must always be on your guard with the patients. If you wish to stay alive, treat the patients as if they mean to harm you. Never expose your bare skin in the hospital. Touch nothing without protection.”

  A murmur of astonishment at Broquet’s outburst rippled through the assembly room.

  Afterward, the Baron and Messonier stood near the stage, speaking quietly about the pall Broquet’s last comment had cast over the assembly. The Baron could hardly restrain his anger at the doctors’ haphazard and evasive demonstration. “We’ve just seen two conjurers demonstrate poor magic tricks with pieces of cotton.”

  “Nothing that can’t be explained away by reason.” Messonier was distracted, watching Maria Lebedev across the room.

  “Who could feel secure knowing that cotton is the only thing that protects you from death?”

  Messonier’s eyes widened. “Remember, that’s not yet proven. Regardless, we’ve accepted it.”

  “As an acrobat accepts a tightrope.”

  The two doctors joined the small group gathered around Broquet. Messonier praised his informative lecture.

  Broquet thanked him. “I regret Dr. Wu didn’t approve the second mask I’d proposed. I copied the mask worn during the plague epidemic in Florence from a fifteenth-century illustration. The mask was a hood that completely hid the face and covered the shoulders.”

  “Perhaps it was impractical?”

  “No. Dr. Wu was concerned the hood would frighten the patients.” Broquet shrugged, turned to speak to a student.

  “This could be the last group assembly,” the Baron said. “It’s too dangerous to bring all the medical staff together in one room. Dr. Wu is a fool to take this risk.” He turned away at Messonier’s stricken look.

  “I overheard your comment,” Wu said. He and Zabolotny stood behind the Baron. “If you have criticism, discuss it with me face-to-face. It’s disrespectful of my position.”

  “I apologize, Dr. Wu.”

  Zabolotny smiled. Messonier pretended he hadn’t heard their exchange.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Wu left the room. His translator, Zhu Youjing, stayed behind and spoke with Maria Lebedev. A few minutes later, she found the Baron and Messonier.

  “Wu dismissed Dr. Mesny.” She gripped Messonier’s arm.

  Messonier struck his fist into his palm. “He made an example of Mesny. No disagreement is acceptable. A warning for others.”

  “Gospodi-pomiluy, God have mercy.” The Baron shook his head. “The man was quarrelsome and opinionated but we need every pair of hands. Dr. Wu has robbed us of a valuable ally.”

  “The patients will suffer for this.” Maria Lebedev’s voice was steady but her eyes were thick with tears.

  * * *

  As Xiansheng entered the Baron’s study, his fur-lined coat steamed from the lingering effect of the cold outside. The servants removed his garment, a bow was exchanged, and he accepted a cup of tieguanyin tea before the calligraphy lesson.

  Xiansheng silently observed the Baron carefully set out brush, inkstone, ink, and paper—the wenfang sibao, Four Treasures of the Abodes of Culture. The rinse pot was filled with water. The paper was unrolled on the table and weighted with small stones. The wet brush was stroked on the inkstone. The careful ritual of preparation usually calmed the Baron, but this afternoon he was possessed by restlessness. It had been five days, perhaps a week, since he’d last practiced calligraphy.

  Xiansheng had written the character jen for the Baron to copy, explaining it represented goodness, the virtue that must unite men. “When you work, remember each brushstroke must have vitality, life. Otherwise, it is baibi, a defeating or dead stroke. An empty stroke is a fault.”

  He straightened his body in the chair at the table, his neck aching. He balanced the brush between stiff fingers, its quivering bristles finer than feathers. He tried to summon calm to his fingers, to his wrist. His awareness of his hands expanded, bones inflating inside the flesh of his fingers like a glove. I cannot make the first mark. He tried to focus but his eyes continually slipped off the paper, sliding across it without the anchor of a black brushstroke.

  Then he became angry. He was a doctor, an aristocrat, intimidated by the silent regard of a man whose language he imperfectly understood. A dead stroke? Was he at fault for not understanding? No one could understand. It was a trick, a puzzle.

  He glanced at Xiansheng, aware that his expression was defiant. He thinks I’m a barbarian.

  Xiansheng answered his look. “When I was young and studying calligraphy, my teacher took away my brush to help me.”

  The Baron was confused. “No brush?”

  “I had practiced and practiced. Many considered my brushwork excellent. But my mind was unsettled. My teacher
quoted the Taoist master calligraphist Yu Shi’nan: ‘In the transformation of his mind, the calligrapher borrows the brush. It is not the brush that works the miracle.’ He instructed me to write the characters without a brush, to only imagine using it. I did as he said. My teacher was unable to tell if I had followed his direction, but my hand became freer.”

  The words seemed simple, but as the Baron struggled to understand them, their meaning became more dense and tangled.

  “The brush isn’t the tool. A famous calligraphist used a brush the size of a cabbage.”

  By the time he translated this sentence, the Baron was smiling, pulled from the web of his thought. The spring wound inside him loosened. Uncoiled. His hands relaxed and the brush made its first mark, luo bi, on paper.

  “Judging by your nervousness, I’d imagine you were preparing a banquet for the czar.” Messonier watched the Baron pace around the table in thick fleece slippers.

  The Baron barely acknowledged him, checking and rechecking the place mats arranged over the table. For Messonier’s pleasure, he’d persuaded Chang to conduct a tea ceremony. “I’ve been cautioned about the amount of water required to make tea. There are extra mats in the wardrobe over there.” They rummaged together through the shelves and found the stack of mats.

  Messonier lowered his voice. “I make tea for Maria every day and take great care with the preparations. She believes I have expertise. But I’m certain my knowledge is very rudimentary compared to Chang’s learning.”

  “I don’t believe you need to be concerned.”

  “I’ve no wish to make a fool of myself in front of Maria. I don’t know what to expect. What if Chang asks my opinion of the tea? Quizzes me?”

  The Baron glanced at Messonier. “Chang is a stern master but he won’t embarrass you. If you fail his test, it won’t change Maria’s opinion of you.” Strange to comfort Messonier when he needed comforting himself. But he was relieved by the Baron’s answer and they joined Maria and Li Ju at the table.

  But the Baron was restless, uneasy with everyone’s closeness. He calculated that, between them, the three doctors had treated over fifty patients in the hospital earlier that day. Li Ju had wandered through the busy market. One of them might have met a symptomless carrier of plague, someone at the stage when the infection was ripe and could be transmitted to others. One of them might have brought the bacilli to the table.

  There was no protection. Everyone was suspect. But for the moment, they had the shroud of innocence and he would trust it. He wouldn’t draw attention to his concern. He banished his calculations. They were simply friends sitting at a table. Companions of tea, chalu. He forced a smile to his lips, extended it to his eyes.

  But Maria Lebedev was studying him. Startled, he busied himself as if guilty, straightened a dish on the table. Was she also uneasy? Did her expression mirror the worry on his own face?

  Maria turned her attention away. Her wet boots had been left at the door and she swung her stocking feet as freely as a child, her thick skirt folded up over her knees. Messonier was delighted at her playful ease. So many doctors were unable to step away from the rigidity of service, the constant role of an observer.

  Li Ju had just met Maria for the first time and giggled shyly at her boldness. She was quiet, slightly uneasy in the company of her husband’s older friends. Her eyes moved hesitantly from face to face, but she was generous with her smile, even when their talk seemed strange or difficult.

  Maria pivoted into conversation with Li Ju, admiring the embroidered sash at her waist, tracing the intricate thick threads with her finger. Li Ju was pleased by Maria’s attention, the other woman bending toward her with kindness. The Baron knew his wife would unbuckle the jade button and present the sash as a gift to Maria. But Maria anticipated this courteous offer and was already shaking her head no, her hand extended to stop Li Ju’s generosity. To receive nothing for herself. Li Ju insisted, and the gift was made. Maria clasped Li Ju’s hand, the two women smiling at each other.

  A lovely pantomime, the Baron thought. What significance might the embroidered sash have for Maria one day in the future, a bright piece of cloth perhaps pulled from tissue paper in a drawer, a memento of an hour when she drank ceremonial tea with her lover and his friends? Perhaps she would even turn to Messonier, if they had made a life together, and hold it up, ask if he remembered that afternoon.

  A sweep of cold air from the door announced Chang before the stamp of his boots on the threshold. He called a greeting, handed the servant a wooden box, and hurried back outside. In a moment, he returned holding a bowl heaped with snow.

  “Melt this over heat,” he said to the servant. “Just to the boil.” The servant took the bowl of snow and vanished into the kitchen. Chang turned and nodded in the direction of the group at the table. “I’ve brought you a very fine tea.” A second servant, a boy, helped Chang remove his coat and boots. The boy waited awkwardly as Chang stepped onto a stool and clambered into a chair at the table, uncertain if he should assist.

  Chang unpacked the box on the table in front of them. “Today we drink wuyi, a rare yancha tea grown on the mountains in Fujian.” He opened a metal canister and, with a practiced tap, spilled a measure of dry tea into a tiny blue-and-white bowl. “Together we will share the five phases of tea: dry leaves, the dry leaves when heated, wet leaves, scent of a cup, flavor in the mouth.” He handed the bowl with dry tea to the Baron to pass around. “First, observe the size, color, and texture of the tea. Then appreciate its aroma.”

  The Baron studied the loose tea in the bowl, dark twisted leaves fine as threads, then sniffed them. Not a familiar scent. It was vegetable—no, the odor of a location, something grown. Dry ground in a northern forest.

  How to memorize the scent, lock it to this moment as he touched Li Ju’s fingers handing her the bowl? The scent frail, an intangible aura shared between them. His unease returned. He placed his hand on his wife’s arm to reassure himself and Messonier caught his eye, recognizing his gesture.

  “We use two sets of cups for the tea ceremony. One set is slightly smaller.” Chang gently lifted a bundle of wrinkled red silk from the box and unwrapped five tiny cylindrical cups without handles. A second nest of silk held five slightly larger cups, also without handles, bowls, and a large plate perforated like a sieve. He held up a teapot the size of a small gourd, a rich brown-purple color, for them to admire. “My prize Yixing pottery. Yixing teapots are always unglazed. This is the natural color of the clay. It suits black or semi-fermented oolong tea.” Chang angled the teapot, displaying its interior for them. “Never clean the inside of a teapot. Each time tea is brewed, oil from its leaves adds subtle flavor. A teapot layered with years of these deposits is valuable.”

  The Baron held the teapot carefully, peered at the dull film inside, and hesitantly touched a finger to its unexpectedly rough interior. He handed Messonier the teapot.

  “A subterranean view.” Messonier squinted into the teapot, his voice slightly muffled. “Or a cave. I will never drink tea with the same innocence.”

  The Baron took responsibility for this. “You may turn to the usefulness of vodka. Like the Russians.” He addressed Maria. “Dr. Lebedev, you must watch Messonier very carefully.”

  Amused, she focused on Messonier, and he grinned. Some private joke between them.

  Chang waited for Messonier to pay attention. Then he placed the perforated plate over the bowl and set the cups in a circle around it. “A proper tea ceremony requires a flood of water inside and outside the teapot. A repetition of water and tea.” The teapot was carefully balanced on top of the plate and bowl. “Where’s our hot water?” Irritated, he hurried from the room in search of the kettle.

  They waited in respectful silence until he returned, walking ceremoniously toward the table balancing a hot kettle. He dramatically filled the teapot until it overflowed, the steaming water draining through the perforated plate into the bowl underneath. “A scholar claimed the Nanling water of the Yangtze Rive
r was the most superior in all of China. But even here, in the dirty wilderness of Kharbin, we can drink the purest water from melted snow.” In five seconds, the teapot water was emptied into the bowl. “Now the teapot has been heated. It’s ready for the tea.”

  A spoonful of dry tea leaves was sprinkled into the empty warmed teapot. After one minute, Chang lifted the lid, handed the open teapot to the Baron. “Smell it.”

  The teapot was a warm globe in his hands, and, eyes closed, the Baron inhaled the aroma of the slightly damp tea inside. The scent possessed the steady clean familiarity of straw, leaves, dirt—rounded, comforting yet strange.

  Li Ju was next. She tilted the dark pot up to her white face, inhaled, slowly exhaled. “It’s earth.” Her eyes met her husband’s over the teapot. “I’m in a field with my cheek to the ground. It’s an autumn afternoon.” She blushed.

  Chang’s solemn nod was her reward.

  Hot water was again added to the pot, cleaning the tea leaves and removing impurities. Chang immediately decanted the water into the five cylindrical cups, about two inches high, arranged in a circle. They watched him track the time and in exactly half a minute, the water in the cups was discarded into the bowl. “Now the cups are warmed.” He rubbed his palms together. “Such work for my clumsy fingers.” This was an exaggeration, as the dwarf’s hands were completely steady.

  They praised Chang but he gestured away their words. “The tea isn’t boiled. Unlike tea from your primitive Russian samovar, made like soup.”

  The Baron laughed. “Friend, if you celebrate Christmas as our guest, I promise you an exquisite Russian feast. I set a fine table. We break our six-week fast on Christmas Eve with fellowship and delicacies.”

  Chang nodded briefly and added the final infusion of hot water into the pot to steep the tea leaves. After a few minutes, he poured the finished tea with a single circular, fluid motion into the five warm cups. The tea was then transferred from the smaller cups to the five reserved larger drinking cups. “This part of the ceremony is called ‘Guan Gong inspecting the city,’ as each cup is equal and each guest has equal respect. Pick up the first warm cups, the empty ones, and sniff them. Quickly, quickly, or the scent is lost.”