Jody Shields - The Winter Station

“I hope my suspicions are uglier than the truth. If it please God. I beg you, friend Messonier, be cautious until the facts about plague are known. Our truth, not their truth. Who knows, perhaps the teapot we just shared is infected. I touched the patients. I touched the teapot. An infection could spread from me to you. Anyone, any object could be dangerous. We’re wringing our hands at the edge of the volcano.”

“The volcano is still somewhat unofficial.” He raised the teacup to the Baron. “À la guerre.”

“To war!”

Messonier watched the steam wreath up from the spout of the teapot, white in the chilly room. “Is there a future for the type of medicine we practice here? The Chinese are slow to accept new medicine. May never accept it.”

“I’ve been here almost seven years longer than you. And I still haven’t decided.” The Baron’s fingers tenderly circled the hot cup. “Chinese don’t seek treatment with me unless it is accompanied by free rice. I’m not critical. I understand this. I’m grateful when they ask for my aid purely from optimism. But at times it seems so futile. I showed a young man how to disinfect a cut with iodine. But then he vanished with the bottle. Probably to sell on the black market. Probably to you.” He grinned at Messonier.

“Or to a soldier to drink.”

“The young man must have thought that I was mad. Bacteria? The word doesn’t exist in Chinese. I didn’t have language to explain it to him without sounding like an evil spirit, a domovoy . Or a quack.”

A clink as Messonier set down the empty cup.

“Did I tell you about my consultation with a Chinese doctor? I was allowed to observe him with a patient. It was confounding.” The Baron held up his cup for more tea. “Here’s my suggestion. I’ll propose to the doctors at the hospital that we form an alliance with the Chinese doctors to fight the plague. They have traditions and knowledge to share. It’s hardly a gamble, since we have no solution as yet.”

“I admire your plan. But I don’t believe the others will be receptive.”

“I can only try.”

“Tell me what the Chinese doctor did with his patient.”

The Baron disliked uncertainty and felt unable to accurately describe the experience, even to Messonier. He set down the cup. He pressed his fingertips against the inside of his wrist. “Here. The doctor diagnosed the patient by touching the cunkan, a narrow spot, about an inch at the wrist. He said that palpating the wrist is qiemo .”

“So he monitored the patient’s pulse?”

“I don’t believe it’s the pulse he monitored. But what is it? A vibration? Temperature? Mind reading? The doctor called it mo. It’s something else. Perhaps he makes a diagnosis from the pressure of the vessels? There are twenty-four different qualities of mo .” He leaned forward, now eager to share what he’d learned. “I asked what his fingers sensed at the wrist. The Chinese doctor said the mo can be rough or smooth. Even slippery. I know, you smile. So did I. These descriptions are from an ancient text, the Mojing . Listen. Rough mo is ‘like sawing bamboo.’ Tense mo is like ‘palpating a rope.’ Faint mo signifies poor health, ‘extremely thin and soft as if about to disappear; it appears both to be there and not to be there.’” He sat back in the chair. “How could a doctor apply this description to a body? What is this skill that he has? It is not a diagnosis as we know a diagnosis.”

“‘To be there and not to be there.’” Messonier slowly repeated his words as if trying to memorize them.

“My knowledge of Chinese is too primitive to understand this subtle concept. My medical knowledge is too blunt. Too coarse. Like you, I was taught to recognize only hard and soft. But the Chinese are aware of many other states. Degrees of states. It’s as if the body possesses qualities—or transformations—that we can’t recognize. I couldn’t even ask the doctor an intelligent question. I’m provoked, mystified, and also enchanted, I must confess.”

“Could what the doctor felt and described possibly be true?”

“I believe so. But it seems miraculous to me. Like a saint’s miracles.” The Baron sighed. “You know what I believe? I believe that I was blessed by this experience. The Chinese doctor’s generous gift.”

“Faith.”

“Many kinds of faith.”

“As one description of love is unlike another.” Messonier hesitated. “I prepare tea for Maria Lebedev. I try to distract her from the hospital. What else can I offer? I have nothing. This city is without comfort. I never imagined courting a woman here. I came only to work.” His face reddened. “My residence is near St. Nikolas Cathedral. Our first morning together we woke to bells. She was blissful. Said it was our blessing. She’s very devout.”

When the Baron walked outside the building, he carried the aroma of the tea inside his mouth and nose. He exhaled and it was dispersed in a ragged cloud. Lately, he’d been troubled by strange thoughts. An image of his face and beard coated with ice, the plague bacilli preserved inside, particles finer than pollen, a bee swarm of contamination, ready to be released by melting. Then the familiar clutch of anxiety. He shook himself as if waking from sleep. It wasn’t a hallucination. It was caused by overwork, brain fatigue. Or was this ill feeling the beginning of an infection, the first symptom? Messonier understood his momentary lapses into silence, occasional lack of focus. Was he also distracted by bizarre images? Should he confess to Messonier?

Every night, he hungered for an object, something safe to touch that had no risk. Eyes closed, he would smooth Li Ju’s hair, exposing the nape of her neck. He knew she felt cold air before the warmth of his mouth on her skin. She coiled her arm back around his head. Locked him safe.

“Forty new patients were admitted to the Russian hospital with plague symptoms. Ten new corpses were discovered in the Chinese district. Some were buried in snow and others abandoned on the street.” The Baron spoke quietly to Messonier as they walked to the conference room. “I heard Dr. Mesny’s six patients died just ten hours after my visit to the ward.”

Messonier made a low whistle. “Sobering numbers. But just wait. Mesny will blame the patients for their own deaths.”

“Or he’ll blame Dr. Lebedev.”

Messonier exchanged a sharp look with him. “Now we have a battle ahead of us around the table and only weak tea to accompany it. I wish you well with your proposal, Baron.”

“It’s a death parade in the conference room.”

The hospital staff meetings were dreaded, as there was always a sense of uncertainty and, underneath it, fear. One doctor after another reported their unsuccessful attempts to save lives and the steadily increasing number of patient deaths. Their failures. It was as if a clock silently ticked away during the meeting. Many theories, hunches, and observations about the patients’ treatment were debated. One sick child had no fever but a cough. Treated with morphia, his condition slightly improved. Was this a possible solution? Yesterday a young woman’s prognosis seemed promising and it was hoped she’d be the first to survive the plague. But a few hours later she was dead. Scores of new patients were admitted every day but died so quickly that the numbers remained at the same level.

The Baron and Messonier greeted Mesny and Zabolotny, followed them into the conference room. We’re pallbearers, thought the Baron. Dr. Wu, Dr. Iasienski, and General Khorvat were already seated at the table.

Dr. Wu opened the meeting by focusing on what was known about the various stages of infection. “One of the unusual effects is that patients appear fairly healthy, with only a slightly elevated temperature and cough, until the rapid onset of catastrophic symptoms, quickly followed by death. We now can estimate the incubation period, the time between exposure to the bacilli and symptoms, at three to five days. Exposure could come from an infected person, animal, an object. A bite from an infected flea. A contaminated blanket or room. Nothing and no source can be ruled out at this point.”