by Jody Shields
“They won’t arrest the rich. They believe only the poor have plague. Only the poor are helpless and disappear. Chang, you must also remember these names if you’re threatened. They’re your passport. Understand?”
“Yes, Baron, but not everyone listens to a Chinese. I might as well say I’m a friend of the czar.”
The Baron didn’t answer. He had nothing else to offer.
At home, he and Li Ju were surprised to discover Andreev slumped in a chair by the stove. His lank hair covered one eye and he was unshaven. “Good evening, Baron.”
“You’re never idle. Unusual to find you relaxing here.”
“This is a commercial venture. Although the warmth was worth the wait.” He grinned, pulled his hair behind his ears.
Li Ju disappeared into another room, as Andreev wasn’t a favored guest. But the Baron welcomed him as a distraction after the day’s events. There was always a sense of circling with Andreev, as he positioned himself as the bestower of information and favors. The Baron raised his voice, asked the servants to bring vodka. “So you’re delivering a commercial proposal?”
“I’ve come to the aid of your cook. First, I urge you to order extra caviar, smoked sturgeon, and eel. They keep indefinitely in storage, as we know from our sainted Russian mothers.”
“Please continue, Andreev.” There was pleasure in recollecting food shared at the family table.
The servant brought vodka and two glasses on a tray.
“Also order pickled beets, mushrooms, and cabbage. Hard cheese. Horseflesh. Dried apples, berries, peaches, apricots.”
“I understand vodka never spoils. Is there a reason to hoard anything else?”
Andreev raised his glass to the Baron. “Many reasons. I’m a fortune-teller. I predict opportunity. It’s as clear to me as a sunrise or a cheating heart.”
“My wife consults fortune-tellers. She collects good-luck charms. She’d worship a saint’s relic if there were one at St. Nikolas Cathedral.”
“There probably isn’t a genuine saint’s bone in all of China.”
“So you’re the pious man who can separate a true from a false relic?”
“For a fee. Or I could have a relic made for you. Guaranteed.” Andreev enjoyed his own joke.
Perhaps he could explain how to recognize when luck vanished or changed direction. Could this be learned or was it innate, like right- or left-handedness or the ability to identify scents? “People follow any lucky sign these days.”
“Don’t trust luck. Listen to me. I tell you as a friend that things will become scarce soon. Prepare for uncertainty. The hospitals and government officials have ordered enormous quantities of supplies that fill up the CER trains. There are restrictions and inspections. Bad weather slows deliveries.”
“It sounds as if the world is ending.”
“Only Kharbin as we know it. Word spread about Dr. Mesny’s death from plague. And other deaths. When people who work for the CER railroad learn about the number of dead here, there will be trouble. Engineers and trainmen will refuse to deliver food or wood or anything to Kharbin.”
“The government has a way of forcing cooperation.”
Andreev laughed. “I hear the only cure for plague is death.”
The Baron’s expression revealed no information.
“News will spread,” Andreev said. “Mark my words.”
He made a decision. “The poor are deliberately kept ignorant. Officials try to keep the deaths hidden. The Chinese and Russian governments believe there are no consequences. General Khorvat fears only protest or riots, because there aren’t enough soldiers to keep control.”
“That’s why General Khorvat ordered a huge supply of barbed wire.”
The Baron swallowed his vodka without tasting it. He struggled against a feeling of exposure. Perhaps that was the way the bacilli entered the body, exploiting a weakness just as the wind finds a crack in the wall. “I’d like you to do something for me.” He went to the table where he practiced calligraphy, searched through the papers, and returned with a notebook. “I’d like to place an order. I need alcohol, lime powder, rubber gloves, green soap, cotton gauze, carbolic acid, hypodermic needles, cotton operating caps. A sterilizer from my usual supplier in Germany.”
The Baron paid Andreev a small amount, not enough to entirely compensate him for all the supplies and his discretion. Like other Kharbinskiis, Andreev operated on a system of guanxi, credit based on trust and honorable relationships. Their unspoken agreement was the Baron’s access to medicine and mercy if Andreev should become sick. He would turn up, like a black pebble.
Andreev nodded. “Good. I’ll double your order. I’ll keep a single order of everything for myself in reserve for the future. Make space in your storeroom for the shipment of foodstuffs. You won’t regret it. The dried apricots are especially sweet this year.”
“Our cook will be pleased.”
“Now I have a favor to ask of you.” Andreev leaned forward in his chair, nervously turning the empty vodka glass in his hand. “An innkeeper told me a stranger had hidden something outside near his building. It could be valuable. I need your help to recover it. I trust you.”
The Baron quickly agreed just to escape this conversation. The vodka had loosened a raw state from his fatigue. It was late. Andreev would spend the night as his guest, as it was too cold to travel home. They’d hunt for Andreev’s mysterious treasure in the morning before the Baron went to the hospital.
The next day, after a brief negotiation, the innkeeper accepted Andreev’s payment, a fistful of rubles and yen. He led Andreev and the Baron through the claustrophobically low-ceilinged inn, unlatched a back door, and waved at a small structure, a shed, in the field near a neighboring building.
“You’ll find what you seek there.” The innkeeper handed Andreev a lantern.
Andreev frowned. “We also need a second lantern, blanket, and rope.” The innkeeper agreed to follow them with the extra equipment, then quickly shut the door behind the two men.
The Baron tightened the fur hood on his jacket. “He probably has a grudge against the neighboring innkeeper.”
They crossed the field, the Baron first, Andreev behind him, his head lowered against the wind, fitting his boots into the other man’s footprints in the snow to ease his passage.
They reached the shed, made of boards roughly nailed and stacked together. It had no windows, no door. Andreev kicked at several loose boards until they toppled silently backward into the snow, forming a dark nimbus.
The men squeezed through the small opening between the boards into the shed.
Andreev whispered, “There’s a well here.” Then he cursed himself for his caution. The lantern grated against the thick stone wall around the well as he set it down, its light magnifying their shadows on the boards behind them.
A winch held an ice-covered rope that made a taut line into the well. A faint, cold odor radiated from the silent space.
Still breathless, they leaned into the well, white puffs of their breath filling it like a cauldron. Andreev held up the lantern and its slant of light revealed an indistinct pale shape suspended deep inside the well.
“Andreev, whatever is down there cannot be saved. There’s no treasure here. Leave it.”
“You made a promise. Let’s finish what was started. It will be quick work. Then tea and vodka. Or just vodka.”
“Someone stored provisions in the well. Or a bag of rice.” The Baron knew that Andreev expected to discover something valuable, wanted to possess it himself.
The Baron pulled on the winch handle until the frozen rope stubbornly rolled up, ice splintering off it in a transparent shower. The heavy burden at the end of the rope scraped the side of the well, setting off an echo.
The men cranked the winch handle hand over hand together, fearing the strain of the weight would break the rope, thin and frayed in places, as it slowly moved.
“Gently, gently. But quickly, quickly.”
The mysterious suspended obje
ct spun lazily, struck against the well and bounced to the other side. They gripped the winch to hold it in place, then wound it faster, ignoring their aching hands, the strain on their arms and shoulders, as the weight dragged up.
“There must be a board or a piece of metal attached to the thing. The treasure.” The Baron gasped for breath.
The innkeeper silently wedged himself into the narrow space, ice beaded on his thin mustache. He dropped the blanket, balanced a second lantern over the well, and peered in.
The Baron didn’t need to translate the man’s shout of excitement. The thing was nearly within reach. They were locked in movement together, struggling to get footholds, to brace their boots in the mushy snow as the bulky shape gradually emerged above the well. Under a thick armor of ice, a curved, cloth-wrapped bundle glistened and revolved in the lantern’s sharp light.
Andreev grabbed the blanket, threw one side across the well to the innkeeper. Each held an end as they looped the blanket under the hanging bundle to cradle it, then struggled to haul it closer. Andreev carefully stepped around the well until he stood near the innkeeper.
The two men tugged but the heavy bundle slipped and smashed into the opposite side of the well. Chunks of ice tumbled down. The blanket fell, snagged on a stone in the well. Andreev clambered on top of the well, his balance dangerously unsteady, and reached for the rope around the bundle as it swung precariously back and forth. He grabbed an edge of the bundle and fell to the ground, still gripping it, the rope uncoiling on top of him. He sprawled in the slush, exhausted.
The Baron released the winch handle and helped him sit upright. They stared at a lumpy shape the size of two cushions covered by a thick layer of ice. The surface was deeply cracked where it had scraped against the stones.
Andreev held the lantern close to the thing. “The lantern isn’t hot enough to melt the ice. Let’s carry the treasure back to the inn to thaw.”
The Baron took a moment to reply. “No. It’s safer here, away from prying eyes.”
The innkeeper struck a board against the bundle, throwing off shards of ice fine as confetti.
“No, stop. You might break it.”
Andreev chipped at a cracked area of ice with his Swiss army knife. “I can see cloth wrapped around something.”
“Cut it. Carefully.” The Baron’s teeth chattered.
Hands shaking, clumsy from cold, Andreev hacked at the stiff cloth, tore away a strip. He stuck the knife under the fabric and worked to loosen it. His hand stopped.
“What?”
Under the cloth, a colorless ear. A fringe of black hair. A face with a line of eyelashes.
“Merciful Mother of God.”
Two children dressed in white funeral garments were bound and frozen together. Plague dead, hidden until they could be properly buried.
Andreev dropped the knife as he crossed himself. The innkeeper wailed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The vespers service at St. Nikolas Cathedral ended with the Doxology and the ektenia of prayer, Blessed is the entrance of the saints, O Lord. The priest dismissed the congregation with a benediction. A brief silence as incense curved in the shadowed interior of the church, mingling with the stream of breath from the worshippers.
The Baron made his way to the sanctuary, where he’d noticed two elderly women holding handkerchiefs over their noses. He was curious, as few Russians protected themselves from potential infection, believing the sickness was restricted to those outside their circle.
“Good evening, ladies. The service was well attended this evening.”
The women solemnly nodded. Their spidery, black-gloved fingers pinched at the handkerchiefs veiling their noses and mouths. They stood at a slight distance from the Baron so that he had to speak loudly for them to hear him.
“Too many worshippers before Christmas. We don’t like crowds.” The taller woman’s voice was muffled by the handkerchief. “I am Polixena Nestorovna. This is my sister, Agrafena.”
He introduced himself as a doctor and reached inside his coat for a card, but Polixena’s gesture stopped him.
“Nyet. We don’t need a doctor—”
Agrafena interrupted her. “But others are ill.”
“It’s the weather.” He shook his head sympathetically, drawing out the conversation. The elderly don’t appreciate quickness.
“It isn’t the weather.” Polixena frowned. “My son doesn’t approve of us leaving the house. He doesn’t know we’re here at church. But the great Christmas fast is an important time of worship.” The sisters’ eyes, identical and slightly milky with age, studied him. “There’s an illness. It starts with a cough.”
Agrafena moved a little closer to the Baron, as she was deafer than her sister. “We know an entire family that died. One after the other. Fell quickly as stones.”
“All their servants ran away. The house was empty. They left the front door open.”
“Someone saw wolves inside the house.”
“Sister, that’s just hearsay.” Polixena’s handkerchief slipped down.
Agrafena was stubborn. “My grandchildren said the place was haunted by the leshie, goblins from the wood.”
He kept his voice level, disconnected from the growing tightness in his chest. “Polixena Nestorovna, why did your son tell you to stay in the house?”
“He made us swear to protect ourselves. That’s why we carry handkerchiefs.” Polixena’s voice was a whisper.
His hand reached to grab her arm but he caught himself. “Protect yourself from what?”
The sisters’ gestures coyly mimed keeping a secret. Astonished, the Baron realized they were flirting with him. Flustered, he continued. “Your son is obviously devoted to you. To your health. He must be an honorable and distinguished man.”
“He has a very important position. He travels constantly.” Polixena was gratified by his flattery.
“In August, he went hunting in Manchuria with a Jesuit priest as his guide. They stayed in a hut with savages. Imagine.” A faint giggle behind Agrafena’s handkerchief.
“He told us many savages in the village were sick and died. When he returned from Manchuria, he wouldn’t even sit at the table with us. He stayed in his room for a week. We were forbidden to leave the house. The children were cross.”
The son could have been a plague carrier. He stared at the women, expecting crimson blood to bloom on their handkerchiefs.
“Who was your son’s guide? The Jesuit?”
Both women shook their heads.
“Do you know where he traveled in Manchuria? The names of the places he visited?”
Polixena measured her words. “No. The towns in Manchuria have strange names. Not for the Russian tongue.”
The women were becoming tired and fidgety from conversation. The Baron needed more information and made a decision in the time it took to escort the sisters to the door.
“Please, good mother, will you introduce me to your son? I’m considering a journey to Manchuria. I’d like to hear about his adventure.” They stood at the church door. “Where can I find your son, Polixena Nestorovna?”
“He’s the master of Central Station. Alexeievich Nikolaevich Nestorov.”
He helped the sisters down the church steps. Polixena gave a little cry as wind swept away her handkerchief. He glimpsed the woman’s exposed face before her hand covered her nose and he could have sworn Polixena held her breath as he helped her into a waiting droshky. Lately he’d found himself trying to memorize faces, like landscapes he wouldn’t see again. He recognized that he carried this from the hospital.
He reentered the church and walked its length up to the iconostasis near the altar. The “throne”—a small square table that held a velvet-bound book of the Gospels—was being washed by two priests.
He watched them for a time in silence. “Father, may I have the sponges when you’ve finished cleaning?”
The priests solemnly nodded. They wrapped the damp sponges in paper and a bit of silk, then p
resented the package to him. They exchanged bows. These two blessed objects from the priests would guard their home from harm. Li Ju would be glad.
He considered stopping at Central Station to interview Alexeievich Nikolaevich Nestorov, but the hour was late and the man had probably left for the day. Home to a family and a vigil that only he had recognized.
Li Ju wasn’t at home. The Baron waited, pacing from room to room, absently crossing himself before the painted icons of Saint Gregory the Theologian in the kitchen, Saint John Chrysostom in the study, and the Virgin Mary in the bedroom. He remembered his father had ordered small icons hung even in their stables, never leaving anything to chance. After a time, the images of the saints blurred together, dark still figures against a gold background.
Li Ju returned carrying a satchel. The Baron inspected her face for signs of infection as intently as if he suspected she’d been meeting a lover. She avoided his eyes. The hood and shoulders of her pale sheepskin coat were freckled with black dots, fine as pinpoints, and she smelled of smoke.
“One of the inns burned down.” She still didn’t look at him. “I watched the fire.” The Baron undressed Li Ju as gently as if stroking a brush on paper. He urged her to wash her hands. She immediately obeyed and returned with a faint odor of rose on her fingers from the soap. There was salve on her lips to guard against plague, a jar of potion bought from a woman on the street, and he recognized the taste of ginger and animal fat on her mouth.
“Where were you today?”
“At the fortune-teller.”
He was silent as if jealous but was secretly afraid. Every day the old woman probably sat with twenty or thirty people who sought answers and comfort from the future. The air over the fortune-teller’s table and the air in the room would be poisoned with the exchange of infected breath.
“Remember, everything you inhale remains in the body,” he warned. “If anyone coughs or sneezes or even laughs near you, turn away. Act as if they are a thief. The plague will steal your life.”
“I’m careful. Chang was with me.” She’d become more cautious since their encounter with the plague wagon.