Jody Shields: The Winter Station

Once, the Baron had observed an elderly Chinese doctor, skilled in traditional medicine, treat a young man suffering from chungjing shanghan, one of the most complicated diseases. The patient had chills, a fever, dry throat, dull eyes, a cold pain in his abdomen.

At that point, the Baron’s grasp of the language was rudimentary, so the doctor slowly explained the process of diagnosis for his benefit, as if speaking to a child. The Baron was tense, alert to every word and gesture of the Chinese doctor.

The Chinese doctor quietly held the young man’s hand, his delicate fingers pressed lightly against the inside of his wrist, and explained that it wasn’t the pulse of blood in the vessels that he was monitoring. He registered mo, a flow that connected every part of the body and indicated the source of illness. The Chinese did not believe that the heart ruled the body but that the circulation of blood began in and returned to a small space at the wrist, streaming horizontally under the skin with a smooth or rough, faltering course. It wasn’t Chinese medical practice to dissect a body. Diagnosis was based on the study of living people, not the dead.

The Baron quietly asked the doctor how he diagnosed the patient from the mo at his wrist.

“Each finger has a place on the wrist that corresponds to a part of the body. I use minimal pressure to diagnose the fu, the soft organs in the body. A harder pressure is for the solid yin, the viscera.” He demonstrated. “Press the fingertips lightly, the weight of three beans, to diagnose skin and the lungs. Deepen pressure to six beans to read the blood vessels and heart; the third level is flesh and spleen. Fourth level is for the tendons and liver. The most intense pressure, fifteen beans, reveals the condition of the bones and kidneys.”

While palpating the wrist with his fingertips, the doctor distinguished what he sensed at each pressure to make a diagnosis. Twenty-four qualities of mo were recorded in an early volume of Mojing, a revered ancient medical text. The descriptions of mo were poetic, mysterious, vague, allusive, built on metaphors that had been used for centuries. One type of mo was “a smooth succession of rolling pearls.” Another mo was “rain-soaked sand.” Faint mo was “extremely thin and soft as if about to disappear. It appears both to be there and not to be there.”

Doubt and unease possessed him. The Baron didn’t dare touch the patient’s wrist, certain that he’d feel only a pulse, the common thunder of blood. The mysterious, elegant subtleties of mo were unintelligible to his fingers. An unknown language of sensation. Even the doctor’s account of the symptoms of illness, the feel of the mo, the odors and colors of the body, its very solidity, were unrecognizable. He was humbled, realizing he would never comprehend the Chinese system of medicine. Even learning the language wouldn’t enlighten him.

He had been blind to these perceptions and was shocked, as if the body suddenly possessed wholly unfamiliar characteristics. Some men looked at the sky and saw random stars while others deciphered a pattern, figures of men and beasts.

Sometimes he wondered if this new awareness had contaminated him. He kept his own counsel, didn’t share this knowledge with other doctors or nurses. The idea that such fantastical concepts were worth consideration would have seemed ridiculous if someone had described it to him years ago, but in this place, with age and experience, the physical body had been newly revealed as miraculous.

The Baron shared his fascination with Chinese medicine with Li Ju. Occasionally, she sat beside him to interview traditional healers about their treatments and remedies. He marveled at her skill. When she was in the presence of these honored elders, her entire body became poised in alert but docile surrender. She made herself absent. It was admirable but he was also unnerved by her transformation. Once, after a lengthy conversation with a healer, it took a moment for her to respond when he spoke her name. Where were you, Li Ju? he wanted to ask.

Li Ju followed every stage of the moon, knew its schedule of brightness, half-light, and darkness. In Beijing, the buildings and streets were laid out so that the hour could be accurately told by the angle of the shadows they cast. Even a child had this skill. During his time in Manchuria, he had gradually become aware that he was surrounded by systems and information that were invisible to him.

The Baron crossed himself before an icon of Saint Xavier in the chapel. It was someone’s brilliant strategy to place the detained train passengers in the Hospital of Mercy attached to the Congrégation des Missionnaires de St. Xavier, an isolated building with the inwardness of a shell, countless rooms empty of everything but the focus of contemplation.

Silence in the chapel was broken by the distant brush of footsteps. A sister emerged from a corridor in a white habit, the folds of her starched wimple angular as paper around her dark, severe face. A full habit curtained her body, hiding her posture and gestures. They had previously met at St. Sophia, and he remembered her unfavorably. The oldest sister at the convent, she had joined the order in Bombay and volunteered to establish the convent and its hospital in Manchuria, then sailed to China with the architectural plans.

“Sister Agnes, a pleasant day to you. I am Dr. Budberg.”

“We live in the grace of the Lord. Praise be to God.”

“I’m here to inquire about a sick man who would have been admitted a few days ago. He was found near Churin’s store.” His voice was reassuring and official, not judgmental.

“We have many patients.” A moment as the sister blinked. Her face was almost blank with serenity. “I have no information about where the patients were located before they arrived.”

Her composure was exasperating. Another sister glided silently over to Sister Agnes. He turned his attention to this younger nun, an unsmiling girl no more than sixteen, Russian or Slav, with green eyes.

“Sister Domenica, a doctor has come to visit.” Sister Agnes granted her a half-smile.

He was patient. “The man is Chinese and probably unable to talk—”

“It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t speak Chinese,” Sister Domenica said, interrupting.

“You see? What can I do?” Sister Agnes calmly opened her hands in a gesture of helplessness, although Domenica had clearly angered her.

He recollected a Chinese saying: The snare serves to catch the rabbit; let us take the rabbit and forget about the snare. Perhaps if he offered to pray with them they’d grant the information. He imagined sinking to his knees and their chill hands flattened against his bowed head in blessing. “Is the patient who was found by Churin’s with you now?”

“No.”

He struggled to twist her nonanswer. “But he was here at one time? That is correct?”

“Yes, I believe so.” Sister Agnes’s mouth was a grim line.

“And now he’s dead?”

“There are no further details about him, I’m afraid.” Relieved, Sister Agnes crossed herself, believing she’d escaped the spear point of his questions.

“Have any passengers from Central Station been brought here?”

Sister Agnes slipped her hands into her pocket. “Baron le docteur , if you were meant to have this information, it would have been entrusted to you. I have no authority.”

“Sister Agnes, there is no higher authority. I am the health commissioner for the city.”

The younger sister pressed her fingers into the palms of her hands.

He sensed Domenica would talk but Sister Agnes might dismiss her at any moment and he’d miss his chance. He moved back a step to block the corridor. Calmer, he spoke slowly, deliberately, as if folding a piece of paper. “If you help me, your answer will benefit others. I share your struggle to care for the sick. I also lack supplies and medicine. I have patients who do not appreciate my effort. Patients who are unhappy.”