Old Jin City on the Wall

Chapter 2 Covered Bowl 3 Flowers

The old tea drinker gestured with his chin toward the approaching waiter.

The waiter lifted the spout of the teapot, and two jets of water fell into the two covered bowls one after the other.

One bowl belonged to a regular tea drinker, while the other was newly placed in front of Wu Ling, without even a splash of water on the outside.

"Add tea—" the waiter called out, already walking away between the tables.

The seasoned tea drinker picked up the gaiwan, which had been refilled with water, used the lid to stir the floating tea leaves, and took a small sip.

There was no sound when I put the bowl down.

"Please sit down."

Wu Ling stood still.

It wasn't that he didn't want to sit down, it was that his mind hadn't quite processed it yet—just three seconds ago he was brewing tea in his own teahouse, and now the room was full of people in long gowns and cheongsams, and an old man was inviting him to sit down and drink tea, as natural as inviting a neighbor over.

Seeing that he didn't move, the old tea drinker patted the empty bamboo chair next to him again. The bamboo strips on the chair surface were woven tightly, and the cushion was made of old blue cloth with white scuffs on the edges.

Wu Ling hesitated for a moment, then moved unsteadily over and stood by the bamboo chair.

His legs went weak, and the movement of sitting down was more difficult than he had expected.

The bamboo chair creaked as if it had found a new owner.

The tea drinkers around him glanced at him and then looked away. The young man in the T-shirt sat in the middle of a room full of people in long gowns, more conspicuous than anyone else on the street outside the window, but no one made a fuss about it. It seemed that this was not the first time a strangely dressed young man had suddenly appeared in a teahouse.

The Three-Flower Tea was placed in front of me, its steam rising upwards, and the faint fragrance of jasmine wafted over.

"Try it. It's a three-flower dish, not expensive."

Wu Ling picked up the bowl, and it was heavier than he had imagined. It wasn't that the bowl was heavy; it was that he was holding it wrong.

The old tea drinker glanced at him, then reached out and pushed his fingers apart: "Thumb on the lid, index and middle fingers holding the bowl. The hand supporting the bottom should be loose, don't pinch it."

"...So many rules?"

"Didn't your grandfather teach you that?"

Your grandfather. Wu Ling paused for a moment before realizing that he meant his grandfather.

I taught him. But that was more than ten years ago.

Grandpa squatted down beside him, supporting his wrist with one hand, "Thumb on the lid—correct. Index and middle fingers holding the bowl—don't pinch it too hard."

Then I casually slapped the back of his hand, saying, "You're eating like that, I'll teach you how to drink tea."

"I taught it. I've forgotten."

The old tea drinker slowly shook his head. "It doesn't matter if you forget, your hand will remember."

Wu Ling picked up the covered bowl again, this time his hand wasn't so stiff.

The bowl was hot to the touch, but the hand supporting the bottom was loose, with a layer of air between them, so it didn't feel hot at all.

He brought the tea to his lips and took a sip. The warm tea slid over him, carrying a subtle floral fragrance that was completely different from the diluted tea drinks sold in tea shops.

"This tea..."

"San Hua, it's been the same flavor for decades."

The experienced tea drinker put down the gaiwan, resting the lid diagonally on the rim of the bowl.

It was placed at an angle. Wu Ling's gaze lingered on the tea lid for a second.

"Do you know what this means?" The old tea drinker pointed his chin at the tea lid.

Wu Ling shook his head.

"Lean the lid against the rim of the bowl—refill the water." He put the lid back on properly. "It's done—no more refills, don't bother. Turn it over and put it back in the bowl—let's go, checkout."

He picked a banyan leaf from the table next to him and placed it on the tea lid.

"If you leave a leaf behind, the person will come back. The waiter will know this, so he won't clear the bowl or offer them a seat."

"This is too much..."

Wu Ling wanted to say "trouble," but the words didn't come out. He looked down at his gaiwan and, imitating the old tea drinker, placed the lid diagonally on the rim of the bowl.

It veered and slipped, but he quickly steadied it. He tried again, and this time it was stable and didn't slip.

The old tea drinker saw this and nodded. "You learn faster than your grandfather."

"When your grandfather first came here," the old tea drinker said slowly, "the first thing he did was learn the proper etiquette for holding a gaiwan. It took him half a day to learn how to hold it steadily."

Wu Ling's heart clenched suddenly.

"My grandfather... comes often?"

"I used to come often." The old tea drinker scraped the surface of his bowl with the lid, not looking at him. "But I haven't come as often since. When I do come, I don't tell stories, I just sit and make tea."

"Oh, right," the old tea drinker said, as if remembering something, "my surname is Zhou, and the tea drinkers all call me Old Zhou. Your grandfather used to call me that too."

Wu Ling wanted to ask more questions, but something bumped against the back of his chair.

He turned his head, and a copper clasp was clipped to the ear of a middle-aged man.

The man was squatting behind his chair, his other hand holding a tiny hook as thin as a hair, cleaning the ear of an elderly tea drinker at the next table who had his eyes closed.

Wu Ling was startled and stepped forward.

The man didn't even look up, nor did he stop working; he only glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

That glance was quick, but Wu Ling still felt like he had been examined from head to toe.

"Master Liu," Old Zhou said in a low voice, "a craftsman, an ear cleaner."

Master Liu didn't reply. He spun the copper shovel in the light, his wrist as steady as if it were an extension of his body.

The customer getting his ears cleaned was so comfortable that he wiggled his toes and smiled.

"He's a man of few words," Old Zhou added. "Don't let his quiet demeanor fool you; he knows everything that's going on in the teahouse better than anyone else. He's got sharp ears, and he's not just good at listening to other people's stories."

Wu Ling glanced at Master Liu secretly.

Master Liu remained in the same position, squatting with steady hands and a closed mouth, but his ears twitched slightly, as if he had heard Old Zhou talking to him, but he was too lazy to respond.

Just as Wu Ling was about to ask why, a clear voice came from between the tables.

"Shopkeeper!"

A girl of sixteen or seventeen was carrying a bamboo basket filled with white flowers.

She moved through the tables like a fish—slippery, fast, without touching anyone's chair legs.

"Shopkeeper, want to buy some flowers? Gardenias, the first batch this morning."

She approached Wu Ling, looking up at him with a smile. She had a round face, bright eyes, and a small mole on the tip of her nose.

"This is Xiao Cui," Old Zhou said.

Xiao Cui moved the bamboo basket closer to Wu Ling, and the fragrance of gardenias wafted over, strong but not cloying.

The petals were so white they shone, with not a trace of yellow at the edges.

Gardenias at the end of March.

He also planted it once in modern times, but it only bloomed in June.

Wu Ling didn't have time to think it through.

"So you're the new manager!" Xiao Cui looked up at him, her gaze lingering on his face for a couple of seconds, her ears turning slightly red. "The old manager said a young man would be coming."

That same phrase again.

"The old shopkeeper said—" Wu Ling's voice was hoarse, "What else did my grandfather say?"

Xiao Cui tilted her head and thought for a moment. "The old shopkeeper said a lot. But the most frequent sentence was..."

She imitated an old man's tone, slowing down her speech.

"Make good tea."

The four words on the note.

Xiao Cui probably sensed that he didn't look too good, so she immediately changed the subject: "Shopkeeper, would you like to buy a flower? It's only one cent a flower, very cheap."

"I...didn't bring any money."

That's the truth. A cell phone, a gavel, and a pack of cigarettes in my pocket—none of them are usable here.

"Never mind, it's yours." Xiao Cui picked out the largest gardenia from the basket and placed it next to his teacup. "It's the new manager's first day, so let's wish him good luck."

She turned and left, her bamboo basket swaying as she passed between the tables and disappeared into the crowd.

The gardenias are placed next to the covered bowl, their white petals touching the rim of the blue and white porcelain bowl, like a painting.

Wu Ling picked up his teacup, took a sip, and then looked past the rim of the bowl onto the back wall.

mural.

In modern times, that wall is all gray and you can't see anything clearly.

This is the original version—mountains, water, pavilions, streets, and people, layered and covering the entire wall, the colors so vibrant they look like they were painted just yesterday.

There was an empty space in the very center. It was completely blank, with nothing there. The more the area around it was filled with drawings, the more jarring that blank space became.

"Old Zhou, that—" he gestured towards the mural, "why is the middle empty?"

Old Zhou glanced in the direction of his gaze, his expression unchanged.

"It's been empty. Your grandfather asked about it too."

"What did he say?"

He said, "Once you finish drawing, it will naturally appear."

Is it finished? Who's drawing it?

Wu Ling looked at the edges of the mural. The brushstrokes did not seem to have been painted in one go. Some areas were dark in color, while others were so light that it looked like the first layer of base color had just been applied.

He didn't ask any further questions.

The teacup now smelled of gardenias, and it was warm. He took another sip.

"Old Zhou—"

"Um?"

"My grandfather...you know, what did he tell stories about?"

Old Zhou put down his teacup and remained silent for a while. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk, but rather that he was wondering where to begin.

"Your grandfather said—we must recite the Nine Sections of Book."

"The Nine-Section Book?"

"Yes. He named it himself, saying he would tell the story of Chengdu over three thousand years. From beginning to end, segment by segment."

Three thousand years. Wu Ling swallowed hard.

"You talked a lot?"

"Three sections." Old Zhou paused for a moment, "Three and a half sections. When he got to the third and a half section, he said he'd finish it next time."

"What were they talking about?"

Old Zhou thought for a moment, as if he were retrieving a memory from a very distant place.

"The first part tells the story of Chengdu before it had city walls. There was a young man, whose origins are unknown, who had nothing but a handful of mud. He used that mud to make a bowl, used the bowl to brew a pot of tea, and used the tea to open a shop..."

A handful of mud, a bowl. The image of the cracked bowl on the corner of the counter flashed through Wu Ling's mind, but the thought dissipated before it could take shape.

He talks faster than he thinks.

"A handful of clay, a bowl, a pot of tea, a shop. Four things that have fueled a business for three thousand years."

A storyteller's flaw: When they hear a good story, they just start talking on their own.

He realized what he was saying as soon as it left his mouth and quickly shut up.

But Old Zhou stopped holding the covered bowl. Looking at him, the look in his eyes changed.

It wasn't surprise. It was recognizing something.

The two tea drinkers at the next table, who had been chatting away, stopped talking and turned to look at him.

Master Liu's copper shovel hung in mid-air for three seconds before falling back down.

Wu Ling then realized that he had just delivered his sentence in a storytelling tone—with chest resonance, the kind that is projected outwards.

This is an instinct developed over three years of feeding in Chunxi Road.

Her ears burned, and she quickly picked up the covered bowl to cover her face.

"...similar." Old Zhou said a single word softly, without specifying who he resembled, but the way he looked at Wu Ling changed.

He paused for a moment before continuing.

"To be honest, I felt at the time that he was talking about himself. But he wouldn't admit it."

Wu Ling said softly, "He never talks about his own affairs."

"What the last two paragraphs are about is a long story, let's talk about it another day." Old Zhou waved his hand. "Anyway, he said that once he finishes telling the nine paragraphs, this teahouse will be complete. If he can't finish..."

He didn't finish his sentence. He picked up the covered bowl, took a sip, and put it down.

"And then he never came again."

As soon as he finished speaking, Wu Ling felt the surrounding sounds fade away. The banging on the table, the endless chatter, the shouts for tea—all blended together into a buzzing din.

"How long has it been?"

"Two years."

Old Zhou said those two words in a very flat tone, as if he were saying, "The weather is nice today."

Wu Ling had lived with his grandfather since he was a child, but he never knew that his grandfather could come to this era.

The two remained silent for a long time.

Old Zhou didn't urge him. He held the covered bowl and slowly scraped the surface of the broth.

When Wu Ling spoke, his voice was very soft.

"When I rushed back to the teahouse, my grandfather had already passed away."

Wu Ling didn't look at Old Zhou. He looked at the covered bowl in his hand, the tea still warm.

"He was sitting in his usual spot. He was still holding a bowl. The teacup lid wasn't on properly, it was askew—" He paused, "as if he wanted to take another sip, but didn't have time."

The teahouse was still bustling, but... Wu Ling's table, which was about two meters in diameter, suddenly fell silent...

Master Liu's copper shovel stopped working at some point.

Old Zhou slowly placed the covered bowl on the table.

The tea lid was placed properly on top.

It's covered. No more updates.

Wu Ling looked at the lid of the teapot, his throat tightening.

He knew what it meant—Old Zhou had just taught him.

It's finished. No more updates. I'm leaving. It's over.

Two years have passed. The person I'm waiting for will never come.

After staring at Wu Ling for ten seconds, Old Zhou picked up the tea lid and placed it back on the rim of the bowl.

Refill water.

"Since my grandfather didn't finish his book, I'll continue it," Wu Ling replied in a low voice.

"There's no rush to talk about the book. Let's make the tea first," Old Zhou said with a smile.

Wu Ling nodded. He didn't know why he had said that, but after saying it, the lump in his chest that had been there all night eased a little.

"Without the manager, how come this teahouse is still open?"

"A teahouse is open as long as there's tea, and people sit down when they want to," Old Zhou gestured toward the stage. "It's just that without a storyteller, something's missing."

The table was empty, and the gavel rested on the table, covered in dust, but the table itself was clean; someone had been wiping it.

"What did he say on his last trip back?"

He said something strange—"The murals are fading too quickly."

Wu Ling suddenly turned around and glanced at the back wall. The mural was brightly colored and in good condition.

"fade?"

Old Zhou shook his head.

"It looked perfectly fine back then."

He picked up the covered bowl, took a sip of tea, and said nothing more.

The light outside the window is changing.

When I entered, the oil lamp was lit and the night was bustling with people.

But now the sky outside the window has turned a dark gold, not dawn, but dusk.

Wu Ling didn't realize how much time had passed.

"It's time to close up." Old Zhou stood up, his knee clicking. "The door's closing."

Wu Ling looked puzzled.

"The door you came through," Old Zhou gestured towards the corner, "it will close by itself. Once it closes, you should leave and come back next time."

Wu Ling suddenly stood up and looked at the old wooden door in the corner. The warm yellow light coming through the crack in the door was dimming, like the tungsten filament of a light bulb cooling down.

"When is the next time?"

"I don't know." Old Zhou squatted down, straightened his shoes, stood up, and patted the creases on his long robe. "It can open whenever it wants; you just have to come."

Wu Ling looked at the gaiwan in his hand. The tea was lukewarm, amber in color. The blue-and-white pattern on the rim was the same as the old teacups he had seen on modern counters, in terms of lines, glaze, and feel.

"This bowl..."

"Take it with you. It's all the shopkeeper's belongings."

Wu Ling put the gavel into his pocket, picked up the covered bowl, and stood up.

Xiao Cui's gardenia was still on the table, and he reached out and took it.

I walked to the door and looked back.

Old Zhou had returned to his bamboo chair, the tea lid resting diagonally on the rim of the bowl, as he refilled the water.

Master Liu squatted in the corner, tidying up the copper shovels, slowly wiping them with his fingers as if tending to a tool that had been passed down for generations.

The waiter, carrying a stack of empty bowls in one hand, walked between the tables with the same unhurried pace.

Xiao Cui's voice drifted from afar: "Gardenia—gardenia—"

The murals glowed warmly under the lamp, depicting mountains, waters, pavilions, and terraces layered upon each other.

The blank space in the very center—it seems to be narrower than when we first entered?

He blinked. He looked again; it was still empty. The light was probably flickering.

Wu Ling pushed open the door.

The warm yellow light narrowed, turning from a door into a crack, and from a crack into a line.

The light went out.

The door closed behind me, softly, like turning the page of a book.

He stood in his teahouse.

LED white light, a meter box, an empty bamboo chair, and a mural so gray that details are indistinct.

It was still early morning, and all was quiet.

She was still holding the covered bowl of tea in her hand. The tea was warm, the bowl was hot, and the fragrance of jasmine flowers had not yet dissipated.

Wu Ling looked down at the bowl.

The bowl had a blue-and-white pattern and a slightly yellowish tinge. He placed the covered bowl on the counter, next to the few old covered bowls left by his grandfather.

Exactly the same. The same white background with blue patterns, the same age, the same smoothness.

Is it something you made just for fun, exactly the same as the one used in the teahouse over there?

He couldn't help but laugh out loud, and then his gaze involuntarily drifted to the bowl on top.