Jody Shields: The Winter Station

News of Dmitry Vasilevich’s death had passed from person to person at St. Nikolas Cathedral, where he worshipped. An elderly church member had confided to the Baron that the man had been quickly buried with little ceremony. A Russian Orthodox funeral usually lasted several days, concluding with a feast and alms to the poor. Vasilevich was in his grave even before the notice was in the Kharbinskii Vestnik and Novoe Vremya newspapers.

Dmitry Vasilevich had lived in a massive stone residence in Novy Gorod, the Russian quarter. The wealthy had segregated themselves here in newly built mansions of imported stone set in a naked landscape without trees or shrubs. Guards patrolled the area, searching every Chinese servant and tradesman with bags of produce for hidden weapons.

At the Baron’s knock, a maid swiftly admitted him, asked his name, and vanished. Inside, weak September light was blocked by heavy drapes at the windows and across the doors as insulation, and he moved slowly, as if disconnected in a dream, to enter the shadowy parlor.

His footsteps were loud and clumsy across the floor, which was curiously uncarpeted, and the dark, heavy furniture seemed out of place on the bare boards. His feet cramped with the effort to quiet his boots. He stopped to peer into a glass-fronted cabinet, surprised it was cluttered with Chinese jade and porcelain figurines. Small carved jade and hard-stone decorative objects were also arranged on a side table.

“Please.” The dark figure of a young woman silently materialized in the doorway. She introduced herself as Sonya Vasilevna and indicated two chairs near the tile stove. She sat down first and he settled into another chair, close enough to notice that her eyes were tender from weeping. He introduced himself as the city’s chief medical officer, expressed sympathy for her father’s death.

Sonya looked away and whispered a line from a prayer.

He bowed his head. As a doctor, he had created a series of sentences that were serviceable in a crisis. Unfortunate news was delivered in a neutral tone, as if held at an angle that prevented emotion seeping into it. “I apologize for disturbing you at this time. Your mother is not at home?”

She nervously smoothed her long blond braid. “My stepmother, Sinotchka, left Kharbin immediately after Papa’s funeral. She hated this place.”

“Where has she gone?”

“She didn’t tell me. She left in a hurry but packed very well. Many things are missing from the house. My jewelry and an embroidered shawl. But it is a small price to be rid of her.”

“I see. So I will rely on your memory and impressions for information.”

“Information about what?”

“Your father’s unfortunate death has been questioned by certain officials.”

Sonya blinked. “I can’t help you. I wasn’t here when Papa died. Stepmother buried him against my wishes. I went to his gravesite alone.” Her body straightened, indicating she imagined herself there again.

Sympathy would not make an ally of this young woman. He asked for an account of her father’s last day.

“My father and stepmother took the train from Mukden to Kharbin. On business. September twentieth. First-class compartment.”

“Was everything as usual on the train?”

“I remember Stepmother said Papa wasn’t feeling well and didn’t cross himself when they passed St. Nikolas Cathedral on the way home. I knew something was wrong. His belief in God was strong. The most important thing in his life. Stepmother left Papa at the Metropole Hotel. He came home late. The servants said Papa staggered in, coughing blood. Blood everywhere. Even in this room.” Her hands flapped, mimed the chaos.

“May God rest his soul.”

“Who dies that quickly? Tell me. How could he die just like that?” Sonya snapped her fingers. Her grief and anger had infected each other.

He shook his head. “Certainly his death was unusual. Hemorrhage, perhaps. I apologize for this painful question, but was his bloody clothing or bedding saved?”

Her expression was disdainful. “Your question is repugnant.”

“I’m sorry. I’m a doctor. My questions can be uncomfortable but I make a diagnosis by asking questions. I believe an answer is a kind of salvation.”

She laced her fingers tightly together and didn’t respond.

He waited. Half the room was warm from the stove in the corner but the air was chill at the back of his neck.

“Some of his clothing was given to the servants. They stole the rest, even though it was bloodstained.”

Clothing, any type of clothing, was valuable even in poor condition. “Are the servants here? May I speak to them?”

She laughed. “My stepmother dismissed all the servants. I don’t know where they live. Some of them slept in the kitchen. They shopped and cleaned and cooked. It wasn’t my concern to know anything about them.”

“Even their names?”

“Their names? They’re Chinese.” After a moment, she said they were called Sasha. Azek. Boychick. Her manner was slightly apologetic.

So her family had followed the custom of giving Russian names to the Chinese servants. A lost thread. But he wrote down the false names.

“Thank you. Tell me, was the furniture taken from this room after your father died?”

Sonya said no, only the carpet had been removed, but her attention wasn’t fastened on him. She appeared to be listening to something else. She abruptly hurried across the parlor and jerked open the door. The corridor was empty. She left the room.

He pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket, spat into it, leaned over, and rubbed it over the two front legs of his chair. The handkerchief was clean. He quickly moved to investigate if there was a stain on the sofa legs. Nothing. But when he checked the underside of the seat on a second chair, there was a faint brown smear on the white cotton. “Blood,” he whispered.

Sonya entered the room carrying a small glass jar. “Here. I kept the evidence. Before he died, Papa couldn’t eat. He only drank tea she made for him. Stepmother put jam from this jar in his tea. She told me this herself.” She sat down, flicking her long skirt around her legs. “She poisoned him.”

Sonya slowly transferred her braid from shoulder to shoulder. “My father was a very important person. One of the wealthiest men in Kharbin. General Khorvat was his friend. You’re obliged to investigate his death, although I know my stepmother is guilty.”

She reminded him of a childhood playmate, a cruel, spoiled child who once tied his greyhound to a tree and threw stones at it. But that was another life. Sonya was the daughter of a rich man, but now that he was dead, she would lose her special privileges. She was simply a young woman without a family. She should marry quickly. Still, the passions were unpredictable. He slowly exhaled. “The truth, mademoiselle, can bring security. There is a line from a Chinese poem: ‘A grain of sand contains all land and sea.’” He spoke the words again, translated back into Chinese.

“You speak Chinese?” Her face was creased with uncertainty.

“I do. Not with any ease.”

She picked up one of the small carved objects, the figure of a scholar, from the table and handed it to him. “What do you think of this? Is it valuable?”

The stone was cold in his hand. He stroked its smooth surface and wanted to say that it should be admired for itself. “I’m no expert. But it is beautifully carved. I believe it has some age.”

“You may take it with you.”

He was startled by her generosity. “Thank you for this gift. But I—”

She interrupted. “When I’m alone, I like to study the objects. I placed them here so I could see them. Stepmother mocked me for collecting these Chinese pieces.”