The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(75)
“I was born not long after it ended,” I answer softly. “Besides, we were peasants already. My family and all our neighbors had always lived that life. But I have a friend, Teacher Zhang. He was sent to Nannuo Mountain. He suffered—”
“Suffered,” he echoes. “Suffering takes many forms. Hunger. Cold. Fear. Physical and psychological pain. The villagers were bad enough. They had opportunities each day to torment us. But sometimes a Red Guard unit would visit. Everyone was forced to gather together so that my parents could be publicly punished and humiliated. They endured numerous self-criticism sessions. I don’t remember much about my father anymore, except that sometimes, late at night, I’d wake up and see him reading one of his books by the light of our oil lamp. He’d quickly close it, put it back in its hiding place, and say to me, ‘You’re only dreaming, Son. Go back to sleep now. Forget everything.’?”
Jin falls into melancholy silence. I suspect where his story is going, which doesn’t make it any easier to hear.
“The Red Guard came again just after my fifth birthday,” he resumes at last. “They were so young, you know? They played with me. They gave me a piece of candy—the first I’d ever tasted. I thought they liked me. When they asked if my mother or father kept anything hidden, I eagerly volunteered what I knew. After that, they dragged my father from our home and made him kneel in broken glass. They tied his arms up and back into the airplane position. Then they beat him with switches. They tore every page out of his books and set them on fire. They made me stand right in front of him, so he would forever know who’d betrayed him.”
“You were only five. Just a boy—”
“But what son does that?” he asks, tortured. “I broke his heart and his will to live or fight for us. The rest is as my mother told you. My father got pneumonia and died very quickly.”
My heart aches for him. “Those were deviled times filled with very bad people,” I say, trying to offer comfort. “You were a little boy, and you were tricked. Tragedies of this kind happened to people who were far older and with far more knowledge than you had. You can’t blame yourself.”
But of course he can, because I blame myself for so much too. I take hold of his arms, and our eyes meet. What I’d always seen in them, I now recognize from looking in the mirror at my own reflection: pain and guilt.
“You said earlier that one mistake can change the path of your life forever,” I say. “It sounds like it did for you. I know it did for me. But what if this is an opportunity to do something purposefully right? Won’t that put us on an entirely new path? A good path? Maybe even a happy path? Will you still have me?”
* * *
My new life requires adapting to one surprise after another. The next day, Jin and I drive to the airport to pick up Ci-teh, who’s agreed to leave her husband and daughters for a month to take care of my shop while I’m on my honeymoon. She’s arranged to have the most recent batches of tea my family made, as well as several kilos of Pu’er from Laobanzhang, sent directly to Midnight Blossom. My impression, seeing her for the first time out of Spring Well Village? Chubby and tu, with her ill-fitting Western-style clothes and numerous overstuffed bags made of red, white, and blue plastic mesh hanging from her arms. Ci-teh catches the judgment in my eyes, so the first thing she says to me is “I’m the first person from Nannuo Mountain to fly on an airplane.” Ours is a long and complicated friendship, and I’m beaming at the joy of it.
Next, we pick up Jin’s mother and continue straight on to the marriage bureau. Ci-teh and I peel off to the ladies’ room so I can change into my Akha wedding clothes and she can ask what feels like dozens of questions.
“Has your future husband tested the machete yet?”
The last time I heard that phrase was when the ruma asked it of San-pa as part of our wedding ritual. When I tell her no, her eyes go as wide as soup bowls.
“Don’t they have a Flower Room in Guangzhou?” she asks.
No, but there are many equivalents where boys and girls, men and women, can be alone together for talking and kissing: bars, nightclubs, a friend’s apartment. I apply lipstick so I don’t have to answer the question.
“Then you must have stolen love in the forest by now,” she presses, so nosy.
“Do you see forest around you?” I ask, starting to get irritated. “Besides, I already told you. He hasn’t tested the machete.”
Undaunted, Ci-teh changes the subject. “So how rich is he?”
“Rich enough to buy you an airplane ticket,” I answer.
“I didn’t need him to fly me here. I could have bought my own ticket,” she brags. “My family now makes one hundred times what we did just five years ago. All because of Pu’er.” She laughs, giddy, I suppose, at the craziness of the changes we’ve seen. But crowing about her own wealth serves to bring her back to her original subject. “Really, how rich is he? A millionaire? A billionaire?”
“I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter to me anyway.” I’ve been reciting these phrases to myself the past twenty-four hours. In truth, I wouldn’t mind having the answers, although a part of me is afraid of them.
“Would he invest in a business with me?”
As I put on my headdress, I meet my friend’s eyes in the mirror. “Ci-teh, you already sell your teas through my shop. Are you hoping to compete with me?” I’ve kept the question light and teasing.