Jody Shields: The Winter Station

Did Andreev enjoy women? Did he have a lover? The first time the Baron had introduced Li Ju to Andreev, he’d noticed the other man’s calculated gaze. Was it envy, sympathy, measured judgment? If it was criticism, perhaps it was directed at him. He couldn’t interpret his reaction. Maybe Andreev sensed the Baron’s loneliness, his hunger for approval, for dismissing authority.

Although he called Andreev a friend, he had no idea where he lived. Messages for him were left at a restaurant on Novotorgovaya Street near the French embassy. He fully expected that Andreev would simply disappear one day. Their friendship had its risks, and the Baron was careful not to reveal gossip or details about his patients. It was useful for Andreev—and others who might pay for this information—to know who among the Kharbin elite was in frail health or troubled by sleeplessness, pregnancy, melancholy, violence.

He scrutinized Andreev’s face to see how far he dared to proceed. “Did someone give you new information about the bodies at Central Station?”

Andreev was coldly dignified. “No. Who would be interested?”

“You tell me.”

“No one. Russian officials don’t care about dead Chinese. The crime is too small.”

“Not for the dead men’s families.” He’d blundered. Perhaps it had been a mistake to be so straightforward.

“You waste your time with the dead.” Andreev idly pulled apart a piece of bread on his plate. “I only deal with the living. And what they need. And sometimes what can damage them. Baron, I consider myself your brother, but you’d aid a poor serf with a cold nose. That’s your character.”

The Baron stiffened at his words but then slapped his hands together. “Agreed. I’m a lover of strays.” He no longer cared if Andreev knew that officials had withheld information from him. “I need to know where they took the bodies from the train station. I want an address and the name of the official who gave the order. That’s all.”

While the Baron was speaking, Andreev studied his glass without drinking, his eyes in a haze of calculation. He lazily waved for the waiter to return with the bottle.

“It’s only information. Facts. It will be worth your time.” The Baron slid around, imposed another angle, hoping Andreev would be receptive. “I’m interested in preventing a future crisis with the Chinese.”

Andreev chewed a bit of bread. “I see why you pursue this. You want to find who in the chain plotted against you.” He didn’t expect an answer and checked his pocket watch. Chang Huai was over an hour late.

The dwarf finally made his way through the shadowy room, his top hat a sharp black edge moving just above the sea of white tablecloths. He was greeted affectionately by other patrons, some making a show of leaning over to pat him on the back or shoulder. A soldier playfully grabbed his queue and Chang spun around with a shout. The room fell silent and the startled soldier stepped back from the dwarf’s fury.

As Chang reached their table, the waiter hurried over to install a thick cushion on his chair. The Baron had resisted the impulse to assist Chang, but he nimbly vaulted up into the chair at the table. Fully extended, his legs reached just over the edge of the seat, and his face was level with the two men’s. The Baron was surprised that this made him slightly uncomfortable.

Andreev smiled. “You must know Chang Huai. The doorman at Churin’s department store. One of our most recognized citizens. Everyone’s eyes are always on him.”

“Yes, everyone knows me. I have gold buttons on my uniform. A black hat. You’re handsome, Andreev, but no one notices you wrapped in that shabby sheepskin jacket.”

“Chang knows every elegant woman in the city by name.”

“I open the door for the ladies with their furs. They have many pet names for me. Ninochka.”

The Baron no longer noticed the man’s diminutive stature, as his exuberance made him almost handsome.

The waiter, a Russian in a red vest, brought bitki and thick caviar sandwiches on a tray. He returned with small glasses, bottles of clear and colored vodka, Nega and Bogatyr, both distilled in Kharbin. The Baron raised his eyebrows at Chang.

“Beluga caviar. Malossol grade. I have an account here. For Churin’s best customers.” The dwarf smirked and poured rubinovaya vodka, slightly astringent with a brilliant orange tint from mountain ash berries. Pertsovka, vodka with pepper, was his choice.

Their first glasses of vodka were finished in a single swallow. The dwarf’s face instantly flushed.

“You’re a useful friend,” Andreev said to Chang.

“I am. At times.” Chang rested both elbows on the table. “I am practically king of Kharbin, ranked just below our beloved General Khorvat. I see and hear everything.” He turned to the Baron. “Your wife is Chinese?”

The Baron nodded. “We’ve been together seven years.”

“You’re married?”

“We had a Buddhist ceremony. I asked the czar for permission to wed. He refused unless Li Ju converted to the Russian Orthodox Church.” Then, because he was slightly drunk, he added, “She’s never forgiven me, although it’s not my fault. My family—my brother—doesn’t know we’re married.” He was embarrassed, as he’d never confided this to Andreev. But because Chang had the aura of an outsider, a charmed figure, he’d spoken quickly, without hesitation.

Chang puzzled over this information until Andreev explained that Baron Rozher Alexandrovich von Budberg was a hereditary aristocrat from St. Petersburg, a diplomat’s son. Aristocrats must have permission from the czar to wed outside the faith.

The Baron quickly retreated from this description. “First, by my own choice, I am a doctor, head of Kharbin’s hospital. I served as a medic in the imperial army during the war with Japan. I remember when Kharbin was nothing but a group of tents on the Manchurian plain. There were no women or children.”

“Flies and sand?” Chang encouraged him.

“Yes. Every single summer day, the wind blew fine sand under my collar, in my pockets, even into my socks. There was no escape, even inside the tents. The place was a wilderness. A homesick soldier once told me the flat landscape here was a prison. No matter where you looked, the view was always the same. I knew the man spoke truth.” The memory of these early days always came back to him with the heavy animal scent of the pony-skin blankets he pulled over himself at night. He bit into a sandwich, the caviar familiar, thick and salty on the tongue. “Now the streets have cobblestones and they say forty-two languages are spoken here.”

“You’ve had a curious career for an aristocrat.”

Andreev silently shook his head, surprisingly protective, but the Baron answered. “In my way, I try to ease suffering. I treated Chinese and Russian laborers who’d been injured setting track across Manchuria for the Chinese Eastern Railway. They had broken bones, diphtheria, whooping cough, pneumonia and frostbite in winter. On payday, when they drank, there were wounds from swords, pistols, and bamboo canes.”

Chang’s arms swept out as if to embrace him. “A rare Russian. Generous to the world.” He loved to talk and it was difficult to interrupt him. “There’s never been a city like Kharbin. You know how the Chinese describe Kharbin? The ‘pearl on the swan’s neck.’ Heilongjiang Province is shaped like a swan and Kharbin is a pearl on the curved Sungari River. What poetry for our beloved grimy city, home to gamblers, criminals, and exiles.”

“That explains why everyone is so happy here.”

Chang laughed and poured more vodka for himself. “The Chinese are here to make money and leave.”