The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(27)

“This girl speaks the stranger’s language, and she has her clan to keep her from harm. We’ll go to where she lives.”

My brothers glare at me as though I’ve brought the worst disgrace possible upon the family. My father’s eyes have the steely look they get when he guts a deer. They never approved of my education, and now it has placed the family in an uncomfortable position.

“All I want to do is buy tea,” Mr. Huang assures us in his unnervingly friendly voice. “You have tea here, don’t you? Yes, let us drink tea.” (As though we wouldn’t offer it.) “But made only with springwater. Do you have springwater?”

What other kind of water is there? Rainwater? Creek water? Pond water?

“Our village is called Spring Well,” I say.

He laughs again. “Of course! That’s why I chose your village to visit first.”

We make a peculiar procession. The little boy skips ahead as though he knows where he’s going. His a-ba doesn’t seem particularly worried. One of our neighbors must have alerted A-ma and the sisters-in-law, because tea has already been brewed by the time we arrive. Once the men have seated themselves on the floor in the central room, the sisters-in-law are waved off. A-ma stands with her back against the bamboo wall, her hands clasped before her, watchful. I stay at her side and translate when necessary. A-ba gestures for the stranger to try First Brother’s tea, but when he takes a sip his face crinkles as though he’s rinsed his mouth with unripe persimmon juice.

“This must be terrace tea from bushes,” Mr. Huang says. “It will have a monotonous flavor from the first brew to the last. It has no qi—no life force, no richness.”

A new pot is brewed from Second Brother’s pollarded tea trees. This time the stranger takes a sip, sets the cup back on the floor, and says, “Pollarding does not lead to strong roots, because they grow laterally to match what’s aboveground. You’ll get a sweet flavor, but it’s an empty one. I’m looking for Pu’er. You know Pu’er?”

No, I don’t know that word. It’s as foreign to me as vocation and connoisseur.

He motions for me to approach. “Young lady, I can tell you’ve looked outward. You’ve studied the national language. You must make your family very proud, for you’ve followed the country’s desire for transformation. You may not understand it here,” he says with a wave of his hand, “but change is happening across China.”

I translate this to make it sound more polite.

“You all must arise and greet the new day!” Mr. Huang exhorts the men. “This is the era of Reform and Opening Up. Even Americans are coming to China to see the Great Wall, the Forbidden City, and the Yangtze River.”

The ruma clicks his tongue, then mutters in our dialect, “Too talky.”

My brothers’ snickers have a sobering effect on our guest.

“Where I come from,” he continues, “we discuss business for many hours. I tell you some of what I want. You tell me some of what you want in return. This is how civilized men behave, but perhaps this is not your way. I’m not that familiar with the hill tribes. No one is.”

The gathered men may not know the Mandarin expression for hill tribes, but Mr. Huang’s insulting and condescending tone is one they recognize too well.

The ruma slaps the floor with his palm. “Ask the stranger what he wants.”

After I relay this, Mr. Huang answers, “I already told you. I’ve come in search of your special tea. I’ve come to buy Pu’er.”

I dutifully repeat the request. The ruma asks the question I’ve been too shy to ask. “Pu’er? What is Pu’er?”

Mr. Huang looks bewildered. “It’s a special aged tea. It comes from here—”

“Maybe he means tea from old trees,” Third Brother suggests.

The idea of serving the Hong Kong man tea from Third Brother’s worthless trees amuses everyone. The tea is made and brought to the table. Mr. Huang and his son pick up their cups at the same time, drawing breath through their mouths as they noisily suck the liquid onto their tongues. The boy nods in appreciation, and his father smiles.

“This is better. When trees grow from seeds, the main roots extend endlessly, creating as much growth belowground as above. This gives tea flavor and depth,” Mr. Huang says agreeably. “I’ve always heard that tea from Nannuo Mountain has special characteristics: it’s more floral, and the mouth feel is medium. I can taste a hint of apricot, with some tobacco notes. And the astringency is moderate.” He smells the empty cup, savoring the lingering aroma. The boy does exactly as his father does. Then Mr. Huang reaches into his pocket, pulls out a little box, and extracts two toothpicks. He gives one to his son, and the two of them pluck leaves from the pot, stretch them out on the floor, and examine them as A-ma might a boil or insect bite. “Look, Son. Brewing has returned the leaves to their original state, making them plump and pliable. That is exactly what we want to see.” Then they each pick up a leaf and chew it. “This is not a bad raw tea,” he proclaims, “but I’m still waiting to taste your aged tea.”

“Aged tea?” A-ba asks, after I translate.

“I myself have tea cakes that are thirty years old, but there are others even older. They are antiques, but they are still alive.”

“Who would drink such a thing?” A-ba asks, not bothering to mask his amusement.