The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane Read online

  Jin calls his mother to tell her we won’t be home before Chinese New Year after all. When I phone Ci-teh and explain the change in plans, she says, “I was hoping to see you soon so we could catch up. I miss you.” Before I can respond, she hurries on. “That’s okay. I’ll make us rich instead.” I try to suggest that she keep her aspirations modest. “It’s only tea,” I caution. When she comes back with “It’s so much more than that to me,” I know I’ve left my shop with the exact right person.

  We cancel our flight back to China and move into our house. The myrtlewood-paneled library on the ground floor doubles as Jin’s office, and I also have a room—what the agent called a solarium—where I have a desk, phone, computer, fax line, and Internet connection. I talk to Ci-teh nearly every day.

  “These weeks leading up to the holiday have been very busy with shoppers buying hostess gifts,” she gushes. “I’ve sold all the tea from Laobanzhang and have ordered more.”

  It’s impressive, but I have to ask: “Don’t you miss Law-ba and the girls?”

  “Not one bit!”

  I hope she’s telling me the truth, because having her at Midnight Blossom allows me to focus on my husband and my home.

  One week later, on February 18, Chinese New Year arrives. We Akha have our own cycles and our own new year, so I always ignored the Han majority’s celebrations when I was in Kunming and Guangzhou. “Now that I’m married to a Han majority man,” I confide to Ci-teh one night on the phone, “I want to give him a proper holiday. To figure out how to do that, I’ve been watching the pre–Year of the Pig holiday shows on TV and looking at the other houses on our street to see how they’re decorated.”

  “You should also spy on what women buy in the shops,” Ci-teh advises.

  I do exactly that and purchase couplets to hang on either side of our front door and a ceramic pig painted gold and tied with a red ribbon to set on our dining table. Jin and I put together a small altar to commemorate his ancestors. We’re only two people and don’t have family and friends to celebrate with, but a neighbor, Rosie Ng, invites us to join her family for dinner at one of the big Hong Kong–style restaurants on Valley Boulevard in Monterey Park.

  * * *

  Jin and I settle into a routine. A-ma has sent tea from Nannuo and I’ve had Ci-teh mail a few special teas from my shop, so we now start the day sitting at a small table by the window that overlooks the back garden, sipping golden liquid from small cups, and drawing inspiration from the old aphorism An hour spent drinking tea is the hour when the prince and the peasant share thoughts and ready themselves for the commonalities and woes of their separate lives. This allows the rest of the day to unfold in a relaxed manner, with no worries or anxieties. Around noon, Rosie picks me up, and we go grocery shopping. Jin and I take walks together in the afternoons. After dinner, we make our calls to China. It’s gratifying to know that my shop has done so well in my absence. Well? I mean great! Ci-teh has done an impressive job and taken advantage of every opportunity.

  “Prices for Pu’er have skyrocketed,” she tells me. “In March, during the ten days of tea picking, thousands upon thousands of traders, connoisseurs, and journalists from all around the world climbed the tea mountains of Yunnan. Some people even brought old cakes of tea with them. They said they were on a ‘pilgrimage to the place of origin.’ ”

  She sounds like a completely different person, but everything she’s said is true. I saw it on TV. Big crowds stepping from buses, elbowing each other to have a chance to try out killing the green and shouting ever-soaring prices in the faces of bewildered growers. Teacher Zhang sent word that tea from wild forest trees was the most popular. Third Brother sold a single kilo of raw tea from one of his old trees to a dealer for 570 yuan, the equivalent of seventy-five dollars!

  I’ll always have tea from Nannuo in my shop, because I still believe what Tea Master Sun told me—that one day people will prize it as much as, if not more than, the king and queen of teas—but I agree to let Ci-teh send her husband to Laobanzhang to buy more product. Later in the week, Ci-teh calls to give her report.

  “Don’t be mad, but he spent a lot.”

  “How much?”

  “Eight hundred yuan a kilo—”

  “No!”

  “Listen. I told him to do it, and it turned out to be a good deal, because the next day the price jumped to twelve hundred a kilo.”

  “Waaa!”

  “Don’t worry. I can sell those teas for even more money.”

  There’s only one thing left to say. “You’re clearly a much better businesswoman than I am, because if I’d been there I’d probably be thinking too much about flavor, aroma, and provenance instead of higher profits. Thank you.”

  “No. Thank you.”

  I may have misjudged Ci-teh when she landed in Guangzhou, but now I’m grateful for her cleverness and fortitude.

  * * *

  When Rosie’s golden retriever somehow manages to get up on the roof of her home, Jin and I meet several other neighbors—all Han majority Chinese. We stand on the sidewalk to laugh and point as Rosie’s husband runs a ladder to the roof to rescue the animal. Tea is poured. Snacks are shared. We gather on the street another time when the limb of a jacaranda snaps and closes the road until Street Maintenance comes and clears it away. At American Easter, Rosie hosts an egg hunt for children in the neighborhood. We’re invited even though we don’t have a baby. When Rosie drops her son’s basket and several of the hard-boiled eggs break open, her relaxed attitude about the mess relieves my shyness about being an outsider. I help her clean up the eggs and sweets called jelly beans and Peeps. She’s grateful—and friendly. By the end of the day, she’s given me a Western-style name: Tina. Jin likes it, and the neighbors pick it up in days. I practice saying my name over and over again in the same way I once memorized English phrases at my trade school: Tina Chang, Tina Chang, Tina Chang.

  Every moment of every day seems perfect, except I don’t come to a head. Getting pregnant isn’t so easy when you’re trying. The more weeks that pass, the more I seek answers in Akha beliefs. Although I never once dreamed of water when I was pregnant with Yan-yeh, I go to sleep every night, hoping I’ll dream of rushing water, which will announce that a baby has been released from the baby-making lake. Jin knows me very well already, so whenever he sees me leave the bathroom looking worried, he reminds me that we’ve only been married four months. His words are meant to be reassuring, but they make me even more anxious because they let me know he’s been counting too.

  At the beginning of May, Rosie tells me about a Mandarin-speaking doctor—an ob-gyn—but before I can make an appointment two unfathomable things happen. First, an all-time record is set when four hundred grams of maocha—raw Pu’er—sell at auction for 400,000 yuan. Nearly $53,000! I’m thinking I may end up as rich as my husband in my own right—kidding, but still fun to fantasize about—when a Chinese-language channel airs a special called The Bubble of Pu’er Is Broken, which I watch in our living room as Jin naps on the couch next to me.

  The show begins in the Fangcun Tea Market with the reporter claiming that Pu’er prices are inflated. At first, I tell myself that this isn’t the worst criticism. In fact, something like this might have even been expected. After all, Tall trees catch much wind and The bird that stands out is easily shot. Then the show takes an even darker turn.

  “Not only are the prices inflated but many teas claiming to be Pu’er are fakes,” the reporter says. “These would include ninety percent of tea bought in Yiwu—the so-called home of the queen of Pu’er. It’s been labeled as ‘authentic forest tea’ but is actually just terrace tea from elsewhere.”

  Another accusation has to do with Pu’er from the Laobanzhang area. The camera follows the reporter as he walks a few meters and then plants himself directly in front of Midnight Blossom. My stomach tightens. I shake Jin awake. He groggily sits up as the reporter says, “The Fangcun Tea Market alone claims to have five thousand tons of Laobanzhang tea, yet the
entire village harvests only fifty tons a year. That means that the vast majority of Laobanzhang Pu’er in the Fangcun Market is fake.”

  I clasp a hand around my throat, hoping to steady my voice. “Ci-teh has been selling Pu’er from Laobanzhang. She even had her husband buy more recently. She wouldn’t have sold counterfeit tea, would she?”

  “No, she wouldn’t. She’s your friend . . .”

  “Other teas from other villages also declared Pu’er are not,” the reporter continues. “Many of the teas being sold as naturally aged have been artificially fermented. Many of the health claims are false as well. Contrary to popular opinion, some scientists have suggested that drinking artificially fermented Pu’er can cause cancer . . .”

  With each new revelation, another wave of panic washes over me. Throughout the special, proprietors try to hide their faces from the camera. Some are successful, but others spit out denials in high-pitched angry tones, while shaking their fists at the camera. Nothing, however, can hide the names of shops or stands. Midnight Blossom. The conclusion—and it’s one I’ve come to myself—is that my business must be one of the worst offenders.

  I repeatedly call the shop and Ci-teh’s cellphone but never get an answer.

  “What am I going to do?” I ask my husband.

  Jin tries to sound unfazed. “Maybe the show won’t mean anything. People are watching now, but they’ll forget about it tomorrow.” After a pause, he asks, “Wouldn’t Ci-teh call if there’s a problem?”

  I ponder the idea, playing it out in my head. “A better question might be why she hasn’t called already.” I point to the screen. “You can see my whole shop, but where is she?”

  Jin’s mouth tightens into a grim line. Without another word, he goes to his computer and begins looking for flights.

  * * *

  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.

  In the three years since I was last here, the changes are dramatic. The road from Jinghong to Menghai is jammed with trucks, tractors, buses, and private cars. The street itself has been paved and the berms planted with palm trees, hibiscus, and bougainvillea. Hawkers sidle through the traffic selling grilled meats and soda pop. We pass billboards advertising motor scooters, a transmission repair garage, and baby formula.

  We turn onto Menghai’s main street, illuminated by the yellow glow of overhead lamps. My breath catches as I’m thrown back to the night I walked along this road, searching for a place to hide before I abandoned my baby. As we near the Social Welfare Institute, I grip the piece of plastic that edges the passenger window. On the steps, someone sleeps in the rain under a broken-down cardboard box. Jin puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me to him. I bury my face in his shirt. Why is this hitting me harder than the times I passed
through when I was waiting to hear if I’d gotten into the tea college? Ever since I left this place, my life has been one of up, up, up. I’m married to a kind man, whom I love deeply. We have two homes—an idea inconceivable even a year ago. I’m so very lucky, but I’ll never escape the regrets I have for leaving my daughter on this very street. Ci-teh’s betrayal has complicated and multiplied my emotions. My insides are raw with pain.

  We check in to the hotel. Our room has a squat toilet. The promised hot water is lukewarm, and our bath towels aren’t a millimeter larger than kitchen towels. Jin paces, looking worried. He wants to talk. I don’t. When he gets in bed, I roll away from him. He puts a hand on my hip to comfort me, but I don’t acknowledge him. I’m so down—my business failed, my family and village back on the path to poverty, all the memories this town brings up about Yan-yeh—and now I’m an ungrateful wife. My jet lag is terrible and my emotions are jumbled, but I can’t fall asleep. The mattress is too hard, the rain batters the window like knocking spirits, and my mind is awash in reminiscences. How could I have thought that the happiness I’ve felt with Jin these past months could ever erase who I am or what I’ve done?

  Morning comes, and the rain still pours down. In the dining room, Jin orders tea and spicy noodle soup. I rinse our eating utensils with the hot tea to kill germs. Our napkins are lengths of toilet paper.

  “If you don’t want to talk to me,” Jin says into the bleak silence, “you don’t have to, but I hope you’ll listen to what I have to say to you. We both know that wealth, privilege, hard work, and luck do not heal a heart, nor can they save us from sadness, loneliness, or guilt. Before we go to your village, let’s visit the orphanage.”