Jody Shields - The Winter Station

Messonier considered the Baron’s description. “Perhaps he was an opium addict?”

“No. That would have made him lethargic, not aggressive. And his skin color was symptomatic of something else.”

“Infection? Rash? Let me argue against you. Your attacker was drunk. Face flushed from alcohol.” Messonier filled two cups with pale golden tea.

“Perhaps. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I didn’t try to help him. I fled.”

“You acted from instinct. You’d certainly never avoid helping someone. It’s not your nature.”

“Thank you, Messonier. In truth, I was afraid of the man. We were alone in the inn. All I know is that these events seem to have no answers when closely examined.” His focus turned to the cup on the table. “By the way, the tea is very fine.”

Messonier brightened. “ Luojie tea. Mountain-grown. Did you notice its faint grassy scent? The tea leaves are unusual, pale yellow with thick white veins.” He cradled the teacup in his hands. “By the way, Dr. Wu and a team of Chinese doctors, nurses, volunteers, and translators begin work at the hospital soon. Weather delayed some of their trains.”

“Khorvat won’t bow his knee to Chinese authorities. I know he wasn’t pleased to have their new Chinese medical staff installed in his territory.”

“The Chinese would never allow Russians to show them up. Dr. Wu has yet to put in an appearance but there are rumors he’s been granted a laboratory in the Chamber of Commerce building.”

“A bold choice.” The Baron was incredulous.

“Yes. A strange location for a laboratory to test something unknown and potentially contagious. They said Wu wanted privacy to work. And there were no vacant spaces at the hospital.”

“It’s a marvel.”

“Dr. Lebedev, one of the new doctors, is reluctant to discuss the situation. She claims the Russian doctors are in Kharbin only for training.” Messonier hesitated. “I don’t believe it. A great deal of money was spent transporting them here across Russia and Manchuria. They’re on leave from their own hospitals. It makes no sense.”

“Morning is wiser than evening, as they say.” The Baron finished his tea. “I heard the hospital just placed an order for quantities of disinfectant, carbolic acid, gauze, soap, and rubber gloves.”

“Curious. There’s no evidence of typhoid or cholera at this time of year.”

“Preparations for another Chinese rebellion? You’d think officials would notify us,” the Baron said.

“Andreev is your source?” He’d once delivered an order of scarce high-quality gut and surgical needles to Messonier. The doctor had spontaneously embraced Andreev, rejoicing that the supplies would save lives, but the man had recoiled from his gratitude.

The Baron’s expression confirmed this. “Officials have also ordered a shipment of barbed wire.”

Messonier stood blinking for a moment before taking a vodka bottle from the cabinet and pouring it into the empty teacups. Smorodinovka vodka, slightly bitter with black-currant leaves. “I need something stronger.” The drink marked a change in the conversation. He hunched over the table toward the Baron. “What could it mean? Barbed wire. Perhaps they anticipate an insurrection. A battle.”

“They use barbed wire to mark territory. To keep out or keep in citizens.”

“I predict they’re gathering supplies for a siege. Or war casualties. A mission is under way.” Messonier was glum. “Do you know if the barbed wire has been used in the city yet? Or anywhere?”

“No.” The vodka’s strong intensity of fruit on the tongue always surprised him.

“So we wait.”

“If it so pleases God. We’re here to be of service.”

“Yes, serving at risk.”

“I have a question.” The Baron had heard rumors about Messonier and, under the influence of vodka, wondered if he’d confirm them. “Do you share your prize teas with someone else?”

Messonier’s blush spread across his face and up into the roots of his pale hair. “Sometimes I share a cup with Dr. Lebedev. Dr. Maria Lebedev.”

“I wondered. I saw you with a woman on the third floor.”

“She speaks French like a native.” Blushing again at the Baron’s grin. “Studied in Switzerland.”

“How does one conduct a courtship in Manchuria?”

Messonier lost his reserve and became very animated. “We meet at the hospital canteen for lunch. And dinner whenever possible. Our schedules are difficult. I gave her a can of chestnut puree, the last of my gourmet hoard for the holiday. Dr. Lebedev is so gracious that she almost refused my gift. I had to insist.”

“Andreev can usually produce luxury goods. Gifts for fortunate ladies.”

Messonier smiled cryptically, nearly demure. “The only goods I dare order from Andreev are for emergencies.”

Vodka heightened the Baron’s enthusiasm for his friend’s tender new relationship. “It’s a blessing you met each other. A miracle in Manchuria. I also found my wife here.”

“We haven’t spoken of marriage.” Messonier’s face was not as severe as his words.

Later, the Baron puzzled over what he’d learned about changes at the hospital. Perhaps it was foolish to wait until Khorvat or the authorities spoon-fed them information. Perhaps by that time it would be too late for an individual to develop a strategy for survival or escape. He had only hearsay and rumor and guesswork. Who had laid a path of clues, mutilated a body, cultivated secrets? A system that was fully confident about its power.

The only tangible fact was that Messonier had fallen in love.

Calligraphy was a forest. No, a labyrinth of spikes where a man could be lost. A sanctuary of discipline. The soft slide of his brush on paper released the Baron’s anxiety. Each brushstroke demanded his focus and skill, but lack of control was evident at the feathery edges of characters where bristles separated, producing streaky ragged-textured lines known as “flying white.” At a certain angle, he could see his moving hand reflected in the shining wet black lines as if it were disconnected from his body. A black shadow on black.

“Move your brush without fear,” Xiansheng had instructed, quoting the master Li Ssu. “When you move the brush gradually toward the end of the stroke you will feel like a fish who enjoys swimming in the running stream.” The Baron blinked, shook his head, and took a deep breath, as if he were a diver going underwater.

The Baron dreamed that night. There was a tunnel, its curved sides painted with Chinese characters. The tapering irregular forms and flourishes of the brushstrokes were tall as his body. He was overwhelmed by this calligraphy, unable to translate it. When he touched the surface with his hand, the jagged strokes were rough, coarse, and the contact woke him. What were the words written in the dream? What was their significance?

The Baron crossed the ornate foyer, tracks from his wet boots marring the freshly scrubbed marble floor. The night cleaners would soon eradicate evidence of his trespassing. He’d expected soldiers would be guarding the Chamber of Commerce building so his coat was open to reveal the sober Russian uniform underneath. It was usually enough authority to stop any questions, but if challenged, he would respond by offering a bribe—rarely unsuccessful—or threaten to report them for some infraction. This was standard in Kharbin.

Upstairs, the corridor was cold and the wall lights wobbly pinpoints in order to save electricity from the generators in the evening. He walked the length of the second and third floor until finding the door with Dr. Wu’s name written in Russian, Chinese, and English in heavy gold letters, a ceremonial weight. He stood outside, listening, his breath irregular, tracing the pound of his heart into his arm and hand. His unease was located in the center of his chest, an aching pressure, as if he’d inhaled smoke from a fire. Perhaps age brought this symptom. A younger man would ignore it.