The teapot was a warm globe in his hands, and, eyes closed, the Baron inhaled the aroma of the slightly damp tea inside. The scent possessed the steady clean familiarity of straw, leaves, dirt—rounded, comforting yet strange.
Li Ju was next. She tilted the dark pot up to her white face, inhaled, slowly exhaled. “It’s earth.” Her eyes met her husband’s over the teapot. “I’m in a field with my cheek to the ground. It’s an autumn afternoon.” She blushed.
Chang’s solemn nod was her reward.
Hot water was again added to the pot, cleaning the tea leaves and removing impurities. Chang immediately decanted the water into the five cylindrical cups, about two inches high, arranged in a circle. They watched him track the time and in exactly half a minute, the water in the cups was discarded into the bowl. “Now the cups are warmed.” He rubbed his palms together. “Such work for my clumsy fingers.” This was an exaggeration, as the dwarf’s hands were completely steady.
They praised Chang but he gestured away their words. “The tea isn’t boiled. Unlike tea from your primitive Russian samovar, made like soup.”
The Baron laughed. “Friend, if you celebrate Christmas as our guest, I promise you an exquisite Russian feast. I set a fine table. We break our six-week fast on Christmas Eve with fellowship and delicacies.”
Chang nodded briefly and added the final infusion of hot water into the pot to steep the tea leaves. After a few minutes, he poured the finished tea with a single circular, fluid motion into the five warm cups. The tea was then transferred from the smaller cups to the five reserved larger drinking cups. “This part of the ceremony is called ‘Guan Gong inspecting the city,’ as each cup is equal and each guest has equal respect. Pick up the first warm cups, the empty ones, and sniff them. Quickly, quickly, or the scent is lost.”
Maria laughed, delighted by this unusual request and reverently held the cup to her freckled nose as if taking communion. A soft breath. She blinked. “Ah. A hollow that is empty, yet filled.”
“A paradox in a cup,” said Messonier. “Thank you, Chang.”
They sat together in momentary silence. The Baron watched Li Ju put their comments into order for herself.
Chang was beatific. “The tea fragrance in the empty cups is called cold aroma, the essence of tea after it’s swallowed and floats into the nose and throat. Now hold your cup of tea. Inhale. Wait thirty seconds. Inhale again. Wait one minute. Inhale a third time. Each inhalation will be different. Like the changing of clouds. Sharing the many essences of tea is called ‘Han Xin mustering the troops.’”
They held the teacups, heated to the comfort of skin temperature, ready to drink, but Chang was in no hurry to release them.
His voice softened. “Before you drink, observe the color of the tea. Swallow it slowly. Delicately. Notice how the flavor changes in different areas of the mouth. Notice the encounter.”
Scented warmth filled the Baron’s nose, sinuses, wisped into the spaces under his cheekbones, mouth, throat. His thoughts slowed; his hand unclenched in his lap. The measure of his delight surprised him. He felt light-headed. He looked at Li Ju.
“How beautiful,” she said, returning his gaze.
The tea drinkers had been altered; their expressions were tranquil, sleepy. Chang pinched the used wet tea leaves with wooden tongs and removed them from the bottom of the pot. The tea utensils were wiped clean with a cloth and he sat back in his chair, finally relaxed. “The tea ceremony is a ritual of observation and pleasure.” He closed his eyes. “I don’t have a poet’s gift but I have memorized a poet’s words.” He recited for them:
After a moment, the Baron left the room and returned with a small bundle wrapped in blue cloth for Chang. “Here. Everything you need to survive.”
The bundle contained green carbolic soap, formalin liquid, gauze, rubber gloves, and a dozen masks. A letter on official hospital stationery, with the Baron’s signature, guaranteed the bearer of the letter safe passage from Kharbin.
“You can sell the letter if you don’t need to use it.”
That night, he made a confession to Li Ju. “I should leave home, avoid you. I may bring the sickness here. There’s no way to tell if I’m infected until it’s too late.”
She held his gaze. “Never. We would become sick together.”
But she was young and he would never hold her to this statement, made from ignorance and love.
Someone running in the hospital corridor. The Baron quickly stepped out of his office, nearly colliding with Maria Lebedev, who was out of breath, coat hanging from her shoulders.
“Mesny’s ill. The Metropole Hotel. I have his injection.”
“Where’s Messonier?”
“I don’t know.” She fumbled an arm into the coat, her fine hair loosened from its braid, falling over her face. “Zabolotny’s waiting downstairs.” She left him, half-stumbled down the corridor.
“I’ll go to St. Nikolas. God be with you.” He backed into his office, hastily threw masks and rubber gloves into a satchel, pulled his sheepskin coat from the peg.
When he reached the main doors, Maria’s droshky was already rounding away down the hospital drive. He flagged another vehicle and the driver waited outside St. Nikolas while he raced through the church to find elderly archpriest Father Simeon Orchinkin.
In the droshky, both men were silent, the wind and rattling of wheels canceling conversation. The world had condensed around them. He visualized Mesny ill in a hotel room like a miniature in the glass globe of a paperweight.
In the Metropole Hotel, the Baron helped Father Orchinkin navigate the lobby, moving so slowly that snow had puddled off their coats and boots by the time they stood in front of the sullen desk clerk.
“Third floor.” The desk clerk pointed at the staircase, guessing their mission. The hotel had few visitors.
Outside Mesny’s room, the Baron handed Father Orchinkin a narrow strip of white cotton fabric. Puzzled, the priest held the limp cloth until the Baron fastened a strip across his own face.
“It’s a mask. You must wear it.”
Orchinkin frowned. “No, no. I won’t hide myself. I must be able to pray.”
“Father, without a mask, you could become infected by Mesny. You’ll infect everyone in the blessed church of St. Nikolas the Wonder-Worker. You must believe me.”
The priest grudgingly allowed the Baron to fit a mask on him, and they entered Mesny’s room still wearing their coats.
“Welcome.” Mesny’s voice was a soft liquid croak. He was propped up on pillows, and at first glance it appeared his skin had absorbed color from the blanket on the bed, as his lips were faintly blue and face darkened from cyanosis.
Maria Lebedev stood at the bedside next to Zabolotny, holding up a hypodermic. “He’s ready for a second dose of morphine.”
The Baron strode across the room and jerked Maria away from the bed. Without protest, she waited while he rummaged in his satchel to locate a pair of gloves. She silently extended her arms and he worked the gloves over her fingers like a limp, black second skin. Finished, he softly gripped her hand for a moment. She blinked, her eyes tired behind the coarse holes in the white fabric mask.
Zabolotny hovered over Mesny with a thermometer, but Maria quickly waved it away. “I’ll give you morphine now to ease your symptoms.”
“Morphine? Where’s the plague serum?” Mesny whispered.
She gently pulled Mesny’s nightshirt up, swabbed his stomach with a cotton pad, pinched a fold of skin, and slid in the hypodermic needle. Mesny groaned and slowly grew calm, passing into sleep. She stroked a strand of damp hair off his forehead.