Jody Shields - The Winter Station

The Baron ignored Chang’s comment, which was certainly not sincere. “When I was young, during svyatki , between Christmas and the end of the year, it was traditional to have your fortune told every day. To anticipate the new year.”

“The fortune-teller was kind to me,” Li Ju said, confidently adding, “She promised long life. I’m safe, so I can aid the sick.”

“Li Ju makes dozens of masks every day. She has a gift.” Her industry was a relief to the Baron.

“And a charmed life.” Messonier smiled.

“Some people have only dirty cloths to wear over their faces as protection. I’ve seen them on the street.”

Chang said he’d take a packet of Li Ju’s masks and hand them out to the distressed.

The Baron was always startled, momentarily, when he returned home from the hospital and Li Ju and the servants greeted him with bare faces. An uncovered face was as dangerous as a weapon. A loaded gun. Everyone sitting here at the table shared a risk. Was one of them an assassin who would innocently infect the others, take their lives? Even the simplest interactions and those who were dearly beloved were suspect. He panicked, gripped by an urgency to stop the process he sensed unfolding around him. He stood up, glanced wildly at the others. Concerned, Li Ju tugged at his sleeve to bring him back to the table and their circle. His hand swung his empty teacup.

His breathing returned to normal. “ Nazdorovie, to your health.” He would put aside his concerns for now.

The dwarf immediately spoke to cover the Baron’s odd behavior. “Yes, to everyone’s health. I crave the wait before tea is poured. The anticipation.” He shifted in his chair and described the three famous springs at Mount Huqiu: Sword Pond, Stone Well, and Tiger Running. “The water! Its clear brightness soothes the mind. Pure as a mirror. Like drinking a reflection. People make pilgrimages to drink tea made with the water. Perhaps we’ll drink there together one day.”

“I feast on your image of water.” Maria Lebedev smiled and Chang grinned back, pleased by her teasing. His dark head and her blond braids moved closer together, inclined at the same angle over the cups in their hands.

“I wonder what they speak about,” Messonier murmured to the Baron later when they were alone in the next room. “It’s agreeable to watch Maria and Chang in conversation.”

“You’re not jealous?”

Messonier turned and his blue eyes widened. “Oh no. That’s why I love her.” He looked away.

“What troubles you?”

“Nothing. Just fatigue.” He coughed.

The Baron studied his friend’s face. “Let’s sit down. Now tell me.”

“I have no peace. I’m devoured by my worry for Maria.”

She had agreed to monitor patients, mostly children, housed in a boys’ school and a theater. The buildings had been fitted with rough plank beds, and tea and rice were provided, but the heat and disinfecting systems were inadequate.

Messonier slumped and he spoke directly to the floor. “Maria could have worked in the hospital with me and I could protect her. But she’s in a primitive place that isn’t properly equipped. Not even a hospital. Why would a woman voluntarily make this choice? Why?” He looked up and his face was anguished. She’d recently grown into greater independence, a reluctance to compromise, and he knew better than to plead or argue with her. She had no wariness, no guard.

The Baron chose a practical answer. “Maria is a doctor. She’s careful. She knows all there is to know about disinfectants and sterile precautions.”

“I’m a doctor. I can’t live with this risk. With her risk. I want her to quit. Stay home. But she would leave me if I dared make that demand. Why can’t everything be controllable? Fit in the palm of my hand? And I have other concerns.”

The Baron understood he meant a possible pregnancy. Maria had quietly moved into Messonier’s house after the medical staff had been evicted from hotels in Kharbin. Relations outside of marriage were a sin and she could have been dismissed, but many behaviors were forgiven during the crisis. Messonier was shy about their situation and, to protect her good name, never discussed it with anyone except the Baron. “All doctors are at risk,” he said. “No need to remind you.”

“I obsess about my own health every day. Every hour I ask myself , Have I escaped infection? I would gladly trade my life for Maria’s if she was in danger. But how can I freely embrace her when she returns? Surely you fear carrying infection home to your innocent Li Ju?”

“The fear never leaves me.” It was impossible for the Baron to offer comfort. Optimism was false.

Messonier blinked and looked away. “And yet, I’m happy,” he whispered. “She embraces even my sorrow. Here.” A small box in his hand. Inside, a gold ring. “It belonged to my mother. It was shipped here from Paris, sealed in a book. For Maria.”

The Baron smiled and touched his friend’s shoulder. The contact brought a whiff of formalin.

“I wait for the right moment and place to propose. A romantic location. Not the hospital. The restaurants and public spaces are too dangerous. But Father Orchinkin promised the first wedding at St. Nikolas will be ours. Once this crisis passes. As surely it will.”

“Bless thee and Maria.”

Xiansheng announced that the day’s lesson would begin with ink. The character for ink was written with tu, meaning “earth,” and hei, “black.” The Baron ground the ink stick with water on the inkstone, leaning close to examine the lustrous black liquid, willing himself to focus on this task at his desk.

Xiansheng had another instruction. “Hold the ink stick to your nose.”

“Pine. Why, it has an odor of pine.” The Baron had never noticed.

“Ink has been made from the same materials for hundreds of years. A hole is carved into the base of a pine tree. A small lamp is fit inside. The heat of the lamp encourages the resin to flow from the tree. After the resin has been drained, the tree is cut down and burned for several days in a kiln. The black soot is scraped from the kiln walls and mixed with glue made from animal hide or fish skin to make the ink. The different qualities of ink depend on the type of pine or fir that was burned. A skilled eye can distinguish between them. The finest ink is dongquan , made with dark amber-colored glue, molded into sticks, and elaborately carved. Rich men hoard these ink sticks like jade and never use them.”

“I know the words for pine-soot ink. Songyan mo ,” said the Baron.

Xiansheng had gradually introduced the different brushstrokes used in calligraphy so as not to overwhelm his student. Always hold the brush vertically. Stroke it left to right, top to bottom. “Master calligraphists have described the three characteristic brushstrokes for calligraphy and painting. Long strokes are bones, muscles the short strokes, flesh forms the connecting strokes.”

The Baron learned by copying, tracing the characters faintly visible on a second paper underneath the top sheet. He touched the brush to the ink. Every muscle in his back held him tense as he worked the brush. His fingers strained and tightened. He criticized himself. Frustrated and angry, he set the brush down.

Teacher offered little comfort when his student struggled but he acknowledged his decision to stop with a nod of approval. He waited in silence until he had the Baron’s full attention. “There are beautiful ways to describe the act of writing,” he said. “Li Ssu, a master who created a style of calligraphy, wrote, ‘When you swing the strokes outward it is as if the clouds were rising from behind the mountain.’” After a moment, he recited another quote. “‘A vertical stroke should resemble the stem of a dried vine myriad years old. A horizontal brushstroke should resemble a cloud a thousand miles long.’”