The Winter Station

by Jody Shields

  It was unusual for a Chinese woman and a Russian man to be seen together, and they were constantly followed by stares, evaluating eyes. If Li Ju noticed, she said nothing. She welcomed encounters with the world.

  Otherwise, the Baronin usually remained at home. She was always waiting. But the situation was familiar after her cloistered life at the orphanage. It was in the Chinese tradition, he told himself. She had little experience of choice, after all.

  The Baron was a rarity—a Chinese-speaking Russian—and he practiced his Chinese-language skills in the Fuchiatien market, taller than the crowd around him. In fine weather, his Russian uniform of stiff broadcloth was exchanged for a traditional Manchu jacket, the chang pao, and trousers in plum gray or dull blue, the colors worn by older adults. At first, the foreign garments made him uneasy. He was unaccustomed to their logic—loose-fitting with four slits—and had the sensation that he was swimming in cloth. He felt unprotected without the wool swaddling of his uniform, the tight grip of belts and metal buttons.

  Many Chinese believed he was a spy. He listened carefully, translating words overheard on the street, negotiating small transactions, the purchase of sweet rice or plums, surprising the merchants. Gradually, he was able to distinguish even the peddlers’ voices from the clamor in the market. Their repetitive singing, shouts, and cries were punctuated with wooden clappers, whistles, jingling metal coins as they sold candied crab apples, congee, rice cakes, rolls of cloth, pewter pots, vegetables, blocks of rock salt. Hot tea was siphoned from a huge metal urn strapped to a vendor’s back. He surprised himself, hesitating for a moment before drinking hot liquid from the china cup shared by many mouths.

  He had witnessed the city and the railroad built at frantic speed by tens of thousands of Chinese workers. It was a city of men. The few women Kharbinskiis were either wives, servants, or prostitutes. It was unsafe for a Russian to walk without a weapon and a bodyguard in certain neighborhoods, among the opium addicts, drunks, beggar children, Bolshevists, anarchists, army deserters, smugglers, black marketeers. At dawn in the Pristan district, gamblers drunk on champagne stumbled from the Folies Bergère into the street, jostling and insulting the Chinese on their way to work on the tracks. The Chinese would never dare to harm the Russians, not here, not at this moment, when tardiness could cost a man his job.

  The first year he’d settled in Kharbin, the Baron had stepped off the Sungari River ferry and noticed a man dragging two forlorn little girls. He thought perhaps the children had been sick during the voyage and observed them until the man came over and offered to sell him the girls, together, five rubles for an hour. Before he could answer, the man reacted to the look on his face and pulled the girls into the crowd. The Baron madly shoved people aside racing after them, but slow-moving porters blocked his way. He lost sight of them. His failure to save the two little children haunted him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The map of Kharbin in winter was radically different than during the rest of the year. Snow reorganized the city and entire areas vanished under thick snow, lost to observation. Streets were erased, buildings isolated, bridges cut off, landmarks unrecognizable. The snow smoothed over cinders spewed from passing trains, deposits fine as black lace along the tracks.

  The flour mills, tanneries, distilleries, and warehouses near the wharves, desolate stretches of tracks, depots and signal stations, the deep ravine between Pristan and Fuchiatien, land around the barracks in old Pristan and the three cemeteries remained covered by snow, layer upon layer, until warm weather in May. Anything could be hidden in these places. Weapons. A body.

  * * *

  General Dmitry Khorvat squinted across the table at the Baron. The two men were working together in Khorvat’s dining room, sharing small plates of appetizers: pâté, several kinds of pickled mushrooms, and vegetables. Even in his own home, the general remained in uniform. His white beard, soft as a woman’s veil, almost hid the rows of military medals on his chest.

  “How is your palace in Crimea?” The Baron knew the question would please the general, as it invited discussion of his wife and villa. A notorious miser, Khorvat sent all his money to Crimea, where an enormous home had been under construction for years in preparation for his retirement. The general shyly unfolded a small piece of white silk, and withered red petals showered over the papers on the table. The Baron smiled at dour Khorvat’s whimsy.

  “My wife likes deeply colored flowers. The bougainvillea will have grown well over the walls by the time I quit Kharbin for Crimea. There’s a view of the sea from the terrace of our villa.”

  “Imagine the breeze.”

  “Crimea has everything that this place lacks. Sun and civilization.”

  In Kharbin, Khorvat lived in the Novy Gorod district near the foreign consulates and the offices of the Ford Motor Company, International Harvester, Skoda Industries. A wealthy man, Khorvat insulated himself against the vast emptiness of Manchuria by crowding his home with carved furniture, velvet curtains, carpets from Belgium, Venetian crystal chandeliers and mirrors, soap and stationery from London, silver platters, porcelain bibelots.

  He was a benevolent dictator, the supreme authority in Kharbin, head of the Chinese Eastern Railway (known as the CER), which, in spite of its name, was owned and operated solely by the Russian government. Khorvat also controlled the police, courts, civil and municipal services, foreign relations, mines, timber concessions, the wharves, shipping, banks, tariffs, Russian newspapers, schools and nurseries, hospitals, churches, synagogues, and mosques. He could stop the newspapers, stop the trains, reroute a ship, imprison or exile anyone without cause. When it was to his advantage, Khorvat ignored orders from St. Petersburg or claimed they’d never arrived. This was typically forgiven, as communication was erratic, mail delivery took months, and telegraph poles were frequently torn down and burned by Chinese, enraged by Russia’s intrusive equipment on virgin grasslands.

  The Baron routinely spent hours with Khorvat, translating documents from German, French, and Chinese into Russian. His knowledge of Chinese was viewed as eccentric but indispensable; no Russian officials were fluent in Chinese, as it was not considered necessary. This access allowed the Baron to witness the secret workings of empire, the skeins of loyalty and relationships, the maneuverings for favor, and assured his position with Khorvat, who could change a life with a nod or his signature on a paper.

  This afternoon, while the Baron translated out loud, Khorvat’s eyes were on his face, watching his expression as if to catch him in a deceit, a misinterpretation, a skipped sentence. In Khorvat’s office, the Baron was occasionally forced to stand and silently wait in front of the general’s desk while he arrogantly thumbed through papers. This breach of etiquette to a member of the aristocracy would never had been tolerated in St. Petersburg. Duels had been fought for lesser insults.

  When Khorvat announced all the Chinese correspondence was now finished, the Baron was intoxicated with relief, released from the strain of translation. His shoulders sagged with stress.

  Khorvat produced a small bottle, and two tiny glasses appeared next to it. The flourish of Khorvat’s sleeve scattered the flower petals so that the Baron, in his fatigue, had the impression there had been a sleight-of-hand trick. The open bottle of beryozovitsa, a liqueur made from birch-tree sap, released a fresh resin scent.

  “Springtime, eh? Makes one homesick.”

  “I do miss the seasons in St. Petersburg. Winter was more gentle there,” the Baron said. “And the northern lights. I was fortunate to see the great aurora in 1870. There was a glowing line all along the canals where the lights were reflected on the ice.”

  “Lights on the ice? Food is the only thing about St. Petersburg worth discussing. Blinis and butter during Maslenitsa before Lent. I’d eat dozens in one sitting. The butter here isn’t the same, although they claim it’s imported. I should have someone check on it.”

  “In Beijing the food is truly excellent. If you have a good guide in the markets.” The Baron i
mmediately regretted his words.

  “I cannot recognize most of what the Chinese cook. And I cannot eat rice.” Khorvat changed the subject, describing certain shops in Beijing where passable copies of French furniture and German cameras could be purchased if you had currency the proprietor accepted.

  From experience, the Baron anticipated Khorvat would begin a lengthy tirade about smugglers and Hutzul bandits who preyed on travelers outside the city. He pulled a Khorvatovki paper ruble from his pocket. The bills were printed with a red train, issued under Khorvat’s order, bore his name, and were legal tender along with other currencies, the diao, traditional Chinese copper coins and ingots. Chinese workers refused the Khorvatovki rubles, insisted on payment in Mexican silver pesos, which were imported by the ton.

  “I’ve always wondered why our Khorvatovki paper money doesn’t have the czar’s face.”

  “If you asked the archimandrite of the holy Russian church, he would say the czar, our Little Father, should not be associated with Kharbin, an ungovernable place of sin, a zaraznaya yama, an infectious pit.” The usual sentence of allegiance. He made a dismissive gesture. “I decided no artist here had the skill to engrave our Little Father’s portrait for the printer. So our money bears a locomotive because Kharbin was born of the railroad.”

  “A noble gesture. But some joke that dice, cards, and opium pipes should be on the ruble. Representing the infamous side of our city.”

  Khorvat shook his head. Not a smile on this subject.

  The Baron calculated whether Khorvat was drunk enough for him to risk a blunter question. “A man was found lying in the snow by Churin’s store. Unidentified. Presumed dead. Two other men were found dead at Central Station. Apparently they didn’t die natural deaths.”

  Khorvat mimed a look of astonishment. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “I was hoping you’d have an official answer.”

  “Blame a depraved anarchist. A Bolshevik revolutionary.”

  “At least one of the dead men was Chinese. A Bolshevik wouldn’t kill a Chinese. They hate Russian officials and aristocrats.”

  “Perhaps it was a duel. A Chinese feud.”

  The Baron persisted. “A killing on the city’s richest street?”

  “The bottle, please.”

  “General, I don’t know who’s guilty. I cannot even guess at a suspect. But strangely, all the dead disappeared. No bodies were received at the Russian hospital. No death certificates were filed, since I was never notified. My wife spoke to the abbot at the Buddhist temple. He confirmed there had been no recent funerals.”

  “Perhaps the dead Chinese had converted to Christianity? God rest their souls.”

  “There were no funerals for any Chinese at St. Sophia or St. Nikolas Cathedral. Or at Dormition of the Theotokos. No burial services at Uspenski or the Jewish cemetery. Or the mosque in Pristan. No coffins were received at the CER shipping facility. And we know Kharbin has no morgue.” He flushed at his audacity.

  Khorvat’s eyes, the opaque blue of enamel in an icon, slowly focused. “Perhaps the bodies are a plot to upset the situation here. The Chinese and Japanese want to drive us from Manchuria. We’re outnumbered. You remember the riots a few years ago? Chinese workers found bones near the tracks and claimed the Russians had made a human sacrifice. Merciful God, they believe no act is too barbaric for Russians. Dr. Nikolaeva dissected a huge bear carcass in front of an angry crowd just to prove the bones were animal bones. His hands shook as he held up the bear’s bloody leg bone next to the dirty bone they’d found. Identical. Bone to bone. The public dissection was necessary to prevent a riot.”

  “Autopsies aren’t for the fragile.” The Baron sipped at his glass of beryozovitsa, allowing its thickness to coat his teeth and tongue. It calmed him. “I wasn’t informed about the dead men. If someone is trying to discredit me as chief medical officer, I want to be prepared to defend myself. I’ve served you and the czar honorably.” He was sweating in his wool jacket and pulled at his collar. “The Chinese believe that a body left at a building puts a curse on it. Central Station. Churin’s store.”

  “You’ve told me nothing that I don’t know.” Khorvat’s patience had thinned. “You weren’t consulted about the deaths because they didn’t seem important. No slight to your professionalism. But it’s better to avoid these conflicts. Don’t make your sympathies too obvious. I remember your struggle with your young wife and the church authorities. A man must guard his reputation. Even in this place.”

  The Baron nodded to show that he understood.

  Khorvat folded his hands atop the table and met the Baron’s eyes, a sign of greater-than-usual engagement. “Now. There’s been another unexplained death. A merchant.”

  “Russian?”

  Only the unexplained death of a Russian would be investigated. “Dmitry Vasilevich. God rest his soul. A soybean dealer. He’d just returned on the train from Mukden or Kaiyuang. His daughter, Sonya, has made wild accusations about who is responsible for his death. Blames her stepmother. The man died suddenly, probably apoplexy or brain fever. You should confirm this.”

  “When did he die?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “And the body?”

  “At rest in St. Nikolas cemetery. You will interview Sonya Vasilevna.”

  “I understand.” The request was routine. He would create words to grace a paper and then seal them in a file.

  “Good. Your answer will greatly comfort the daughter. I’ve also ordered a search for Dmitry Vasilevich’s widow.”

  “Missing?”

  “Perhaps fled. You’re a doctor. Remember why I value your work. I don’t value you as a cataloger of the dead.” A flicker as their eyes measured each other.

  The Baron was relieved Khorvat hadn’t directly threatened him but only waved a flag of warning over the death of Dmitry Vasilevich. He rolled the bottom edge of his glass on the table, noiselessly crushing the scattered red petals against the white tablecloth.

  * * *

  The Baron had a calligraphy lesson each week with Zhang Boying, who had introduced himself as Xiansheng, Elder Born, a traditional title honoring his advanced enlightenment as an older gentleman and scholar. A reserved man, deliberate with his gestures, Xiansheng entered the Baron’s study with the gentle stir of his robes, always plum, indigo, or dove gray, the colors of the elderly. In warm weather, he wore slippers of woven grass, and boots of Russian leather were his only concession to the severe Manchurian cold. The lessons were a ritual of courtesy and reflection, preceded by an exchange of bows and tea drinking. After the lesson, the Baron presented a sealed envelope to his teacher with a bow, holding it in both hands. Money must never be visible.

  Before the calligraphy lesson, the Baron had accompanied Xiansheng to a stationery shop, a quiet space with walls of narrow shelves and an unidentifiable subtle odor, clean as water. The proprietor deftly slipped a piece of paper from a shelf, its flat surface reflecting light from the open door, a brief brightness that flashed like a wing in the room. They were shown papers flecked with mica, rose-pink and yellow-gold leaf, silk paper so fine that it became a transparent shadow when laid on the table. To gauge texture and strength, Xiansheng gently pressed his thumb against the papers, brushed them with careful fingertips and the side of his hand. It reminded the Baron of the way Chinese doctors used touch to diagnose a patient.

  For the first lesson, the Baron had been instructed to close his eyes and listen to his teacher demonstrate calligraphy using different brushes. “Do not listen with the ears but with the mind,” Xiansheng instructed, quoting a master. His brush moved in short sweeps, curves, straight lines, slashes, rough jagged shapes, dots. Each movement had an individual sound. One brush slightly resisted the paper, its bristles dry as whiskers, and another had a nearly silent silky glide. He was hypnotized by the soft rhythm of Xiansheng’s work, the suspense until the final stroke, a horizontal line drawn unhesitatingly from left to right. When he opened his eyes, the Baron was
astonished that the images on the paper did not match what he had blindly imagined.

  The Baron was given a three-layered wolf-fur brush to create small strokes and dots. His posture was corrected, and his neck muscles tightened with tension. His hand trembled. He could wield a scalpel with delicacy but the brush was a clumsy twig in his hand. He struggled, powerless to control his movement, to calm himself.

  Teacher told him to stop. “You must consider the brush in a different way. Release the brush.”

  “Put it down?”

  “No. Release the brush while you hold the brush.”

  The Baron was confused, uncertain if his teacher was joking or if he’d misunderstood. Xiansheng was implacable. He instructed the Baron to sit with the brush for half an hour. It took fifteen minutes for his anger to subside. His teacher then read one of the principles of calligraphy that had been set down in the seventh century by a master Taoist calligraphist, Yu Shi’nan: “‘If his mind is not tranquil, the writing will not be straight.’”

  Xiansheng’s expression was usually neutral, but occasionally the Baron caught a hint of the man’s approval. Or perhaps this was just what he craved. During a lesson, he learned the character ming, for “brilliance,” which merged the individual characters for sun and moon. Astonished by the beautiful simplicity of this word picture, he sought his teacher’s eyes, stricken by the realization that he would never master this language. At that moment, Xiansheng’s eyes shone with compassion.

  * * *

  News of Dmitry Vasilevich’s death had passed from person to person at St. Nikolas Cathedral, where he worshipped. An elderly church member had confided to the Baron that the man had been quickly buried with little ceremony. A Russian Orthodox funeral usually lasted several days, concluding with a feast and alms to the poor. Vasilevich was in his grave even before the notice was in the Kharbinskii Vestnik and Novoe Vremya newspapers.

  Dmitry Vasilevich had lived in a massive stone residence in Novy Gorod, the Russian quarter. The wealthy had segregated themselves here in newly built mansions of imported stone set in a naked landscape without trees or shrubs. Guards patrolled the area, searching every Chinese servant and tradesman with bags of produce for hidden weapons.