At the beginning of May, Rosie tells me about a Mandarin-speaking doctor—an ob-gyn—but before I can make an appointment two unfathomable things happen. First, an all-time record is set when four hundred grams of maocha—raw Pu’er—sell at auction for 400,000 yuan. Nearly $53,000! I’m thinking I may end up as rich as my husband in my own right—kidding, but still fun to fantasize about—when a Chinese-language channel airs a special called The Bubble of Pu’er Is Broken, which I watch in our living room as Jin naps on the couch next to me.
The show begins in the Fangcun Tea Market with the reporter claiming that Pu’er prices are inflated. At first, I tell myself that this isn’t the worst criticism. In fact, something like this might have even been expected. After all, Tall trees catch much wind and The bird that stands out is easily shot. Then the show takes an even darker turn.
“Not only are the prices inflated but many teas claiming to be Pu’er are fakes,” the reporter says. “These would include ninety percent of tea bought in Yiwu—the so-called home of the queen of Pu’er. It’s been labeled as ‘authentic forest tea’ but is actually just terrace tea from elsewhere.”
Another accusation has to do with Pu’er from the Laobanzhang area. The camera follows the reporter as he walks a few meters and then plants himself directly in front of Midnight Blossom. My stomach tightens. I shake Jin awake. He groggily sits up as the reporter says, “The Fangcun Tea Market alone claims to have five thousand tons of Laobanzhang tea, yet the entire village harvests only fifty tons a year. That means that the vast majority of Laobanzhang Pu’er in the Fangcun Market is fake.”
I clasp a hand around my throat, hoping to steady my voice. “Ci-teh has been selling Pu’er from Laobanzhang. She even had her husband buy more recently. She wouldn’t have sold counterfeit tea, would she?”
“No, she wouldn’t. She’s your friend . . .”
“Other teas from other villages also declared Pu’er are not,” the reporter continues. “Many of the teas being sold as naturally aged have been artificially fermented. Many of the health claims are false as well. Contrary to popular opinion, some scientists have suggested that drinking artificially fermented Pu’er can cause cancer . . .”
With each new revelation, another wave of panic washes over me. Throughout the special, proprietors try to hide their faces from the camera. Some are successful, but others spit out denials in high-pitched angry tones, while shaking their fists at the camera. Nothing, however, can hide the names of shops or stands. Midnight Blossom. The conclusion—and it’s one I’ve come to myself—is that my business must be one of the worst offenders.
I repeatedly call the shop and Ci-teh’s cellphone but never get an answer.
“What am I going to do?” I ask my husband.
Jin tries to sound unfazed. “Maybe the show won’t mean anything. People are watching now, but they’ll forget about it tomorrow.” After a pause, he asks, “Wouldn’t Ci-teh call if there’s a problem?”
I ponder the idea, playing it out in my head. “A better question might be why she hasn’t called already.” I point to the screen. “You can see my whole shop, but where is she?”
Jin’s mouth tightens into a grim line. Without another word, he goes to his computer and begins looking for flights.
* * *
Walking into the tea market two days later is like entering a tomb. The lights are dim, as usual, but the aisles are completely empty of people and goods, and many of the shops have already been vacated. We turn onto the corridor that leads to Midnight Blossom. Someone sits on the floor outside the shop, legs stretched before him. He jumps to his feet as I approach. It’s Xian-rong.
“I didn’t know how to reach you,” he sputters. “I’ve been asking Ci-teh for your contact information for weeks, but she wouldn’t give it to me.”
I peer through the window. Large bags of loose tea rest open on the floor and the shelves have their displays of tea cakes, but my shop still manages to look ghostly.
“My father and I tried the hotel where you first went on your honeymoon—”
“So long ago?”
He’s only a teenager, but his eyes are hollow with worry. I glance at Jin. He’s set his face into an impenetrable mask. Inside, I feel as though everything I’ve worked for is being swept down a river. I fumble with my keys and unlock the door. Wordlessly, the boy slips behind the table. Jin and I sit opposite him. I feel strangely detached. It’s my shop, but Xian-rong is in charge. He shows me a tea cake. The rice paper is printed with the distinctive Laobanzhang label, with a date and a stamp of authenticity.
“You can’t fake that,” I say.
“Someone must have sold her unused wrappers,” Xian-rong replies.
He opens the cake, uses a pick to break apart the leaves, puts a few of them into a little dish, and hands them to me to smell. The odor is of dirt and mildew, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that what Ci-teh bought—and what my shop has been selling—is counterfeit. Irrepressible hope flickers from deep inside. Maybe this Laobanzhang Pu’er is of minor quality, picked at the end of the year or during the monsoon. He brews the tea and pours it. The smell of jungle rot—the telltale giveaway of a badly artificially fermented Pu’er—assaults my senses. My worst suspicions are confirmed.
“Where is she?” I ask.
“They started doing interviews about ten days ago,” Xian-rong answers. “She left the next day.”
“Did she fly back to Yunnan?” The idea that Ci-teh could manage to buy a ticket and get to the airport on her own, even after what I now know, seems impossible, beyond her.
Xian-rong lifts his shoulders in response. After a moment, he says, “Nannuo Mountain is her home—”
“And her husband and children are there.”
“I never thought an Ahka could be so devious,” he adds.
I can’t believe it either.
* * *
What happens over the next couple of days is worse than my worst imaginings. The world market for Pu’er collapses, falling in value by half. It’s estimated that dealers like me have between one hundred and three hundred tons of Pu’er in storage that they’ll now be unable to sell. In Guangzhou, reports reveal that it would take every single resident of the city drinking Pu’er every day for eight years to deplete the excess stock. Most damning, New Generations Magazine reports that the number of people in China speculating on Pu’er has reached 30 million, and that dealers, bankers, and government officials have all worked together to cheat them. This cascade of news causes several more emporiums in the tea market to go belly-up. I close mine too, never once having met my partners. Nearly all my stock goes into trash bins. My three tea men, sensing a unique opportunity, buy my best teas at rock-bottom prices with plans to store them until the value rises again to that of gold. “You’ll make even me rich one day,” Mr. Lin tells me. I need to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from weeping.