The hulijing courtiers turn wide shimmering eyes my way. They dare not speak to me within earshot of Niang Niang, but their terror has subsided. I suppose, at the very least, I should be happy I’ve managed to thwart Niang Niang’s attempts to terrorise others. I stare at the ceiling. Is it too late for me to take back my words?
Niang Niang smiles shrewdly. ‘SinceMinister of Hell Lady Jingherself made the offer, how can I refuse?’
Big Wang makes a softmmmgh, clearly unhappy. He gives me a look that says,If you plant gourds, you’ll get gourds. If you plant beans, you’ll get beans. If you roll in turds on purpose, it’s not my responsibility to clean you up.
‘Are we agreed then, Brother Wang?’
‘We are agreed.’
At the door, Niang Niang says, ‘I will deal with your failures on your return to Court.’
As soon as the door shuts, the courtiers clamour to speak. It takes a few seconds before I realise they are thanking me.
‘Abundant gratitude noble, kind, generous Lady Jing,’ Lady Xi says. ‘If not for you, we would have likely had to travel withour matriarch. It is not pleasant to be in such close proximity, especially when she is in a bad mood.’
They are so loud my headache is in danger of returning.
‘May sherrr,’ I lie.
The furrow in Big Wang’s brow deepens. He inclines his head to the courtiers. ‘If you will excuse us, I have some matters to discuss with Lady Jing.’
Six
Yunnan Tea
Once we are alone, an apprentice arrives carrying a large tray full of tea paraphenelia and snacks. She arranges everything on the low table: the familiar teacups and teapots, the black porcelain tea tray carved to resemble eddying waves, and the usual array of small dishes containing my favourite snacks. There are fried dough knots sprinkled with powdered sugar, braised five spice peanuts, roasted melon seeds, grilled squid, some dragon beard candies, sesame crackers, and Tootsie rolls, a recent favourite, brought over specially from mortal Shanghai.
As a child, having tea with Big Wang was a weekly treat. While Big Wang made tea, I would talk, about anything and everything. It was Big Wang’s way of keeping tabs on my education and well-being, since he was a man of few words and I, as a child, had no filter. It was also one of the few times I could sit without fidgeting. Watching the ritual of pouring hot water from pot to pot, cup to cup, along with the fragrance the different teas produced, had an incredibly calming effect. I could be sobbing about some snotty kid being mean to me, or about getting scolded yet again by Horsey for some pointless breach of decorum like showing my knees, but after the first brew, I never failed to find my balance restored.
Big Wang fiddles with the eggshell porcelain vessels, moving them around the tray as if dissatisfied with their position. The tall cylindrical wenxiang cups are cleverly made to look like lotus buds, while the short wide pinmin cups resemble lotuses in full bloom. The hue of the flower petals, normally a blue-tingedwhite, changes colour depending on the tea. Marvelling at the artistry was as enjoyable as drinking the tea.
As I grew older though, tea with Big Wang became synonymous with serious discussions. Usually uncomfortable topics or bad news. I learned about the birds and the bees – one of the most cringe-inducing conversations I’ve ever had to have – over a smoky oolong from the Wuyi mountains. And over a sweet silver needle tea from Yunnan, I learned about my mother’s death.
Big Wang begins heating the vessels. He pours hot water into the teapot. As he swirls it around, he says with feigned nonchalance, ‘How is Tony?’
He empties the hot water into the gongdao cup next, his movements slow and deliberate. I have a bad feeling about this.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Busy. I haven’t seen him for a few months.’Because I’m an idiot and broke my dragon pearl.But I keep that to myself.
‘Mmmgh,’ he says as he pours the water from the gongdao cup into the long narrow wenxiang cups, steam rising from the delicate lotus bud. ‘The civil war is no doubt taking up much of his time.’
‘Why the sudden questions about Tony?’
Big Wang doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes each wenxiang cup in turn and pours the water into the two low pinmin cups.
‘Choose a tea, Little Jing.’
He discards the liquid onto the tray, where it runs in rivulets through the waves into hidden drain holes. I frown, but do as he asks.
My favourite part of making tea is getting to choose the tea. The different flavour profiles are always exciting to experience. Sometimes I can smell where the tea was harvested – whether in high foggy mountains, or near a swampy lake, the scents of the flora and fauna and the soil influence the fragrance of thetea. But what I love most are the tea jars. Each is a cloisonné masterpiece, depicting the tea bush on the front, framed by an intricate border. Some have floral designs, with curling vines and vibrant blooms, others have wildlife, deer and birds, sometimes butterflies. The selection of jars is rarely repeated.
Even now, their beauty pinches my heart. I pick one with a border of purple flowers. A pu-erh from Yunnan.
‘He writes to you often, though,’ Big Wang says.
I nod, trying to anticipate where this is going.
Big Wang scoops leaves into the teapot, rinses the leaves with more hot water, then pours the rinse into the gongdao cup, then the two narrow wenxiang cups, and finally the two pinmin cups before discarding again onto the tray.
