Jody Shields: The Winter Station

“Yes, the Chinese believe that we trick them. Or want to steal their bodies.”

Sister Agnes silenced the other woman’s outburst with a simple shake of her robes. “I’m afraid Sister Domenica bears most of the unhappiness here, as she works directly with the patients.”

The degree to which they—the sisters and the soldiers at Central Station—withheld information was a measure of its value. “Please, Sister Agnes, Sister Domenica. You obey holy orders. I’m a doctor. I have no wish to interfere.”

“We simply care for the patients as best we are able. Our supplies are limited but we accommodate everyone as a compassionate gesture.”

If she had been a government official, this would have indicated a bribe was expected, the usual gifts of goods, fresh meat, or boots.

Would she try to stop him if he suddenly raced past them into the patients’ ward? He would not lose his temper with a pair of nuns. “Other officials may not understand or appreciate your mission. The government likes to meddle. I will try to keep them from becoming involved in your work. But as a disciple of God and a trained nurse, you know secrets do not heal. The heart festers.”

There was an almost physical aspect to their silence.

Sister Domenica blurted out, “The Chinese man and the passengers are here. But they cannot leave.”

“Enough.” A rebuke from Sister Agnes. Her glance was an arrow.

The younger woman clasped her hands as if to protect herself. “Please, may I sit down? I’m not feeling well.” She closed her eyes and fell into his arms as he stepped forward, surprisingly light despite her heavy robes. He set her gently on a bench against the wall but Sister Agnes swiftly pushed him aside, stared at Domenica for a moment, then slapped her face. The young woman cried out, and her body jackknifed over.

Sister Agnes swept around as if she intended to strike him. “You must leave.”

“Sisters, God be with you.” His voice croaked and his heart pounded in his chest as he walked away.

Was Sister Domenica truthful? What restraints or threats kept the passengers here, as no guards were posted outside the building? If the passengers were merely under observation, why were they kept hidden? Everything surrounding the situation blinded him to a pattern that was in place.

Li Ju surprised her husband by insisting on accompanying him to the reception for the grand opening of the Railway Club. He reluctantly agreed, puzzled by her unusual request. Then she asked for permission to hire a servant, a Manchu woman, to spend that entire day at the house, assisting with a traditional dressing ritual. The Baron welcomed the Manchu guest when she arrived, carrying a small satchel, and he ushered her behind the screen where Li Ju waited.

First, the woman plucked fine short hairs around Li Ju’s forehead so her hairline was perfectly even. Soot was stroked over her eyebrows to shape each one like a willow leaf. Her waist-length hair was smoothed with a resin mixture, combed, and twisted around ivory rods into large curls, thin as strips of silk, extending from the sides and the top of her head, the liangbatou, two-fisted style. Long pins with tiny jade ornaments and a silver stick, the bian fang, held her hair in place. White perfumed powder was dusted on the center part of her hair. Li Ju dressed in a stiff embroidered jacket, skirt, loose trousers, and short square-toed boots.

She stepped out from behind the screen and nervously stood before the Baron. Her thin white face and neck seemed hardly able to support the weight of her hair and the three dangling earrings in each ear.

“My butterfly,” he said, hesitantly tracing her stiff curls with his finger. He touched the delicate quivering ornaments in her hair and on her ears.

Later, thoroughly chilled, the Baron slowly escorted Li Ju up the steps into the Railway Club. His feet were numb after traveling in a freezing droshky across the city to Kitayskaya Street. He entered the club as if cracked from ice, his body still stiff, fingers ten lengths of unfeeling flesh, the cold threaded inside the fibers of his evening jacket.

The club was lavishly furnished with leather armchairs, oriental carpets, bronze lamps. Walking through the rooms for the first time, the Baron could have sworn he’d been transported to the English club on Dvortsovaya-Naberezhnaya in St. Petersburg. The ballroom was overwhelming, cloudy with smoke from Lopato cigarettes, the men sweating in their heavy wool uniforms, the women fanning themselves, gold and silver flickering around their necks and on their dresses. The sideboard was set with several types of caviar in crystal bowls. It was a fasting day, according to the church, and fish was forbidden but caviar was allowed. The Baron spread a spoonful of osetrova on thick brown bread, noticed it was preserved, not fresh, since the eggs had a dull surface.

General Khorvat was the center of attention, surrounded by government officials and the men who had made fortunes in soybeans, timber, gold, smuggled goods, and weapons. He noticed Prince G. G. Kugusev, director of the Russo-Chinese Bank, the grain merchant Soskin, visiting Scottish dignitaries, German representatives from Krupp, and Americans from the International Harvester company. He didn’t enjoy their company but it was in his interest to associate with the powerful men who ran the city.

Li Ju stayed close to her husband, silently smiling, earrings trembling, ignoring everyone’s stares. None of the women spoke to her, the Baronin. The men barely nodded. Increasingly uncomfortable, the Baron took a glass of vodka from a waiter. Li Ju accepted no drink or food.

Bakai, the president of the club, stood nearby, grinning, his teeth discolored behind pale lips, accepting congratulations on opening the club.

The Baron made the introduction. “My wife, Li Ju, the Baronin.”

Bakai nodded at her, his eyes on the Baron. “I understand you’re married, Baron. A Chinese wife.”

“Actually, my wife is Manchu.” The Baron stiffened, helpless with anger over Bakai’s mockery, afraid to involve Li Ju. Two of the three valued virtues determined by Confucius concern control of the expression, the senan, as a mark of the civilized person.

“Imagine.” Bakai didn’t lose his smile and moved closer with his drink, still ignoring Li Ju. “My own wife hasn’t been feeling well. Perhaps you’d have a consultation with her, Doctor?”

Before he could speak, General Khorvat gripped his arm. A warning. “Certainly,” the Baron answered and paused. “At a time convenient for her.”

Bakai nodded. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

The Baron shook off Khorvat’s hand. “I want to be certain your wife wouldn’t object to the close contact I have with my Chinese patients?”

“I’m certain you take every sanitary precaution. You are Kharbin’s most renowned doctor.”

His heart pounded and it dried his mouth so that words barely moved off his tongue. “I can’t guarantee my sanitary precautions. But since he’s never met you, my colleague Dr. Messonier is a better doctor for your wife. I wish her a rapid recovery, although you both probably share the same unpleasant characteristics.”

Bakai blinked as the insult slowly came into focus. He hesitated, then turned away.

The Baron’s heart rate slowly dropped. He didn’t dare touch Li Ju or comfort her. To his relief, she was silent.

“Generous of you to send a new patient to Dr. Messonier.” Khorvat’s expression was strained. “Please be my guest here at the club anytime.”

“May I bring my wife?”

Khorvat choked out a laugh and bowed to Li Ju. “Baronin, I am pleased to meet you. You bring grace to our evening.”