AVRL 33

“I didn’t,” Yu Tingzhi said. “You were the one who started talking first.”

Meng Chi was so exasperated by his righteous rebuttal that he almost laughed, mimicking him: “I didn’t—you were the one who started touching first.”

Right now they were no different from those two little radish-heads bickering yesterday. At the thought, Meng Chi suddenly burst out laughing and muttered, “How childish,” though it was unclear whom he was addressing.

Yu Tingzhi laughed as well. The atmosphere between them grew lighter, as if the earlier estrangement were gradually dissolving. They returned to the easy way they had gotten along before—only now with an added, barely perceptible undercurrent of ambiguity.

The car gradually fell quiet, filled only with the soft breathing of the sleeping students. Meng Chi seemed to catch their drowsiness; after closing his eyes for a moment, he too drifted off.

When he woke and opened his eyes, he discovered that at some point he had leaned against Yu Tingzhi’s shoulder, his forehead pressed against Yu Tingzhi’s jaw. The two of them were almost resting against each other, “heads touching as they slept.”

Yu Tingzhi’s breath spilled down from above Meng Chi’s head. The faintly warm current slid across the bridge of his high nose and brushed past the peak of his lips, mingling with his own breath. For a moment Meng Chi felt dazed, uncertain whether he ought to straighten up.

A short while later the vehicle came to a stop. Yu Tingzhi opened his eyes and was the first to sit upright. Only then did Meng Chi pretend he had just woken and put some distance between them.

The sketching site was halfway up the mountain. So that the students carrying drawing boards would have less walking to do, the driver took the bus straight up the mountain road.

They were still some distance from Qingshan Temple. Meng Chi therefore parted from Yu Tingzhi and walked the rest of the way up on his own.

Half an hour later Meng Chi arrived at Qingshan Temple, but he did not find his grand-master. The monks there told him that his grand-master had recently become obsessed with chess and had made a chess friend at the foot of the mountain; the two of them had gone off to play.

Having come for nothing, Meng Chi decided not to leave. After resting in the temple for an hour, he wandered off toward the tea gardens near the midway point of the mountain.

It was cloudy that day; the sun was hidden behind layers of cloud, and without the scorching sunlight the temperature was pleasant, so Meng Chi felt inclined to roam about the mountains.

Qingfeng Mountain was not particularly high. Apart from the main peak and the two surrounding summits, which were too steep to develop, nearly all the other peaks had been planted with the local specialty green tea.

Row upon row of tea bushes neatly covered the mountainsides in a sea of emerald green. The tea-pickers moving among them became mere decorative spots of color. The air drifted with the scent of grass and trees mingled with the rich fragrance of tea—extremely pleasant.

Meng Chi had not been walking long before he came upon a young couple sitting beneath a tall camphor tree. The boy stood behind the girl, half-embracing her as he held her hand and guided her brushstroke by brushstroke, teaching her to draw—very intimate.

Meng Chi clicked his tongue twice in his mind and quickly turned onto another mountain path so as not to disturb their romantic moment.

Along the way he encountered quite a few university students sketching, scattered throughout the tea mountain. Most of them were not carrying drawing boards. One girl who recognized him even asked for directions to Qingshan Temple.

Meng Chi answered and casually asked what they were going to the temple for. The girls giggled and said they were going to burn incense and pray for a good marriage match.

Watching them head up the mountain, Meng Chi thought for a moment, took out his phone, and sent Yu Tingzhi a WeChat message saying he had seen some of his students going to Qingshan Temple.

He absolutely had no intention of reporting the students for skipping class; he was purely worried about their safety.

Yu Tingzhi replied quickly, saying that after the sketching session today the students had free time.

Meng Chi said nothing more. After wandering a while longer he returned to the temple—and there, in the Main Hall, he saw Yu Tingzhi, along with that male teacher.

“Little Meng, your grand-master is already back; he’s in the side rooms in the rear courtyard,” an elderly monk called out as soon as he saw him.

Meng Chi answered, “Got it,” then turned and discovered that Yu Tingzhi was already looking his way.

“Teacher Yu, so you’ve come to pray for a marriage match too?” Meng Chi walked over and greeted him. The male teacher beside Yu Tingzhi nodded to him; Meng Chi returned a slight nod of acknowledgment.

“More or less,” Yu Tingzhi said.

It either is or it isn’t—what does “more or less” mean?

Meng Chi muttered the complaint to himself but said nothing further. The male teacher was quite tactful; realizing that Yu Tingzhi and Meng Chi knew each other, he did not linger and went off elsewhere.

Meng Chi had originally planned only to say hello and then go see his grand-master. Seeing that Yu Tingzhi’s colleague had left, he felt it would be awkward to leave Yu Tingzhi alone, so he casually suggested that Yu Tingzhi come with him to the rear courtyard. Yu Tingzhi did not refuse.

Before they even entered the rear courtyard, Meng Chi heard his grand-master’s booming voice telling the temple monks how he had just slaughtered his opponent left and right, leaving the other man discarding armor and helmet, fleeing in panic—clearly he had won the chess match and was thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Grand-master, it’s ‘discarding helmet and armor,’” Meng Chi called out loudly as soon as he stepped into the courtyard.

His grand-master was over sixty, a thin old man. Because he had spent years bent over making tea, his back was slightly stooped, so that the light-gray monk’s robe he wore curved like a crescent moon.

Since he was only cultivating here and had not taken formal monastic vows, he had not shaved his head. Still, his shiny bald crown had been weathered by years, with little hair left—only a circle of short, mixed black-and-white fuzz at the back of his head.

“What’s the difference? Same meaning,” the grand-master said, turning with feigned annoyance toward Meng Chi. “You show up and immediately pick holes. Believe me, I’ll throw you out.”

Meng Chi gave a sheepish “heh,” promptly clasped his hands and bowed. “I apologize. It was my ignorance.”

The grand-master still seemed ready to say more, but upon catching sight of the refined young man following behind Meng Chi, he immediately put away his exaggerated expression and assumed the immortal demeanor of a cultivator, saying in a measured tone, “Don’t stand outside. Come in with your friend.”

This small meditation courtyard contained several rooms, occupied solely by the grand-master. Far from the front halls, it was extremely quiet.

All the monks in the temple loved tea, so the grand-master had set aside one room as a tea chamber. A faint scent of sandalwood drifted out—far more pleasant than the incense smoke outside.

“Grand-master, Shiniang had me bring some of the smoked meat she cured. I’ve put it in the freezer for you.” Meng Chi entered with the ease of long familiarity, taking out the things he had brought one by one and tucking them into the second shelf of the freezer, not forgetting to invite Yu Tingzhi to sit wherever he liked.

After stuffing the items into the freezer, he opened the upper compartment and found various kinds of dried tea inside.

“Take the red box—new tea I just got. Let you taste something fresh.” The grand-master changed out of the jacket that still carried the smell of tobacco and came out carrying a tea kettle.

“All right.” Meng Chi found the tea box, rose, and walked over to the tea table, saying to Yu Tingzhi, “You’re in for a treat. My grand-master’s teas are all excellent.”

Yu Tingzhi smiled and quietly watched Meng Chi tidy the tea table and prepare the tea utensils. Perhaps because he had reached a place where he could relax, the usual reserved demeanor Meng Chi put on in everyday life had fallen away; he became especially lively and animated.

Whether bantering with his grand-master or arranging the tea ware on the table, he was completely at ease, joy and relaxation plain on his face—even a touch of childlike spirit showed through.

“Today’s tea needs to be boiled,” the grand-master said, setting down the kettle and taking a set of dishes from the cabinet under the tea table. “Put away the tasting cups and use these.”

The porcelain dishes were no larger than a palm, pure white inside, the outer rims printed with colorful lotus patterns—an antique style with an exotic flavor.

Meng Chi opened the tea canister and, by the scent, recognized it as Assam black tea. Though puzzled by his grand-master’s instructions, he obeyed, obediently taking out cardamom, cinnamon, old ginger, and other ingredients from the cabinet.

“Feel it’s strange?” the grand-master said with deliberate mystification, smiling enigmatically at their puzzled expressions. “This is tea an Indian master gave me a while ago. It’s called masala chai—has to be boiled this way.”

Meng Chi nodded in understanding. His grand-master loved tea—traditional tea, and also loved trying every variety. Whether boiling, simmering, or steeping, he would experiment with all of them, and he even tinkered with tea-making techniques himself. Meng Chi’s own fondness for fussing with fruit teas was influenced by his grand-master’s love of innovation.

Meng Chi had never encountered Indian masala chai before. His grand-master did not let him brew it; instead he shooed him over to sit beside Yu Tingzhi and sat himself at the tea table to handle everything personally.

While adding the spices he explained the method of making masala chai. Meng Chi and Yu Tingzhi listened attentively, occasionally lending a hand to pass ingredients.

When Yu Tingzhi handed over the cardamom, the grand-master glanced at his hand and exclaimed, “Young man, I can see your bones are extraordinary—you’re a talent. Want to learn the art from me?”

At the words Yu Tingzhi looked slightly stunned. Just as he was about to speak, Meng Chi said helplessly, “Grand-master, stop teasing him.”

The grand-master raised an eyebrow. “Who’s teasing? Look at those hands of his—aren’t they better suited to making tea than yours?”

Yu Tingzhi gave a startled laugh and, with a sidelong glance at the embarrassed Meng Chi, instantly understood why Meng Chi was so fond of his hands.

Silently exasperated at being used as a foil, Meng Chi handed over the kettle lid and said, “Teacher Yu’s hands aren’t for making tea—they’re for holding a brush.”

The grand-master: “Oh?”

“He’s not only a calligrapher but a painter as well,” Meng Chi said. “Whether writing or painting, he’s outstanding.”

“Is that so?!” The grand-master’s interest was immediately piqued. He said to Yu Tingzhi, “I’ve been studying calligraphy myself and plan to write a piece to hang by the door. Later you must give me some pointers.”

Meng Chi: “……”

His grand-master really did have a wide range of hobbies.

Pleased by Meng Chi’s praise, Yu Tingzhi of course agreed without hesitation.

The three of them chatted idly until the tea was ready. Meng Chi helped pour the tea into the porcelain dishes prepared earlier. Because milk had been added, the liquid was a milky white; the slight astringency of the tea fragrance blended with the milk aroma, creating a unique flavor.

Just as Meng Chi lowered his head to take a sip, the grand-master tapped the back of his hand with a teaspoon.

“This tea is called ‘licking tea.’ You have to lick it to taste its true flavor.”

The name “licking tea” came precisely from the way it was drunk. Seeing his grand-master lower his head and lick in small sips, Meng Chi could only follow suit. After two licks he had not really tasted the tea; his attention was instead drawn to Yu Tingzhi beside him.

Perhaps because Yu Tingzhi always dressed and carried himself with refined elegance, Meng Chi was rather looking forward to seeing him drink tea in this less-than-elegant manner.

Yu Tingzhi lifted the porcelain dish before him, inclined his head slightly, first inhaled the fragrance, then gently blew away the surface heat. When the temperature was suitable, he extended the tip of his tongue, lightly touched the surface of the tea, licked once, and curled it back—the milky-white liquid flashed once on the tip of his vivid red tongue and vanished.

Meng Chi stared at the soft pink tip of that extended tongue. His Adam’s apple slid involuntarily. A thin white vapor blurred the vivid beauty of Yu Tingzhi’s lips and tongue, yet only made it harder to look away.

The milky-white tea overlapped with the white in his memory, staining the corners of those deep-red lips and the tip of that tongue, silently speaking of temptation.

Meng Chi watched, dazed, and once again some rather indecent thoughts rose in his mind. He did not even notice that his grand-master had been called away by a monk.

“What are you staring at me for?” Yu Tingzhi, mouth full of tea fragrance, lifted his eyes and met Meng Chi’s gaze.

Meng Chi snapped back to himself, gave a light cough, and said, “Watching you drink like a little cat. It’s kind of cute.”

“Is that so?” Yu Tingzhi’s glance swept past the flush behind Meng Chi’s ear, then dropped to the space between his crossed legs, and he added, “When you watch a little cat drink water, do you get hard too?”