The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(29)

“I will pay . . .” He studies me with an intensity I don’t understand. “Twenty yuan per kilo of perfect leaves from old trees.”

Even more than I stated! Why would he do such a thing?

Mr. Huang knocks his knuckles on the floor. Is he doing this to ask for more tea, as is the custom, or is he impatient for an answer?

“For that price, I will buy all your leaves to make Pu’er,” he adds, pressing me. “Together we’ll save Pu’er from extinction.”

I dutifully translate, once again.

“Our village will help you,” the headman says.

I repeat his agreement in Mandarin. The little boy claps his hands. A-ma abruptly leaves the room. I stay behind to aid with the arrangements. Mr. Huang will go to Yiwu to find the tea master A-ma mentioned. He’ll also scour the mountains—and even go to Laobanzhang—to find farmers who still have tea trees. He’ll return to us every day to check our pickings. He also wants us to drink tea made from the leaves of wild trees to make sure they aren’t poisonous or have bad flavors sucked in from surrounding plants. I’m not sure if he realizes what he’s asking—or how dangerous it could be—but A-ba and the others are convinced the risk is worth it.

We walk Mr. Huang and his son to the spirit gate. Once the rattling of their mountain vehicle has been swallowed by the forest, we return to the village. A-ma waits for me at the top of the steps to the women’s side of the house.

“You must stay away from that stranger,” she orders. “I forbid you from meeting with him again!”

“How can I do that, A-ma? A-ba and all the men in the village will insist I help. I’m the only one who can.”

A-ma squeezes her hands into fists and doesn’t say another word.



* * *



Overnight, life in Spring Well changes as all regular routines are dropped. Yes, we still wake early and trek into the mountains, but we’re no longer going to the tea terraces or pollarded gardens. Instead, we search the slopes, crawling like ants over rocks and through undergrowth, to find wild tea trees. I see even the very old scamper sure-footed branch to branch up into trees—just like A-ma showed me how to climb the mother tree to care for it—to pick the newest buds.

Someone must have told Mr. Huang about my grove or A-ma’s special tea, because not a day goes by that he doesn’t ask, “When are you going to take me to your tea trees, young lady?” or “I hear your trees are the oldest,” or “People say your mother provides the best cures on the mountain. Tell me, where do they come from? Your trees?” Aware of his entreaties, A-ma doesn’t allow me to give him even a single leaf.

I have no time to miss San-pa, but I carry thoughts of him always. I have no time to spend with Ci-teh, but I catch glimpses of her here and there. I might smile in her direction, and she’ll wave back. Or Mr. Huang will ask her to do something, and I have to translate as though she’s just another villager instead of my best friend. I have no opportunity to explain myself, because I’m always at Mr. Huang’s side. In the mornings, his little boy stays close, and he so quickly picks up Akha words and phrases that I think soon Mr. Huang won’t need my help any longer. In the afternoons, the boy rests in the women’s side of our house. (Even though A-ma doesn’t care for the father, she’s become quite fond of Xian-rong, brewing him tea, and letting him stay with her when he needs to nap or requires a break from his father’s obsession. “All Akha love their sons,” A-ma observes, “but that man would take a life for his boy.”) We also have a newcomer to our village—the tea master from Yiwu whom A-ma had recommended without considering that he might come here. Tea Master Wu is nearly blind, but he seems to know what he’s doing.

Mr. Huang and Tea Master Wu inspect each family’s baskets as they enter the village. Sometimes people bring leaves from trees they claim to be eight hundred years old. Some are; most aren’t. Some promise that the leaves have grown in a completely natural environment. Again, some are; most aren’t. Mr. Huang has an uncanny ability to see through the layers of declarations and lies.

The next step is a period of wilting. “So the brittle stems can soften,” he explains, “while increasing resilience in the leaves and buds.” Then comes “killing the green.” Wood fires are set under woks stationed outside our homes. One family member stokes the fire, while another tosses and turns the leaves in the wok. It’s hot and very hard work, and lasts long into the night. Then the leaves are dropped into flat baskets and kneaded. This is even harder work. By the next morning, the leaves are ready for their sunbath. “So they can absorb that great orb’s fragrance,” he tells us.

Most families decide that the area just outside their homes is perfect because it’s flat, but the dogs, cats, chickens, and pigs all come nosing around, pawing, scratching, and doing who knows what else right on the exposed leaves. Others ignore the sun requirement and lay mats in their houses, where people are living, eating, and doing the intercourse, smoke fills the rooms, and kids are picking their noses, drooling, and crying. At the end of three days, each batch of twenty kilos of fresh tea leaves has been reduced to five kilos of what Mr. Huang calls maocha—raw tea made from the leaves of trees. Then comes the most tedious chore: sorting. Every woman and girl in Spring Well joins in this activity, sitting in groups around large woven trays to sort through every single leaf—one at a time!—to remove those that are yellow or otherwise defective.