Jody Shields - The Winter Station

The Baron spoke a few words of greeting in Chinese. The sick man looked up with dull, wondering eyes and the Baron had the wild thought to apologize for Mesny’s brusque examination.

Outside the ward, he spoke quietly to Mesny. “You should protect yourself. Clean your hands after each patient—”

“That’s enough. I know how to conduct myself. I’ve had years of experience with epidemics. Neither of you should be offering an opinion here.” His head tilted toward Maria Lebedev.

“Dr. Mesny, the hospital isn’t a place of competition.” The Baron walked away.

Afterward, at the nurses’ station, the Baron stripped off his rubber gloves and poured half a bottle of carbolic over his hands, wincing as it stung his skin, the stink burning his nostrils. He washed his face and neck with harsh green soap and hot water.

After he’d dressed, he approached Maria Lebedev in the corridor. “A word with you?”

“Certainly.” She was cordial but distant.

“Dr. Lebedev, it was a mistake not to protect myself in the patients’ ward.”

“I was equally foolish.”

He spoke more quietly. “How long will the patients live?”

“I haven’t treated enough patients to make a prediction.”

“But if you were to guess?”

Her pale eyes blinked. “Dead within a day. The onset of the severest symptoms happens very quickly.” She changed the subject. “Would you teach me a few words of Chinese? For the patients. They’re surrounded by Russians.”

“God bless you. It’s said that hearing is the last sense to go before death. There are simple Chinese words of respectful address I can teach you.” He considered what to say. “But you cannot promise the patients health or hope. Nor sympathy or pity, because you won’t be believed.”

“But what can I say?”

What could be said? Words were such poor tools. The words that would comfort a dying Russian weren’t suited to the Chinese, who avoided the direct mention of death. “Let’s discuss it later. I need to think through my vocabulary, thin as it is.” He wished Maria Lebedev good day, then walked down the corridor and up two flights of stairs to Messonier’s office. It was unlocked, unoccupied, and he sank into the largest chair, exhausted. In winter, there were few opportunities to be solitary inside the hive of the hospital. Everything took place in the presence of others near the heat and smoky scent of the wood-fired stoves.

He picked apart his unease, mocking himself: Should I make a list of my faults? His inability to comfort the patients. The risk he’d taken in the hospital ward, touching the patients, sharing breath and space with the infected and dying. His resentment of Dr. Lebedev’s uncomplaining obedience and Dr. Mesny’s hostility.

To unstring himself from this, he imagined warm weather, a walk by the Sungari River watching boys with burning bamboo torches guide passengers from the ferries. By morning, the decks would be littered with blackened husks of the torches, like pits of discarded fruit.

He surveyed the shelves of Messonier’s precious teas, rows of metal, lacquer, and ceramic containers, each with a gummed paper label identifying the contents in Chinese and, underneath, the doctor’s curved handwriting in French. Messonier must have been drilled in cursive as a child in Paris; the scrolled loops of his F, D, and P arched artfully as feathers. The quantity of stored tea filled the room with a dry, slightly musty welcoming fragrance. In the past few days, he’d noticed unfamiliar odors in the hospital, a faint floating ghost. Even Zabolotny had commented on it. “It’s the smell of the sick. The blood of the plague-infected.”

The Baron traced the odor to newly arrived shipments of antiseptics, sterilizing supplies, crates of cotton towels and sheets. He’d torn open a large box of black rubber gloves, shaken off the white powder that kept them from sticking together, lined them up like hollow fish on the table.

Messonier quietly entered and swept his arms wide in greeting to find the Baron sprawled in the chair. He immediately offered him a drink then noticed the Baron’s expression. “Something has happened.” He slowly unbuttoned his white coat and hung it on a peg.

“I went into the patients’ ward with the doctors Lebedev and Mesny this afternoon.”

Messonier began to prepare tea, quietly pouring water from a flask into the kettle, giving the other man time to regain his composure. “Do you wish to talk?”

“Dr. Mesny is a reckless man. You must urge Dr. Lebedev—Maria—to protect herself when she’s with the patients. She must take precautions and not be swayed by him or others.”

“She knows her own mind.”

“Yes, but I was also foolish. I was in the patients’ ward without protection. I’m ashamed I didn’t speak up. I’ll be sleepless thinking about it tonight.”

“An hour with patients is unlikely to be fatal.”

There was no proof for his statement but with the bloom of Messonier’s sympathy, the Baron sensed something easing inside and he felt lighter, unguarded. Then he became aware of a hunger, a beseeching presence that craved comfort and attention. It was a familiar state, carried like an offering in his hands. Have I always been like this? he thought or spoke out loud as Messonier swung around and stared at him.

In the silent room, icy pellets of snow drove against the window, thrown like rice, a hard, irregular tattoo.

“I’m making you tea.”

Messonier had absolved him. Salved his conscience. Hot tears brimmed in his eyes and he couldn’t look up or they would leak down his cheeks. He tightened his face to keep control. Haltingly, he began to describe the dead woman sitting in the snow, the objects set around her for the afterlife. “When I first saw her, she seemed to be a statue. A goddess surrounded by offerings.”

“Yes.”

“I believe her family feared her sickness would be discovered so they abandoned her in an isolated place.”

“Remember, she was likely infected with plague. A bomb.”

The Baron ignored his comment. “Li Ju fell on her knees before the woman and wept. She forgot her prayers. I made the sign of the cross over the body although I immediately regretted it. The dead woman didn’t need my Russian blessing. Always inserting myself into my wishes for others.”

Messonier stood with a spoon poised above the tea canister. “A blessing is a blessing. Forgive yourself.”

Water boiled, a loud rattling shake of the kettle on the daisu . The interruption broke their connection and the two men quickly backed away from their fragile exposure to each other.

“What do we drink, sir?” He hoped Messonier wouldn’t notice his voice was husky from emotion.

“ Huangjin gui. Osmanthus tea. A special oolong from Fujian with rolled leaves. One of the nurses has a brother stationed in Anxi. She gets the tea before the British traders. At a price. It’s too subtle for the British. They prefer pedestrian black tea.” Messonier busied himself with the teapot and utensils. “Should the woman’s death be investigated?”

“I reported the location of the body. The soldiers found nothing.”

“Seems impossible.”

“Lazy soldiers. It was too cold for them to investigate. General Khorvat prides himself on rule of law. But as Chang the dwarf said, ‘Baron, a lack of bodies keeps the crime rate down.’”

“A system is in place. Fill your cup, Baron?”

He nodded. “If Khorvat’s men are picking up plague dead, someone will eventually become infected unless they take precautions. It’s dangerous for them. For everyone.”

Messonier cradled his cup. “This is guesswork. Until it is confirmed—”