HPDBC Chapter 15, 9 paragraphs
Chapter 15, 9 paragraphs
Pushing open the back door, it was raining on the side of the Republic of China.
A light drizzle fell from the eaves, dripping down the gutters and hitting the bluestone slabs with a soft, fragmented sound.
Wu Ling walked behind the counter, picked up the kettle on the charcoal stove to test the temperature, and found it was still a little too hot.
There were only two tables occupied in the teahouse in the early morning. The waiters weren't working today, and the two old men by the window were playing chess.
One player reached out to place a piece, only to have it slapped back by the opponent.
"Old man Fan, you son of a bitch, take back your move!"
"Who regretted it? Cao Lao Er, are you blind?"
Master Liu sat in the corner, a copper shovel tucked behind his ear, his eyes closed as if he were dozing.
Old Zhou hasn't arrived yet.
The water boiled, and Wu Ling rinsed several bowls of Sanhua (a type of savory broth) and placed them on the counter.
Grandpa Fan took two bowls back himself, one for Grandpa Cao and one for himself, his eyes never leaving the chessboard.
Wu Ling also brought a bowl of tea to Master Liu and placed it on the corner of the table. Master Liu didn't move his eyelids, but he reached out and picked it up.
The curtain was lifted, and Old Zhou came in.
The hem of his gray cloth robe was stained with mud, and he hadn't brought a palm-leaf fan.
He walked to his usual spot and sat down, and Wu Ling brought him tea.
"You come even on a rainy day."
"What am I supposed to do if I don't come? My wife at home thinks I'm in the way."
After a while, the curtain was lifted again.
It's Aunt Zhou.
She carried a bamboo basket covered with a blue cloth, and wore an old scarf over her shoulder to keep out the rain.
"Young Master Wu, would you like to try something?"
She lifted the blue cloth, revealing a plate of brown sugar glutinous rice cakes, with brown sugar syrup poured evenly and a layer of soybean flour sprinkled on top.
Wu Ling took it and took a bite.
The outer layer is crispy, while the inside is soft and chewy, and brown sugar juice seeps out from the middle when you bite into it.
The brown sugar wasn't melted and poured directly on; it was boiled, making it thick and with a caramelized aroma.
There's a hint of ginger flavor hidden underneath.
"Ginger was added to the brown sugar syrup."
"Your words are even more eloquent than before."
Aunt Zhou sat down at the table next to the counter and watched him eat.
"My husband mentioned the ingredients for the egg pancakes you made last time. This glutinous rice cake is simple and not easy to mess up. The key is the brown sugar syrup."
"Auntie, you've gone to so much trouble. Is there a specific method to making brown sugar?"
"Of course. Start with low heat. Put the brown sugar in the pot without stirring. Let it melt on its own, until it starts to bubble, then stir until it clings to the spoon. The ginger juice must be added last, after the pot has been removed from the heat. If you add it too early, the ginger flavor will dissipate."
She took a slip of paper from the bottom of the basket and placed it on the counter.
"Here's the recipe. Two ounces of glutinous rice flour, one and a half ounces of brown sugar, three mace of soybean flour, and a little ginger juice."
She pointed to the two words "a little".
"Ginger juice can only be judged by feel. Too much is spicy, too little is bland. I believe your friend who makes egg pancakes understands."
Wu Ling folded the note and stuffed it into his pocket.
"Thank you, Auntie."
"No need to thank me. Your grandfather used to work from morning till night all by himself before he hired a waiter. I feel much more at ease knowing you have friends helping you out."
Aunt Zhou smiled at Wu Ling, picked up her empty basket, and left.
Grandpa Fan and Grandpa Cao had just finished a game and were arguing for a while about who had won.
"I let you have that cannon shot."
"Shut up, you've lost your car and you're still being stubborn."
Unable to reach a conclusion, they each took a sip of tea, flipped the pieces, and started again.
Wu Ling refilled their water, and the curtain was lifted for the third time.
Che Fu arrived, a notebook tucked under his arm, raindrops clinging to his shoulder.
"Uncle Zhou. Manager Wu."
He sat down by the door and ordered a bowl of Sanhua (a type of steamed bun).
I took a sip, glanced at the counter, and then couldn't look away.
There was still a piece of brown sugar glutinous rice cake left on the plate on the counter.
"Is this a new product?"
"Your aunt just brought this over, have a taste."
Chefu was waiting for Wu Ling's words.
He picked up the piece of glutinous rice cake and took a bite. After chewing it a couple of times, his eyes lit up.
"It's made with brown sugar syrup and contains ginger."
He took the pencil off his ear and wrote a few words in his notebook.
"The heat is just right, no wonder it's made by Aunt Zhou. The brown sugar glutinous rice cakes sold outside are made by pouring melted brown sugar syrup over them, which is sickeningly sweet. This one is sweet with a hint of caramel, and warm with a hint of caramel. The ginger is just right, and it leaves your mouth feeling clean after eating. It's perfect for a rainy day."
After finishing writing, Che Fu tucked the pencil back behind his ear.
"I've only ever had brown sugar glutinous rice cakes like this in two places in Chengdu. One is the stall next to Xie Liangfen on Huaxing Street, run by an old lady in her eighties who closed down last year. The other is Aunt Zhou's. By the way, Manager Wu, have you ever tried the sweet water noodles on Tidu Street?"
"no."
"Then you're missing out. The noodles are stretched thicker than chopsticks, boiled, rinsed in cold water, and then mixed with soy sauce, brown sugar, minced garlic, and Sichuan peppercorn powder. Sweet, salty, and numbing flavors are all mixed together. The first bite might seem chaotic, but the second bite will be addictive."
As he spoke, he swallowed hard.
"There's also an old man selling steamed rice cakes near the North Gate Bridge. He pushes a small cart, and the steamer is steaming. The rice flour is mixed with brown sugar and sesame seeds. They're one copper coin each, so hot you can't hold them; you have to use a lotus leaf to support them. You can smell it from across the street when you pass by."
As Wu Ling listened, he unconsciously memorized all the names behind the counter.
Sweet water noodles on Tidu Street, steamed rice cakes at Beimen Bridge.
Che Fu's mouth can describe food more vividly than he can tell stories.
Old Zhou chimed in from the side.
"You're always going to so many restaurants, how many articles have you actually written?"
"I've written... eating is also writing, right?"
Che Fu smiled, closed his notebook, and stood up.
"Manager Wu, I'll bring a friend another day."
Come on.
Che Fu walked to the door and then looked back at the empty plate.
The curtain fell, and the glutinous rice cake dish was empty.
It's still raining.
Grandpa Fan and Grandpa Cao finally finished showering and left, each holding their own umbrella.
Grandpa Cao walked to the door, turned back, and called out, "Old Fan, if you lose tomorrow, you have to treat me to a bowl of noodles, okay?"
"Get my ass!"
Grandpa Fan's voice came from under the umbrella.
Only Wu Ling and Old Zhou remained in the teahouse.
Utter silence.
The sound of rain hitting the tiles gradually changed, becoming rougher.
What started as a light drizzle turned into real rain.
No one was walking in the alley.
The tobacco vendor next door, Zhang's, closed half of his door, leaving only a crack.
In this kind of weather, Wu Ling felt that the teahouse was most like a teahouse.
It was raining outside, but inside there was a charcoal fire and tea.
No need to greet customers, no need to busy yourself with making egg pancakes, no need to think about running a business.
It's just a quiet place to brew tea.
Wu Ling cleared away the dishes, wiped the table, added charcoal to the stove, and poured Old Zhou another bowl of tea.
After finishing all that, he sat down opposite Old Zhou.
"Old Zhou, I want to ask you something."
"Um."
"Who ran this teahouse before my grandfather came?"
Old Zhou stopped.
"Why are you suddenly asking this?"
"I saw an old photo of a person standing at the entrance of this teahouse, who looks like the owner, but my grandfather wasn't born yet at that time."
Old Zhou looked at Wu Ling for a long time.
"The teahouse was already there when your grandfather first came here, and the signboard was already hanging there. I don't know about anything before that."
"That's true. Let's put the previous things aside for now. What happens after my grandfather arrives?"
"Later, your grandfather went on stage to speak."
"How long did you talk?"
"Many years."
Wu Ling looked at him. It wasn't that Old Zhou was taciturn; he just didn't want to continue.
"Old Zhou, I didn't just ask casually."
Old Zhou put the covered bowl down, a little heavier than usual.
"When your grandfather passed away, the murals were already mostly dark. Did you know that?"
"I don't know."
"The murals are fading. Your grandfather told me this himself, and it's something we can see. I also mentioned it to you when you first came here."
Old Zhou's voice had changed; it wasn't his usual slow, leisurely tone.
It's too low, it's too heavy.
"In the beginning, your grandfather thought that when he read a story, a section of the mural would light up."
"Will it work?"
"Yes, he told a story, and it really made a splash."
"So he talked non-stop. Three shows a day. One in the morning, one in the afternoon, and one more before closing time in the evening. When his voice got hoarse, he would suck on a herbal medicine and keep going. Once, he talked until midnight, and all the waiters had left, leaving me alone in the audience. But he was still talking."
The rain intensified, and the water on the eaves formed continuous lines.
"But suddenly for a while, what he said changed. Before, he told stories, but later he told them as if he were giving an account."
"Explain?"
"They told me what this alley used to be like. They told me when the bridge across the river was built. They told me who planted the tree in front of the teahouse. One thing at a time, as if they were telling me everything that happened on this street, afraid of forgetting."
"Is he afraid he'll forget?"
"It's not that he's afraid of forgetting. It's that he's afraid no one will remember."
Old Zhou looked at him.
"I advised him. I told him to take it easy, his voice is his livelihood. He said: 'Old Zhou, if I don't speak, it gets dark. If I stop, it gets dark.'"
Wu Ling's hands clenched tightly under the table.
"And then what?"
Old Zhou picked up the covered bowl, put it down, then picked it up again, circling his finger along the rim of the bowl.
"Old Zhou!"
"I stopped talking about it later."
Why?
"Once I asked him: 'Aren't you going on stage anymore?' He said: 'I've said what I needed to say. I can't say what I didn't want to say.'"
When he uttered the words "I can't speak anymore," Old Zhou pursed his lips.
"The last time I went on stage was in winter, it was snowing, and there were very few people in the audience."
"What did he say?"
"He mentioned a teahouse."
"Tell me about this teahouse?"
"I don't know if it's this one. He said there was a teahouse that had been open for many, many years, but he stopped halfway through his story. He sat on the stage for a long time before coming down."
"That was the last time he went on stage, and he stopped talking after that. The last few times he came, he would sit there from when the store opened until closing time. Xiao Cui's mother would refill his water, but he wouldn't drink it and would just leave it there. The mural was right across from him."
Wu Ling kept his head down.
The rain stopped.
Water was still dripping from the eaves.
He said two things to me before he left.
Which two sentences?
"First sentence: Someone will continue the story."
Wu Ling waited for the second sentence.
Old Zhou stood up.
This was the second time Wu Ling had seen him stand up in the teahouse; the first time was when he took him to his home.
Old Zhou is the kind of person who avoids standing if he can avoid it.
His standing up indicated that he had put this matter aside for a long time.
He walked behind the counter, bent down, and rummaged through the bottom shelf.
After flipping around for a while, I straightened up.
I have an extra piece of paper in my hand.
It was folded twice, turned yellow, and the edges curled up a bit.
He walked back and placed the paper in front of Wu Ling.
The second sentence: Give this to him at the appropriate time.
Wu Ling looked at the paper.
"How long have you been waiting? Why didn't you give it to me before?"
"From the moment he came to you, I will give when I want to, and I won't give when I don't want to."
Old Zhou sat back down.
The covered bowl was placed beside me, but I didn't pick it up.
"Open it and take a look."
Wu Ling unfolded the paper.
The four characters in the center of the page read "Nine Ranks, Not Yet Finished".
The following nine lines of text, arranged vertically, were smaller than any of his grandfather's handwriting he had ever seen.
The first three lines have been crossed out.
The fourth line was cut in half.
The horizontal line is drawn from the left and then breaks in the middle.
"Is what's crossed out the part that's been finished?"
"After each paragraph is finished, a line is drawn, and a section of the mural is illuminated."
"What did he say?"
Old Zhou looked at the paper for a while.
"The first paragraph is about this alley. It starts from before the alley existed, and goes on to tell the story of the first well, the first tree that grew beside the well, and the first shop that was built under the tree. After that, the outline of a street appeared on the mural—and only then did we realize that the mural was actually depicting this alley."
"What about the second paragraph?"
"The second paragraph is about a man. A kiln worker. He said that man fired bowls his whole life, and the bowls he fired were so thin that you could see the shadow of your finger when you held them up to the sun, but no one ever bought them. In the end, he kept one for himself. The bottom of the bowl was cracked because the temperature inside the kiln was too high. He couldn't bear to throw it away."
Wu Ling's gaze unconsciously drifted to the counter, then returned; this was not modern.
What is the third paragraph about?
"A river. Huanhua Creek."
Old Zhou pointed to the crossed-out words on the third line of the paper.
"It tells the story of a woman who made paper by a stream. The paper she made was as thin as a cicada's wing and printed with flowers."
Wu Ling's fingers twitched on the edge of his pocket.
"And the fourth section? The one he gave his last speech on stage. Where does it end?"
"It is said that every teahouse owner leaves something on the counter. One owner left a piece of ceramic with words engraved on it, which no one could recognize. The story ends here."
A bowl left by a kiln worker, a flower printed by a papermaking woman, and a piece of pottery with words that no one can recognize.
The bronze stove, the pottery shards, the cracked bowl—it all matches up.
Wu Ling looked down at the paper.
The first three and a half lines were crossed out.
The last five and a half lines have not been changed.
A small flower was drawn next to the fifth line.
The five petals have very even lines, unlike something drawn casually.
The petals are drawn in one continuous stroke, without any breaks or hesitation.
Grandpa draws everything else carelessly, but he draws this flower with care.
The text gets smaller and smaller from the sixth to the ninth line, and the last two lines are almost touching.
He couldn't understand most of it.
"Old Zhou, can you understand the rest?"
Old Zhou leaned over and squinted at it for a long time.
"These two in the fifth line look like Huanhua," he pointed. "The seventh line looks like a name, followed by a year. The rest... I can't recognize them. Your grandfather's handwriting keeps getting smaller and smaller."
"Five and a half elements."
Old Zhou looked at him.
"Your grandfather spoke in three and a half paragraphs. He marked three and a half lines."
"Five and a half lines remain."
Wu Ling folded the paper, his hands trembling.
He stuffed the paper into his pocket and stuck it to the gavel.
The last few drops of water fell from the eaves onto the bluestone slab with a clear sound.
The light outside the window brightened, a corner of the cloud dispersed, and sunlight streamed in, landing perfectly on the countertop.
He stood up and bowed to Old Zhou.
"Thank you."
"No need to thank me."
Old Zhou took a sip of tea and put down the covered bowl.
"Go back. That's where you usually are. Here, you can come whenever you want and talk whenever you want."
Before pushing open the door, Wu Ling looked back. Old Zhou was still in his usual spot, motionless. The teahouse would still be open tomorrow, and Grandpa Fan and Grandpa Cao would still come to argue.
Two pieces of paper in my pocket.
A recipe for brown sugar glutinous rice cakes.
A nine-section book.
He pushed open the door.