Jody Shields - The Winter Station

He was called by this image of the corpse as if he were a madman who reads sentences in a newspaper and is certain they’re secret orders for him to follow. A grain, a black dot of suspicion, began to form.

The Baron asked whether tea might be prepared.

“My dear friend, I have always underestimated you. You are a mind reader.” Dr. Francois Messonier transferred an unsteady pile of papers from table to shelf in his office. Two tiny cups, rimless as bells, made a dry, delicate sound as he placed them on the bare table. He lit the daisu, a small, traditional rectangular metal stand on four legs that held the kettle over heat. The Baron watched, soothed by these familiar preparations.

The two men frequently shared tea in Messonier’s office at the Russian hospital or dinner in one of the better places, Felicien’s or Palkine, for discussions, sometimes in French, about restaurants in Paris, the shortage of medical supplies in Kharbin, the endless bureaucracy, lack of trained assistants, their patients’ distrust of treatment. Friendship broke their cold sense of isolation, as they were both critical of the ruling Russian establishment.

Before he accepted a position in Kharbin, Messonier had been head of the hospital in Mukden, where all Western doctors and the medical schools were under Chinese supervision. The French doctor had worked well in this situation, as it wasn’t his character to directly challenge Chinese authority. He’d gradually mastered a halting, rudimentary spoken Chinese, which helped him survive the Boxer massacre in 1900. A young woman whom he’d once treated had hidden him from rebels in the woods.

“I’ve saved something for your special attention.” Messonier cradled a small blue-and-white ceramic container.

The Baron smiled back at him. “Caviar? Imported hair pomade?”

There was a scraping noise as Messonier unscrewed the lid and produced a roughly wrapped thin packet tied with string. “Please do the honors, Baron.”

He fumbled with the string and even before it was unwrapped, a strong earthy scent rose between them at the table. Inside the paper was a coarse brown disk that resembled tree bark. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

“This is pu’er tea,” Messonier explained. “Very rare. The tea is one hundred years old. So they claimed. Fermented. Pressed into shape with a stone. Packed in a lead-lined leather trunk sent overland from Yunnan Province. Transferred to sampan and then steamboat up the Sungari to Kharbin.”

It was a pleasure to share Messonier’s bounty. A few months ago, he’d received a box from France and they’d divided the mirabelles, pâté, cognac, chocolate bars, and a tin of mustard.

The squat iron kettle reached a rattling boil on the daisu . Messonier poured water from the kettle over tea leaves in an unglazed clay teapot. Then he immediately emptied the water from the pot but saved the tea leaves. A second kettle of boiling water was added to the teapot. “Exactly twenty-five seconds to brew.” He softly counted out loud.

Finished, the tea was poured into gai wan, small porcelain cups, each with a lid and saucer. “Count to five before you drink it.”

The Baron sniffed the steam from the cup as he raised it to his lips. Pu’er had an intense mushroom aroma, woody, a damp forest, musty like clean dirt. Drinking and inhaling the tea was a single sensation, as the fragrance rushed into his nose and mouth, filled his entire head. He felt transported, as if he had opened a door into another season.

“I was told that pu’er can be infused ten times. The last infusion is the longest, ninety seconds.”

He blinked with delight. It seemed the scent of the tea radiated from the surface of his skin. He felt himself slowing down. Only with an effort did he return to Messonier at the table, smiling beatifically. “Do you have a teacher? A master of tea?”

Messonier looked as if he’d been caught cheating. “A patient honored me by sharing her knowledge of tea.”

“Payment for services?”

He smiled, raked the pale hair off his forehead. “No. It was purely a kindness.” Inside the closed pot, tea leaves furiously unfurled in the third pour of hot water.

“I heard that another doctor taught patients recovering from tuberculosis to sing hymns in English. There you have payment in kind.”

“Our church has forbidden the practice of indulgences.” Messonier was a devout Catholic, unmarried, and so saintly that there had never been rumors about him with any nurses.

“Perhaps singing was part of the healing treatment.”

“Perhaps hymns are required to fill beds at certain hospitals. I would not give such orders.”

“The Scottish missionaries at the orphanage taught my wife to embroider and read English.”

“What kind of life were they preparing her for?”

The Baron shrugged. “Li Ju left the orphanage when she was very young. She’s continued her English lessons.”

“She’s fortunate to have a home,” Messonier said, then swiftly added, “Not that she isn’t perfectly happy with you.”

The Baron was silent for a moment. “At times I find my wife profoundly puzzling. She always surprises me. She is a marvel.” He was suddenly self-conscious about speaking so intimately to this man, a friend who was ten years younger. “I don’t mean her beauty. Don’t misunderstand me.”

Messonier studied him, his eyes of a peculiar opacity, the irises like yellow lines, finer than stitches of embroidery. “There’s no preparation for an enigma.”

“My wife insisted on attending the reception at the Railway Club. Everyone ignored her except for Chang and General Khorvat.”

“Always a gentleman.” With the graceful gesture of frequent practice, Messonier again inclined the teapot over their cups. “You’ll be delighted to hear I interviewed the sisters at the Hospital of Mercy as you requested. They are reluctant to disclose information. This you know.”

“The capable Gorgons. No, I apologize. Forgive my words.”

Messonier continued. “The sisters did acknowledge that several passengers from the trains had been admitted.”

“The trains again. Do the passengers share a common ailment? Or are they simply held by the sisters under someone’s orders? An arrest?”

Messonier slowly filled the two gai wan with tea while the Baron shifted impatiently in his chair. “The sisters wouldn’t reveal the number of passengers, why they’re under care, or who ordered them admitted. The contagious infections that could have affected passengers at this time of year are familiar to you—pneumonia, tuberculosis, whooping cough, scarlet fever. Unfortunately, the sisters wouldn’t allow me in the same room as their passenger patients.” He gently set the lids on the gai wan cups and handed one to the Baron. “But I was allowed to pray for the anonymous patients. Perhaps they’re in quarantine.”

“Mother of God.” The Baron leaned closer, the cup in his hand precariously balanced.

Messonier’s expression changed and his eyes narrowed with pleasure. “I hope you appreciate the elaborate lie that I spun for the sisters. Here is the name of the doctor who visited the patients. He also needs the intercession of the saints. Pray for him.” He handed the Baron a folded paper.

Now he admired Messonier’s strategy and his neat black handwriting: Dr. Wu Lien-Teh.

“Dr. Wu Lien-Teh is vice director of the Imperial Army Medical College of Tientsin. A graduate of Cambridge University. He recently arrived. Sent to Kharbin by the Chinese government, the grand councillor Na Dong, and the councillor of the Foreign Office.”