The Winter Station

by Jody Shields

  The plague would show itself within hours or a day. He had only to wait for symptoms to unfold like a familiar piece of music. His mind raced through his body like a telescope, checking the lungs, the tough bronchial tubes that would become inflamed, expel a froth of blood. If a traditional Chinese doctor had treated him, the man’s knowledge would follow the mo at the Baron’s wrist through his entire body, the net of blood and nerves, the places where liquid threaded through muscle and the soft firmness of the organs. Monitoring the body’s temperature with a thermometer was primitive in comparison.

  First there was a cough. Then coughing became constant, the pain striking his ribs and back like blows. His body jerked as if pulled by strings, muscles tense. Exhausted, he waited for the next cough like an inexorable wave.

  He made a tunnel around himself. In delirium, he spoke loudly, ordered everything burned. His books, letters, calligraphy, the scrolls and brushes. Clothing and bedding. His voice, even his mouth, seemed distant. Li Ju must hear him.

  She had sealed the corridor along the bedroom against the invisible enemy with a formalin-sprayed curtain. Buckets of diluted chlorine were poured along the floor and steam rose from the warm water. Li Ju brought a chair to the far end of the corridor. For hours, she read Sherlock Holmes and The Woman in White aloud in English, sang hymns in the Scottish-inflected accent acquired at the orphanage. She whispered endearments. It was meaningless to him, her voice as indistinct and soothing as if she spoke from a well or behind a screen. He’d sleep and then jolt awake to find her singing had changed to a one-sided conversation or a description of a foggy London street. Sometimes he recognized her voice.

  One day, he was able to sit up in bed. Li Ju slipped a paper from the I-Ching Book of Changes under his door, an explanation of Hexagram 13 by Confucius.

  Life leads the thoughtful man on a path of many windings

  Now the course is checked, now it runs straight again,

  Here winged thoughts may pour freely forth in words

  There the heavy burden of knowledge must be shut away in

  silence.

  But when two people are at one in their inmost hearts,

  They shatter even the strength of iron or of bronze.

  The dreams brought by fever vanished. The Baron’s self-imposed quarantine ended. He had survived severe pneumonia. Plague had spared him. Illness had compressed sensation, and even lifting his arm took effort. Li Ju and a servant bathed him, helped him from the bed in slow stages. He wasn’t strong enough to test the length of her body against his. Her mouth, her breath were a sweet weight. At any hour when he called her name she would appear at his bedside.

  Li Ju tried to persuade her husband to listen to the fortune-teller who had just arrived and stood outside the bedroom door. “She’s here. This is an auspicious time.”

  “No. It’s not safe.”

  Unperturbed, the fortune-teller agreed to calculate the destiny of an unseen man, although for a higher fee, sitting in a fur coat outside his door. Li Ju anxiously knelt beside the woman as she placed three coins in a tortoiseshell. The coins had holes in their centers and the blank side had a value of three. The opposite inscribed side had a value of two. The coins rattled inside the shell, and were shaken out onto the floor. The fortune-teller opened the Book of Changes to read the interpretation of the coins for dramatic effect.

  “It is a time to resolve difficulties. This is a breakthrough. You should forgive the past and swiftly finish whatever task still lingers in your life.”

  The southwest furthers.

  If there is no longer anything where one has to go,

  Return brings good fortune.

  If there is still something where one has to go,

  Hastening brings good fortune.

  “Now I will read the image for the hexagram to you.”

  Thunder and rain set in:

  The image of Deliverance.

  Thus the superior man pardons mistakes

  and forgives misdeeds.

  Swept with relief, the Baron sank back against the bed cushions. He imagined Li Ju’s smile, her bow of acknowledgment, handing the money to the woman in an envelope.

  “You see? Nothing to fear.” Li Ju’s body was against the partially open door, her voice fitting through the crack. “Her words were a comfort.”

  He slowly walked to the door and leaned against it.

  Her face was on the other side of the door, so close that he recognized the scent of her mouth. They played with their breath, in and out, a sigh of exchanging vapor as if it were the contact of their lips. Her hand pressed hard against the door and he felt its warmth.

  Chang’s spoon bit into green-gray tea in the container, organizing its loose crumble. He glanced at the Baron, who had gained enough strength to sit at the table for longer periods. Li Ju hovered restlessly around her husband, adjusting the light, his cushions, the angle of the teacup on the table.

  The Baron didn’t notice Li Ju, was pleased to see Chang, reassured that he hadn’t been infected. “You have courage to visit my sickroom.”

  “I have no courage. According to the I-Ching, it isn’t my fate to catch your illness. I risk nothing sitting here next to you. To mark your recovery, I will prepare a special tea.”

  The Baron recognized that he should respond to Chang’s words but he still couldn’t break the dull pressure that possessed him. A lingering effect of his illness. “I need more comfort than what’s provided by leaves and water.” He immediately regretted his words and apologized for his rudeness. “My health isn’t fully recovered. Please continue.”

  But Chang took no offense. “There’s a saying: Bingzhong shi xin cha. ‘In sickness, I sample some new tea.’ Tea makes the bones light. Tea is an aid to immortality. So say monks and poets and scholars. A cup of tea warms your hands, your throat.”

  Chang passed the Baron a shallow cup containing a few damp tea leaves. “Here. This young tea is delicate and slippery. Mature leaves are the opposite, firm and leathery.”

  “Show me too.” Li Ju peered into the cup. Then she looked at her husband, huddled in a quilted jacket against the chill and the hard back of the chair. Neither of the men tried to bring her into the conversation, her husband curt because of illness and Chang distracted by concern for him. The Baron stared at the teapot on the shallow tray. Robust brown clay. A texture that held traces of the potter’s hand. Earth. With an effort, he smiled at Li Ju. Relief curved across her face.

  Chang was also relieved. “Sharing pleasure is valuable. Chalu, we are companions of tea.” He handed her a tiny cup with the last leaves from the teapot. “Observe the oblong shape of the leaves. Flat leaves brew slowly. Crinkled and balled leaves release their flavor quickly because they greatly expand in hot water. Tea leaves can also be whole, flat, twisted, crimped, curled, needle-shaped, broken, granular, fanning. Like clouds that fill the sky.”

  He sent a quizzical glance toward the Baron, who nodded, imagining how Xiansheng would unlock the characters that might form this observation. “I’ve had little news during my quarantine,” he said abruptly.

  “No news from Kharbin is a blessing.” Chang lowered his face to the teacup in his hands and slowly inhaled. Exhaled. “Lately, the only good fortune is at the pawnshops. I’ve bought many things that others have cast aside. Ivory boxes, jade. Even an icon of some saint with pearls and amethysts. Why not? A man needs luck these days. Even from saints. There’s no work. People have no money.”

  “Have you abandoned your Churin’s store uniform?”

  “I’m no longer at the door. Too short to put a thermometer in the mouths of the Russian shoppers.” The Baron’s eyes widened and the dwarf laughed. “No. I’ll return in spring. They predict the world will be healed by that time, although store owners aren’t fortune-tellers. For now, there’s a guard with a bayonet at the door, keeping away sickness and looters.”

  Li Ju silently toyed with a fan.

  The Baron gently asked if stores had been looted
.

  “Only a few stores in Fuchiatien. Not enough police or soldiers to patrol the streets. They’re stationed along the railroad tracks and roads from Kharbin. I saw them force a droshky to drive through burning sulfur to fumigate his vehicle. The pony panicked in the smoke. The city is closed. Unless you’re rich.”

  “Bribes no longer work?” During the Baron’s illness, events had unwound outside his knowledge as if in another country. Barriers were built. Soldiers moved into position.

  “Bribes are the only currency.” Chang’s mouth sagged. “But some things are worse than a bribe. I recognized someone, a customer from Churin’s, dead on the street. Lovely woman. She always smiled at me. I thought to put my coat over her but it would have been stolen. I brushed snow over her face to hide her from others. Then I went to Central Station and lit a candle at the shrine for St. Nikolas. Many people were there, weeping and praying.”

  Li Ju stared at the teacups on the tray. She very slowly stood up and left the room. Chang looked stricken. “Forgive me. Should I have stayed silent? I didn’t think—”

  The Baron interrupted. “I’ve tried to shield her. Don’t worry. I’ll speak to her later. I suppose it’s better that she hear about it from you before witnessing so many corpses on the street.”

  “Don’t leave your house if you wish to avoid death. Either you’re dying or someone you know is dying or dead.” The dwarf sipped his tea and savored it in his mouth before swallowing. “You cannot believe the things I’ve seen.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “I have free time since I’m no longer at Churin’s. I tell you, the imagination of the desperate is ferocious. I was in the Fantasia cabaret on Ofitserskaya Street near the wharf. I saw a man begin to cough. He had the sickness. The plague. He ordered champagne for everyone, for the entire cabaret. He gave his armband to the waiter. His fur coat to the cigarette girl. He drank and took opium, sang and danced. He performed shocking acts with women and men. His recklessness was irresistible and no one backed away from him. Finally he ran from table to table, asking if the sun had risen yet. Then he called for attention, undressed in the center of the room, and walked naked out of the cabaret into the snow. Knew he’d quickly freeze to death, drunk. Perhaps not a bad death. The farewell was unforgettable, a whirlwind of scandal. You met him. The Slav. Tall, with blond hair and a white fur coat. The owner of the nightclub gathered up whatever the Slav had touched. His clothing and the tablecloth. The chair cushions. Glasses. The bloody napkins he’d thrown under the table. Everything would be burned. As the Slav walked out, he gave me his top hat. Should I burn it?” He studied the Baron, expecting him to provide an answer. “I stayed well away from him. He tossed me the hat.”

  “God rest his soul.” The Baron gently placed his teacup on the table. He explained that the hat would be ruined by treatment with disinfectant. “But leave it outside overnight. The temperature will kill bacilli.”

  After Chang left, the Baron pulled the jacket more tightly around his shoulders. How do we move during this time? Stand up or sit down? What does a body do during a siege?

  The Baron had decided not to return to the Russian hospital but would tend patients at a temporary facility in one of the converted buildings. This decision was not discussed with his wife. When he began to pack medical supplies into a satchel, she pleaded with him to stay home. He still looked like a patient himself, gaunt, eyes troubled. An old injury from the war had returned and his hands shook slightly when he was chilled or tired.

  “I can’t wait at home while others suffer.”

  “They will suffer regardless. They will die with or without you. Stay here with me.”

  He agreed to stay. But only for a short time.

  After his illness, the Baron transferred to a hospital in the Pristan quarter, converted from an elegant department store into a hospital for plague victims. Furniture, display counters, and cases had been removed but chandeliers and an elaborate clock graced the large open space crammed with wooden beds, rough as benches. The place was freezing. Patients huddled under blankets in their street clothes and coats. Occasionally, a man laboriously walked to the immense porcelain stove in the corner and pushed sticks of kindling inside. A flame briefly glowed red.

  The Baron felt invisible, lacking the ability to treat the sick. Morphine was the only comfort. So he began to record the names of those who could talk in a small notebook, sitting next to their beds, an infinitely patient witness, waiting through their fevers, spasms of coughing that marked the pages and his clothing with blood. Many were unable to speak or refused to reveal their identities. He guessed at the spelling of some names whispered to him. Time passed slowly, measured by the breaths of the dying and the movement of his pencil, their last conversations on earth.

  Page after page filled with names as the daily death rate reached two hundred. A cemetery had been established in the notebook, a monument to the lost. The final document of these lives was compressed into black lines in his spiked lettering, a mix of Russian and Chinese characters, fierce and tender. Black ink insubstantial as paper.

  He feared the notebook with the list of dead would be misplaced or accidentally damaged by water, blood, or disinfectant. Someone moved the notebook while he changed in the disinfecting room and he erupted in a rage of weeping until it was found under a bench. Li Ju painstakingly began to copy the names of the dead into a second book.

  After he left the patients, he walked directly into the disinfecting station, joining a line of doctors, nurses, stretcher bearers, corpse-carrier attendants, and soldiers. He’d hoped to see Dr. Maria Lebedev but there wasn’t a single familiar face in the room.

  In the disinfecting room, standing on the sheet of black rubber, he pulled off his bloody clothing, leaving it crumpled in folds around his feet like stiff wings. He stepped to the sink and scrubbed his hands until they cracked and bled. He wanted to strip his hands of discolorations and scars, proof of injury, everything rough. He wished a horned surface could grow over his skin, translucent scales like a fish or dragon, as protection. Clothed in scales, he’d be safe here, even stepping into fire or water. He pulled off his mask, wet with perspiration and condensed moisture, raked his hair back with his fingers. He stank.

  The odor of disinfectant clung to his skin. His wife wouldn’t share the k’ang bed until she’d first walked around him several times holding a stick of burning incense like a wand trailing a cloud.

  The cavernous room in the department store was always dim, a purposeful twilight believed to soothe patients. The large display windows on the ground floor along the sidewalk were blocked by immense stacks of coffins to shield pedestrians from a view of the sick in their beds.

  The Baron bent over the bed of a new patient, a man swaddled in a coat against the cold, and gently straightened his blanket. The man turned his head, and Xiansheng’s eyes found the Baron’s face. He whispered his teacher’s name: “Elder Born.” His eyes fluttered. The barest acknowledgment.

  The Baron ignored the explosion of grief in his chest. He pulled at his mask to reveal his face, stripped off a glove, sought his teacher’s hand under the blanket. His beautiful dexterous hand, shaped by skill with a brush, ivory skin a fragile wrap for his fine bones.

  He couldn’t speak words of comfort or promise but prayed for a miracle, an intervention from Saint Nikolas or Guanyin, the goddess of mercy. He called the fox spirit. He visualized the black structure of calligraphy, horizontal and vertical lines, as if Teacher could escape, slip between these marks and escape.

  When his teacher coughed, he wiped the red spittle from his face with a cloth. There was a cold compress for fever. He never released Xiansheng’s hand, solid with cold and unchanged by warmth from his own hand. He focused on the gentle contact of his fingertips against Xiansheng’s wrist and fixed his eyes on the distance, copying the Chinese doctors he’d observed. The evidence of mo at his wrist was the key to diagnosis. What did he sense? Confinement. He was confined in a liquid black tunnel that trembled w
ith a pulse. He blindly followed it without a measure of distance, gradually aware of a tightening of space that led to the throbbing chambers of the heart.

  Words came to him and he recited, “‘In writing one sees the hanging needle, the dropping dew, crashing thunder, falling rock, flying bird, startled beast: it is heavy as breaking clouds, light as a cicada’s wings, graceful as the new moon and dependent stars—it equals the exquisiteness of nature.’” Naming the things of this world. He recited the words again and again, making it a lullaby with the fullness of prayer.

  Xiansheng met his eyes and his fingers stirred. He was gripped by rasping coughs, and blood covered the bedclothes. The Baron left his side to find another ampoule of morphine. When he returned, Xiansheng had died, his face now mute and unchangeable. The Baron carefully cleaned his face and hands.

  Sorrow spread fire-fast inside his body. He stood up, swaying a little, pulled the blanket over Xiansheng. He stepped back for two men who appeared at the bedside, tightened the blanket around the body, and slid it onto a stretcher. The Baron numbly followed them from the building. Outside, the men eased the body into a flimsy coffin, their actions unusually gentle, since they were being watched. He wedged his glove under the coffin lid as a marker so he could find it again.

  A man who revered words, his teacher would have hated to be buried without his name.

  The next morning, the Baron was unable to locate Xiansheng’s coffin outside the hospital. Identical coffins of weather-beaten gray wood were stacked higher than his head along the length of the building. He stopped the three corpse carriers shoving coffins into a waiting wagon.

  “Did you take coffins away from here yesterday?”