The Drink and Dream Teahouse

by Justin Hill

  When his sister came dawdling back half an hour later Sun An was still waiting in the doorway. He’d half hoped that Peach would come back with his sister. Or even beat his sister back. But she hadn’t and he’d have to wait. He stood and watched the clock hands claw their way round the clock face, going as slowly as possible.

  After a few hours had been stretched impossibly thin with worry and anticipation he turned to his sister and demanded, ‘Are you sure you put it under the right stone?’

  She folded her books closed and piled them up and walked into the back of the shop. ‘I’ve got homework to do,’ she said.

  Peach arrived later that afternoon, when the waiting had reduced Sun An to a slumped figure in the doorway, eating his way through a bowl of salted melon seeds. He saw her coming and energy spread through his veins like a stiff shot of adrenaline. He stood up grinning as she came into the shop, slightly breathless, wearing jeans and a red cut-off top that showed her stomach.

  Sun An said ‘Hi!’ and for a few moments they both stood laughing and smiling at each other. After so many days of letters‌–‌almost astonished to find each other so close as to reach out and feel the other. He tried not to look but found his eyes continually drawn to her pale-white stomach, its soft curves and the shallow indent of her belly button.

  I just have to, he thought, or I’ll go mad.

  Sun An closed the front door of his shop and told his sister to go for a walk. He and Peach stood and chatted in the half shadow of the room. He was holding her hand, stroking it rhythmically with his thumb. He could smell her perfume and see light glitter off her teeth when she smiled or her eyes moved; could see the pale moon of her stomach that glimmered in the dark. As they talked and held each other’s hands her voice suddenly dropped to a whisper. He smelt her fragrance draw close and then she was in his arms and he was kissing her mouth. He kissed her again, spoke soft words in her ear as he stroked her body. Her stomach shivered at the touch of his fingers tracing invisible hearts over her skin. She felt his hands edge slowly underneath her top till her clothes were ruffled up and dishevelled and then the fingers of his right hand smoothed up and under the cloth of her bra and he held one of her breasts in his hand.

  Peach pulled back and kissed his cheek. ‘Tell me,’ she whispered, and he told her how much he loved her as he kneaded her breast. He crushed it too hard. Peach winced and moved her body so he couldn’t reach her there any more. He tried to kiss her lips, but she turned her head and rested it against his, their skulls pressing together as his free hands now stroked her rigid back and buttocks.

  ‘I love you,’ he said, ‘I love you, your beauty, your laughter, your music. I love you, I love you.’ His hands were insistent and powerful. Peach felt them desperately searching her body, squeezing and pressing, one hand stroking her neck while the other worked a handful of buttock.

  ‘I love you, I love you.’ His breathing was heavy in her ears, and she realised she was sucking air in and out as well. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’ His fingers stroked around her buttocks moving forward to her hips, and the ridge of her bones that led down‌–‌and a knot in her stomach suddenly tightened. His hands kept moving, almost tickling the sensitive skin of her stomach. They reached the front of her jeans and fumbled for a moment; then she felt the release as her button burst free. The chill in her stomach turned cold, very cold.

  Sun An pulled her zip down.

  ‘I love,’ he was struggling to talk because he was so entranced; ‘you,’ as he pulled her jeans down off her hips‌–‌and reached one hand down into her underwear. He slipped his finger inside her, felt himself stiffen as he explored her insides. Her precious and hidden insides, that were intoxicatingly warm and wet and shapeless.

  Sun An moaned and kissed Peach’s neck: a wet kiss that left a cooling patch of saliva on her skin. He started to wrench his own trousers open, took her hand and pushed it down.

  Peach didn’t know how to stop this happening. She opened her eyes and concentrated on what and where he was taking her hand; wanting to stop.

  Sun An kept pulling the front of his pants open. His penis flopped against her skin. It was hot and throbbing and smooth. Peach flinched.

  She pushed away; tried to step back but he pulled her close again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her as she tried to pull her clothes back over her body. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I love you.’

  Peach tried to pull her clothes straight as her throat tightened like a screw, twisting out tears, but Sun An hugged her close and she found she could hardly move.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sun An said.

  Peach wrinkled her face up. Froze. This isn’t happening, she thought.

  His voice kept saying ‘I love you, I love you,’ and she was thinking this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening. This is not happening.

  Again Peach tried to push away but he held her tight. This is not happening. She felt his hand moving in rhythm with his voice. ‘I love you‌–‌I love you‌–‌I love you‌–‌I love you –’ he pressed her even closer, his hand moving up and down and his breathing harder. She remembered going to the ice-cream parlour with her mother. The ice cream in her mouth. Her mother’s face when the man told her there was no bargaining in the shop. I don’t want to have my hair cut. She saw Da Shan flying her kite. His fingers.

  Peach pushed back again, but Sun An held her fast and she was too frightened to shout or scream just wanted it to be over and willed herself away from here as he moaned in her ear. She thought of the kite. Flying. ‘I love you‌–‌I love you‌–‌I love,’ between gritted teeth then clenched up and Peach felt something warm and wet squirt onto her hand and she screamed.

  He let go, but now she was free she didn’t move. This isn’t happening as his thing spurted four more times.

  Sun An’s eyes were closed, his face was tortured.

  This isn’t happening.

  She wiped the stuff off with her other hand and smelt it and felt sick because it wouldn’t come off. Wanted to feel a breeze in her hair and to fly her kite up and up.

  Sun An looked down at the stain that lay in his lap, seeping into his clothes; felt exhausted and guilty. He stood up and took Peach in his arms, and his trousers fell down to his knees. He pressed her close into a hug from which there was no escape. His white underwear against her unzipped jeans. His wet patch against hers.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, his voice calm as he squeezed her tighter and kissed the soft skin behind her left ear. ‘I love you.’ His voice so reasonable. So calm.

  What had she done?

  He looked down into her face. ‘I love you, Peach,’ he said and she stared at him.

  Flying a kite.

  ‘Do you love me?’

  Peach didn’t know what to say, didn’t care what she said. Didn’t want to stay here, didn’t understand how it had all happened.

  Did this happen?

  ‘Do you love me, Peach?’ he asked, so reasonable.

  This never happened, she tried to believe it, even though she couldn’t.

  ‘Yes,’ Peach said, saying anything to get out and away, and wash that stuff off her clothes and hands. ‘Yes, I do.’

  The next morning Da Shan woke with relief from a dream where he was back inside his ten-year-old self, trying to avoid the future by changing what he did and said; but his ten-yearold self made the exact same mistakes he’d made in his own life. He lay in bed and shuddered, there was no way back. Outside Madam Fan was singing;

  When beauty is past and youth is lost

  Who will marry an old crone?

  and Da Shan stood up, tried to shake the dream off, but it clung relentlessly to him.

  ‘Why do you sleep all day?’ his mother cursed when he came for breakfast. ‘Why do I deserve such a lazy son? You must have been switched at the hospital!’

  ‘I have your eyes,’ he told her.

  ‘You stole them as well!’

  Da Shan sat watching his mother. He saw the wrinkle
s that spread from the corners of her eyes like fish tails, her hair almost entirely white. He was glad he’d come back home, while his parents were still sharp, but it made it more difficult to ever leave again: if he did it would probably be for the last time. He could always come back to Shaoyang, but his parents would probably be gone.

  ‘What are you staring at me like that for?’ his mother demanded.

  ‘Nothing.’

  She didn’t believe him.

  ‘Actually,’ Da Shan said, ‘I was thinking about the time I was given the picture of Mao as a prize, and how I couldn’t put it on the wall.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And everyone said I was a counter-revolutionary because I wouldn’t put his picture on the wall.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And that was all,’ he smiled innocently.

  ‘Hmm!’ she retorted.

  Old Zhu came home before lunch carrying a large terracotta pot and a hopeful smile. His wife stared, as he tottered through the flat to the balcony.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she called out, and there was a muffled response.

  She stomped through to the balcony and repeated her question.

  ‘I’ve got a plant pot,’ Old Zhu said.

  ‘I can see that,’ she told him, ‘where’s it from?’

  ‘There,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  He pointed down towards the factory gate. She followed his finger and saw a crowd of people and an old green army truck.

  ‘They said they’re closing the Number Eight Army Base, and they’re selling the pots,’ Old Zhu said. ‘I managed to get one.’

  ‘Who are selling pots?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And you believed them?’

  ‘Of course. Does it matter?’

  She wasn’t sure it mattered or not, but she knew she didn’t like having new pots on her balcony. ‘What are you going to do with it?’ she demanded.

  ‘Get some flowers,’ Old Zhu said.

  ‘What happens if it falls off and kills someone‌–‌what will happen then?’

  ‘Stop tempting Heaven,’ Old Zhu told her and for once she was stumped for a reply. Her mind came up with a thousand retorts but the moment had passed, it was too late. The next day Old Zhu returned with a chrysanthemum plant, put it next to the terracotta pot, as if he were arranging a marriage. The flower nodded and the deal was done.

  As he potted the plant Old Zhu’s wife watched him from the kitchen and shook her head. Stupid old man, she thought as the phone went, and she paused to see if her husband would get it. He didn’t even react. Hmm! she thought to herself.

  When she’d put the phone down she waited, but Old Zhu didn’t even look round to see who it was.

  ‘That was Fat Pan,’ she told him.

  Old Zhu took another handful of soil and dropped it into place.

  ‘He wanted Da Shan.’

  Old Zhu sat back on his heels to admire his plant.

  ‘Which angle do you think is best?’ he asked.

  That afternoon a notice was posted on the factory notice board saying there would be a meeting in the Revolutionary Hall the next day to discuss the future of the factory. People stopped to read it as they passed by, and then walked on and thought: what was the point? The factory had closed already. There was nothing to discuss. Old Zhu heard about it but decided not to even go: he looked around him and decided to spend the afternoon tending his vegetables. His beans were starting the long climb up the bamboo poles, purple egg plants were beginning to curve like ox horns, the garlic shoots were dark and green. It was a summer garden bursting with life.

  The matchmaker saw the notice on the way to visit Old Zhu’s wife. If it meant more people losing their jobs then it was bad news for her. She stopped and tutted for an appropriate amount of time, then moved on.

  She’d been meaning to visit Old Zhu’s wife for quite some time: she couldn’t have single young men in her neighbourhood without feeling the urge to see them happily settled‌–‌for their own good, their parents’ good and, she reasoned, the good of the Motherland. The urge was even stronger when the young men were rich: a matchmaker had to make a living somehow‌–‌and it was easier to find girls for rich men. In fact it was more a job of picking the right one from the crowd of hopefuls.

  Old Zhu’s wife rose late: the night had been perforated by rain and she’d felt cold during the night. The sky was a hammered grey, it crushed down upon the city, made her feel like eating mutton-broth noodles. She was thinking of where she could get sheep meat from when there was a knock on the door.

  She saw it was the matchmaker and felt relief and disappointment at the same time. The two emotions tussled inside her, and disappointment soon won.

  ‘Come in,’ Old Zhu’s wife smiled and the matchmaker came in, sat down.

  ‘I hear the factory is closing,’ she announced.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Well,’ the matchmaker said, and then stripped Old Zhu’s wife clean of gossip, taking in every piece of gossip about family rows, arguments and children come of age.

  ‘And how is Madam Fan and her husband?’

  ‘Just the same.’

  ‘Tut! She should divorce him,’ the matchmaker said, ‘I could find her a good husband, a nice old one‌–‌they’re easier to manage.’

  Old Zhu’s wife thought about Old Zhu and his plant pots and wasn’t sure that was true at all.

  ‘What has happened to Party Secretary Li’s widow?’

  ‘Oh, she’s back,’ Old Zhu’s wife said. ‘But I don’t think she’s interested.’

  The matchmaker made a mental note to check this out. When she had outstayed her welcome she stood up to go. Just as Old Zhu’s wife was seeing her off from the door her son arrived.

  The matchmaker gave him a warm smile. ‘Your son is so handsome,’ she told Old Zhu’s wife. She shooed the compliment away as if it were a bad smell, but the matchmaker stood wedged half in the doorway and half out, suddenly unsure whether now was the right time to leave, now that Da Shan was back. Her thick body wobbled in indecision and ended up outside the door.

  ‘Well,’ she said, wistfully, ‘I suppose I’d better be off.’

  ‘You’re always welcome!’ Old Zhu’s wife smiled too hard, felt it set solid on her face. ‘Go slowly!’ she called out, ‘Go slowly!’ and tried to stop smiling.

  Despite the general apathy, about half the remaining workers did turn up to the meeting, to see if there was any chance to save their jobs, while a smattering of residents arrived to find out what was going to happen to the factory they had worked in all their lives.

  When the room was a third full the leaders filed up to the stage, led by the Factory President and Party Secretary. There was a scruffy uniformity about them: suit trousers, open-necked shirts and sleeves rolled up to the elbow. They all sat down together and assumed dignified postures as the President cleared his throat and checked the microphone was working.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ he said, tapping it with his right forefinger.

  The crowd’s conversation rose a degree in response. The President looked up, and the crowd ignored him.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ the President began, clearing his throat. ‘Comrades, workers‌–‌good afternoon,’ he said flatly, ‘on behalf of the Communist Party, Shaoyang Space Rocket Factory Sub-branch, greetings. This meeting is called to discuss the future of the Shaoyang Number Two Space Rocket Factory …’

  Da Shan sat at the back and watched the President begin to read through the pages of his speech. No one in the scattered audience seemed to be talking, but the hum of conversation stayed constant, occasionally rising or falling in response to the words of the speech.

  ‘As we know the factory was founded in 1952, five years after the liberation of the country from the Guomindang and Foreign Imperialists. The factory started its long and glorious life affiliated to The Number Three Correct Thinking Establishment Reform Camp for those abused by the Old Society;
and became an independent work unit in 1955, under the name Shaoyang Number One Steam Engine Factory. Great efforts were made to build the factory, under the wise leadership of the Communist Party and the guidance of Mao Zedong and the local leadership of a number of key workers.’

  There was a murmur, and Da Shan heard the name ‘Party Secretary Li’ whispered among the older people present. The drone of the President’s voice continued.

  ‘The factory had a glorious beginning making steam engines for the industrialisation of the country. How they carried the fame of Shaoyang to the four corners of the country! From corner to corner workers and comrades knew the name of Shaoyang. The whole country was united in love for our steam engines!

  ‘In the Great Leap Forward the workers of the factory won high praise from the Provincial Government for their contribution to the effort to produce steel. In the food shortages of those same years, caused by natural events and the intervention of certain counter-revolutionary elements who wished for a return to the Old China …’

  On and on the speech went, gliding through history with the guile of a snake. Not truth, that most shifting of absolutes, but a distorted reflection.

  ‘… and in the Cultural Revolution we supported the endeavours of the patriotic youth by making Chairman Mao badges, which were distributed free to all the young people who volunteered to go to the countryside to learn from the peasants …’

  Da Shan sat and listened as the entire history of the factory was illuminated and titillated and smudged with facts. A final burst of glory before it was sold off to building contractors and the leaders retired on their bribes.

  ‘And of course we were host to the great revolutionary, Zhou Enlai, who visited this factory in 1958, as part of the Bringing the Great Leap Forward to the Masses Campaign. And it was in his honour that the factory was renamed the Space Rocket Factory, carrying on steam engine production as well as making valuable contributions to the Chinese Space Endeavour. The factory was awarded Gold Prize twice for Revolutionary zeal and Silver for …’

  Da Shan lay back and closed his eyes as page after page was read out, listing awards and events and praise won by workers of the factory for their participation in national campaigns.