The Baron looked at Andreev. Two idiots. Risking themselves for what?
“They must be preparing to unload crates from the train by now.”
In the Baron’s mind, the dead Japanese woman had the peculiar frozen luminosity of a saint in distress, her hair loose and untidy, her soiled pink kimono pulled open roughly so that the men, the doctors, could access her heart and lungs. Her face serene above their cuts and knives.
He’d just confided this vision to Messonier. “She haunts me. I know the woman was already dead, but I pray that the men who cut her open laid a cloth over her eyes to hide their work. To be merciful.”
Across his cluttered office, Messonier waited for the kettle on the daisu to cool slightly. The warming teapot, filled with hot water, waited on the table behind him.
“Her body was cut up by a madman or a doctor,” the Baron said. “From the description, it sounds like an autopsy. An autopsy without consent is a violation. A sin.”
“An ugly incident. But who did the deed? And why?”
“The answer to why is that someone wanted to discover the cause of the woman’s death. Make a diagnosis. Who made the cuts on the body? Surely a doctor.” The Baron continued, his attention wandering from Messonier’s process of tea making. “I went to the inn at number five Koreyskaya Street, where her body was found. The place was disordered and I thought it was empty but a man attacked me. Nothing serious. I wasn’t harmed.” He grimaced. “But I noticed his face was unusually dark red and splotched. He was obviously ill.”
Messonier considered the Baron’s description. “Perhaps he was an opium addict?”
“No. That would have made him lethargic, not aggressive. And his skin color was symptomatic of something else.”
“Infection? Rash? Let me argue against you. Your attacker was drunk. Face flushed from alcohol.” Messonier filled two cups with pale golden tea.
“Perhaps. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I didn’t try to help him. I fled.”
“You acted from instinct. You’d certainly never avoid helping someone. It’s not your nature.”
“Thank you, Messonier. In truth, I was afraid of the man. We were alone in the inn. All I know is that these events seem to have no answers when closely examined.” His focus turned to the cup on the table. “By the way, the tea is very fine.”
Messonier brightened. “Luojie tea. Mountain-grown. Did you notice its faint grassy scent? The tea leaves are unusual, pale yellow with thick white veins.” He cradled the teacup in his hands. “By the way, Dr. Wu and a team of Chinese doctors, nurses, volunteers, and translators begin work at the hospital soon. Weather delayed some of their trains.”
“Khorvat won’t bow his knee to Chinese authorities. I know he wasn’t pleased to have their new Chinese medical staff installed in his territory.”
“The Chinese would never allow Russians to show them up. Dr. Wu has yet to put in an appearance but there are rumors he’s been granted a laboratory in the Chamber of Commerce building.”
“A bold choice.” The Baron was incredulous.
“Yes. A strange location for a laboratory to test something unknown and potentially contagious. They said Wu wanted privacy to work. And there were no vacant spaces at the hospital.”
“It’s a marvel.”
“Dr. Lebedev, one of the new doctors, is reluctant to discuss the situation. She claims the Russian doctors are in Kharbin only for training.” Messonier hesitated. “I don’t believe it. A great deal of money was spent transporting them here across Russia and Manchuria. They’re on leave from their own hospitals. It makes no sense.”
“Morning is wiser than evening, as they say.” The Baron finished his tea. “I heard the hospital just placed an order for quantities of disinfectant, carbolic acid, gauze, soap, and rubber gloves.”
“Curious. There’s no evidence of typhoid or cholera at this time of year.”
“Preparations for another Chinese rebellion? You’d think officials would notify us,” the Baron said.
“Andreev is your source?” He’d once delivered an order of scarce high-quality gut and surgical needles to Messonier. The doctor had spontaneously embraced Andreev, rejoicing that the supplies would save lives, but the man had recoiled from his gratitude.
The Baron’s expression confirmed this. “Officials have also ordered a shipment of barbed wire.”
Messonier stood blinking for a moment before taking a vodka bottle from the cabinet and pouring it into the empty teacups. Smorodinovka vodka, slightly bitter with black-currant leaves. “I need something stronger.” The drink marked a change in the conversation. He hunched over the table toward the Baron. “What could it mean? Barbed wire. Perhaps they anticipate an insurrection. A battle.”
“They use barbed wire to mark territory. To keep out or keep in citizens.”
“I predict they’re gathering supplies for a siege. Or war casualties. A mission is under way.” Messonier was glum. “Do you know if the barbed wire has been used in the city yet? Or anywhere?”
“No.” The vodka’s strong intensity of fruit on the tongue always surprised him.
“So we wait.”
“If it so pleases God. We’re here to be of service.”
“Yes, serving at risk.”
“I have a question.” The Baron had heard rumors about Messonier and, under the influence of vodka, wondered if he’d confirm them. “Do you share your prize teas with someone else?”
Messonier’s blush spread across his face and up into the roots of his pale hair. “Sometimes I share a cup with Dr. Lebedev. Dr. Maria Lebedev.”
“I wondered. I saw you with a woman on the third floor.”
“She speaks French like a native.” Blushing again at the Baron’s grin. “Studied in Switzerland.”
“How does one conduct a courtship in Manchuria?”
Messonier lost his reserve and became very animated. “We meet at the hospital canteen for lunch. And dinner whenever possible. Our schedules are difficult. I gave her a can of chestnut puree, the last of my gourmet hoard for the holiday. Dr. Lebedev is so gracious that she almost refused my gift. I had to insist.”
“Andreev can usually produce luxury goods. Gifts for fortunate ladies.”
Messonier smiled cryptically, nearly demure. “The only goods I dare order from Andreev are for emergencies.”
Vodka heightened the Baron’s enthusiasm for his friend’s tender new relationship. “It’s a blessing you met each other. A miracle in Manchuria. I also found my wife here.”
“We haven’t spoken of marriage.” Messonier’s face was not as severe as his words.
Later, the Baron puzzled over what he’d learned about changes at the hospital. Perhaps it was foolish to wait until Khorvat or the authorities spoon-fed them information. Perhaps by that time it would be too late for an individual to develop a strategy for survival or escape. He had only hearsay and rumor and guesswork. Who had laid a path of clues, mutilated a body, cultivated secrets? A system that was fully confident about its power.
The only tangible fact was that Messonier had fallen in love.
Calligraphy was a forest. No, a labyrinth of spikes where a man could be lost. A sanctuary of discipline. The soft slide of his brush on paper released the Baron’s anxiety. Each brushstroke demanded his focus and skill, but lack of control was evident at the feathery edges of characters where bristles separated, producing streaky ragged-textured lines known as “flying white.” At a certain angle, he could see his moving hand reflected in the shining wet black lines as if it were disconnected from his body. A black shadow on black.
“Move your brush without fear,” Xiansheng had instructed, quoting the master Li Ssu. “When you move the brush gradually toward the end of the stroke you will feel like a fish who enjoys swimming in the running stream.” The Baron blinked, shook his head, and took a deep breath, as if he were a diver going underwater.