Jody Shields - The Winter Station

Dr. Wu, barely thirty years old, in a position of high authority, never praised his staff’s valuable work and sacrifice or relieved the ache of their isolation. It was not his nature.

The doctors distracted themselves, passing around a new crime book by Dr. Edmond Locard, a renowned French police investigator. Locard’s philosophy of investigation was every contact leaves a trace. Unconsciously, they followed his rule and avoided speaking the word plague out loud, as if it would leave a fatal trace on the tongue. They were all stalked by the same predator. “It is a bacillus,” they whispered.

The Baron, Li Ju, and Chang traveled by train to Kirin for Dr. Wang Xiang’an’s kaitiao , to pay their respects to the dead. On the long drive from the station through town, the Baron noticed the depth of snow in the streets surpassed even that in Kharbin. Then perhaps he dozed off, as the vehicle stopped and he was startled by a tall red pole in the snow, like sinister punctuation, outside the gate of Wang Xiang’an’s family’s house.

“What does it mean, that pole? Is it a warning?” he asked Chang.

“When a man dies, a red pole is placed at the left side of the gate. For a woman’s death, it’s on the opposite side.”

Chang’s explanation—symbolic order—didn’t soothe his unease. Red represented an alarm. He reached for Li Ju’s hand, immobile in her lambskin mitten.

They walked through the great entrance gates, solemnly opened by servants pulling on white cloth sashes attached to the latches. They followed another servant through a large courtyard paved with smooth stones that narrowed into a covered corridor. Servants dressed entirely in white, the color of mourning, crashed cymbals, drums, and gongs along the temporary walkway as they passed into a large inner courtyard and entered the house. Two large paper lanterns, painted with the family’s name, guarded the door of the room where the coffin reposed. There was a strong odor of incense.

Wang Xiang’an’s elderly father, his hair disheveled, barefoot in rough white clothing, stood next to the coffin, which rested on a draped bier in the center of the room. He was surrounded by mourners. A lama and Taoist and Buddhist priests loudly prayed and chanted at altars against the wall. None of them interrupted their ritual to stare at the three strangers.

Wang Xiang’an’s father bowed once after each guest’s three low bows to him. The Baron murmured the customary Chinese expressions of mourning and scanned the man’s face for signs of blame or anger but found none. He bowed three times.

The Baron was relieved the coffin was sealed, as he was concerned about the possible spread of infection. He crossed himself. Chang had explained that Dr. Wang Xiang’an would be buried in his best robes; a fan, handkerchief, and willow twig to brush away angry demons would have been placed in his hands. Dr. Wang’s body was never left alone. At night, the family took turns sleeping behind a black curtain near his coffin at the end of the room. Later, the coffin would be moved to a small separate building until it could be properly interred.

After forty-nine days of mourning, there would be a formal funeral procession with a long line of mourners, musicians, and priests, white lanterns on poles, banners, and servants carrying small painted pavilions containing incense and food. A tablet would be erected at the ancestral grave after burial.

The dwarf handed gifts to the servants, who added them to the table where paper replicas of houses, automobiles, horses, food, dishes, gold and silver ingots, clothing, and fancy umbrellas were displayed. After they were ceremoniously burned, each item crossed from smoke into the next world to serve and give comfort to the deceased doctor.

The train returned to Kharbin with only minor delays.

Outside the station, a man approached, and the Baron waved, thinking he was a droshky driver. But as he moved closer, the stranger walked stiffly, rocking back and forth as if his knees wouldn’t bend. The man fell forward onto the pavement. Li Ju stepped toward him but the Baron stopped her.

“Stay away.”

Chang hurried in the other direction, frantically looking for a droshky in front of the station. From the corner of his eye, the Baron saw a second still figure sprawled in the snow. If he turned the two men over to check their vital signs, there was certain to be evidence of blood. He had no protection. A small black object rapidly moved toward them, rolling end over end through the snow. With a cry, Li Ju jumped aside as the man’s fur hat blew past.

An ungainly wagon emerged from the fuzz of snow thickening the air. The plague wagon appeared to have been built upside down, as the large slatted cage in back made the vehicle top-heavy and hard to maneuver. Two soldiers, identical in white clothing, leaped down from the wagon and cautiously approached the man sprawled on the pavement. The soldier with a bayonet prodded him with a foot. He didn’t move. They dragged him around the side of the vehicle and roughly threw him in the cage on the back of the plague wagon.

A droshky pulled up. Chang was inside, frantically gesturing to them. The Baron felt Li Ju help him lift one leg then the other leg into the droshky, and he fell heavily onto a seat. The vehicle jerked forward. They nestled together under an immense bearskin rug, Li Ju warm against the length of his body. In the uneven light from the driver’s lantern, her face was a white circle, and the points of the coarse fur were jagged as grass.

“No one is safe on the street.” He gripped her hand. “The plague-wagon men could have seized us. This was a warning. If anyone tries to arrest you, give them my name. Or General Khorvat’s. Or Dr. Wu’s. Never leave the house alone. Will you promise? Will you remember?”

The names were her catechism. Her lips silently repeated the charmed words.

“You must always dress well. Wear your best fur coat. The cape from Scotland. Your gold earrings.”

“How will this protect me?”

“They won’t arrest the rich. They believe only the poor have plague. Only the poor are helpless and disappear. Chang, you must also remember these names if you’re threatened. They’re your passport. Understand?”

“Yes, Baron, but not everyone listens to a Chinese. I might as well say I’m a friend of the czar.”

The Baron didn’t answer. He had nothing else to offer.

At home, he and Li Ju were surprised to discover Andreev slumped in a chair by the stove. His lank hair covered one eye and he was unshaven. “Good evening, Baron.”

“You’re never idle. Unusual to find you relaxing here.”

“This is a commercial venture. Although the warmth was worth the wait.” He grinned, pulled his hair behind his ears.

Li Ju disappeared into another room, as Andreev wasn’t a favored guest. But the Baron welcomed him as a distraction after the day’s events. There was always a sense of circling with Andreev, as he positioned himself as the bestower of information and favors. The Baron raised his voice, asked the servants to bring vodka. “So you’re delivering a commercial proposal?”

“I’ve come to the aid of your cook. First, I urge you to order extra caviar, smoked sturgeon, and eel. They keep indefinitely in storage, as we know from our sainted Russian mothers.”

“Please continue, Andreev.” There was pleasure in recollecting food shared at the family table.

The servant brought vodka and two glasses on a tray.

“Also order pickled beets, mushrooms, and cabbage. Hard cheese. Horseflesh. Dried apples, berries, peaches, apricots.”

“I understand vodka never spoils. Is there a reason to hoard anything else?”

Andreev raised his glass to the Baron. “Many reasons. I’m a fortune-teller. I predict opportunity. It’s as clear to me as a sunrise or a cheating heart.”