Memory of Water. Emmi Itaranta

I realised this, my movements began to shift, leaving the surface of my skin and my tense muscles for a deeper place inside.

      My father poured water from the large teapot into the smaller one, which held the tea leaves. Then he poured this mild, swiftly brewed tea from the smaller pot into the cups in order to warm them up. As a final step of preparation, he filled the small teapot again and drenched it with the tea from the cups, soaking the earthenware sides of the pot while the leaves inside were releasing their flavour. The blaze lanterns hanging from the ceiling sprinkled softly flickering light on the water as it spread on the tray. Breath by breath I let myself sink into the ceremony and took in the sensations around me: the flare of the yellowish light, the sweet, grassy scent of the tea, the crinkle in the fabric of my trousers pressing at my leg, the wet clank of the metal teapot when my father placed it on the tray. They all entwined and merged into one stream that breathed through me, chasing the blood in my veins, drawing me closer and deeper into the moment, until I felt as if I wasn’t the one breathing anymore, but life itself was breathing through me, connecting me to the sky above and earth below.

      And then the flow was cut short.

      ‘Some might say that is quite a waste of water.’ The words were spoken by Commander Taro. His voice was low and surprisingly soft. I had trouble imagining anyone commanding armies with such a voice. ‘It’s rare to find anyone these days who can afford to spend water on a complete, unabridged tea ceremony,’ Taro continued.

      Although I wasn’t looking at my father, I could sense that he had frozen, as if an invisible web had tightened under his skin.

      One of the unwritten rules of the tea ceremony was that during it conversation was limited to remarks about the quality of the water and tea, the year’s crop in the watering areas, weather, the origins and skilled craftsmanship of the teaware or the decoration of the teahouse. Personal matters were not discussed, and critical remarks were never made.

      Bolin shifted as if a blazefly had crawled inside his uniform.

      ‘As I told you, Taro, Master Kaitio is a most distinguished professional. It’s a matter of honour that he has kept the tea ceremony unchanged for those of us who have the privilege of enjoying it,’ he said without turning to look at Taro. Instead he was staring at my father intently.

      ‘I understand,’ said Taro. ‘But I couldn’t help expressing my surprise about the fact that a tea master of such a remote village can afford to spend water so openhandedly. And you must know, Major Bolin, that the tea ceremony in all its present-world forms is no more than an impure, confused relic of the original past-world forms that have been long forgotten. Therefore it would be mindless to claim that conserving the tradition requires wasting water.’

      My father’s face seemed made of unmoving stone that hides forceful underground currents. He spoke very quietly.

      ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I assure you that I practise tea ceremony exactly as it has been passed on through ten generations since the first tea master moved into this house. Not the slightest detail in it has been altered.’

      ‘Not the slightest detail?’ Taro asked. ‘Has it always been customary, then, for tea masters to accept women as apprentices?’ He nodded towards me and I felt the heat of blood colouring my face, as often happened when strangers paid attention to me.

      ‘It has always been customary for fathers to pass their skill on to their children, and my daughter here will make a fine tea master that I can be proud of,’ my father said. ‘Noria, why don’t you serve the sweets with the First Tea?’

      The first cup of the brewed tea, or the First Tea, as it was known, was regarded as the most important part of the ceremony, and any inappropriate conversation at that point would have been a serious offence not only against the tea master, but against other guests as well. Taro remained silent as I held out a seagrass bowl of small tea sweets I had prepared that morning using honey and amaranth flour. My father’s face remained mute and unreadable as he apportioned the tea into the cups and offered the first one to Major Bolin, then the second one to Commander Taro. Bolin breathed in the scent of the tea for a long moment before tasting it and closing his eyes while he let the tea remain in his mouth in order to sense its full flavour. Taro, for his part, lifted the cup to his lips, drank a long sip and then raised his gaze. A strange smile was on his face.

      ‘Bolin was right,’ he said. ‘Your skill is truly amazing, Master Kaitio. Not even the tea masters of the capital, who are regularly provided with natural fresh water from outside the city, are able to prepare such pure-tasting tea. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that this tea was made with spring water instead of purified, desalinated sea water.’

      The air in the room seemed not to stir when my father put the tray down, and something cold and heavy shifted below my heart. I thought of the secret waters running deep inside the still stone of the fells.

      I didn’t know who this man was or what was the real reason for his visit; and yet I felt as if in his footsteps, where his shoes had worn the stones of the path and moved grass stalks so subtly that only the air knew, a dark and narrow figure had fitted its feet into his steps and followed him through the garden, all the way to the veranda of the teahouse. It was patient and tireless, and I did not want to look towards it, or open the sliding door and see it under the trees or by the stone basin, waiting. I didn’t know if my father had felt the same, because he wouldn’t let his thoughts show on his face.

      Major Bolin drank from his cup and said, ‘I’m glad your tea has impressed Commander Taro. He has been transferred to supervise the local government and is now working in close association with me.’

      Taro wiped his mouth.

      ‘I’m particularly invested in bringing water crime under control,’ he said. ‘You may have heard that it has increased lately in the Scandinavian Union.’ He took a pause that filled the room. ‘I feel certain that we will see each other often in the future.’

      ‘How delightful,’ my father said and bowed. I followed his example.

      ‘He is highly regarded in the capital,’ Bolin continued. ‘I would say that anyone who has his protection is privileged, but I don’t wish to suggest that New Qian isn’t an equal place to live for everyone.’ He gave a laugh at his own statement, and my father and I smiled obediently.

      My father served another round of tea. I offered more sweets, and Bolin and Taro took one each. Taro spoke to my father again.

      ‘I couldn’t help but admire your garden, Master. It’s highly unusual to see such verdancy so far away from the watering areas. How do you stretch your water quota to suffice not only for your family, but for all your plants too?’

      ‘Due to professional reasons, the tea master’s water quota is naturally somewhat larger than that of most citizens,’ Bolin remarked.

      ‘Naturally,’ said Taro, ‘but I still must wonder what kind of sacrifices keeping such a garden requires. Do tell me, Master Kaitio, what is your secret?’

      Before my father had a chance to say anything, Bolin spoke.

      ‘Haven’t we spent enough time on superfluous chitchat, when we could be enjoying the tea in silence and forget about the sorrows of the world outside for a short while?’ He was looking at Taro, and although his voice was not sharp, I could hear a hidden edge within it. Taro gazed at him for a brief mute moment, then slowly turned to look at my father and didn’t take his eyes off him while he spoke.

      ‘Perhaps you’re right, Major Bolin. Perhaps I will spare my questions for another visit, which I hope to be able to make soon.’ And then he was quiet.

      After that, only a few superficial sentences were exchanged, and none of them had anything to do with water, the taste of the tea or the garden. For most of the time silence spread through the teahouse and wrapped us like slow smoke from hidden fires.

      The sweets were finished.

      The large teapot ran empty, then the cauldron.

      The ceremony