The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(81)
* * *
Walking into the tea market two days later is like entering a tomb. The lights are dim, as usual, but the aisles are completely empty of people and goods, and many of the shops have already been vacated. We turn onto the corridor that leads to Midnight Blossom. Someone sits on the floor outside the shop, legs stretched before him. He jumps to his feet as I approach. It’s Xian-rong.
“I didn’t know how to reach you,” he sputters. “I’ve been asking Ci-teh for your contact information for weeks, but she wouldn’t give it to me.”
I peer through the window. Large bags of loose tea rest open on the floor and the shelves have their displays of tea cakes, but my shop still manages to look ghostly.
“My father and I tried the hotel where you first went on your honeymoon—”
“So long ago?”
He’s only a teenager, but his eyes are hollow with worry. I glance at Jin. He’s set his face into an impenetrable mask. Inside, I feel as though everything I’ve worked for is being swept down a river. I fumble with my keys and unlock the door. Wordlessly, the boy slips behind the table. Jin and I sit opposite him. I feel strangely detached. It’s my shop, but Xian-rong is in charge. He shows me a tea cake. The rice paper is printed with the distinctive Laobanzhang label, with a date and a stamp of authenticity.
“You can’t fake that,” I say.
“Someone must have sold her unused wrappers,” Xian-rong replies.
He opens the cake, uses a pick to break apart the leaves, puts a few of them into a little dish, and hands them to me to smell. The odor is of dirt and mildew, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that what Ci-teh bought—and what my shop has been selling—is counterfeit. Irrepressible hope flickers from deep inside. Maybe this Laobanzhang Pu’er is of minor quality, picked at the end of the year or during the monsoon. He brews the tea and pours it. The smell of jungle rot—the telltale giveaway of a badly artificially fermented Pu’er—assaults my senses. My worst suspicions are confirmed.
“Where is she?” I ask.
“They started doing interviews about ten days ago,” Xian-rong answers. “She left the next day.”
“Did she fly back to Yunnan?” The idea that Ci-teh could manage to buy a ticket and get to the airport on her own, even after what I now know, seems impossible, beyond her.
Xian-rong lifts his shoulders in response. After a moment, he says, “Nannuo Mountain is her home—”
“And her husband and children are there.”
“I never thought an Ahka could be so devious,” he adds.
I can’t believe it either.
* * *
What happens over the next couple of days is worse than my worst imaginings. The world market for Pu’er collapses, falling in value by half. It’s estimated that dealers like me have between one hundred and three hundred tons of Pu’er in storage that they’ll now be unable to sell. In Guangzhou, reports reveal that it would take every single resident of the city drinking Pu’er every day for eight years to deplete the excess stock. Most damning, New Generations Magazine reports that the number of people in China speculating on Pu’er has reached 30 million, and that dealers, bankers, and government officials have all worked together to cheat them. This cascade of news causes several more emporiums in the tea market to go belly-up. I close mine too, never once having met my partners. Nearly all my stock goes into trash bins. My three tea men, sensing a unique opportunity, buy my best teas at rock-bottom prices with plans to store them until the value rises again to that of gold. “You’ll make even me rich one day,” Mr. Lin tells me. I need to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from weeping.
Jin and I retreat to Shamian Island. When he’s asleep or out, I go into the bathroom, lock the door, and sob. I’m nearly torn apart by sadness, regret, and guilt. I’m Akha, but in my new and pretty life—one seemingly removed from the danger of spirits—I ignored signs that I should have instantly recognized as bad omens: the dog who mysteriously mounted Rosie’s roof, the tree limb that blocked our street, the cracked hard-boiled eggs. I didn’t pay attention. I was so happy . . .
My life is not over, however. I have a wealthy husband so I won’t be poor again, but back home my a-ba and brothers—and probably everyone in Spring Well Village—who were already in debt after the building expenses required by the Quality Safety Standard, have lost their income. Will everyone be thrown back to living hand to mouth? My mind spirals with worry but also suspicion. Is the money Ci-teh had been depositing my cut for selling the fake Pu’er? Could my family and others in Spring Well be a part of this? Again and again, I circle back to Ci-teh. How could she have done this to me?
When I tell Jin that I need to go home for a few days, he agrees, saying, “I’ll come with you. Maybe I can help.” We take a flight to Kunming, and then on to Jinghong. It’s evening, pouring rain, and very hot and humid when we step off the plane. Jin hires a driver to take us to a small hotel for tea dealers and collectors in Menghai. “It’s an easy drive to your village—only about an hour and a half,” Jin explains. “We can stay in the hotel in town, have creature comforts, and go back and forth to your village as needed.” That’s not how I remember getting in and out of Spring Well, but he seems very sure. The driver loads our bags in the trunk, Jin and I get in the backseat, and then we’re on our way.