The beggars standing behind the mourners loudly wailed and wept, a ritual performance for which they were paid.
It was nine days after Maria Lebedev’s death. Traditionally, a second remembrance ceremony would be held twenty days after her death and a third ceremony at forty days.
The feast of remembrance for Maria Lebedev was held in Novy Gorod at the home of Dr. Iasienski, head of the Russian hospital. Members of the medical staff were present and guests wore gloves and cotton masks or held handkerchiefs over their noses. Physical contact was strictly avoided. People stood apart from each other during conversation and the distance made them more animated, their voices louder. Because of the fear of infection, all interior doors were propped open to allow free circulation of air.
The sideboard was laid with small plates of zakuski, smoked fish, meats, and many types of vodka, each bottle wrapped with a napkin. To pour a drink, guests placed a fresh napkin over the bottle to avoid touching it directly.
Through the open door to the kitchen, the Baron recognized a familiar figure. Chang stood on a chair leaning over the table, hands deep in a bowl. Sensitive to observation, he turned and beckoned the Baron into the room.
“They practically boiled my skin before I was hired to cook.” Chang’s voice a hoarse whisper. “The women in the house inspected me. Boychick, they called me. I had to unbutton my shirt so they could see I didn’t carry infection.” He grinned, reacting to the Baron’s expression. “No, no. They just wanted to look. I didn’t mind. Wasn’t the first time. Hand me the knife. Put your gloves on first.” He carefully spooned caviar into a hole in the center of a pie crust. “Caviar is the surprise garnish in the fish pie.”
“Rastegay.”
“Ah, you like it? An extra serving for you. There’s also selianka with sterlet and sturgeon. Pickled tomatoes, mushrooms, and pumpkin. Beets and bog berries boiled with cinnamon and cloves. Pokhobka, potato soup. It was hard work to get the ingredients. Provisions aren’t delivered. You can’t buy anything. There’s nothing in the market but fear of plague. You wonder about my cooking skills? I was a kitchen apprentice years ago. Russian cooking is a challenge, although Chinese food is more complex.”
Chang refused to discuss Maria Lebedev and wouldn’t mention her name. “Now leave me, Baron, so I can finish.”
At the table, koutia was served to guests. Archpriest Orchinkin bowed his head over his bowl. “This rice is the buried seed that will rise up again. The raisins, like Christians, will be reconstituted. Honey, like the Resurrection, is the sweetness of heaven.”
After the archpriest’s blessing, bottle after bottle of Russian Excelsior champagne and red wine from the Caucasus sent by General Khorvat were passed around the table. As they grew noisily drunk, guests casually loosened or removed their masks.
The Baron noticed Zabolotny and Wu standing with Messonier near the sideboard. Messonier said little, nervously turning a smudged empty vodka glass in his hand. The other two doctors didn’t cross the room to speak with the Baron and soon left the house to return to the hospital.
The Baron brought Messonier a fresh vodka. “My friend—”
Messonier interrupted. “I don’t want the burden of accepting her death. To be the taker of sympathy. Better to refuse sympathy and be alone.”
The Baron laid his hand on Messonier’s arm.
“The strangest transformation has happened. Everything in the house where I live has been replaced with identical worthless things. I saved Maria’s teacup. Her last drink with me. Now I should boil her cup or swab it with alcohol. It’s contaminated.” His face was stiff with sorrow.
The wait for Messonier to compose himself created a physical ache.
“Maria was always impatient to drink and return to work. I’d say, ‘Finish your tea slowly. Refresh yourself. Hurry only if you believe you can save a life.’” Messonier made a dismissive gesture. “Her sacrifice was useless. No one was saved.”
“We cannot tally up a life.” The Baron’s consolation stuck in his throat. “I don’t have faith to offer any comfort. The Chinese say the only certainty is change.”
Messonier’s wan smile. “I need more vodka. You? Give me your glass if you dare. I wear no gloves.”
The Baron put his empty glass in Messonier’s open hand.
All conversation took place inside. Outside, there was no direction a body could stand without encountering wind that suffocated sentences, cold that pressured lips and throat.
The Baron and Andreev slumped at a table in a chaynaya, one of the few teahouses still open. Andreev was ill at ease, disheveled, face shadowed by a huge gray fox hat, the stubble on his cheeks damp from the mask he’d just removed. He constantly wiped his nose.
“Do I seem well?” Andreev shoved up his sleeve, extended a bare arm, insisted his pulse be taken.
The Baron hesitated, noticing a fresh cut on Andreev’s arm. One of the Chinese doctors had mentioned the diagnosis in an early medical book that if the lungs were healthy, the mo would be “quiet and whispering like fallen elm pods.” If the lungs were infected, the mo would be “suspended, and one has a sensation of striking a rooster feather.” His fingertips gently pressed against Andreev’s wrist and he became lost in a jumble of signals. He kept the bewilderment from his face. Wait. There. A racing pulse. “Your pulse is rapid, but it could be nerves.” His finger against the wrist with slight pressure diagnosed the nerves. With slightly harder pressure, the viscera could be read. By increasing the pressure, the bones could be sensed. He was cautious about contact but placed his hand across Andreev’s forehead. “Your temperature is slightly elevated. It’s not a death sentence.”
“A day never passes without fear of a cough.”
“I live by those words. I’m resigned to the situation.”
Andreev changed the subject. “The rich have left the city. The money is gone. Everything shipped into Kharbin is inspected, every crate opened by a medical officer and sprayed with God knows what foul stuff. Vegetables, feathers, paper, fur, hair and skins, rags. Even coffins and earth are sprayed. The disinfectant eats gold leaf from porcelain. Tarnishes silver. Ruins everything.”
“How is your transportation business? Helping others flee the city?”
“I was running people south to Kirin, Dairen, and Mukden. The money was good. But several wagons were wrecked by a blizzard. Icebound. Lost three drivers. That’s how the trouble started.” Andreev’s words tumbled out, and his fingers nervously tore at a napkin. Perhaps he’d taken a drug. “A woman died. And her children. Wife of an official. All her trunks were lost. I’m certain she died of plague, not conditions in my vehicle. Now her husband pursues me. Unless he dies of plague first.”
“Surely your business will recover. Plague has no mercy.” The Baron kept his voice quiet, attempting to calm Andreev. “People are desperate to leave Kharbin since the price of the CER train tickets was raised, thanks to the Russians.”
“I’m in a hole. I have very little money. I can’t officially work since I have only a wolf’s passport. My creditors threatened to kill me.”
“What do you need?”
Andreev asked for a loan, named a vast sum. “I swear it will be repaid honestly. Unless there’s something you’d like to buy or order.”
The Baron whistled. “Impossible. I’ll give you money for a train ticket. You can escape.”
“Escape? How can I escape? You said I have a temperature. I’ll never get past the plague doctors at Central Station. I’ll be thrown in quarantine. You’ve always been fair with me. I don’t beg without reason. What’s the saying? What’s here today would scarcely have been believable yesterday?”