Chapter 4
她叫我「小茉」
She Called Me "Xiao Mo"
后院空地上有一片落叶。
苏茉开门的时候看到的。她蹲下来，把叶子捡起来——深绿色，边缘有一圈焦黄的锯齿，叶脉很密。
她把叶子翻过来。叶背的颜色浅一点，茸毛更明显。是茶树的叶子——她认得这个纹路，在茶山见过同样的脉络。
她没有在后院种任何植物。
她抬头看了看。后院是两米乘三米的地砖，三面墙，一面篱笆。没有树。最近的茶树在三条街以外，风不可能从那个方向吹过来。
叶子是茶树的叶子。
苏茉把它放在吧台角落。没有多想。但那天一整天，她的手碰到吧台的时候，指腹会蹭到那片叶子——像确认它还在那里。
十一点。门推开了。
一个女人抱着一叠作文本走进来。她找了最角落的位子坐下，把作文本摊开，红笔拿在手里。苏茉扫了一眼作文本封面——某页露出的角上印着「陈老师班」。
苏茉给她泡了一杯白牡丹。
女人喝了一口。
红笔在半空中停了一拍。
「这个茶……」
苏茉等着。
「不是绿茶也不是红茶。」
苏茉说：「嗯，是它自己的茶。」
女人把红笔放下。又拿起来。笔尖在作文本上方悬了一秒，才落下去。
她低下头继续批作文。但苏茉看到她在刚才那页的空白处多写了两个字，不是批注——她划掉了，苏茉没看到写的是什么。
下午两点。苏茉把温度计插进滇红的壶里——七十八度，比昨天低了两度。她把老太太用的那把壶多洗了一遍，指腹沿着壶口的弧线走了一圈。保温台上的位置也调了，从角落挪到最顺手的地方。
她不再省时间。
她知道自己在等。
下午四点四十。
门推开了。
没有下雨。茶还没泡到最好的时候。
是老太太。今天比平时早了五分钟。
她看了一眼保温台上的滇红。
「你在等我。」
不是疑问句。
苏茉低头看了一眼保温台——壶里的茶确实还没到最好的温度。
「泡到最好的时候，再给我。」老太太说。然后她没有坐下，就站在那里，等。
苏茉重新注水。等了三分钟。
把茶端过去的时候，滇红的温度正好。
老太太喝茶。放下杯子。看着苏茉。
「小茉。」
她说。
苏茉端着壶。左手无名指正压在杯沿上拭过——像每一次端茶一样。但这一次，那个动作停住了。手指按在杯沿上，茶渍贴着瓷面。
「你泡茶的时候，无名指习惯拭杯沿。」她指了指苏茉的左手。「我以前也这样。」
苏茉低头看自己的手——无名指上的茶渍。她每天泡茶，无名指内侧有一圈浅褐色的印，像戴了一枚看不见的戒指。
她端起杯子，又放下了。
祖母也这样叫她。
祖母也这样拭杯沿。
嘴张开了。没有声音。
但老太太站起来。
「明天还会下雨。泡一壶不加糖的。有人需要苦的。」
说完走了。
晚上九点半。茶馆关了门。
苏茉一个人在店里。她拿出手机，打开相册，翻了一会儿，翻到一张老照片——祖母。
祖母的左手无名指上，也有一圈茶渍。
她以前从来没有注意过。
她给母亲发了一条消息：「外婆以前常喝什么茶？」
没有回复。
母亲从来不回她关于茶的消息。
第4章 · 完
There was a fallen leaf on the empty ground of the backyard.
Su Mo saw it when she opened the door. She crouched down and picked it up — deep green, with a ring of scorched yellow serrations along the edge, the veins dense.
She turned it over. The underside was lighter, the fine fuzz more visible. A tea leaf — she recognized the pattern, had seen the same veining on the tea mountains.
She had not planted anything in the backyard.
She looked up. The backyard was two meters by three of paving tiles, three walls, one fence. No tree. The nearest tea tree was three streets away. The wind could not have carried it from that direction.
It was a tea leaf.
Su Mo set it on the corner of the counter. She did not think much of it. But all that day, whenever her hand passed over the counter, her fingertips brush the leaf — the way you check to make sure something is still there.
Eleven o'clock. The door pushed open.
A woman came in carrying a stack of composition books. She took the corner seat, spread the books open, red pen in hand. Su Mo glanced at the cover — a corner of one page showed "Teacher Chen's Class."
Su Mo brewed her a cup of White Peony.
The woman took a sip.
The red pen paused mid-air.
"This tea..."
Su Mo waited.
"It is not green tea. It is not black tea either."
Su Mo said, "No. It is its own tea."
The woman set the red pen down. Picked it up again. The nib hovered above the composition book for a second before it descended.
She lowered her head and went back to grading. But Su Mo saw her write two extra characters in the margin of the page she had just been on — not a correction. She crossed them out. Su Mo did not see what she had written.
Two in the afternoon. Su Mo slid the thermometer into the dianhong pot — seventy-eight degrees, two degrees lower than yesterday. She washed the pot the old woman had used one extra time, her fingertip tracing the curve of the rim. She adjusted its position on the warming tray, moving it from the corner to the most reachable spot.
She was no longer saving time.
She knew she was waiting.
Four forty in the afternoon.
The door pushed open.
It had not rained. The tea was not yet at its best.
It was the old woman. Five minutes earlier than usual.
She glanced at the dianhong on the warming tray.
"You are waiting for me."
Not a question.
Su Mo looked down at the warming tray — the tea in the pot had not yet reached its best temperature.
"Brew it to its best, then give it to me." The old woman did not sit down. She stood there, waiting.
Su Mo poured fresh water. Waited three minutes.
When she brought the tea over, the dianhong was at exactly the right temperature.
The old woman drank. Set the cup down. Looked at Su Mo.
"Xiao Mo."
She said.
Su Mo was holding the pot. Her left ring finger was pressing against the cup rim, wiping — the way she did every time she carried tea. But this time, the motion stopped. Her finger rested on the rim, the tea stain pressed against the porcelain.
"When you brew tea, your ring finger habitually wipes the rim." She gestured toward Su Mo's left hand. "I used to do that too."
Su Mo looked down at her own hand — the tea stain on her ring finger. She brewed tea every day. The inside of her ring finger had a faint brown ring, like wearing an invisible ring.
She picked up the cup. Set it down again.
Her grandmother had called her that too.
Her grandmother had wiped the rim the same way.
Her mouth opened. No sound came.
But the old woman stood up.
"It will rain tomorrow. Brew a pot without sugar. Someone needs it bitter."
Then she left.
Nine thirty at night. The tea house was closed.
Su Mo was alone in the shop. She took out her phone, opened the photo album, scrolled for a while, found an old photograph — her grandmother.
On her grandmother's left ring finger, the same tea stain ring.
She had never noticed it before.
She sent her mother a message: "What tea did Grandmother used to drink?"
No reply.
Her mother never replied to messages about tea.
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To be continued
Next chapter: "Business Will Pick Up"