Old Jin City on the Wall

Chapter 19, Part 1

Xiao Cui said Zhang Xijiu hadn't left.

Wu Ling stood up, gripping the gavel, and went out through the curtain.

cold.

There were hardly any people left in the alley. A thin layer of frost had formed on the stone pavement, and Wu Ling's shoes made a soft, rustling sound as he stepped on it.

The teahouse light peeked out from the gap in the curtain, a warm yellow strip lying across the frosty ground.

Zhang Xijiu stood with his back to him under the sycamore tree, his dark blue cotton robe damp on the shoulder.

"Mr. Zhang."

Zhang Xijiu did not turn around.

"I'll take it."

Zhang Xijiu turned around, glanced at him, and neither said yes nor no.

I only took one step toward the teahouse.

Then Wu Ling was stunned, because Zhang Xijiu wasn't the only one standing outside the teahouse.

Grandpa Fan stood at the alley entrance, rubbing his hands together, with the chessboard tucked under his arm.

Grandpa Cao was standing next to him, his neck hunched over.

Mr. Li leaned against the wall, his book closed, while Che Fu squatted on the steps.

They left the teahouse, but none of them left the alley.

Xiao Cui stood at the door, her eyes red, clutching the empty basket in her hand.

Everyone followed them inside.

They sat back down in their seats, and Old Zhou returned at some point, sitting in his usual spot, with the covered bowl served again.

The waiter refilled the tea for the group.

A few more pieces of firewood were added to the charcoal brazier, and the fire blazed up again.

Wu Ling walked to the front of the stage, sat down, and did not strike the gavel.

"My grandfather had a set of books, nine sections, and he had finished three and a half sections, stopping at the fourth section. The first three sections talked about three things—a piece of pottery, a cracked bowl, and a piece of floral stationery, all of which are kept in this teahouse. Today, I will continue the story for him."

He pointed to the mural on the wall.

"Look at this wall. There's a tree on the street at the very top, and a stall is set up under the tree. That's the ancestor of this teahouse."

"The earliest shopkeeper sold plain water for one coin a bowl; once you finished, you were done." One day, a traveler came along, drank the water, and didn't leave. The shopkeeper asked, "Are you going to drink some more?" He said no. "Then why are you sitting here?" He said, "There's a tree here; I'll rest for a bit."

The shopkeeper looked at him, then at the tree.

"Okay, have a seat."

Someone in the audience quietly repeated a sentence.

Sit down.

It was Old Zhou, his voice was very soft.

"This person left after resting for a short while, but two people came the next day, and four came the day after that. They sat in a row under the tree, but none of them drank water; they were all just resting in the shade. The shopkeeper got anxious, 'If none of you drink water, what am I supposed to sell?'"

Someone in the audience chuckled softly.

"The shopkeeper wanted to kick them out, but when he went over and took a closer look, he saw two people playing chess. The chessboard was drawn on the ground with a twig, and the chess pieces were stones. As he looked at them, he forgot to kick them out."

"After a while, the people sitting in the teahouse started talking to each other. When they got thirsty, they would ask for water, and after drinking it, they wouldn't leave."

"Every day, besides serving water, the shopkeeper just watches people argue, play chess, and doze off."

"When he left the shop, he left a small piece of pottery on the counter. It was about the size of a palm, dusty, and had several marks carved on it. Two thousand years have passed, and no one can say what the marks mean."

Wu Ling tapped on the table.

"The shop almost went out of business when it was passed on to the second owner."

Che Fu's hand, which was holding the teacup, trembled slightly in fright.

"Why? Because the second shopkeeper wanted to brew tea. He felt that selling plain water wasn't respectable, so he went a long way to get tea leaves, but he didn't know how to brew them. The tea was bitter and astringent, and the customers wrinkled their faces after just one sip."

"Fewer and fewer customers are coming, no one's even sitting down anymore, and we've run out of water. Who's going to come?"

"When the shop was almost empty, a kiln worker came in, carrying a bowl. The bowl was so thin that you could see the shadow of your finger when you held it up to the sun. Unfortunately, there was a crack in the bottom of the bowl. He said, 'Boss, I'll trade this bowl for a bowl of tea.'"

"The shopkeeper took the cracked bowl, brewed a bowl of tea, and handed it back. The kiln worker took a sip."

Wu Ling paused for a moment.

"He didn't frown."

"The shopkeeper said you don't mind the hardship? The kiln worker said—"

Wu Ling lowered his voice and imitated a rough tone.

"Boss, I've been walking for three days and I'm dying of thirst. I'd drink even a bowl of water meant for washing my feet."

The audience laughed.

"The kiln worker is gone, but the bowl remains. The shopkeeper placed the bowl on the counter, looking at it with worry. The bowl was so thin that the sun could shine through it, and it had a crack, but it hadn't broken. He thought, 'If the bowl can hold its own even with a crack, how could I possibly not brew my tea well?'"

"He got really into it. One day it was Longjing, the next Maojian, the day after Tieguanyin, he tried them all. Guess what? The more expensive the tea, the more the customer frowned. The most expensive one time, he spent a month's worth of firewood to buy two ounces of Sparrow Tongue tea, brewed it, and served it to the customer. The customer only took one sip, spat it out on the ground, put the bowl down, didn't pay, and left."

Grandpa Fan in the audience shook his head.

"He was even thinking of selling the shop. One day, he was squatting at the door, lost in thought, when he went outside and saw the old man next door who sold noodles squatting in the sun, drinking a bowl of tea. He sipped it and looked very content. He leaned over and smelled it. What kind of tea is it? The old man said: 'San Hua. It's two coins a pack on the street.'"

He went to weigh out half a jin (250 grams), came back, casually made a bowl of soup, and took a sip himself.

"Oh, right."

"Having tried all the finest teas in the world, the one that finally worked was the two-cent packet of Sanhua tea from the street corner. Why? Because the people sitting in this teahouse aren't there to savor the tea; they're there to rest, to play chess, to argue, or just to sit for a while. The tea they want doesn't need to be fragrant or expensive; as long as it's smooth to drink and keeps them occupied, that's enough."

"From that day on, the three flowers and the bowl were never replaced. The color in the cracks got darker year by year. It wasn't from the tea, it was from the shop itself."

"This is the taste you're drinking now."

Old Zhou tightened his grip on the covered bowl.

"The third manager was even more interesting; he was a hands-off manager."

There was a slight tremor in the audience.

"His wife was the only one who could support the business. On the day she took over, three customers came, and all three of them ran up the tab."

"They came again the next day, still on credit."

Xiao Cui looked up from the doorway, and noticed that she had put down the empty basket in her hand sometime earlier.

"She's been running this business alone for many years. There are a lot of people who come to drink tea, but she only has one true friend. Her friend comes to drink tea once a year in the autumn. When paying the bill, he always leaves a piece of paper on the counter. The paper is as thin as a cicada's wing and has flowers printed on it. She has collected many of them. There is still one in the teahouse now. It is always placed under the teacup. The teacup presses down on the paper, and the paper absorbs the tea."

Xiao Cui asked in a low voice, "Did those people pay for the tea they owed on credit?"

Wu Ling smiled.

"She paid them all, except for the slowest one, who had been on credit for over ten years and had even forgotten about it. One day, that person came in for tea, finished his tea, left a packet of copper coins on the counter, and turned to leave. She opened it, counted the coins, and compared it with the account book; not a single coin was missing."

"The management has been passed down from one manager to another until you see this teahouse."

"But this shopkeeper of mine doesn't even know how to brew 'Three Flowers' (a type of Chinese tea), he did it on his very first day..."

Wu Ling picked up the bowl of Sanhua (a type of fried dough) on the table, frowned, and then put it down again.

Xiao Cui laughed out loud, and Master Liu laughed too.

"He couldn't tell stories either. The first time he went on stage, he forgot half of what he was reciting. His hand was shaking when he hit the gavel, and there were only three people left in the audience."

His father said, "Shut it down." He said no. His father said, "You only have enough money left for a few months of food." He said that was enough.

"Do you guys think he's stupid?"

No one in the audience spoke.

"He thought about leaving, more than once. He even lifted the curtain, letting the cold wind in, and stepped out, but each time he turned around, the gavel was still on the stage, the 'call' character facing upwards. He would then pull his feet back, lower the curtain, stop the wind, go back, clean the gavel, and start a fire."

"He sat back down not because he was capable, but because the fire hadn't been extinguished yet."

Wu Ling glanced at the charcoal brazier in the corner.

He didn't know how many years this teahouse had been around, but every owner did the same thing before leaving: they would keep the fire burning. The one who left would keep the fire burning for the one who came, and the one who came would keep the fire burning for the next person.

"It's his turn now. He hasn't figured out what he can leave behind, but he knows that there can be another layer on this wall."

Zhang Xijiu opened his eyes.

"He wanted to involve himself as well."

Wu Ling hadn't collected it yet, and was looking at Old Zhou.

"When I arrived, I didn't know anything, but as soon as I walked in, someone came in with a covered bowl and said two words: 'You've arrived.'"

"Just those two words, the same ones that the traveler heard two thousand years ago."

"Therefore, this bowl of tea must not get cold!"

"That's the fourth section. There are five more sections to come. To find out what happens next—"

"I don't know either, I'll tell you when I get to the point."

Jang Seok-gu's first smile was very slight, just a slight curve at the corners of his mouth.

Xiao Cui's eyes were still wet.

Wu Ling struck the gavel once, and that was it.

The quiet in the teahouse lasted for a while.

The fire in the stove crackled.

Zhang Xijiu stood up.

"Your grandfather's car overturned that time."

The sound was very soft.

"But you're not bad off today."

Then he turned and left, this time truly going far away.

Grandpa Fan started the applause; his hands, which had been rubbing together for so long, finally came in handy.

Grandpa Cao followed along and took pictures.

Before leaving, Mr. Li placed the book he was holding on the table.

Wu Ling looked down and saw the poem "Dead Water Ripples".

The cover is new; the ink smell hasn't dissipated yet.

"I wrote this book. It's set in Chengdu, but you tell your story, and I'll write mine."

Old Zhou turned the empty covered bowl upside down and placed it face down on the table; this was the custom when the party ended.

"Your grandfather spoke three and a half parts. What you spoke today was not your grandfather's fourth part, but your own first part. We've finished speaking, and it's time for you to finish speaking too."

The customers in the teahouse gradually dispersed.

Wu Ling picked up the book, pushed open the door, and went back inside.

I stopped when I passed the wall with the mural.

The wall has changed; dust is still falling from the plaster, as if the entire wall has just woken up.

The area where the long-spouted teapot used to be was now brightly lit, and the streets, eaves, lanterns, and the figures on the bamboo chairs were all clearly visible.

There was one more person on the storytelling stage.

I can't see the face clearly, but I can see the posture clearly. The back is straight, the hand is on the table, and there is a rectangular object in the hand.

Wu Ling leaned closer to take a look.

It is a gavel.

He took a step back, his heart pounding.

Because the person in the mural was sitting in the exact same spot as he had just been sitting.