Chapter Seventy-Three: Selling Tea

“This here is the old workshop. There’s a tea plantation on the far side of the mountain now, equipped with modern tea-processing machines. But if you ask me, Uncle Zhang’s craftsmanship is still unmatched. Somehow, machine-processed tea just lacks that spark of vitality.”

Xiao Yang reached into the bamboo tray on the wooden rack beside the low house, picked out a rolled tea leaf, and chewed it. His brow shot up and his face puckered, “So bitter!”

“These days, bitter-leaf tea is all made by machines, pressed into tea bricks, square-shaped. When you want to drink it, you use a tea knife to carve off a bit and brew it. The old man in our family doesn’t like that kind; he always hand-fries it and rolls it into strands.”

Aunt Zhang was originally from the north, but followed her parents south years ago. Later, she married Old Zhang and spent her life on this mountain. She possessed the northern straightforwardness and the southern gentleness, perfectly blending both qualities. It was her companionship that helped Old Zhang emerge from the pain of losing his sons—twice.

Sometimes people say women are the strongest beings in the world, and it’s true. Given the Zhang family’s situation, everyone worried Aunt Zhang wouldn’t pull through, including their third daughter, who feared her mother couldn’t bear the blow. Yet no one noticed it was Old Zhang, the seemingly silent and steadfast man, who truly couldn’t move on.

If Aunt Zhang hadn’t been attentive and noticed her husband slipping into depression early on, the family might have held yet another funeral.

For years now, Old Zhang insisted on guarding his son’s grave, refusing to leave the mountain. Even when Aunt Zhang wasn’t well, she persisted in accompanying her husband.

“People say, young couples become old companions. I’ve been with him all my life—how could we fly solo in old age? We’ve lived on this mountain for decades; every blade of grass and every tree is familiar. If I really moved down, with nothing to do, just chatting and playing cards every day, I wouldn’t get used to it. It’s better like this—planting vegetables, frying tea, living life with flavor, and having something to hold onto.”

Aunt Zhang was open about her two sons; she only regretted her second son’s weak constitution, but never felt sending both sons to the army was a mistake.

Chen Xin planned to eat at Aunt Zhang’s house. Xiao Yang had to hurry back, but before leaving, he helped Old Zhang drag firewood from the mountain to the woodshed, storing it according to Old Zhang’s habits before departing.

“These years, thankfully Xiao Yang and the others come to visit us old folks. San Ya has her in-laws and children to look after; she comes once a week, and when needed, her husband lends a hand.”

Aunt Zhang tended the firewood stove quickly. Chen Xin couldn’t help, so she simply held the vegetable basin, washing and chopping beside her.

There wasn’t much fancy food in the mountains. The two elders didn’t eat meat every day, averaging twice a week. Today, since Chen Xin, her niece, was visiting, they took down a piece of preserved pork to fry.

Mountain-cured pork was a treasure—thick fat but not greasy at all. Sliced thin and seared over high heat, the meat curled like lanterns. Add some garlic shoots and fermented bean paste, and the taste was unforgettable, even for Zhang Zhang, the picky little chubby boy, who kept stuffing piece after piece into his mouth.

Chen Xin worried he’d overeat and forbade him from having more rice, then sent him off with Old Zhang to inspect the tea plantation.

In truth, strangers rarely entered the tea plantation, so daily inspections weren’t necessary. But Old Zhang was used to walking after meals. After a round, he’d return to enjoy a cup of brewed bitter-leaf tea, nap until three or four in the afternoon, then rise to continue frying tea.

“We use a clay stove and an old iron wok here, frying tea—no more than two kilograms at a time. Your grandpa’s health isn’t what it used to be, so I cut back; now he fries only two or three jin each time. During frying, he picks out the broken and bad leaves, then starts rolling them. One batch takes until six or seven in the evening. Summer’s better; in winter, it’s impossible, so during the coldest days, we go down to the village for a while.”

They had a house in the new village at the far end—a small two-story, with the ground floor and upstairs split between two families, reserved for solitary elders or villagers in need. Families with all members present and unable to afford a house weren’t eligible; they had to borrow money or take a low-interest loan.

“As long as people are diligent, how could they not earn money? Both the front and back mountains have been developed. My third son-in-law and his brothers teamed up to build a rural guesthouse on the back mountain, with two big courtyards joined together. The income each year is considerable.”

Chen Xin didn’t ask about the distribution, but judging by Aunt Zhang’s expression, her daughter wasn’t treated unfairly.

“My daughter is honest, not as sharp as her brothers, but there’s merit in being simple. She’s hardworking and filial, and her in-laws like her. Her two sisters-in-law are busy with the guesthouse, so the in-laws live with her, and she takes care of them. The sisters-in-law focus on the money. Her husband helps cook at the guesthouse, earning a monthly wage and bonuses—better than working outside.”

“So why didn’t your third daughter join her sisters-in-law at the guesthouse?”

“No money.” Aunt Zhang sighed, finally showing a hint of sadness. “Her second brother’s illness was severe, and the family had little money. The army covered treatment costs, but the ongoing care and medicine were a huge expense, all borne by the third daughter and her husband.”

Chen Xin exhaled, newfound respect for Aunt Zhang’s third son-in-law swelling within her. For someone to selflessly help his brother-in-law, he was truly rare and good-hearted.

As they spoke, someone below called out for Old Zhang.

“Well, speak of the devil—my third son-in-law is here!”

Aunt Zhang set down her bamboo basket, wiped her hands on her apron, and hurried to greet him.

“Mom, I’ve brought some meat and eggs for you.” A lean man, carrying a basket, quickly climbed up from the foot of the mountain, set the basket on the edge of the courtyard, and pulled the hose to wash his feet.

“Where have you been? Why are you covered in mud?” Aunt Zhang eyed her son-in-law, worried, scanning him up and down.

“It’s nothing, Mom. I just went to Second Brother’s grave. On the way back, I saw a rabbit caught in a trap and tried to fetch it, but slipped.”

“What were you doing at Second Brother’s grave?” Aunt Zhang was puzzled—not a holiday nor memorial day, what was the reason?

“No, the village wanted us to register. I went, and picked up a letter from the military district for all retired soldiers. I burned it for Second Brother.”

Aunt Zhang sniffed, saying nothing. After a while, she smiled again and invited her son-in-law inside for tea.

“Your dad just finished frying some. Take a pack home. Didn’t your sister-in-law’s mother get diabetes? The specialist said this tea helps; take some to her.”

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