Old Jin City on the Wall

Chapter 3 The Rules of the Gate

Cracked tea bowl.

It's the one that my grandfather never let me touch since I was little.

Wu Ling hadn't thought much of it before, but now that he was comparing them side by side, he realized that this bowl was not one of those covered bowls at all.

The bowl's walls are much thicker than those of a blue-and-white covered bowl, making it heavy in the hand. The glaze is an indescribable blue-green, neither blue nor green, but rather the color of the mountains after rain, so smooth and reflective.

The entire glaze is covered with fine cracks, densely packed, with large cracks surrounding smaller ones, resembling a cracked riverbed or the surface of ice breaking apart.

The patterns were stained with varying shades of color, some dark brownish, others yellowish. The largest crack at the bottom of the bowl was the deepest, the tea stains looking as if they were embedded in the very core of the bowl.

He had always thought the bowl had been broken when it was dropped. But now, looking closer, he realized something was wrong. The cracks were too even, and the bowl itself was perfectly intact; it didn't look like it had been dropped, but rather like it had cracked on its own.

Wu Ling didn't know much about porcelain. But he had been to the provincial museum, where there was a gallery dedicated to Song Dynasty bowls and vases. He had seen the blue-green color through the glass, and the glaze even had cracks.

What did it say on the information board again? He couldn't remember.

He placed the rims of the two bowls together. One was white, the other blue; one was thin, the other thick.

One still carries the warmth of a teahouse from the Republican era, while the other has been cold for who knows how many years.

He wanted to call Wu Jianguo, not to ask for money, but just to make a call.

I glanced at the time; it was 2 a.m.

Never mind. The old man is asleep.

Wu Ling pulled an empty mineral water bottle from under the counter, filled it with some water, and put the gardenia in it.

The fragrance of flowers slowly spread through the teahouse late at night, and he couldn't help but continue flipping through his grandfather's notes.

This time, we turned to the third page.

He understood those three words.

"Gaiwan tea".

Next to it is a drawing of a covered bowl, drawn separately as a bowl, a lid, and a boat, with arrows and small words next to it.

The smaller print reads:

"The lid is tilted, continue. The lid is straight, stop. The lid is turned over and put into the bowl, remove. The leaf is placed on the lid, return."

Old Zhou just taught him, word for word.

Wu Ling didn't sleep all night.

As dawn broke, he stared at the old wooden door in the corner for five minutes, then walked over and pushed it open.

The back alley. Narrow, smelly, and piled with trash cans from the neighboring bubble tea shop.

He closed the door. He waited ten seconds. Then he opened it again.

In the back alley, a stray cat sat on the lid of a trash can, licking its paws, and glanced at him.

Close it.

the third time.

The back alley. The stray cats are all gone.

Wu Ling stood in front of the door, his hand still on the doorknob.

Last night, when I pushed open this door, a warm yellow light shone through the crack, and I heard voices and the sound of a gavel.

There's nothing here now.

He looked down at his hands, his palms still bearing the red marks from gripping the gavel last night.

It's not a dream.

He returned to the counter, sat down, and picked up the covered teacup.

The tea had gone completely cold. He took a sip of the cold tea; it was astringent and lacked the sweet aftertaste of last night.

It's cold, that's it.

He washed the covered bowl and placed it next to his grandfather's old covered bowl.

The new one was mixed in with the others, and it was impossible to tell which one was brought back from over there last night.

It's as if it was always here.

The days passed very slowly.

Grandpa Zhang arrived, took the birdcage, sat down in the corner, and brewed a bowl of tea himself.

Wu Ling sat absentmindedly in his grandfather's bamboo chair.

At noon, he tried another method: brewing another pot of the old Tuocha tea that his grandfather had left behind.

Last time, I brewed this tea, and the door opened. Maybe the tea is the key?

The tea soup, when poured into the cup, is amber in color and clear.

He took the cup, walked to the back door, took a deep breath, and pushed it open.

In the back alley, the delivery guy from the bubble tea shop next door was squatting down eating his boxed lunch. He looked up at him and asked, "Boss, you guys have a back door?"

"...Hmm. For ventilation."

close the door.

It's not tea. Or rather, it's more than just tea.

Wu Ling postponed it twice more in the afternoon.

One o'clock, in the back alley. Four o'clock, still in the back alley.

As Grandma Zhao was leaving, she glanced at him and said, "Little Wu, why are you always running to the back today?"

"……ventilation."

Grandma Zhao said "oh" and didn't ask any more questions.

As I left, I glanced back at him and shook my head.

The teahouse is empty.

Wu Ling leaned back in the bamboo chair, the drowsiness from not sleeping all night finally kicked in, and his eyelids couldn't stay open any longer, so he drifted off to sleep.

When he woke up, it was already dark. His neck was stiff, and there was a red mark from the bamboo chair.

He didn't turn on the light.

Occasionally a car would pass by on the street, its headlights sweeping across the window, causing the landscape on the mural to flicker and then dim again.

He sat in the dark and thought a lot.

If last night's events were true, then Grandpa sitting in the bamboo chair with his eyes half-closed every day wasn't dozing off, but rather waiting for the door to open.

He waited his whole life, until he could wait no longer...

Wait! There's light coming through the crack in the door!

Warm yellow. Slightly swaying.

When Wu Ling stood up, he knocked over the bamboo chair.

He walked to the door and placed his hand on the doorknob. His heart was pounding so hard that his fingers were trembling.

Take a deep breath. Push it away.

The hall was full.

The same light, the same voices, the same steaming tea from the covered bowls—just like last night. The waiter carried a long-spouted teapot through the tables, and Xiao Cui's calls drifted from near and far.

Old Zhou sat in his usual spot, the teacup lid resting askew on the rim of his bowl. He smiled when he saw him.

"You're here? Please have a seat."

Wu Ling wasn't stunned this time. His steps were still unsteady, but he moved over and sat down on his own.

The bamboo chair creaked, and he recognized it for the second time.

"Old Zhou—I tried pushing it several times yesterday, but it was always in the back alley."

"During the day?" Old Zhou thought for a moment. "You can open the door if you want, or push it a hundred times if you don't want to, but it's still just a back alley."

Is there a pattern?

"No." Old Zhou picked up his covered bowl and took a sip. "Your grandfather asked the same question. He figured it out himself later—when he was telling stories seriously, he opened the door more often. When he was just going through the motions, he didn't bother opening the door."

The teahouse is listening.

Wu Ling pondered these words for a moment.

The door opens when the storyteller is earnest, and closes when he's perfunctory; it turns out the teahouse has its own temperament.

"So my grandfather...tells stories every time he comes?"

"That was true at first. But later, when I couldn't say anything anymore, I would just come and sit for a while and have a bowl of tea."

Wu Ling looked down at the bowl of Sanhua tea in front of him.

"Old Zhou."

"Um?"

"I want to give it a try. Tell me a short story."

Old Zhou paused for a moment while holding the bowl, then put it down, scraped the surface of the bowl with the lid, and glanced at him.

"Fine. The platform is yours."

The stage wasn't big, just a table, a chair, and a gavel.

The dusty gavel on the stage was still on the table; he didn't touch it, but placed his grandfather's gavel next to it.

Two gavel, one new and one old.

The old one was the one he had waited two years for on stage; the new one was the one his grandfather had passed down to him his whole life.

He sat down in the chair and took a deep breath.

Straighten your clothes.

He was stunned for a moment, not noticing the shirt was t-shirt and no collar, then he laughed.

Forget it.

I picked up Grandpa's gavel; it felt heavy and warm, and the red mark on my palm matched perfectly.

shoot--

Snapped.

The teahouse fell silent for a moment.

Master Liu, who was cleaning ears, stopped. Xiao Cui turned her head in the distance, and Old Zhou, holding a covered bowl, looked down at the stage.

Dozens of eyes turned to look.

Wu Ling opened his mouth.

He was going to tell the story of the Three Kingdoms, his most famous anecdote being the Seven Captures of Meng Huo.

I've performed this story more than a dozen times in Chunxi Road. I know the rhythm by heart, and I'm always on the right beat for the jokes. I always get the most applause.

"Speaking of Zhuge Liang, the Prime Minister of Shu Han, who captured Meng Huo seven times during his southern campaigns, how formidable was Meng Huo? To give you an analogy, he was like a UFC heavyweight fighter in today's terms..."

Nobody knows what UFC is.

He realized something was wrong and quickly came back to the point: "In short, he was very good at fighting. Prime Minister Zhuge captured him seven times and released him seven times. The first time, Meng Huo was not convinced, the second time he was not convinced, and the third time..."

He used the tune from Chunxi Road.

Fast talk, punchlines, and perfect rhythm.

He explained the cause, process, and result in three minutes, turning the seven captures and releases into seven laugh-out-loud moments.

Not a single tea drinker from the Republican era in the audience laughed.

It's not that it's not funny, it's that they don't understand his rhythm.

The rhythm of Chunxi Road is for people scrolling through their phones.

If you don't get a joke within three seconds, swipe away.

But these people didn't use their phones; they held their covered bowls and waited for him to speak slowly.

He spoke faster and faster, and the faster he spoke, the more flustered he became.

When talking about the fifth capture and release, he wanted to make up for it by throwing out a joke, so he blurted out, "Just take them all in one go."

The tea drinkers looked at each other, their expressions blank.

What are you taking away?

An older tea drinker whispered to the person next to him, "What does 'one wave' mean?"

The person next to him shook his head.

Wu Ling's face flushed.

He swallowed hard, skipped the next two captures and releases, and finished the job directly.

He finished speaking in three minutes, and the gavel struck down.

"To find out what happens next—"

A few scattered cheers rang out. Someone picked up their now-cold tea and took a sip. Someone else went back to play chess.

It wasn't a jeer. What hurt more than a jeer was a polite coldness.

It wasn't that they didn't want to listen; it was that he spoke too fast, so fast that they didn't have time to immerse themselves in the story.

Wu Ling sat on the stage, clutching the gavel, his back covered in sweat.

The tea drinkers at a table near the door were already chatting about their own topics. Master Liu squatted back in the corner to clean his ears, and Xiao Cui was calling out among the tables again—the teahouse was bustling again, as if nothing had happened on stage.

When Wu Ling was replaced at Chunxi Road, he thought it was the worst situation, but no, not at all.

Because now it's even worse; it's not that they were blasted off, but that they didn't even leave a trace.

You spoke for three minutes, and the teahouse covered you up in three seconds.

When Wu Ling came down from the stage, his legs were even weaker than when he went up.

He noticed the dusty gavel on the stage.

My grandfather also came down from this platform back then, but when he came down, the scene below the platform must have been quite different.

Wu Ling sat down next to Old Zhou without saying a word. He picked up the covered bowl, took a sip, and burned his tongue.

Old Zhou didn't say a word. He waited a long time, waiting for him to put down the tea and for the sweat on his back to dry.

"I'm getting anxious."

Just two words.

Wu Ling remained silent.

He knew Old Zhou was right; he had only been on stage for three minutes, not even long enough for the teacups in the customers' hands to cool down.

"The first time your grandfather went on stage, he spoke for half an hour. He talked about where a bowl of tea comes from. It is picked from the mountain, withered, kneaded, dried, loaded onto a boat, floated down the Minjiang River, arrived in Chengdu, entered a teahouse, and entered a bowl."

Old Zhou slowly scraped the surface of the bowl with the tea lid.

"The audience was completely absorbed. It wasn't that the story was exciting, but that he told it so slowly. So slowly that you felt as if the tea leaf was right in front of you, drifting all the way from the mountain into your bowl."

"My grandfather talked about tea the first time he spoke about it?"

"Your grandfather knew from the very first time that these people weren't in a hurry."

Old Zhou glanced at him. His teeth were still stained yellow with tea, and his eyes were full of wrinkles when he smiled.

"Don't rush. Take your time."

Wu Ling looked down at the Three Flowers Tea in the bowl. The tea leaves unfurled at the bottom of the bowl, one by one, slowly.

Grandpa's words came out. He said them when Grandpa was twelve years old, when he was teaching him how to make tea.

It can't be rushed.

The light outside the window is changing again. A dark golden hue. The show is ending.

Wu Ling stood up, but this time he didn't abruptly. He slowly rose from the bamboo chair, straightened the gaiwan, and placed the tea lid diagonally on the rim of the bowl.

Refill the water. I'll come again next time.

"Old Zhou."

"Um?"

"I'll tell you another part next time. Slowly."

Old Zhou didn't turn around, he just waved his hand.

"Okay."

Wu Ling walked to the door. As he placed his hand on the doorknob, Old Zhou said something behind him.

"Oh, by the way, next time you come, bring some medicine for Xiaocui. She's been coughing for several days."

Wu Ling turned around. Xiao Cui was still shouting in the distance, her voice indeed a bit hoarse than it had been a couple of days ago.

"medicine?"

"Any medicine will do. The medicine you have should be more effective."

Old Zhou spoke casually, as if asking a neighbor to bring him a bag of salt.

Wu Ling felt like he'd been slapped on the back of the head.

His medicine.

The old man knew. He knew where he came from, knew that things were different over there, and knew that the medicine there was more effective than here. And the way he said it was like asking a neighbor to pick up a bag of salt on their way.

How many years has Grandpa lived here for an old tea drinker to talk about bringing things from another world so casually?

Wu Ling opened his mouth, wanting to ask too many questions, but couldn't squeeze out a single one.

Old Zhou didn't give him a chance to ask. He picked up the covered bowl, took a sip, and looked away.

Can you bring it over?

He looked down at his hands.

Last time I brought back a bowl of covered tea and a gardenia from here.

Conversely, what about bringing medicine from modern times?

"I...will give it a try."

Old Zhou nodded and didn't say anything more.

Wu Ling pushed open the door. The sounds of people, bowls, and Xiao Cui calling out behind him faded into the distance, like someone slowly turning down the volume of a small radio.

Finally, the aroma of tea lingers.

He stood in his teahouse, clutching his grandfather's gavel, his palms damp with sweat.

Wu Ling placed the gavel on the counter, next to the row of covered bowls. He stood there for a while.

Then he saw the mural on the back wall.

It was still hazy last night, and I couldn't see anything clearly.

But now...

He took two steps closer.

The painting on the far right depicts a tea drinker in a bamboo chair, a covered teacup, and a long gown, and a man cleaning ears.

The color seems a bit too dark.

It wasn't a major change, nor did it suddenly become brighter. It was the kind of subtle change you only notice when you stare at it, extremely faint, like an old photograph that has been lightly wiped of dust—it had deepened a little.

Wu Ling touched the wall with his finger; it was rough old brick, nothing special.

Stand back and look at it from a distance.

I still feel it's a bit too deep.

It could be an optical illusion, or it could be psychological.

After all, if a person stands in an empty teahouse and stares at an old wall, they can see everything.

Wu Ling shook his head and put down his study of the murals.

He remembered what Old Zhou had said about Xiao Cui coughing for several days.

So I immediately opened my phone and searched for it.

Isatis root and cough syrup are things you can easily buy at a pharmacy, costing only a dozen yuan a box.

It's nothing special here, but it's a different story over there.

The question is... can I bring it over?

He didn't know. It wasn't written in Grandpa's notes either.

While waiting for the takeout, Wu Ling opened his grandfather's notebook again and started reading from the fourth page, "Huanhua".

The winding lines might be a stream, or they might be a road. I can't understand them.

If you don't understand it, you don't understand it. Take your time.

Grandpa has studied for half his life. What's the rush?

We need to hurry with Xiao Cui's side.