The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(68)
Jin waves as he comes into view, and I have the benefit of watching him stride purposefully toward us. He wears his clothes comfortably—suede loafers, navy blue slacks, and a Polo shirt—the real thing, not a knockoff. A few strands of gray at his temples catch the light. His wide and intelligent eyes prove him to be his mother’s son. Beyond that, something deep within them instantly puts me at ease. He’s arrived with gifts, which he juggles in his arms so we can shake hands. He’s a businessman, but his palms reveal the calluses of hard work. He isn’t shy, but he isn’t too forward either. He’s brought his mother what I’ve already learned is a traditional Cantonese gift: a tin of imported Danish cookies.
“And for you, Li-yan, some tea. You’re a young tea master, my mother tells me, so I hope you’ll accept my modest gift.”
The label says it’s a naturally aged Pu’er from Laobanzhang made from the leaves of a single four-hundred-year-old tree. The tea itself is set in an exquisite red lacquer box whose price may equal my monthly income, which tells me that either he’s trying to show off or he’s honestly interested in me because of his mother.
“Shall we try it at lunch?” I ask.
Before he can answer, Mrs. Chang says, “You absolutely should. I’ve arranged a table for you at the Southern Garden Restaurant. You two go along now.”
Jin and I protest. She was supposed to join us, but she’s like a snake that’s swallowed a mouse. As she sets off toward the subway stop, he says with humor edging his voice, “Together we’ve just lost our first battle with my mother.”
He owns a car, which might impress some women. Sun and Moon! Who am I fooling? A Mercedes? I’m very impressed. Mrs. Chang told me her son was doing well with his recycling business, but this is very well. But the last thing I’m interested in is money. I like the way he drives, though. Casual, with his wrist draped over the top of the steering wheel. He doesn’t honk like a maniac or swerve in and out between cars to gain an extra few meters either.
The restaurant is large—and jam-packed. We’re led through a labyrinth of courtyards, banquet halls, waterfall grottoes, and gardens. We cross over a zigzag bridge and enter a small room built to resemble an ancient pavilion. We’re seated at a table that overlooks a weeping willow whose tendrils drift languidly above the surface of a pond filled with lotus in bloom. The waiter brings hot water for me to brew the tea. When I open the lacquer box, however, I’m assaulted by an odor of dirt and mildew.
“What’s wrong?” Jin asks.
“I don’t know how to say this . . .”
“You won’t hurt my feelings,” he coaxes.
“I’m afraid someone sold you a fake.”
His expression falls. I wouldn’t be surprised if this news ended our lunch before it began, but then he smiles. “Taken again! I thought those days were behind me.”
“There are a lot of fakes,” I console him. “Even connoisseurs buy fakes sometimes.”
“From now on, you’ll always choose our tea, and I’ll take care of other things—like ordering our meals.”
I spot a good-quality Pu’er on the menu, and he orders an intriguing assortment of dumplings. I expect him to talk only about himself, but he keeps the conversation going by asking me questions. Do I like Guangzhou? Do I know how to drive? Would I like him to teach me how to drive? Have I gone to Hong Kong? I end up enjoying myself much more than I thought I would. After our meal, we meander back through the courtyards, stopping to watch the water tumble over the rocks at the main waterfall. When the valet brings around the car, Jin holds my elbow as he directs me into the front seat.
“Would you like to go for a walk?” he asks once he’s behind the wheel. “Maybe visit the Orchid Garden? Or we could go to Shamian Island, sit outside, and have American coffee. Oh . . . Do you drink coffee?”
“I like coffee, but maybe another time.”
He must think I’m trying to get out of prolonging this day or seeing him again, because his expression collapses as quickly as it did when I told him he’d bought fake Pu’er.
“I mean that,” I say. “Another time. I’m free every Sunday—”
“Then next Sunday—”
“And I’m free every evening,” I add, which makes him smile.
He offers to drive me home, but I ask to be dropped off at the Martyrs’ Memorial Gardens. We shake hands. He drives off. Before going to my apartment, I sit on a bench and punch in Ci-teh’s cellphone number.
“I went on a date,” I tell her. “My first ever.”
She laughs in her distinctive way and asks to hear every detail.
* * *
Over the next months, Jin and I see each other twice a week after work and every Sunday. I don’t go to his apartment, and he doesn’t come to mine. He may have an expensive car, but I sense he’s modest in his aspirations, for he often wears the same clothes—clean, but the same nevertheless. (That, or he’s trying to show me that he doesn’t mind that my wardrobe is limited.) I teach him to drink tea properly, and he’s got a fine palate, easily distinguishing between raw and ripe Pu’ers by whether they taste grassy, floral, fruity, and sharp, or dark, of the forest floor, cavelike, and smooth. He takes me to restaurants all over the city, where I try clams, sea cucumber, and jellyfish. Every bite is strange, and a lot of things I don’t like . . . at all. “It’s true a crab looks like a spider,” he says. “If you don’t like it, then you never have to eat it again.” On those evenings when we don’t meet for dinner, a concert, or a movie, I go to the park and chat with Mrs. Chang. She’s a clever matchmaker, because the more I ask about him, the less she says, which means the only way to know more is to spend time with him.