Jody Shields - The Winter Station

Maria laughed, delighted by this unusual request and reverently held the cup to her freckled nose as if taking communion. A soft breath. She blinked. “Ah. A hollow that is empty, yet filled.”

“A paradox in a cup,” said Messonier. “Thank you, Chang.”

They sat together in momentary silence. The Baron watched Li Ju put their comments into order for herself.

Chang was beatific. “The tea fragrance in the empty cups is called cold aroma, the essence of tea after it’s swallowed and floats into the nose and throat. Now hold your cup of tea. Inhale. Wait thirty seconds. Inhale again. Wait one minute. Inhale a third time. Each inhalation will be different. Like the changing of clouds. Sharing the many essences of tea is called ‘Han Xin mustering the troops.’”

They held the teacups, heated to the comfort of skin temperature, ready to drink, but Chang was in no hurry to release them.

His voice softened. “Before you drink, observe the color of the tea. Swallow it slowly. Delicately. Notice how the flavor changes in different areas of the mouth. Notice the encounter.”

Scented warmth filled the Baron’s nose, sinuses, wisped into the spaces under his cheekbones, mouth, throat. His thoughts slowed; his hand unclenched in his lap. The measure of his delight surprised him. He felt light-headed. He looked at Li Ju.

“How beautiful,” she said, returning his gaze.

The tea drinkers had been altered; their expressions were tranquil, sleepy. Chang pinched the used wet tea leaves with wooden tongs and removed them from the bottom of the pot. The tea utensils were wiped clean with a cloth and he sat back in his chair, finally relaxed. “The tea ceremony is a ritual of observation and pleasure.” He closed his eyes. “I don’t have a poet’s gift but I have memorized a poet’s words.” He recited for them:

After a moment, the Baron left the room and returned with a small bundle wrapped in blue cloth for Chang. “Here. Everything you need to survive.”

The bundle contained green carbolic soap, formalin liquid, gauze, rubber gloves, and a dozen masks. A letter on official hospital stationery, with the Baron’s signature, guaranteed the bearer of the letter safe passage from Kharbin.

“You can sell the letter if you don’t need to use it.”

That night, he made a confession to Li Ju. “I should leave home, avoid you. I may bring the sickness here. There’s no way to tell if I’m infected until it’s too late.”

She held his gaze. “Never. We would become sick together.”

But she was young and he would never hold her to this statement, made from ignorance and love.

Someone running in the hospital corridor. The Baron quickly stepped out of his office, nearly colliding with Maria Lebedev, who was out of breath, coat hanging from her shoulders.

“Mesny’s ill. The Metropole Hotel. I have his injection.”

“Where’s Messonier?”

“I don’t know.” She fumbled an arm into the coat, her fine hair loosened from its braid, falling over her face. “Zabolotny’s waiting downstairs.” She left him, half-stumbled down the corridor.

“I’ll go to St. Nikolas. God be with you.” He backed into his office, hastily threw masks and rubber gloves into a satchel, pulled his sheepskin coat from the peg.

When he reached the main doors, Maria’s droshky was already rounding away down the hospital drive. He flagged another vehicle and the driver waited outside St. Nikolas while he raced through the church to find elderly archpriest Father Simeon Orchinkin.

In the droshky, both men were silent, the wind and rattling of wheels canceling conversation. The world had condensed around them. He visualized Mesny ill in a hotel room like a miniature in the glass globe of a paperweight.

In the Metropole Hotel, the Baron helped Father Orchinkin navigate the lobby, moving so slowly that snow had puddled off their coats and boots by the time they stood in front of the sullen desk clerk.

“Third floor.” The desk clerk pointed at the staircase, guessing their mission. The hotel had few visitors.

Outside Mesny’s room, the Baron handed Father Orchinkin a narrow strip of white cotton fabric. Puzzled, the priest held the limp cloth until the Baron fastened a strip across his own face.

“It’s a mask. You must wear it.”

Orchinkin frowned. “No, no. I won’t hide myself. I must be able to pray.”

“Father, without a mask, you could become infected by Mesny. You’ll infect everyone in the blessed church of St. Nikolas the Wonder-Worker. You must believe me.”

The priest grudgingly allowed the Baron to fit a mask on him, and they entered Mesny’s room still wearing their coats.

“Welcome.” Mesny’s voice was a soft liquid croak. He was propped up on pillows, and at first glance it appeared his skin had absorbed color from the blanket on the bed, as his lips were faintly blue and face darkened from cyanosis.

Maria Lebedev stood at the bedside next to Zabolotny, holding up a hypodermic. “He’s ready for a second dose of morphine.”

The Baron strode across the room and jerked Maria away from the bed. Without protest, she waited while he rummaged in his satchel to locate a pair of gloves. She silently extended her arms and he worked the gloves over her fingers like a limp, black second skin. Finished, he softly gripped her hand for a moment. She blinked, her eyes tired behind the coarse holes in the white fabric mask.

Zabolotny hovered over Mesny with a thermometer, but Maria quickly waved it away. “I’ll give you morphine now to ease your symptoms.”

“Morphine? Where’s the plague serum?” Mesny whispered.

She gently pulled Mesny’s nightshirt up, swabbed his stomach with a cotton pad, pinched a fold of skin, and slid in the hypodermic needle. Mesny groaned and slowly grew calm, passing into sleep. She stroked a strand of damp hair off his forehead.

Zabolotny indicated a second hypodermic on the bedside table. “Shouldn’t we try the serum?”

She held her finger to her lips. “Speak softly. Let’s wait. The morphine seems to have had an effect. Let him rest. He’s comfortable.”

Zabolotny lowered his voice. “The serum will save his life. I insist we use it.”

She shook her head and sat next to the bed. “It hasn’t been proven effective. It could worsen his symptoms. Wait a few minutes.”

“His condition is deteriorating. His temperature is elevated and his pulse is rapid. This is the perfect situation to test the serum.” Restless, Zabolotny dug into his medical bag. “I don’t agree with this waiting. It serves no purpose. Let the medicine do its work.” He addressed the Baron. “Should we try Haffkine’s treatment?”

“Let’s all be in agreement with each other. I’ll follow Dr. Lebedev’s decision.”

Maria Lebedev wrung a cloth in a pan of water and laid it on Mesny’s forehead to bring down his fever. “You’re not alone,” she murmured to him. She found Mesny’s hand under the blanket and held it.

The men carefully maneuvered chairs close to Mesny’s bed. A wisp of smoke as Father Orchinkin lit a candle and began to pray under his breath, a soothing repetitive murmur.

Mesny jolted awake, dazed, and flung Maria’s hand away. His coughs became deep and racking, jerking his shoulders forward. The pillows were speckled with his pink-tinged mucus.

Without changing expression or interrupting his stream of prayer, Father Orchinkin moved to avoid the spume of blood droplets coughed up by Mesny. Maria fumbled for the vial of morphine. The Baron and Zabolotny found towels and wiped blood from the bedclothes and furniture. Everyone was in motion as if evacuating a sinking ship. But in mask and gloves, they were blunted against the suffering patient, the sharp acid brilliance of his blood, its deadly slipperiness the thing they warily avoided.