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In the distance, a single wisp of cloud has curled around the peak of the highest mountain. Soon he will need to set up the space heaters -- more money wasted on nonexistent customers. A natural fire would be best. Burn coal, like the old days. On television the other day they had talked about the health dangers of coal, but he had grown up with the scent of it, the comfortable sight of soot gathering around the brick stove, how the tiles were warm to the touch hours after the coal had burned white and then gray… The gate to the garden swings open with a single rusty note. The master is immediately on his feet, his hands clasped together in the traditional pose of welcome.  |
Good evening, he says. Some tea, sir? The visitor says, Jade Mountain pu-erh. Ah, the master sighs. An aficionado, and a man who is from these parts, judging from the accent. Emboldened by this familiarity, he says, Of course, of course. A happy National Day to you. The visitor does not respond; instead, he stamps over to the corner of the garden, to one of the marble tables under the cypress trees. With a single swipe of his coat sleeve, he shoos fallen leaves off the tabletop. Yes, the man is in a foul mood, the master realizes. He is well acquainted with the heavy, sulky footsteps, the almost childish need to be brusque in one's movements,  |
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