The Drink and Dream Teahouse

by Justin Hill

  ‘… and from 1979 until the present day the factory has striven to help build the Socialist Market Economy that was begun with the correct and wise implementation of the Open Door Policy.’

  A decade disappeared in a sentence of double-speak. At the back of the hall Da Shan sat up‌–‌‘What about June fourth?’ he said, half laughing with anger and incredulity. A few people turned around, but most continued talking to each other as the President read from the page.

  What about all those people?

  What about Liu Bei?

  What about me?

  Da Shan had to get outside. Away from this world of illusions: allies, enemies, good and evil. His feet scuffed the bare concrete steps as he climbed back out into the warm daylight, stood in the speckled shadow of a beech tree. He took a deep breath, a flutter of birdsong made the meeting seem very far away and he looked up: white clouds floating past like a succession of dead friends.

  It rained for a week, a curtain of water that hid the world outside the factory, hemmed people in, restricted their imaginations. Da Shan and Old Zhu spent their time playing chess, trying to out-fox each other with apparent displays of simplicity. On the fifth day the rain stopped and fringes of sunlight began to show around the clouds. It was their twelfth game of chess, each was still trying to out-do the other in modesty and guile. Old Zhu scratched his white hair, as thin as autumn grass, and acted as if he had no idea what to do next. Da Shan shrugged and admitted defeat with every move. It was a game of bluff and counter-bluff so complicated that neither of them knew that the end had come, till Old Zhu suddenly grinned and slapped his castle down on the table, the wooden counter clapping the table in surprise.

  ‘Hmm!’ Da Shan sat back. He looked at the table but staring didn’t make the counters change position at all. ‘Well, you won,’ he admitted. Old Zhu scratched his old head, acting as if he couldn’t understand how.

  ‘Another game?’ he asked, offering his son a cigarette.

  ‘It’s time for dinner!’ Old Zhu’s wife intercepted.

  They sat and ate a light supper of boiled rice and pickles, then Da Shan said he was going out. He hailed a taxi at the front of the factory and the driver pulled up against the kerb and turned the lights on.

  ‘Where to?’ he asked.

  ‘Three Happinesses Night Club.’

  Da Shan climbed in and the driver pulled away from he kerb, missing second gear and making the car shudder. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s new.’

  Da Shan looked at the peeling plastic on the dashboard. ‘What do you mean it’s new?’

  ‘I mean,’ the driver said as he adjusted the clutch, ‘that it’s new to me.’

  It was difficult finding the place in the centre of town, so many buildings had been knocked down, rebuilt, and knocked down again over the years that each street started to look and feel the same. It wasn’t the vague feeling of unfamiliarity that was so disconcerting, but the sense of dislocation.

  At the Black Dragon Bridge the driver turned right at the traffic lights, drove down alongside the river. It looked black and bottomless, held the reflections of streetlights in silent suspension. The lights polished the surface clean of rubbish, but even through the closed window Da Shan could smell the stagnant water. The driver filled the silence with a story about how a peasant had gathered enough aluminium cans to send himself to university. Da Shan nodded at the appropriate moments, just enough to keep the story going as he scanned the neon signs ahead. It was strange that there were so many lights these days, when no one had any money. The whole city centre was full of them, flashing sapphire, emerald, ruby red.

  The driver seemed not to care that he was lost. Maybe it was something he was used to, Da Shan thought, as he checked his watch. He was going to be late.

  At last they pulled up and asked an old man with a neatly ironed shirt and greased back hair. ‘Over there,’ he pointed and the taxi nosed its way down a back street Da Shan had forgotten was there. A small blue sign flashed apologetically: Three Happinesses Night Club. The driver smiled. He’d gone past this turning twice already and missed it completely. The fact left him strangely reassured. When life went too smoothly he got suspicious, it was as if fate was saving something big up for him.

  Concrete stairs led up off the street, plain and unadorned. They led up to a carpeted landing where a piece of calligraphy hung in a red frame. The Limitless Nothing, it said in a swirl of black on white.

  Da Shan pushed through the padded door and stepped into the teahouse lobby, a room dimly lit with red lights. He stopped for a moment to let his eyes accustom themselves to the gloom. A girl in gold-sequin dress flickered like a flame as she glided out of the shadows to greet him: her skin was pale mauve, she smiled a pink smile.

  ‘I’m here to see Fat Pan,’ Da Shan said.

  The girl blushed a deeper shade of red. ‘Brigade Commander Pan?’

  ‘Yeah. Is he here yet?’

  ‘No,’ the girl said, leading him into the salon. She wore heels and flesh-tone pop-socks. Apart from the candles that flickered on the tables, there was no other lighting except the glitter of her sequin dress. It curved away in front of him, round the candle-lit tables, like a comet negotiating the constellations. He followed her across the room to his table, sat down in an armchair. She left a menu on the table then walked back through the night sky to the lobby, pop-socks and all.

  Da Shan hunched forward into the candlelight to read the menu. There were four pages of teas listed. He flicked through them: Tibetan Flower, Iron Buddha, Peony, Pu Er, Jade Dragon Snow Mountain, they led like a trail to the last and most expensive: Jasmine White Tea, at two hundred yuan a pot.

  ‘Jasmine White Tea,’ Da Shan told the girl when she returned and she nodded.

  ‘Anything to eat?’

  ‘Sunflower seeds and aniseed plums.’

  ‘We don’t have any aniseed plums.’

  ‘What do you have?’

  ‘Haw Fruit Jelly and Brazil Nuts.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Twenty yuan.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  The water was too hot so Da Shan took the lid off and a tail of steam floated up from the opening, kept hanging in the air as the tea steeped. After a few minutes Da Shan poured himself a cup of almost clear liquid. The flavour was so delicate it dissolved in his mouth. All memories are in the nose, the saying went, and the smell of jasmine always gave Da Shan a satisfied feeling.

  Under an illuminated Fire Exit sign a black door swung open, and a thickset man in a white suit stepped out and walked to the stage. He turned a spotlight on, illuminated the piano a brilliant white. Da Shan checked his watch as the man sat down, adjusted the seat, and began to play.

  The notes came singly at first, vibrating in the air; then they built up into strings and waves that rose and fell, tossing the pianist’s torso from side to side like seaweed. He swayed and played and Da Shan could feel his breathing quicken towards the crescendo. At last the man lifted his fingers from the keyboard and the tune faded into silence. Da Shan clapped.

  The pianist nodded once, put his fingers to the keyboard and began again: a patriotic song from the 2000 Olympic Bid. Da Shan had just about forgotten that he was here to meet Fat Pan when he heard his name being called and turned to see his friend’s grinning face, one hand extended in greeting.

  ‘Pan,’ Da Shan smiled as he stood up, ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’

  ‘I wanted you to see this place, and enjoy it for a while.’

  ‘It’s quite something.’

  ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it,’ Fat Pan grinned, sitting down on the other side of the candle flame, the darkness of the room as a backdrop to his face, lit from underneath, that made his fat features exaggerated and sinister. ‘We’ve had this a few years now. It’s one of our more classy places. It’s actually the kind of place we want investment for. You know what I mean.’

  ‘I see,’ Da Shan smiled. It was too early to talk business.

  The
y sat and chatted about inconsequential things, chancing haphazardly on mundane topics and opinions before Da Shan looked into Fat Pan’s eyes and smiled. ‘I had no idea you were a so high up in the army,’ he said, ‘that’s pretty quick work.’

  ‘It was luck.’

  ‘You must have impressed someone.’

  ‘No,’ Fat Pan looked down bashfully. His flesh was too heavy on his face, losing the battle with gravity. ‘I always thought you’d be the high flier,’ he said, ‘but Da Shan you got involved.’

  ‘You’re right‌–‌I was stupid.’

  ‘If the wind’s blowing east then go east.’

  ‘You’re so right. Cigarette?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Fat Pan said. He leant forward to suck at the candle flame, then sat back and took a long drag. They continued talking, avoiding the topic of investment with neat turns to neutral topics of conversation. Old friends, things they remembered from their youth, news about the Space Rocket Factory. At last Da Shan sat forward and said, ‘Oh yes, about the project we were talking about,’ as if it had just crossed his mind. ‘I’ve spoken to some friends of mine,’ Da Shan continued, ‘and I’m glad to say they’re happy to put up the money.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘No buts.’

  Fat Pan looked with surprise at Da Shan. He’d never expected him to be able to come up with so much. Had his friend been that successful? Maybe he should have sailed west after all‌–‌the earth was round‌–‌you never knew what lay over the horizon.

  When it was time to go Fat Pan and Da Shan came to blows over who should pay. Fat Pan pushed Da Shan back into his seat, tried to set off to the counter but Da Shan grabbed his hand and pulled him back. They jostled for a few moments, and Da Shan’s height gave him an advantage as he pushed Fat Pan back into his seat.

  ‘Let me pay!’ Pan insisted, but Da Shan would hear none of it.

  ‘Don’t be so formal,’ he said. ‘Sit down.’

  Fat Pan sat, but as he watched his friend go and pay he felt increasingly uncomfortable, as if he’d been somehow out-manoeuvred.

  The bill came to over three hundred yuan.

  ‘What’s that?’ Da Shan asked, checking the list of numbers.

  ‘That’s the candle,’ the girl said. ‘They’re twelve yuan each.’

  Da Shan nodded and handed over the money. On the way out he took hold of Fat Pan’s arms and drew him aside, away from the shadows. ‘There was something else I wanted to ask you about,’ he said. ‘Have you spoken to your friends in the police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There will be no problem.’

  ‘Good,’ Da Shan said, shaking his hand for about ten seconds, ‘good. You know it’s good to have friends you can rely on,’ he smiled. ‘And you and me we go back such a long way.’

  ‘We do,’ Fat Pan said, turning away. ‘We do.’

  It was an early summer’s day when Fat Pan knocked on the door of the Drink and Dream Teahouse, stood back and fiddled with a brass button on his jacket. Swallows were swooping under the eaves and plucking insects out of the air as he fiddled and tapped his foot in mild irritation. He hadn’t been here for a while; a long while at that, and to his surprise he could feel a little nervousness in the flutter of his heartbeat. Being nervous irritated him, and made him a little more nervous as well.

  It was a long thirty seconds before the door opened and Mistress Zhang smiled out at him. ‘Hello,’ she said, her body cut in half by the partially open door, ‘have you come to drink tea?’

  Mistress Zhang’s steel-grey hair coiled up on her head like a snake, her narrow eyes sparkled with humour as she stepped back to let him in. She made Fat Pan feel slightly ridiculous, so he walked around in self-important half circles. A piece of Qing Dynasty calligraphy hung on the wall opposite the door; it was a large piece, written in seal script: Advice to Men Visiting Brothels. Fat Pan looked at it in surprise: it looked genuine. He had no idea how Mistress Zhang had kept this piece, through all the convulsions of the past. It was very much part of the Old China.

  Fat Pan glanced at the first few admonitions: Do not boast of your prowess as a lover Do not make excuses for your failures, and tried to look away. Do not perform your toilet in the girl’s presence Do not spit on the matting. He cleared his throat, turned to face Mistress Zhang and stated bluntly, ‘I’m thirsty.’

  ‘What tea would sir like?’

  ‘What tea have you got?’

  Mistress Zhang’s mouth twitched at the corners, the beginning of a smile. ‘Well,’ she began, her face resisting humour’s pull long enough to say, ‘we have Water-Spirit Flower; Cherry, of course Jade Lotus,’ without smiling.

  ‘Ah.’ Fat Pan turned and took a few more steps so he could hear his heels clicking on the floor. Do not believe her flattery or loving words. Do not flatter her with poems unless they are sincere. He paused to peer into the fish bowl. The curved glass bent the goldfish into a ludicrous shape as it fanned itself with its voluminous fins. Fat Pan leant forward from the waist and tapped the glass with a single forefinger. ‘Hello beautiful!’ The goldfish shot forward through the water, then stopped and stared back at him, resumed fanning itself. He tapped the glass again, the goldfish shot forward and Fat Pan laughed. Ha!

  ‘I know Cherry has missed your attentions. Shall I see if she’s available for you?’ Mistress Zhang asked.

  ‘No, not Cherry.’

  Mistress Zhang waited. Fat Pan completed his circuit of the room. ‘I want Pale Orchid,’ Fat Pan said.

  ‘She’s very busy today.’

  ‘Surely not so busy.’

  ‘I’m not sure she’s in …’ Mistress Zhang began, but Fat Pan took her hand and patted it. It had a fifty-yuan note in it. She looked at the note, curling in her palm like a Fortune Fish, then closed her fingers upon it, turned to go.

  ‘And,’ Fat Pan said, ‘I have this for her.’

  Mistress Zhang took the package and raised her fine painted eyebrows, as delicately curved as willow branches. Inside was an antique dress of blue silk and embroidered willows.

  In the Studio of Contemplative Recline, the soft sofa cuddled Fat Pan’s body. He tried to sit forward, had to push himself out of the cushions and sit on the hard edge. He absent-mindedly pulled his trouser legs up to his knees, picked up the microphone and used the remote to turn the karaoke video on. It showed a Western city in winter, snow, clusters of naked trees decorating the horizon. He scratched the back of a calf as the title came up on the screen: The Girl Opposite. Fat Pan shuffled forward and cleared his throat. The tune began, strong and rhythmic, a bouncing ball showed when to sing the words.

  The girl opposite looks at me, looks at me, looks at meee … Fat Pan tapped his knee as he sang off-key and loud, the girl opposite looks at me, looks at me …

  Mistress Zhang hurried up the back stairs to where the girls sat, playing cards. ‘It’s Fat Pan,’ she said and Cherry winced. Mistress Zhang patted her head. ‘Don’t put on airs,’ she told the girl, ‘he’s tired of you long ago. Why do you think he stopped coming? You putting on all kinds of pretensions. No, today it’s Pale Orchid’s turn.’ She ignored the groans of protest and handed her the package. ‘And put this on.’

  Liu Bei refused to move.

  ‘The stream of men is an endless river,’ Mistress Zhang quoted, ‘and whores have no right to be fussy where they land!’

  Still Liu Bei didn’t move.

  ‘Get up!’ Mistress Zhang snapped at last, pulling her from the chair and pushing the bundle into her arms, ‘his money is as good as any others!’

  Fat Pan was still singing pop songs when Mistress Zhang came in and found him on the sofa. You’re heart is far too soft, far too soft … he sang and from the doorway she cleared her throat. ‘Pale Orchid is ready.’

  Fat Pan stopped singing and stood up. Sunlight filtered through the window, absent-mindedly casting shadows across the floor. He passed through the yard, where a leaf swung down to the ground and a blac
k rook flapped overhead. The people on the video kept moving as Fat Pan started up the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the timber building, summoning ghosts from a hundred years. On the TV screen the ball bounced silently along the words, in the back room the girls looked up and listened as the footsteps came closer. Cherry shuffled the cards then paused, wrinkled up her nose.

  ‘I can smell him from here,’ she spat.

  ‘Are you sure he isn’t coming for you?’ Water-Spirit Flower teased and Cherry punched her on the thigh.

  ‘Ssshh!’ She kept on dealing the cards as Fat Pan’s footsteps moved along the balcony. Premonition wrinkled her spine, she heard a door open, held her breath, pictured Fat Pan in the doorway, licking his lips, then heard him step inside and shut the door. Then she smiled with pleasure.

  ‘Poor Orchid,’ Lotus whispered.

  ‘Pa!’ Water-Spirit Flower said, ‘she gets all the old men, spends most of the time making them tea! It’s about time she did some work.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Cherry sniggered, ‘serves her right!’

  Liu Bei reclined on a black-lacquer bed, striped sheets over the mattress, a matching quilt rolled up at the end of the bed. Her face was powdered white, her eyes lined, her black hair pinned up behind her head. She wore a red dress with embroidered flowers, clip-on butterfly earrings, a plastic-pearl noose draped around her neck. Light perforated the closed shutters giving the room a cool twilight feel. In the darkness a red light bulb on a shelf illuminated a cheap plastic statue of Guanyin, gazing down at the bed; her hands raised in an expression of inner peace.

  ‘Pale Orchid.’ Fat Pan had a hint of a smile. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  Liu Bei nodded, her face too made up to betray any expression.

  ‘How are you?’ She didn’t answer but he could feel her stiffen as he sat near her on the bed, put a hand on the bed between them and leant forward into the gap. ‘OK, don’t talk to me.’ He took off his army cap and putting it on the bed behind him, then slipped off his shoes. ‘I was only being polite.’