The Tea Conference Party

Che Qianzi

Che Qianzi is the penname of Gu Pan， a poet， essay writer， and painter. His principal works include the poetry and prose collections Right and Proper， The New Rider and the Horse： Selected Poems of Che Qianzi， 1978 ---" 2016， Inventions， Preceding the Bright Moon， Papaya Play， Cloudhead Flowers， and The Slowness of Suzhou.

This book consists of two parts. Part One consists of essays on tea-drinking， such as “Remembering Tea”， “Five Sections on Understanding Tea”， “Good Things Come in Pairs”， “Casual Jottings on Green Tea Steaming”， and “Jasmine Tea”. Part Two contains essays on “poetry and discussions”， such as “Song and Chorus South of the City” and “A Late Evening Album”. The book presents various aspects and facets of the literary world and is of great artistic and literary value.

The Tea Conference Party

Che Qianzi

Changjiang Literature and Art Publishing House

July 2021

52.00 （CNY）

One

At 9：30 am on February 18， we set off to see the plum blossoms at Xishan. It was snowing， and the mountain was thick with snow. As the car passed by Mudu， I caught sight of the snow accumulating on Lingyan Mountain. How could I not feel refreshed and delighted？ It felt strange to be so refreshed; I hadn’t felt it for years. When I wrote Journal on Touring a Garden two years ago， I often sat idly in a garden. The pleasure and admiration were there， but I never felt refreshed or delighted. It is perhaps the difference between a man-made garden and Mother Nature.

Only the mountains of Jiangnan will be lush with green in early spring. In fact， its mountains have always been green. Spring snow cloaked the mountain like green velvet sprinkled with silver flakes and silver powder， indolent with an aristocratic air about.

The towering Lingyan Mountain was like a bitter melon， its flavor affecting the taste. No one will call the sweet watermelon bitter， yet some people will describe the bitter melon as sweet！ A genius reader will have genius taste buds.

Snow could not accumulate on the road， and there was no snow on the trees by the wayside.

The snow fell like rain， but an imitation will always be an imitation. One could see the tell-tale signs on the mountain. Horseshoes bright and shiny resembled upturned eaves， bang bang clang clang—before long， the car had reached the back of the mountain. Behind， the vegetation did not extend to the front. The sienna mountain boulders made their audacious statement： the snow is rain， and the back of the mountain is wet.

Yixin told me that Yuyang Mountain was right in front. The tomb of Dong Qichang in Yuyang Mountain is very famous. It was once plundered， and a jar of thick black ink flew out of the tomb， splashing the tomb robber’s face black. He could never wash it off even until his death. Local folks would joke to a swarthy-faced fellow： “You just went grave-digging？” In the Ming Dynasty， there was a Dong tomb in Yuyang Mountain， which ended up a famous Suzhou chicken farm in the 21st century. The Suzhou locals do not profit from associating with Dong Qichang， but the field chickens receive a lot of his aura. It still hangs over them whenever they poop.

The snow gradually melted as we walked. In other words， as we traveled down the mountain road， the spring snow melted on the mountain， revealing more of its colors.

The car reached Taihu Bridge. As we looked down the other side of the shore， all the roofs at the foot of the mountain （that is， the base of the island） looked white. White can hide every kind of blemish. The glazed tiles used to be red and green， and were “ugly as hell”.

The lake was a pale blue. It used to take a few hours for the ferry to reach Xishan， enough for a few rounds of cards. We arrived at the village by car before I could even finish a cigarette. Xishan is an island that is quite cold. I rolled up my shirt sleeves and tested my skin： it must be three degrees lower than in the city. There was snow on the mountain and amid the grass and trees. The snow here was even thicker and whiter， no longer silver flakes or powder but the sweet， cool air of mint candies.

The village was under Misty Peak （or so they claimed，in fact， the village was still a mountain away from Misty Peak）. Someone had built a road here. When they were laying the road up Misty Peak， some men of insight stopped them. A mutual compromise led to the road being laid only under Misty Peak. I think it is still too much. I would rather not visit Misty Peak than have our car drive straight up the Peak.

The road ended outside the village. At the entrance， I also saw some plum trees， not yet in bloom. As I looked at the snow on the plum trees and the snow under them， I got the impression that the plum blossoms were falling as they bloomed—a lot were blooming， and just as many were falling. I took the peach trees in the snow for plum blossoms—there was a strong wind in the hotel， full of blossoming flowers in the Zen forest. I saw the farmhouses as a hotel and its occupants as a Zen forest.

I was at Xishan to see the plum blossoms. I did not expect to see a Biluochun tea plantation in the snow. It was the first time I saw one.

Two

The snow-covered Biluochun tea plantation gave me such a wonderful feeling that I couldn’t" find words to describe it. Outside the tea plantation， the loquat trees were also weighed down with snow. Since the loquat tree leaves were too large， the snow was a bit like leftover food. The people who had eaten their fill of wine and rice had gone to bed. Inside the tea plantation， there were a dozen large plum trees， and lots of snow could accumulate on their tiny leaves and slender veins. They were like silkworm goddesses with a crown of silk cocoon on their heads， coming out of the temple with a smile. The unique flowers and fruit fragrance of Biluochun is said to derive from fruit trees cross-bred with tea trees （I really like this amateur hypothesis， but if anyone insisted it was the innate fragrance of small-leaf tea species of the Dongting Mountains， I would accept it too）. The roots of tea trees and fruit trees mingled in the earth as the mighty river overflowed its tributaries. At this moment， I could hear the aroma of plum trees wash over their own dammed roots， flooding and running up the roots of the Biluochun tea trees in a burst of wine pink. Wine pink. I remember drinking plum wine once as a young man at Taihu Lake. On impulse， I finished a bottle of wine and remained intoxicated for two days， with an unbearable headache during my hangover. Fortunately， there was still snow in the Biluochun tea plantation and on the plum trees.

Wine pink： the color of plum wine is pink. This is what makes it so alluring.