The men were very close. “You have a fine coat. And the lady does too.” Their words a challenge.
The Baron and his wife were silent; the space between them and the strangers held a waiting pressure. He automatically pulled her against his side, her arm stiff in his grip. An encounter in extreme cold required absolute clarity. Each movement must preserve the body’s heat.
“We heard you cough.” The taller man noisily cleared his throat and spat, the gob frozen as it arched into the snow. “You should be in quarantine.”
Plague-wagon men. They’d moved into the wealthy heart of the city, patrolling for the infected and the opportunity to rob others. Let them see your face. The Baron pulled back his hood, slightly loosening his mask, and the frigid air had the force of a slap on his skin. “Vodka would be welcome now, wouldn’t it? To break the cold?” Uncertain of the men’s intention, his words strained to extend the measure of time. Perhaps the constellation of his fate waited to shift within the span of these seconds and minutes. The only stability was constant change, as his teacher claimed. It had a fixed course.
The Baron began to sweat inside his coat. “What are your names?”
The taller man said, “I’m Piotr. This is Sergei.”
“What can I offer you?” Should I tell Li Ju to run, now? They were in an open space at the side of the theater. Trying to escape was useless, as they’d flounder in the snow. They must remain standing within the light from the theater lamps or no one would see them. He scanned the street for a witness, someone exiting the theater or a droshky. Unlikely anyone would leave the theater until the performance was over. “I freely give you what we have. Without argument.” His hand reached inside his coat for money. “Let us walk away.”
“What do you have worth that trade?” Piotr turned to Sergei, who was holding a thick net. “Take a gift from the sick? They want to leave. They seem cold here.”
The second man shook out the net. “They’ll be warm after being thrown in the wagon.”
“But he’s a doctor!”
Li Ju’s error. Now the plague-wagon men must get rid of him, an official witness who knew their names, to stop him from reporting them to the authorities.
Piotr raised his voice. “You, infected stranger. How did you escape quarantine?”
“An infected person is a murderer. Infecting others,” the other said.
“I’m a doctor. I know the cure for plague.”
“You need a lesson, braggart.”
For a moment, the Baron imagined suffocating Li Ju, holding her head in the snow to spare her from quarantine, where she would die. Suffocation was a quicker death, the numbing thickness of snow. He shouted, refusing them.
He shoved Li Ju facedown in the snow. Confused, the two men didn’t move. The Baron extended his hand to lift her up, waited a moment, then swung around and flung himself at the tall man’s torso, sending him sprawling. Li Ju crawled forward and threw herself across the fallen man’s legs as he struggled to stand. He kicked her off and she rolled in the snow.
The second man held the heavy net open in both hands, nervously shifting from side to side, waiting to toss it. Wheezing, the Baron staggered to his feet, unsteady in his boots, the snow untrusted as sand. Li Ju crept toward the burning barrel. She pulled off her face mask and thrust an end in the fire, and it instantly ignited. She hurled the blaze at the man with the net. He ducked but the net slowed his movement and his fur hat erupted into a fiery circle around his head as he stumbled, then plunged into the snow to extinguish it. Li Ju and the Baron struggled through the snow back to the opera house.
That night, he couldn’t free himself from the encounter. A memory remained, like a reddened finger held too close to a flame. He embraced Li Ju but the dear intimate familiarity of her body had been altered. How could he protect her when he recognized his own fragility? It seemed his bones were draped with silk not skin.
Boxes of supplies were unexpectedly delivered to the Baron’s house by Andreev. The two men watched Russians and a Pole carrying the goods into the house, tracking wet snow over the floor, closely supervised by disapproving servants. They unloaded bags of dried soybeans, mushrooms, and fish, jars of oil. Caviar. Tins of food from America. Candles. Kerosene for lanterns. A length of brocade for Li Ju.
“Where are your Chinese workers?” the Baron asked.
“Russians refuse to have Chinese in their buildings. They’re afraid they bring the sickness. I had to replace them with Russians. They’re drunken sods. Learned to be lazy in the army. But you can thank them for saving your servants. It isn’t safe to walk among the crowds in the market. It’s the last visit before the cemetery.”
The Baron took Andreev aside when he recognized the Slav with the white-blond hair from Central Station. “Watch the Slav.” He pointed as the man crossed the courtyard. “Not to be trusted.”
Andreev shrugged. “He’s got working arms and legs.”
“Fine. You’re the master.”
Andreev turned aside the Baron’s offers of money and gratitude but accepted a bulky package of folded white cloths from him. He was puzzled by the gift.
“My wife made them for you. There are enough masks for you and your workers.” The Baron was unable to keep the scolding tone from his voice. “Your life will be saved by masks and disinfectants. Doctors won’t save you.” Andreev would probably throw the masks away or sell them. If there was time. Relationships, familiar situations, changed unexpectedly, as the end of life could arrive without warning, like a book with the last page torn out.
After all supplies had been stowed away, the Baron insisted they visit a nearby chaynaya for tea. Fewer lights interrupted black winter on the streets, but Andreev brought him to a good restaurant. Cautioning the Baron not to tell anyone he was a doctor, they passed the inspection of the guard at the door.
“I’m grateful you’ll still drink with me.”
The tables in the restaurant were widely spaced and without white cloths. The chairs had no cushions that could anchor bacilli or dust. A few patrons wore masks, removing them only to drain a glass of vodka.
The Baron gazed around the barely occupied room. “I wonder what happened to the children who sold newspapers here? They’ve all disappeared.”
A line of sweat trailed down Andreev’s cheek as he tugged off his fur hat. He sneezed and the Baron winced, quickly turned away. “Some questions are better not asked. Another drink? Let me distract you.” Andreev traveled with treasure in his pockets, a tiny pouch around his neck or hidden in a book. He pulled a jewel glittering on a gold chain from inside his coat. “This is a valuable from a German merchant. His soybean warehouse was forced to close. There’s a strict new customs inspection for goods exported from Kharbin. Everyone is afraid plague hides in grain, blankets, furs, even bamboo baskets. The inspection of the German’s soybeans was delayed, and the shipment rotted.”
“To your good fortune.”
“Don’t congratulate me so quickly. I rescued the grain merchant. I paid him enough for the business to survive. Unless plague gets him first. And then I claim his entire warehouse.” He slipped the jewel back into his coat. “Many precious things float loose these days. Brought back into exchange. Everyone is a sentry, guarding their snowy plot of land. Lucky if they have coin, gold bars, gold dust, and not fragile things, like paintings, that won’t stand up to disinfectant. Merchants only accept payment in silver pesos these days, since metal can be sterilized in vinegar. You trade your paper money for coins as I advised?”
“Yes.”
“A train ticket out of Kharbin will soon be more valuable than currency or gold. The price of a ticket increases with demand. You’ll see. Thousands of panicked people will try to escape. You remember during the Boxer Rebellion, people traded their jewelry for a place in a train?” Andreev leaned closer. “With bribes, the rich buy train tickets and pass health inspections at Central Station. Rich Russian ladies and gentlemen are too elegant to be infected with plague. Only the poor will be forced to stay here and die or get out any way they can.”