by Jody Shields
That night, he was jolted awake and sat up in bed. He was swept with shame. Two men had died violently and he had shaped it into a story about his own authority. His place in the world. “Mother of God,” he whispered and crossed himself.
But he was haunted by another image, dark and jagged. The dead Chinese could easily have been thrown in the Sungari River and their weight would have broken the still-thin ice, the thickness of two fingers. Then he wished that this had been done, that the bodies were in the river, and he imagined this as if he were drowning, looking up at the sky through the ice one last time, his eyes already liquid.
In the morning, the Baron and his wife lit a candle for the dead at St. Nikolas Cathedral on Central Square. Their hands cupped together around the warm candle and the flesh of their fingertips glowed translucent pink. His wife was not a believer but the ritual of contemplation was familiar to her. She tipped her head back and her face was suddenly hidden in the darkness. The building was an immense shadowy height above their heads, its bulb-shaped domes, the lukovichnye glavy, were compact as a hive, made with countless wood shingles overlapped against the Manchurian wind. The entire structure was built without a single nail, joined together with minute wooden pegs so that no pinpoints of reflected metal disturbed its dim interior. Perhaps its peaceful assembly, the lack of violent hammering, was an offering to God.
CHAPTER TWO
When Baron von Budberg had first arrived, Kharbin had no history. It was a camp. The first child had not yet been born. There had never been a wedding or a funeral. No eye had looked at the landscape through a curtained window. No shadow had been cast by a church tower. Kharbin was established in the Manchurian wilderness in 1898 by order of the czar, a Russian city built in China, an arrogant stake of empire.
A hereditary aristocrat, a Russian diplomat’s son, a doctor, the Baron traveled from St. Petersburg to Manchuria in 1904 to serve as a medic in the imperial army after the disastrous war with Japan. He worked, partially protected from heat and stinging blackflies, under a makeshift canvas tent. The pay was poor, the conditions primitive, the weather insufferable, and the silence absolute.
During his first year, the Baron learned to forget what made a city—the streets sealed with paving stones, vertical pressure of buildings, the shifting pattern of pedestrians and vehicles. He suffered a constant feeling of oppression from the flat land and the enormousness of the sky. There was an ocean overhead. Could a man’s bones splinter under the pressure of this weight?
The wind was a constant harsh presence, sweeping the scent of primeval forests down from the immense northern territory, the ancestral home of the Manchu rulers. In the summer, the wind was weighted with yellow sand that filled cracks in buildings, silted up windows and the railroad tracks.
* * *
Kitayskaya Street was impassable with vehicles stuck in the snow. The droshky stopped and the Baron and Andreev began to walk, their impatience slowed to caution as they stepped carefully, struggling for balance on the frozen surface. Andreev clutched his arm. The sidewalk in front of the luxurious dress shops, the corsetiere Louvre Atelier, the German store Kunst and Albers, had been swept to a glittering eggshell-thin layer of ice. Long thin spears of ice, yellow with embedded dirt and grit, barred the windows of Churin’s department store.
Something, a rough piece of ice, fell at their feet and Andreev glanced up at the windows. “See? The sand never leaves us. Frozen into the ice. Then it melts. Then it blows back at us in the summer. There’s either sand or snow in the air.”
“Mercifully, the snow only lasts for half the year.”
“More than six months. It slows down my import business.”
The Baron was amused by the seasonal nature of Andreev’s smuggling. “Yesterday I became lost on Mostovaya Street. So many new buildings had been constructed in two weeks that the place was unrecognizable.” He gestured at the saplings thickly wrapped in coarse fabric, barely visible above the snow. “Russian grandeur. They dream of transforming the street into the czar’s garden. It’s folly.”
The proprietor of the Volga restaurant lifted the Baron’s heavy coat from his shoulders and ushered the two men through the overheated space to a table in the back. The Baron sat down, wiped his damp face, waited until the cold air in his lungs was exchanged for the dense tobacco smoke in the restaurant. Andreev watched him silently. He looked as if he needed a shave, although it was just past noon.
“Early cold.” The Baron coughed.
“Reason enough to drink until the dwarf arrives.” Andreev had promised to introduce a friend of his, Chang Huai.
“A friend or a business friend?”
“Friend. He’s famous in the city. And deserves the acclaim. It’s cold work standing in front of Churin’s department store smiling at rich women.”
The warmth returned to their feet after half an hour in the restaurant. The Baron ordered zubrovka, vodka flavored with buffalo grass. He brought up the matter of the equipment ordered in July, two months ago, now certain to be held up by early snow in Hailar. He was expecting an examining table, optical equipment, Braun photographic apparatus, medicine, and sterilizing solutions from Berlin, everything destined for Kharbin’s hospital. Andreev had been paid to secure the shipment, since railroad employees routinely plundered crates during transportation, seldom bothering to cover up evidence of their tampering.
“Which month do you believe our shipment will arrive?”
“I never predict. But I’ll ask the stationmaster about the delay.”
“He always has an excuse. Possibly your bribe wasn’t generous enough.”
Andreev corrected himself. “I will pay the stationmaster to fix the delay.” He worked inside his circle of contacts to smooth transactions.
“If the train was overpacked, my crates were likely sacrificed to make room for cases of vodka.”
“Drink is more precious than medicine in this place. I once knew a missionary who successfully smuggled in vodka under Methodist Church literature. No one could bear to inspect his dull crates.”
How Andreev came to Kharbin was a mystery. One trader claimed he was a Russian army deserter. Another man, a Hungarian, swore Andreev was a mercenary who had sold exotic animals, Siberian tiger cubs and bears, at a market in Dairen on the Yellow Sea. His skin, weathered brown even in winter, contrasted with his eyes, the pale green of celadon. Andreev rarely spoke about the past but his hands were marked with scars. The Baron had recognized the slashes were originally bone-deep, perhaps made by an animal or a knife.
They’d known each other for years but even when eased by vodka, they rarely discussed anything personal, never shared a meal at the Baron’s table, although Andreev was frequently invited. How old are you? the Baron once asked, and Andreev, startled, blinked as if threatened and didn’t answer. The Baron wasn’t certain the man was literate.
Did Andreev enjoy women? Did he have a lover? The first time the Baron had introduced Li Ju to Andreev, he’d noticed the other man’s calculated gaze. Was it envy, sympathy, measured judgment? If it was criticism, perhaps it was directed at him. He couldn’t interpret his reaction. Maybe Andreev sensed the Baron’s loneliness, his hunger for approval, for dismissing authority.
Although he called Andreev a friend, he had no idea where he lived. Messages for him were left at a restaurant on Novotorgovaya Street near the French embassy. He fully expected that Andreev would simply disappear one day. Their friendship had its risks, and the Baron was careful not to reveal gossip or details about his patients. It was useful for Andreev—and others who might pay for this information—to know who among the Kharbin elite was in frail health or troubled by sleeplessness, pregnancy, melancholy, violence.
He scrutinized Andreev’s face to see how far he dared to proceed. “Did someone give you new information about the bodies at Central Station?”
Andreev was coldly dignified. “No. Who would be interested?”
“You tell me.”
“No one. Ru
ssian officials don’t care about dead Chinese. The crime is too small.”
“Not for the dead men’s families.” He’d blundered. Perhaps it had been a mistake to be so straightforward.
“You waste your time with the dead.” Andreev idly pulled apart a piece of bread on his plate. “I only deal with the living. And what they need. And sometimes what can damage them. Baron, I consider myself your brother, but you’d aid a poor serf with a cold nose. That’s your character.”
The Baron stiffened at his words but then slapped his hands together. “Agreed. I’m a lover of strays.” He no longer cared if Andreev knew that officials had withheld information from him. “I need to know where they took the bodies from the train station. I want an address and the name of the official who gave the order. That’s all.”
While the Baron was speaking, Andreev studied his glass without drinking, his eyes in a haze of calculation. He lazily waved for the waiter to return with the bottle.
“It’s only information. Facts. It will be worth your time.” The Baron slid around, imposed another angle, hoping Andreev would be receptive. “I’m interested in preventing a future crisis with the Chinese.”
Andreev chewed a bit of bread. “I see why you pursue this. You want to find who in the chain plotted against you.” He didn’t expect an answer and checked his pocket watch. Chang Huai was over an hour late.
The dwarf finally made his way through the shadowy room, his top hat a sharp black edge moving just above the sea of white tablecloths. He was greeted affectionately by other patrons, some making a show of leaning over to pat him on the back or shoulder. A soldier playfully grabbed his queue and Chang spun around with a shout. The room fell silent and the startled soldier stepped back from the dwarf’s fury.
As Chang reached their table, the waiter hurried over to install a thick cushion on his chair. The Baron had resisted the impulse to assist Chang, but he nimbly vaulted up into the chair at the table. Fully extended, his legs reached just over the edge of the seat, and his face was level with the two men’s. The Baron was surprised that this made him slightly uncomfortable.
Andreev smiled. “You must know Chang Huai. The doorman at Churin’s department store. One of our most recognized citizens. Everyone’s eyes are always on him.”
“Yes, everyone knows me. I have gold buttons on my uniform. A black hat. You’re handsome, Andreev, but no one notices you wrapped in that shabby sheepskin jacket.”
“Chang knows every elegant woman in the city by name.”
“I open the door for the ladies with their furs. They have many pet names for me. Ninochka.”
The Baron no longer noticed the man’s diminutive stature, as his exuberance made him almost handsome.
The waiter, a Russian in a red vest, brought bitki and thick caviar sandwiches on a tray. He returned with small glasses, bottles of clear and colored vodka, Nega and Bogatyr, both distilled in Kharbin. The Baron raised his eyebrows at Chang.
“Beluga caviar. Malossol grade. I have an account here. For Churin’s best customers.” The dwarf smirked and poured rubinovaya vodka, slightly astringent with a brilliant orange tint from mountain ash berries. Pertsovka, vodka with pepper, was his choice.
Their first glasses of vodka were finished in a single swallow. The dwarf’s face instantly flushed.
“You’re a useful friend,” Andreev said to Chang.
“I am. At times.” Chang rested both elbows on the table. “I am practically king of Kharbin, ranked just below our beloved General Khorvat. I see and hear everything.” He turned to the Baron. “Your wife is Chinese?”
The Baron nodded. “We’ve been together seven years.”
“You’re married?”
“We had a Buddhist ceremony. I asked the czar for permission to wed. He refused unless Li Ju converted to the Russian Orthodox Church.” Then, because he was slightly drunk, he added, “She’s never forgiven me, although it’s not my fault. My family—my brother—doesn’t know we’re married.” He was embarrassed, as he’d never confided this to Andreev. But because Chang had the aura of an outsider, a charmed figure, he’d spoken quickly, without hesitation.
Chang puzzled over this information until Andreev explained that Baron Rozher Alexandrovich von Budberg was a hereditary aristocrat from St. Petersburg, a diplomat’s son. Aristocrats must have permission from the czar to wed outside the faith.
The Baron quickly retreated from this description. “First, by my own choice, I am a doctor, head of Kharbin’s hospital. I served as a medic in the imperial army during the war with Japan. I remember when Kharbin was nothing but a group of tents on the Manchurian plain. There were no women or children.”
“Flies and sand?” Chang encouraged him.
“Yes. Every single summer day, the wind blew fine sand under my collar, in my pockets, even into my socks. There was no escape, even inside the tents. The place was a wilderness. A homesick soldier once told me the flat landscape here was a prison. No matter where you looked, the view was always the same. I knew the man spoke truth.” The memory of these early days always came back to him with the heavy animal scent of the pony-skin blankets he pulled over himself at night. He bit into a sandwich, the caviar familiar, thick and salty on the tongue. “Now the streets have cobblestones and they say forty-two languages are spoken here.”
“You’ve had a curious career for an aristocrat.”
Andreev silently shook his head, surprisingly protective, but the Baron answered. “In my way, I try to ease suffering. I treated Chinese and Russian laborers who’d been injured setting track across Manchuria for the Chinese Eastern Railway. They had broken bones, diphtheria, whooping cough, pneumonia and frostbite in winter. On payday, when they drank, there were wounds from swords, pistols, and bamboo canes.”
Chang’s arms swept out as if to embrace him. “A rare Russian. Generous to the world.” He loved to talk and it was difficult to interrupt him. “There’s never been a city like Kharbin. You know how the Chinese describe Kharbin? The ‘pearl on the swan’s neck.’ Heilongjiang Province is shaped like a swan and Kharbin is a pearl on the curved Sungari River. What poetry for our beloved grimy city, home to gamblers, criminals, and exiles.”
“That explains why everyone is so happy here.”
Chang laughed and poured more vodka for himself. “The Chinese are here to make money and leave.”
“That would be the end of Kharbin. Nothing would be left but the railroad, since the Chinese outnumber Russians one hundred to one,” said Andreev.
“I have no loyalty to the Chinese. They have no charity for me. My money comes from Russians. They throw it at me.” Chang finished his vodka.
“But with all your riches, where do the Russians allow you to live? Only in the Fuchiatien district with the starving workers.” Andreev was drunk and scornful. “The Chinese built this city but they can’t walk where they please. They can’t carry a weapon, not even a harmless cane, into Novy Gorod, the Russian district.”
The Baron nodded in agreement. “We’re the occupiers. Our glorious officials forget we’re a Russian colony on Chinese land.”
Chang wagged his finger at them. “Treason.”
The Russian government had established Kharbin and divided it into four districts that were side by side but not equal. Each district had its own distinctive identity and architecture. Rich Russians lived in Novy Gorod within the sound of the bells of St. Nikolas Cathedral. Pristan was a commercial district where all types of businesses flourished. The first worker barracks were built in Staryi Kharbin, Old Kharbin, also called Xiangfang, or Fragrant Mill, by the Chinese. Now soldiers billeted there. The Chinese were restricted to Fuchiatien, a shantytown on low land near the Sungari River. A Chinese settlement set within a Russian settlement in China.
The waiter hovered around them, refilling their glasses with rubinovaya, accompanied by his strong smell of tobacco and sweat.
The dwarf leaned closer to the two men at the table. “It has been a day of surpr
ises. I drink with an aristocrat.” His glass of vodka moved in the Baron’s direction. “And this morning, I covered a sick man in the street with my coat. Sick or dead. I can’t say. But no one should stare at a suffering Chinese.”
“Bless you.” The Baron peered at Chang but the angle of his face made it hard to read his expression. “Was the man known to you?”
“No. He’d fallen outside Churin’s store. Probably sick from exhaustion. Or cold. He was a laborer in a thin cotton jacket. Which I did not touch.”
Andreev shook his head, unexpectedly sympathetic. They drank to the unknown man.
“Ask me any question,” Chang said. “I will tell you everything. With one exception. It is my duty to guard the image of Churin’s store.”
The Baron was becoming light-headed from the vodka. Remembering that he hadn’t washed his hands, he stared at the glass, marred with his fingerprints, a bloom like fungus over its surface. “Tell me what you believe happened.”
Chang’s eyes filled with tears. “There are many unfortunates in Kharbin. Maybe the man was a sign. Russians and Chinese see a man lying on their street. There’s a crowd. They talk.”
“But what do they say?” Andreev was sprawled in his chair but his body was tense.
“The Chinese are warned not to trespass in the Russian quarter. But here’s a Chinese on their street. Soldiers have failed to make the place safe for Russians. The Russians are worried.”
“Where did they take the sick man?” The Baron couldn’t calm his voice.
Chang proposed a toast and held up his glass, spilling a little. “To the sisters of Congrégation des Missionnaires de St. Xavier. To Sister Agnes.”
The Baron struggled to focus on the information. Missionaries had built a hospital in Kharbin, operated by a group of nuns. “How do you know Sister Agnes, my friend?”