The Winter Station

by Jody Shields

  The waiting room had cleared and the Baron pointed at a figure slumped against the far wall. Andreev turned, but the Baron was already moving quickly across the room.

  The Baron knelt by the still figure, pulled his jacket aside to check his neck for a pulse. His hand was batted away by the end of a rifle, and he turned toward two soldiers. He stood up too slowly and they shoved him away. A blanket was thrown next to the man on the floor and the soldiers grabbed his arms and legs, still slightly flexible. The man’s arms flopped when he was dropped on the blanket. They carried the body, sagging in the blanket, toward a side door. A few people made the sign of the cross as the soldiers passed.

  Andreev came over to him. “You should have given the soldiers orders. You’re a doctor.”

  The Baron silently hurried after the soldiers, Andreev following.

  Outside the station, they waited a moment for their eyes to conquer the glare on the snow. There was a narrow pathway, almost a tunnel, at the side of the building, carved in the deep snow by countless passengers. At its end, the soldiers were partially visible, swinging a long bundled shape into the back of a wagon.

  Andreev raced ahead and the Baron struggled behind him, as slowed by the snow as if it were a thickness of blankets around his legs. Andreev reached the soldiers first, demanded to know where they were taking the body. The soldiers ignored him and yanked the tarp tightly over the corpse, secured it with rope at one side of the wagon. Andreev shoved a soldier and his fist swung back; the two men slipped and fell in the snow without injuring each other. Andreev staggered to his feet, swearing, wiping his wet face. Unconcerned, the soldiers drove away.

  Andreev shoved the Baron into a waiting droshky. The driver whistled and they sped down Bolshoi Prospekt following the soldiers, the ice and mud thrown back by the horse stinging their faces. The cold air entered the Baron’s throat like a screw driving in, his breath condensing into hard rivulets of frost on his beard and collar. The soldiers’ wagon, tarp flapping, was just ahead of them and they expertly steered around an overturned cart. With evident pleasure, the Baron’s driver slowed to watch Russians and Poles furiously arguing over the cart in the street until Andreev shouted and pummeled his thick shoulders.

  The driver reluctantly set the droshky in motion, steering recklessly until they hit deep ice ruts and tilted wildly to one side, the horsehide blanket sliding off Andreev’s legs. The two men clutched the seat for balance until the vehicle jolted upright. The soldiers’ wagon was far ahead, past the Iverskaya Church, but they quickly narrowed the distance until their wheels caught in a thick snowbank. The chase was over.

  The Baron looked at Andreev. Two idiots. Risking themselves for what?

  “They must be preparing to unload crates from the train by now.”

  * * *

  In the Baron’s mind, the dead Japanese woman had the peculiar frozen luminosity of a saint in distress, her hair loose and untidy, her soiled pink kimono pulled open roughly so that the men, the doctors, could access her heart and lungs. Her face serene above their cuts and knives.

  He’d just confided this vision to Messonier. “She haunts me. I know the woman was already dead, but I pray that the men who cut her open laid a cloth over her eyes to hide their work. To be merciful.”

  Across his cluttered office, Messonier waited for the kettle on the daisu to cool slightly. The warming teapot, filled with hot water, waited on the table behind him.

  “Her body was cut up by a madman or a doctor,” the Baron said. “From the description, it sounds like an autopsy. An autopsy without consent is a violation. A sin.”

  “An ugly incident. But who did the deed? And why?”

  “The answer to why is that someone wanted to discover the cause of the woman’s death. Make a diagnosis. Who made the cuts on the body? Surely a doctor.” The Baron continued, his attention wandering from Messonier’s process of tea making. “I went to the inn at number five Koreyskaya Street, where her body was found. The place was disordered and I thought it was empty but a man attacked me. Nothing serious. I wasn’t harmed.” He grimaced. “But I noticed his face was unusually dark red and splotched. He was obviously ill.”

  Messonier considered the Baron’s description. “Perhaps he was an opium addict?”

  “No. That would have made him lethargic, not aggressive. And his skin color was symptomatic of something else.”

  “Infection? Rash? Let me argue against you. Your attacker was drunk. Face flushed from alcohol.” Messonier filled two cups with pale golden tea.

  “Perhaps. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I didn’t try to help him. I fled.”

  “You acted from instinct. You’d certainly never avoid helping someone. It’s not your nature.”

  “Thank you, Messonier. In truth, I was afraid of the man. We were alone in the inn. All I know is that these events seem to have no answers when closely examined.” His focus turned to the cup on the table. “By the way, the tea is very fine.”

  Messonier brightened. “Luojie tea. Mountain-grown. Did you notice its faint grassy scent? The tea leaves are unusual, pale yellow with thick white veins.” He cradled the teacup in his hands. “By the way, Dr. Wu and a team of Chinese doctors, nurses, volunteers, and translators begin work at the hospital soon. Weather delayed some of their trains.”

  “Khorvat won’t bow his knee to Chinese authorities. I know he wasn’t pleased to have their new Chinese medical staff installed in his territory.”

  “The Chinese would never allow Russians to show them up. Dr. Wu has yet to put in an appearance but there are rumors he’s been granted a laboratory in the Chamber of Commerce building.”

  “A bold choice.” The Baron was incredulous.

  “Yes. A strange location for a laboratory to test something unknown and potentially contagious. They said Wu wanted privacy to work. And there were no vacant spaces at the hospital.”

  “It’s a marvel.”

  “Dr. Lebedev, one of the new doctors, is reluctant to discuss the situation. She claims the Russian doctors are in Kharbin only for training.” Messonier hesitated. “I don’t believe it. A great deal of money was spent transporting them here across Russia and Manchuria. They’re on leave from their own hospitals. It makes no sense.”

  “Morning is wiser than evening, as they say.” The Baron finished his tea. “I heard the hospital just placed an order for quantities of disinfectant, carbolic acid, gauze, soap, and rubber gloves.”

  “Curious. There’s no evidence of typhoid or cholera at this time of year.”

  “Preparations for another Chinese rebellion? You’d think officials would notify us,” the Baron said.

  “Andreev is your source?” He’d once delivered an order of scarce high-quality gut and surgical needles to Messonier. The doctor had spontaneously embraced Andreev, rejoicing that the supplies would save lives, but the man had recoiled from his gratitude.

  The Baron’s expression confirmed this. “Officials have also ordered a shipment of barbed wire.”

  Messonier stood blinking for a moment before taking a vodka bottle from the cabinet and pouring it into the empty teacups. Smorodinovka vodka, slightly bitter with black-currant leaves. “I need something stronger.” The drink marked a change in the conversation. He hunched over the table toward the Baron. “What could it mean? Barbed wire. Perhaps they anticipate an insurrection. A battle.”

  “They use barbed wire to mark territory. To keep out or keep in citizens.”

  “I predict they’re gathering supplies for a siege. Or war casualties. A mission is under way.” Messonier was glum. “Do you know if the barbed wire has been used in the city yet? Or anywhere?”

  “No.” The vodka’s strong intensity of fruit on the tongue always surprised him.

  “So we wait.”

  “If it so pleases God. We’re here to be of service.”

  “Yes, serving at risk.”

  “I have a question.” The Baron had heard rumors about Messonier and, under the influence of
vodka, wondered if he’d confirm them. “Do you share your prize teas with someone else?”

  Messonier’s blush spread across his face and up into the roots of his pale hair. “Sometimes I share a cup with Dr. Lebedev. Dr. Maria Lebedev.”

  “I wondered. I saw you with a woman on the third floor.”

  “She speaks French like a native.” Blushing again at the Baron’s grin. “Studied in Switzerland.”

  “How does one conduct a courtship in Manchuria?”

  Messonier lost his reserve and became very animated. “We meet at the hospital canteen for lunch. And dinner whenever possible. Our schedules are difficult. I gave her a can of chestnut puree, the last of my gourmet hoard for the holiday. Dr. Lebedev is so gracious that she almost refused my gift. I had to insist.”

  “Andreev can usually produce luxury goods. Gifts for fortunate ladies.”

  Messonier smiled cryptically, nearly demure. “The only goods I dare order from Andreev are for emergencies.”

  Vodka heightened the Baron’s enthusiasm for his friend’s tender new relationship. “It’s a blessing you met each other. A miracle in Manchuria. I also found my wife here.”

  “We haven’t spoken of marriage.” Messonier’s face was not as severe as his words.

  Later, the Baron puzzled over what he’d learned about changes at the hospital. Perhaps it was foolish to wait until Khorvat or the authorities spoon-fed them information. Perhaps by that time it would be too late for an individual to develop a strategy for survival or escape. He had only hearsay and rumor and guesswork. Who had laid a path of clues, mutilated a body, cultivated secrets? A system that was fully confident about its power.

  The only tangible fact was that Messonier had fallen in love.

  Calligraphy was a forest. No, a labyrinth of spikes where a man could be lost. A sanctuary of discipline. The soft slide of his brush on paper released the Baron’s anxiety. Each brushstroke demanded his focus and skill, but lack of control was evident at the feathery edges of characters where bristles separated, producing streaky ragged-textured lines known as “flying white.” At a certain angle, he could see his moving hand reflected in the shining wet black lines as if it were disconnected from his body. A black shadow on black.

  “Move your brush without fear,” Xiansheng had instructed, quoting the master Li Ssu. “When you move the brush gradually toward the end of the stroke you will feel like a fish who enjoys swimming in the running stream.” The Baron blinked, shook his head, and took a deep breath, as if he were a diver going underwater.

  The Baron dreamed that night. There was a tunnel, its curved sides painted with Chinese characters. The tapering irregular forms and flourishes of the brushstrokes were tall as his body. He was overwhelmed by this calligraphy, unable to translate it. When he touched the surface with his hand, the jagged strokes were rough, coarse, and the contact woke him. What were the words written in the dream? What was their significance?

  * * *

  The Baron crossed the ornate foyer, tracks from his wet boots marring the freshly scrubbed marble floor. The night cleaners would soon eradicate evidence of his trespassing. He’d expected soldiers would be guarding the Chamber of Commerce building so his coat was open to reveal the sober Russian uniform underneath. It was usually enough authority to stop any questions, but if challenged, he would respond by offering a bribe—rarely unsuccessful—or threaten to report them for some infraction. This was standard in Kharbin.

  Upstairs, the corridor was cold and the wall lights wobbly pinpoints in order to save electricity from the generators in the evening. He walked the length of the second and third floor until finding the door with Dr. Wu’s name written in Russian, Chinese, and English in heavy gold letters, a ceremonial weight. He stood outside, listening, his breath irregular, tracing the pound of his heart into his arm and hand. His unease was located in the center of his chest, an aching pressure, as if he’d inhaled smoke from a fire. Perhaps age brought this symptom. A younger man would ignore it.

  He took his pulse. It was elevated, but not dangerously. The laboratory was silent and the door was unlocked. He pulled a cloth from his satchel and swabbed the water on the floor from his boots.

  Inside, he stuffed the wet cloth along the bottom of the door to block the light. He swiftly removed his thick sheepskin coat and draped it over a chair. For a moment, his eyes charted the surfaces in the room, the bulky dark shapes of desks and tables, thin reflected light from glass cabinets. Two cautious steps and his foot nudged a bucket, splashing a liquid across the floor. Water? This puzzled him until he realized there was no plumbing. A laboratory without running water.

  The odor of formalin was traced into the adjoining room, where the laboratory was located. He switched on a table lamp, and light struck a wall of shelves lined with small covered glass specimen containers. Closer, he saw that each one was methodically numbered and labeled with a schoolboy’s precision: JAPANESE FEMALE, NO. 5 KOREYSKAYA STREET, KHARBIN. The last line: DR. WU LIEN-TEH. The doctor had collected the body of the dead woman. Blood sucked from her heart with a needle, skin sliced thin as paper, guts opened and sampled, bones sawed. The fortress of the body destroyed by scalpel and knife, flesh pressed into petri dishes, slivered into containers, flattened on glass slides, divided under numbers and letters.

  He was surprised by his tenderness for the woman’s remains. The glass containers scraped against the metal shelves as he gently pushed them aside one by one, uncertain what he was searching for, using a pencil to avoid contaminating anything or leaving a fingerprint.

  His sleeve brushed against a test tube in an upright stand, knocking it at an angle. He automatically reached to straighten it, then stopped his hand and awkwardly nudged the test tube back into place with the pencil. The drawers in the laboratory desk contained neatly packed equipment, all of it new: empty glass containers that softly chimed as they rolled against each other, pipettes, metal instruments, gauze, pencils, fountain pens, brushes, paper, ink pads. Innocent supplies. He turned to the immense cabinets lined with rows of leather-bound books, their spines tooled in gold. Before opening the door of a cabinet, he carefully examined it for trick devices. His professor in St. Petersburg had tied small bells to the bookshelf doors in his library to prevent students borrowing books without permission. This policy ended when the students brought tiny bells to class, hidden in their pockets. On cue, jingling filled the lecture hall, their mocking laughter unnerving the professor more than the bells.

  He pulled a random book from the shelf and opened it. It was blank. He angrily rifled through book after book, all of them identical, blank, to be filled with Wu’s future research. He began to understand the way the man’s mind worked. A book slipped from his hand, slammed flat on the floor. The sound seemed loud enough to blast the pages loose and send them flying. His head swung toward the other room as he waited for footsteps, the twist of the doorknob. Ten breaths. Silence. His fingers slowly unclenched.

  In this calm state, he recognized a wish to avenge the dead woman. To humiliate Dr. Wu, prove his research incorrect, false, dangerous. Should he sweep his arm across the shelves and destroy the evidence? No. He’d respect the process. He was a witness who’d take only information, disturb nothing. Only his gaze would tamper with the order in the laboratory. His investigation was a precautionary measure, an extension of his work as chief medical officer.

  Where were the autopsy results? Where was the diagnosis? The cause of the woman’s death? The lab logbook?

  He stood still, his awareness fanning out across the room. His hand shaped a curve; his arm described a wider curve.

  Two thick black books were discovered in the drawer of the desk in the front room. He congratulated himself until he noticed his sweating palms had smeared the covers. The first book had only a few lines of cramped handwriting in English, an unrelated case history. The second book was written in Chinese and English.

  Autopsy of a Japanese Woman. The District of Fuchiatien, Kharbin, Heilo
ngjiang Province, Manchuria, China. November 1910.

  Female corpse, thirty to thirty-three years old, well nourished, found on earthen floor in an inn. The room was cold. The woman’s chest was cut open with little loss of blood. Death estimated ten hours previous to examination of body. Cartilaginous area / joints removed. Syringe (wide-bore) inserted into right auricle. Blood sample taken. A second long vertical cut exposed internal organs, lung and spleen. Sample taken with platinum needle. Two-inch-square pieces cut from lung, liver, spleen, and stored in 10% formalin solution. The remaining organs replaced in body cavity. The flaps of cut skin on torso sewn together. Corpse sponged clean and redressed in kimono.

  The most recent entry dated three days ago:

  All specimens from female Japanese corpse stained with Loeffler’s methylene blue. Results confirmed after examination under microscope. Bacillus pestis. Plague.

  His hands shook and he leaned against the desk to steady himself against the vise of this terrible discovery. An accident, a spill, and plague would free itself from the fragile jars and devour him.

  Back in the lab, he stood before the shelves of glass specimen containers, the remains of the woman’s body. He sensed something bright, an intelligence reflected back at him. Something with multiple eyes, like a hall of mirrors, a fractured consciousness watching him. A hypnotic command gripped him. Was it Medusa?

  Frightened, he shouted to drive the vision away. He stepped back and spontaneously made the sign of the cross.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  God help us, we’ve been blind fools.”

  The Baron stood in Messonier’s office, his open sheepskin coat dripping melted snow on the floor. Messonier urged him into a corner chair and the Baron slumped in the seat, water puddling off his boots. “It’s plague.”

  Messonier stared at him, uncomprehending, his tortoiseshell spectacles dangling forgotten from his fingers.

  “The bodies of the dead on the street were hidden because they were evidence. It’s a plague outbreak.” His fingers tugged at his hair. “Have you vodka? Yes? Good. I don’t have enough courage for tea.”