Old Jin City on the Wall

Chapter 18 Zhang Xi 9

"Fermented glutinous rice—hot fermented glutinous rice—"

The hawking cries drifted from the alleyway, long and drawn out, their tails curving in the cold air.

When Wu Ling walked into the teahouse with his hands tucked in, his nose was cool.

It's still May there, but here the frost has already fallen.

The sycamore trees are bare, and white smoke rises from the iron bucket at the alley entrance where sweet potatoes are roasted, with waves of sweet aroma wafting in.

The teahouse was warm, and the charcoal brazier burned brightly.

Old Zhou was wearing a cotton-padded jacket, his hand covering the covered bowl, white steam rising from between his fingers.

"They're here."

Wu Ling nodded and sat down in his usual spot.

The waiter brought over a bowl of scallion fritters, the bowl scalding hot.

Master Liu was squatting in the corner polishing copper shovels, wearing a gray scarf.

Grandpa Fan rubbed his hands together, and Grandpa Cao moved the chessboard next to the charcoal brazier. The two of them were so cold that their faces were red, but they were still playing.

Xiao Cui squatted at the door. In winter, when there were no flowers to sell, she would help out at the teahouse.

Her eyes lit up when she saw Wu Ling come in.

"Is the shopkeeper here?"

She jumped up and ran outside, lifting the curtain and letting out a gust of cold wind.

"Hey, Xiao Cui, where are you going?"

Xiao Cui had already run far away.

Wu Ling took a sip of Sanhua tea, Grandpa Fan dropped a pill, and Grandpa Cao tapped the table to urge him on.

After a while, Xiao Cui crawled in, her nose even redder from the cold, and she was covered in sweat.

He held a bowl of tofu pudding in his hand, the bottom of the bowl wrapped in coarse cloth, steaming hot.

"I searched three streets before finding it; the shop at the alley entrance was closed. I saved up money for several days to buy a bowl of tofu pudding for the shopkeeper."

"Xiao Cui, keep it for yourself."

"I've already eaten, but my mother-in-law gave me an extra half spoonful."

She squatted back down by the door, the basket still resting on the threshold.

Wu Ling scooped up a spoonful.

Tender, soft, the red oil melts, and the Sichuan peppercorns shoot from the tip of your tongue to the back of your ear.

He finished his meal and sat down with the empty bowl in his hand. His back was warm, and the charcoal fire was warming his calves.

Xiao Cui peeked out the doorway and asked, "Why isn't anyone coming? Huh?"

Before the words were even finished, the curtain was lifted.

Three people, their footsteps crunching through the frost, entered.

Che Fu walked ahead and called out, "Manager, you said you'd bring a friend last time, and I brought him."

Mr. Li was behind the spokes, wearing a gray cloth long gown and round-framed glasses, still holding a book in his hand.

There was another person following behind the two, whom Wu Ling had never seen before.

Master Liu's copper gong stopped.

He looked up, stared at the person at the door for two seconds, then lowered his head to continue wiping, but a little faster.

He was in his sixties, thin, and his back was as straight as a door.

He wore a worn-out navy blue cotton robe with white edges frayed at the cuffs.

He was carrying a square cloth bag in his right hand, which looked like a rectangular piece of wood.

He entered without saying a word, stood at the doorway and glanced around, his gaze first landing on the mural.

Then it swept from the counter to the gavel on the table, and from the givenl to Old Zhou.

Old Zhou put the gaiwan down on the table, rim up, with the lid to the side.

This is a gesture of invitation, with the bowl facing upwards, prepared for you.

"Mr. Zhang."

Three words, not much more than "arrived," but ten times more weighty.

The shouts of vendors selling fermented rice wine outside have faded into the distance.

Wu Ling's hand froze on the rim of the bowl.

Mr. Zhang, Zhang Xijiu.

The storyteller of Cotton Street.

Old Zhou himself said: When the gavel struck, the whole alley fell silent, and he didn't utter a sound until the Five Elders and Seven Sages had taken their seats.

Grandpa had heard him tell stories, and when he came back, he said something to Old Zhou, something Wu Ling remembered for a long time.

A good storyteller makes you forget you're listening while he's telling the story.

This is a benchmark, placed in the farthest place; he never imagined that the benchmark would come in.

But he was standing right at the door.

Zhang Xijiu did not sit down.

He turned his gaze away from Old Zhou and back to the gavel on the stage.

"This gavel..."

Che Fu leaned close to Wu Ling and whispered, "Mr. Zhang was brought by Mr. Li. I didn't expect it either. Mr. Zhang never goes to other teahouses to listen to storytelling. I don't know how Mr. Li persuaded him."

Mr. Li had already sat down in his usual spot near the door and opened a book.

Zhang Xijiu walked to the front of the stage, reached out and flipped the gavel over to look at the bottom.

"Call".

He read out the engraved character.

The sound wasn't loud, but it was caught in every corner.

Then he gently placed the gavel back in its place and sat down at Mr. Li's table.

The waiter brought him a bowl of tea, but he didn't touch it.

His hands rested on his knees, like a folded knife—still, yet you knew it was about to strike.

The atmosphere of the entire teahouse changed.

Grandpa Fan held the chess piece in his hand and forgot to place it.

The square-faced man held his teacup, but after drinking half of it, he dared not tap the lid of the teacup, afraid of making a sound.

Wu Ling stood up, his legs feeling a little weak.

The gavel was held in my hand; the wood was warm, but my palm was cool.

Take the picture.

"today--"

He paused for longer than usual while telling stories because he could see that Zhang Xijiu's eyes were half-closed.

Wu Ling swallowed hard. He actually had a ready-made trick: he simply put the things he brought from over there onto the stage.

The year, the anecdote, the fact that nobody's heard of it—it's definitely reliable.

It had been used a few times without any mishaps, but Wu Ling felt that this wasn't what Zhang Xijiu wanted to hear.

Today I'll talk about a bowl of tofu pudding.

Someone in the audience laughed. "Tofu pudding?"

"There's an old woman at the alley entrance. She sells tofu pudding. She gets up before dawn to soak the soybeans and grinds the soy milk with a stone mill. One circle, two circles, three circles, and on the third circle she has to reverse the direction, otherwise the soy milk will stick to the trough and won't come out."

The old tea drinker by the window put down his teacup, and Grandpa Fan and his companion stopped playing chess and listened with their heads tilted to the side.

"It's been sold for forty years, two coins a bowl, and the price hasn't gone up in forty years."

Zhang Xijiu opened his eyes.

Wu Ling's throat tightened.

He had planned out what to say next, but the moment Zhang Xijiu opened his eyes, the rhythm went awry.

He paused for a moment, then continued—

"Someone told her, 'Grandma, why don't you raise the price? The price of beans has gone up.' She replied, 'If I raise the price, some people won't be able to afford them.'"

The audience laughed.

Only Wu Ling and Zhang Xijiu knew that the pauses weren't the kind of pauses a storyteller should make; they were signs of timidity.

"A young woman just ran three blocks to buy a bowl of this old lady's tofu pudding and brought it over. She didn't buy it for herself, she bought it for me."

He glanced at Xiao Cui by the door, and Xiao Cui lowered her head.

"When you ask her what she's after, she says she's not after anything, she just feels the shopkeeper deserves a hot meal."

After finishing his speech, he glanced at Zhang Xijiu again, then closed his eyes.

My palms started to sweat.

Wu Ling had no choice but to quickly finish the last sentence.

"A bowl of tofu pudding costs two coins, but some people have been grinding it for forty years, while others have been running around three streets to get it."

Received.

The gavel rested on the table, its sound muffled, dampened by the sweat of my palms.

The applause was sparse.

The square-faced man patted twice, and Grandpa Cao said, "Well said!" Xiao Cui patted the loudest at the door.

But nobody was looking at Wu Ling; everyone was looking at Zhang Xijiu.

Zhang Xijiu opened his eyes, not looking at Wu Ling, but at Old Zhou.

"This is the gavel."

Old Zhou nodded.

"Left to him by your grandfather."

Zhang Xijiu picked up the teacup, took a sip, and put it down.

"Young man, your old lady's joke: 'She's been grinding tofu for forty years,' was pretty good."

Wu Ling didn't answer; he knew there was a "can" at the end.

"But you were outside when you were talking."

No one in the audience said a word.

"What does it mean to be out there? It means that you're on stage talking about that old woman, but in your mind you're counting how many people are laughing in the audience. You're talking about forty years, but what you're thinking is, 'What does Chang Hsi-chiu think?'"

Wu Ling was covered in a cold sweat. He was indeed thinking about it, every single second.

"When your grandfather was telling stories, he didn't think about these things. When he was telling the story, he was immersed in it. The people in the audience were also immersed in the story; no one was outside of it."

Wu Ling's back was sweating. He wanted to argue, but what could he argue about?

Every word Zhang Xijiu said hit him where it hurt.

He stood up, opened the cloth bag, and inside was a gavel.

It's one size larger than Wu Ling's.

The wood is purplish in color, and the edges and corners have been polished smooth, giving it an oily sheen.

He walked to the front of the stage, placed his gavel on the table, and put it side by side with Wu Ling's.

One is purple, and the other is red.

Both were old, worn smooth from age.

Wu Ling offered him a seat, and he sat down, placing his right hand on the gavel.

That hand was thin, with prominent veins and knuckles thicker than normal, the result of a lifetime of striking the gavel.

Take the picture.

A sound.

The air in the entire teahouse tightened at that slap.

Grandpa Fan's chess pieces fell on the table, but no one picked them up.

Zhang Xijiu did not speak immediately after striking the gavel.

None of the fifteen people in the audience moved.

"Ah, Chengdu in winter—"

The voice wasn't loud; it wasn't the kind of voice that comes out with a strong shout, but rather that it slowly flows out from under the throat.

Like a fire in a stove, not fierce, but warm.

"In Chengdu in early winter, don't step on the frost in the alleys. If you do, it will melt; if you don't, it will shine until the sun comes out."

"There's an iron bucket at the alley entrance, and inside it are roasted sweet potatoes. You walk from the other end of the alley, and before you even see the bucket, you smell it. It's burnt and sweet. The sweet smell seeps into the collar of your cotton-padded coat, and if you look down and smell your collar, you can still smell it."

The square-faced man held his teacup, but forgot to drink it.

"A cotton curtain hangs at the entrance of the teahouse. You lift it, and a wave of heat hits your face. A charcoal brazier warms your feet, and the scalding hot tea is served to you. You sit down, and before your bottom has even warmed up, the old man next to you asks, 'You've arrived?'"

Old Zhou's lips curved slightly.

"You said you were here, and he said to sit down, so you sat down."

The waiter brought you a bowl of "Three Flowers" tea. You held it in both hands, your ten fingers warmed up. The lid was lifted, and steam billowed up. You looked at the old man across from you through the steam; you couldn't see him clearly, but you knew he was smiling.

"There's an ear cleaner in the corner. He won't come unless you call him. But if you do call him, he'll shove a three-qian copper coin into your ear—"

Master Liu's copper shovel dangled from his ear.

"You didn't want to walk anymore. You closed your eyes, your heels tapping lightly on the ground. His hands were very steady; in thirty years, they had never trembled once."

"After you've finished cleaning, you open your eyes, and the sounds are different. The sound of the covered bowl hitting the table is clearer, and the crackling of the charcoal fire is closer. You feel that this teahouse is not the same one as before. Actually, it's the same one. It's just that your ears are clean now."

Someone in the audience let out a long sigh of relief.

"Look at this wall again."

He glanced behind him.

"The walls of this teahouse are older than you think. They look white, but there are actually several layers underneath, each representing the life of a manager. The two old men at the chess table argue every day. Checkmate, capture, take back a move, no take-backs allowed. Look how many years they've been arguing! They've argued until the sycamore tree by the door grew from as thick as a bowl to too big for one person to hug, and they're still arguing."

Grandpa Fan tilted his head and glanced at Grandpa Cao.

Grandpa Cao didn't look at him, but stared at Zhang Xijiu.

"But listen carefully, they're not arguing about the game, they're talking. They've talked their whole lives, and it's all on the chessboard."

"There's a flower girl squatting by the door. Her basket is empty, but she doesn't leave. She's not waiting for customers; she's afraid that if she leaves, the teahouse will be one less person."

Xiao Cui was stunned.

Zhang Xijiu's voice was never louder than the steam rising from a bowl of tea.

He didn't slam his fist on the table, didn't raise a finger, and didn't pause to keep everyone in suspense.

He just sat there and talked about winter in a teahouse.

Every word spoken reflects the lives of everyone present.

But when he talked about it, those days seemed to have been polished back to life.

He accepted it.

The gavel was not struck; the palm was pressed on the gavel and then removed.

There was no applause from the audience.

It's not that it's bad, it's just that it's hard to film.

Everyone was still sitting in their chairs, unable to recover.

Grandpa Fan kept his head down, looking at the chessboard, but he couldn't focus on anything on it.

Xiao Cui squatted at the doorway, her mouth slightly open.

Wu Ling listened to the whole thing from the audience.

His hands were still clenched on his knees, I don't know when he clenched them so tightly.

His back was still cool, not from the cold, but from the fact that it had been opened up.

Zhang Xijiu spoke for less than the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, without mentioning the Three Kingdoms, the Water Margin, or any other story.

He simply sat there and talked about winter in a teahouse.

But after you finish listening, you feel like you've been sitting in this teahouse your whole life.

That's what Old Zhou meant when he said, "When you're talking, you forget you're listening."

Zhang Xijiu stood up and put his gavel into his cloth bag.

He walked up to Wu Ling and looked at the gavel on the platform engraved with the word "call".

"This gavel has been with your grandfather for forty years. I've only heard your grandfather tell stories once, and he messed it up completely."

He paused.

"But when things went wrong, there was one sentence, just one sentence. I knew this person would make it sooner or later. Later, Old Zhou told me he was going to make it, and I believed him. But he himself said: 'I'm still lacking, the lack is that I didn't put myself into it.'"

Zhang Xijiu pushed Wu Ling's gavel, straightening it.

"Your tofu pudding segment, okay, it's a segment you've practiced many times, but it's not the one you wanted to tell."

He took two steps toward the door, then turned back.

Are you going to answer or not?

Wu Ling stood in front of the stage, his palms sweating profusely.

Zhang Xijiu didn't wait for his reply, and went out after lifting the curtain.

A blast of cold air rushed in from outside, causing the flames in the charcoal brazier to flicker.

Mr. Li closed the book, stood up, glanced at Wu Ling, and then went out the door.

The spokes were the last to leave.

As she reached the door, she whispered, "When Mr. Zhang asked whether you should answer or not, he wasn't asking you; he was telling you."

Grandpa Fan put away the chess pieces and left with Grandpa Cao.

Xiao Cui was still squatting at the door.

Wu Ling remained motionless for a long time, waiting until all the tea drinkers had left before sitting down opposite Old Zhou.

Old Zhou put the lid on the bowl and left.

As darkness fell, the calls of vendors selling fermented rice wine could still be heard outside, though they had faded into the distance.

Wu Ling picked up the gavel, gripped it tightly in his hand until his palm was hotter than the wood.

Xiao Cui poked her head in from the doorway.

"Shopkeeper, that Mr. Zhang outside... he's been standing there the whole time."