Along the River (11 page)

“You go and get the gourds, Ah Zhao,” Baba says. “The three of us are going to the Nine Dragons’ Teahouse for lunch.”

I can’t help feeling sad that Ah Zhao won’t be eating with us. Although he’s so much more intelligent than Gege and me, he can never be part of our world. No matter how hard he works or how beautifully he carves, he will always be a servant. Why? Because he can’t read or write and will never be able to pass the Imperial Examination. How unfair life is! But I know that Baba will not be happy if I say this aloud. So I swallow my words.

The teahouse is situated at a busy crossroads. Baba guides Gege and me around a few donkey carts, porters, sedan chairs and strolling pedestrians. A professional storyteller is entertaining passersby at one corner of the intersection.

The proprietor himself comes out from the main entrance to greet us and leads us to the second floor. He seats Baba, Gege and me at a square wooden table next to the balcony.

“Window seat for the young lady!” he exclaims.

Through the open window next to me, I have a perfect view of the river. A most delicious aroma of sizzling hot oil and burnt sugar makes our mouths water and our empty stomachs growl.

“Ma Lao Ban
(Proprietor Ma), I see you are prospering!” Baba says.

“Zhang Da Ren
(Magistrate Zhang)! Thank you for giving me face by coming to my humble establishment so often. I am greatly honored.”

“What are you cooking that smells so good?”

“That’s candied fruit, caramelized in hot oil and sautéed with fresh shrimp; a specialty of our establishment.”

“Full house again, even though it’s so early in the morning. Congratulations! Why work so hard? Stay home and count your money!”

“Your Honor has no idea how difficult life is for me. The people of Bian Liang are impossible to please. Just before you came in, a customer actually scolded me for serving hot dishes today. ‘Don’t you know it’s
Han Shi Jie
(Cold Food Festival) today?’ he asked me.”

“What’s the Cold Food Festival?” Gege asks.

“It’s the day before the
Qing Ming Jie
(Clear and Bright or Tomb Sweeping Festival),” Baba says. “Tomorrow is Qing Ming.”

“Why is it called the Cold Food Festival?”

“Like many of our other festivals, it comes from our history.”

“How long ago, Baba? Please tell us,” I beg.

“Fifteen hundred years ago, it was the Warring States period and a Duke was fleeing for his life. He ran out of food and was dying of starvation. One of his followers, named Jie, cut off a slice of muscle from his own leg and served it to his master. Eventually, the Duke recovered his health and his throne.

“The Duke decided to appoint Jie to an important post in his cabinet. However, Jie wanted no part of the politics at court. He refused and hid in the mountains instead. The Duke set fire to the region to force him out.

“After three days of raging flames, they found Jie’s body leaning against a tree, with the corpse of his old mother on his back.

“The Duke was saddened, because he had not meant this to happen. He ordered that from then on, no fires were to be lit for cooking on the anniversary of Jie’s death. This is the origin of Cold Food Festival.”

“Magistrate Zhang,” Proprietor Ma interrupts. “What can we prepare for you today?”

“It’s my daughter’s first visit to a teahouse. I’ve told her about your noodles. Let’s have an assortment of dishes and some noodles for her. I’ll leave the selection to you.”

“Right away, Your Honor!”

A waiter brings a pot of hot tea and sets each place at the table with a pair of chopsticks, a porcelain teacup, a plate, a bowl and a spoon. He brings the cold dishes first: sliced ham, tea eggs, preserved tofu and snails with garlic.

After a while, Proprietor Ma himself brings up the hot dishes. “First we have steamed pork ribs flavored with bamboo shoots; next a dish of dumplings filled with minced pork and mushrooms; then stewed duck and cabbage. Finally, another specialty of the house: a big plate of fresh carp from the Bian River, with noodles. Enjoy!”

As we eat, I look out of the window at the river. The Rainbow Bridge is packed with people staring and pointing in one direction over the railing. The bridge is so close I can hear them shouting and see them gesturing in their excitement.

I put my chopsticks down and lean out of the window. A large, flat-bottomed barge is approaching rapidly at an awkward angle. A gust of wind suddenly blows the boat off course, turning it so it’s lying almost parallel to the bridge. The crew on board is straining desperately to lower the mast and right the boat against the river’s swirling current. The top of the mast looks almost certain to hit the underside of the bridge and cause the boat to capsize. It’s very close. The captain yells at his men to row harder. I hold my breath for fear of imminent disaster.

Everyone in the teahouse has stopped eating. The diners converge on my window, pushing and shoving, leaning on me to get a better view. Gege tells them to go away, but they pay no attention. Meanwhile, a huge crowd has gathered along the riverbank to watch the drama. They scream at the captain and shout instructions to the bargemen.

At the last moment, a spectator standing at the apex of the bridge suddenly throws a long coil of rope down to the barge. The sailors reach up with outstretched arms, grab the flying rope and hurriedly tie it to the stern of their ship. Meanwhile, the rest of the crew paddles furiously to turn the craft forward. I hold my breath as the barge lurches precariously, swinging violently from side to side until it finally rights itself. The mast is lowered—just in time—as the vessel slides safely under the bridge to the other side.

Everyone in the teahouse gives a sigh of relief and returns to their seats. Proprietor Ma looks at the food on our table and tells us that it has turned cold. He insists on taking the four hot dishes down to be reheated in the kitchen. While we wait, we see Ah Zhao bounding up the stairs with a big smile on his face.

“Did you see that barge, Old Master? It almost capsized!”

“Were you hoping that it would, you rascal? What are you carrying?” Baba says, smiling.

“Look what I’ve found!” He pushes our dishes to one side and places a bundle at the center of our table. He unfolds the square piece of cloth and lays out a dazzling assortment of curious objects: several molded-gourd cricket containers, each with a differently carved latticed top made of tortoiseshell, bamboo, horn or wood; a porcelain feeding tray; clay pots and fighting arenas; tweezers for grooming; a double bamboo cage, made for two crickets, with a single handle and a sliding divider in the middle; a dome-shaped, pocket-sized brass carrier covered by wire mesh; a sandalwood tube with a breathing cover and feeder at the bottom; and a tickler with fine hairs sprouting from a bamboo handle.

“What sort of hair do they use to make these cricket ticklers? They’re so fine! Almost invisible.” Gege tilts his head back and inserts the tickler into his right nostril. He twirls the handle, screws up his face and gives a violent sneeze.

“Ah-cheoow!”
Gege exclaims. “Ready for a song or a fight, anyone? No? How about a little tickle up the nose and a good sneeze instead? By the way, you never answered me. What sort of hair is this?”

“If you really want to know, these fine hairs are rats’ whiskers!”

“Rats’ whiskers!
Ah yah!
Why didn’t you tell me before? How do I rinse out my nostril?”

“Did you buy all this cricket paraphernalia, Ah Zhao?” Baba asks.

“Of course not, Old Master! I thought you might like to see everything, that’s all. Aren’t they interesting? Whatever you don’t want, I’ll return.”

“These gourds are beautiful,” Baba says, picking one up. “Especially this one. They’re all different, aren’t they?”

“You can say
that
again. Some gourds have smaller turns, while others have larger turns than their bellies. The ones with long, slender necks are called goose-necks. The fat, round, shiny ones are called monk-heads. The one you have in your hand has a pointed bottom. It’s called a spider-bellied gourd.”

“I really like this one,” Baba says, taking off the gourd’s latticed tortoiseshell top and peering into its interior. “It’s beautifully proportioned. Inside, it has a thick rind, which will maintain an even temperature for our cricket lodger.”

“Old Master! You have excellent taste. That one’s my favorite too. Look at the glossy patina on its surface! According to the dealer, the patina is from years of being caressed by numerous previous owners. He says this gourd is an antique from the Tang Dynasty. It’s at least three hundred years old.”

At that moment, Proprietor Ma appears with a tray of steaming dishes, and the delicious aroma of fresh carp, pork ribs and bamboo shoots fills the air. Ah Zhao hurriedly repacks his assortment of cricket-ware and prepares to leave.

“Buy the antique gourd and that fat, round, shiny one you call monk-head. Bargain for a good price,” Baba says.

“Tell them to throw in the tickler!” Gege adds.

“Do you need some more money?” Baba asks.

“The string of cash you gave me earlier is more than enough.”

Baba reaches into the voluminous sleeve of his robe and takes out a few more coins. “Here, this is lunch money for you and Little Chen.”

“Thank you, Old Master.” Ah Zhao bows. “We’re going to watch the preparations for the Qing Ming Festival, but we won’t be far away.”

“What’s the Qing Ming Festival, Baba?” I ask.

“That’s a day for us to remember our ancestors. About four hundred years ago, one of the Tang Emperors declared that the day following the Cold Food Festival should be named Qing Ming Jie (Clear and Bright Festival). Nowadays we combine the two holidays together into a joined Qing Ming Festival for sweeping our ancestors’ tombs.”

“And also for playing games,” Gege adds. “I remember one Qing Ming Festival when you took me to Ye Ye’s
(Grandfather’s) tomb and we had a picnic. Afterward we played tug-of-war and
cu ju
(football) and flew kites. It was such a fun day.”