The Baron recognized the shape of the thing that occupied the hospital ward, dulled the patients’ eyes, filled their lungs, stole their breath and substituted blood. He could smell it. Plague burned quickly through their bodies. Pain could be muted with morphine but there was nothing that halted the trajectory toward death.
He was suffused with tenderness for the afflicted. When he could steal a few minutes, he spoke calmly to those who could tolerate conversation, who were coherent. A few patients sat up in bed and spoke amiably or were even strangely exuberant. Others died in anger, revealing the chain of their illness, naming loved ones, friends, or acquaintances, recently deceased, who had infected them. Many victims died anonymously, refusing to reveal their identity or place of residence, fearing their families or co-workers would be hospitalized, their homes destroyed.
There was also a web of purpose. Snow was cover for the dead. Dressed in their finest clothing, the dead were hidden outside, frozen solid, waiting until spring for a proper burial. It was a curse to be buried away from the ancestral home.
“Why am I here in this place?” a man whispered. “I have only a slight cough. Others are sicker.”
“Yes, perhaps there’s a mistake,” the Baron said. The man had a temperature and his pulse was rapid, symptoms typical of plague. The onset of the most severe symptoms arrived with unpredictable suddenness.
“Tell me about yourself. How you arrived here in the hospital.”
“I was a cook at the Metropole Hotel.”
The Baron’s face contorted in fear behind his mask. Perhaps the man had been infected by Mesny before he’d died at the hotel. Was there a connection? He marveled at the uncanny neutrality of fate. Plague was passed by the crossing of two lines. An infected person sat with a friend or family at a table, sharing a cup of tea, a conversation, spreading the infection. Perhaps the bacilli had leaped between them, lip to lip. Who knew how plague spread, how it ravaged the systems of the body? What were the conditions for infecting another person, an entire roomful of people? “Do you know anyone else who is sick? Someone at work, at the hotel? Anyone who died? A relative? Neighbors?” he asked the man. Many patients lied, believing this would keep others safe, away from the hospital.
“I’m the only sufferer.”
“Did you touch anything that might have been infected? Food or an animal?” The Baron made halting notes in a logbook. Perhaps this information might help someone else, the observations and guesswork salvaged from this circle of hell.
The man shook his head. “Will I be released soon?”
The Baron continued taking notes to avoid his question. “Has medicine—or anything at all—eased your symptoms? Tea, incense, a charm? Prayer? Opium? A needle?”
“Nothing.” A calculating expression transformed the man’s face. “But I know a secret for a cure. A special tea. We can make an agreement. Let me leave and I’ll tell you everything.”
The man bargained with death. “Little brother,” the Baron said, his voice warm, accepting. “This is a valuable offer. Guard your secret a little longer and I’ll talk to the other doctors.” Give him hope. It could extend life. If the man survived three days in the hospital, he’d be cleared of plague. If not, his ineffective secret for a cure, if there was one, would perish with him.
The Baron left the ward. In the corridor, his foot struck a pail, splashing bloody mucus on his pants and boots. He swore. “Gospodi-pomiluy.”
Two hours later, he returned to check on the man who’d claimed to have a secret cure. The patient was sitting up in bed, eyes closed. The Baron hesitated, then touched his shoulder, and the body toppled from the bed to the floor.
When his rounds at the hospital were finished, the disinfecting process took over an hour. First, the soles of his galoshes were dusted with powdered lime. He stood unmoving while a medical student sprayed his uniform with carbolic acid solution, eyes squinting against the chemical fumes. In the dressing room, he gargled and spat a foul pale liquid disinfectant into a basin, then stripped, and two men sponged him with antiseptic. He was briefly immersed in a vat of slippery sublimate lotion before clambering into a wooden tub of hot fresh water. He finally relaxed, his flesh shriveled and wrinkled.
Dr. Iasienski slumped on a bench in a blood-streaked uniform, waiting his turn to undress. The Baron could judge how long the doctors and nurses had been in the ward by the amount of blood on their clothing. “I’ve been here all day and half the night. Fifty patients dead in the last twenty-four hours,” Iasienski said.
The Baron closed his eyes. “God rest their souls.”
“They died about sixteen hours after being admitted. Some died quicker.” Iasienski continued, his voice dull with fatigue. “I cannot understand the Chinese. Many seem resigned to dying. They accept it. They don’t fight. But the young doctors and nurses blame themselves for the deaths. Their lack of experience. Or faith. But we know better.”
It was useless to respond. Iasienski talked to himself, heedless of anyone else. The man needed sleep and vodka. No. Reverse that order. Vodka first. The Baron felt he was dealing with a sleepwalker. “Did you get vaccinated?”
Iasienski finally looked up at the Baron, his face haggard. “No. Had no time. I’m thinking about it. A few new arrivals from medical school were vaccinated. I know Wang was vaccinated.” His hand waved away the thought. “They say Mesny caused his own death. He was careless. Took risks. Not me. But I’m exhausted and afraid I’ll make mistakes. God, to die like that. Like Mesny.”
The Baron’s mouth was dry, foul. He couldn’t speak the usual platitudes, soothing words that filled space until the problem became lost. How could they be a strength for each other? “I know. I fear it too.”
The Baron had discarded his bloodstained uniform but still felt marked by his passage through the patient ward. He clumsily moved from the disinfecting room into the corridor, barely aware of his surroundings. Someone took his arm. He recognized Messonier, and ten steps later, the door to his office closed behind them.
The Baron collapsed in the worn leather chair. “You’re stronger than I am.”
Messonier shook his head. “I went down to the canteen. I avoided the patients’ ward. Forgive me.” He smoothed back his thin blond hair until it peaked over his forehead. “The discussion with the doctors about the vaccine and serum was troubling. I think of the sick patients, innocently waiting for Haffkine’s needle. Waiting in hope. But it’s hopeless. Just a roll of the dice. And us? One mistake, we’re infected and we gush like Mesny. Sodden in our own blood. I’d rather have my neck wrung like a goose.” He took a deep breath. “No. Forget my words. I’m tired.” He blinked, straightened his slumped shoulders. “There was an early explorer in my family. He sailed to the island of Bourbon. But I never imagined I would weep in a hospital in Manchuria, this godforsaken place. But I’ve learned to respect the Russian use of vodka here.”
The Baron studied Messonier’s face. “My friend, there’s a history of undistinguished vodka drinking in France. Some hidden purpose brought you here to encounter vodka. Take it as a good omen.”