The First Infusion

Yi-yun woke unusually early the next morning.

The sun had not yet fully risen above the hills when a cool, clean scent of damp earth lingered in the air.

Soft clattering came from the kitchen. 

Shu-fen was already there, setting water on the stove, her movements calm and practiced as always.

Yi-yun paused in the doorway and watched her grandmother rinse the teapot, hold it up to the light for a brief inspection, then set it aside.

“Oh my, you’re up early today, Yi-yun,” Shu-fen said when she saw her. “Did you sleep well?”

Her granddaughter yawned widely and managed a small, sleepy “Mm-hm.”

Then something seemed to occur to her and she straightened.

“Grandma?”

Shu-fen looked up.

“Yes?”

Yi-yun stepped closer, stood up very straight, and clasped her hands behind her back as though she were gathering courage.

“Teach me how to serve tea properly.” Then, a little more quietly, she added, “I want to learn it…”

Shu-fen blinked in surprise and for a moment, she said nothing.

A gentle smile spread across her face.

“Do you really want to?”

Yi-yun nodded eagerly. “Yes. Just like you do it.”

Shu-fen folded her arms, studied her granddaughter for a moment, then nodded.

“All right,” she said. “Then we’ll start at the very beginning.”

She cleared the table and placed several tea tins on it.

Yi-yun climbed onto her chair and watched intently.

“What kinds of tea do you already know?” Shu-fen asked.

Yi-yun scrunched up her face, thinking hard.

“Well… bubble tea. That’s my favorite. And the one from school. I think that one’s green.”

She hesitated, then brightened. “Oh! And yours, of course. I like that one too.”

Shu-fen chuckled softly. “That’s already quite a lot.”

She opened one of the tins and slid it toward Yi-yun.

“Tea is not just tea,” she said calmly. “Green tea is barely processed. Black tea very much so. And oolong lies somewhere in between.”

Yi-yun frowned. “In between?”

“Yes,” Shu-fen said. “It’s changed just a little. Enough to give it depth.”

She held the tin out to Yi-yun.

“What do you smell?”

Yi-yun sniffed carefully.

“A bit like leaves in the forest,” she said after a moment, “but also… a bit like flowers.”

Shu-fen nodded with satisfaction. “Then you smelled it properly. Now let’s start with rinsing. That’s important for the aroma to unfold.”

She brought out the teapot and utensils and let Yi-yun pour the hot water.

Yi-yun bit her lip as she held the heavy kettle, focused, almost reverent.

Then she poured the water away and added the leaves, exactly as her grandmother had shown her.

Only once did Shu-fen intervene, when Yi-yun was about to pour too soon.

“Not yet,” she said gently. “Wait for one breath, so the warmth can open up the cellular structure of the leaves.”

Yi-yun froze, counted silently to three, and smiled proudly when Shu-fen nodded.

“Now you pour away the water first.”

“Pour it away?” Yi-yun asked, confused. “Can’t we drink now?”

Her grandmother shook her head gently.

“Not yet, Yi-yun. This is called the rinse infusion. It’s important because it removes dirt particles from the leaves and helps them open up.”

After she did everything the way Shu-fen told her, they sat facing one another, each holding a small cup.

Yi-yun took a careful sip, as if it were a magic potion she had brewed herself.

Her face beamed.

“This tastes different from yesterday,” she said quietly.

Shu-fen just nodded and they drank in silence for a while, as Yi-yun looked pleased with herself.

Then she suddenly frowned.

“Grandma?”

“Yes?”

Yi-yun slowly turned her cup between her hands.

“There’s something I don’t understand,” she said hesitantly. “About yesterday… about your story.”

Shu-fen watched her closely.

“Why was it such a bad thing,” Yi-yun asked, “that other people saw you and Grandpa together?”

She looked up. “I mean… you got along with each other. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

Shu-fen did not answer at once.

She set her cup down and looked out the window toward the hills, now fully lit by the morning sun.

“Sometimes,” she said slowly, “people simply cannot bear it when others get along too easily.” 

᯽᯽᯽

The car came to a rattling stop.

Ling-chen, one of our workers, stepped out and opened the door for me.

He glanced around, then back at me.

“Miss Lin,” he said hesitantly, “are you certain it’s all right to let you off here on your own?”

I stepped onto the pavement and adjusted my dress.

“Don’t worry,” I said calmly. “I’ll manage.”

He frowned, still unconvinced.

“I still don’t think it's a good idea, but... I’ll pick you up at six, as agreed.”

Then, before he could say anything else, I met his gaze.

“And not a word to my father. He doesn’t need to know.” I said quietly.

He paused, then nodded in understanding.

After a brief hesitation, Ling-chen climbed back into the car and started the engine.

The vehicle pulled away, disappearing into the flow of rickshaws, bicycles, and trucks.

I remained where I was until it was out of sight.

Only then did I exhale.

Taihoku stretched out before me, loud and dense with movement.

The heat hung heavily between the buildings, mingling with the smells of dust, oil and something sweet drifting from the open kitchens along the street.

I wore my simple qipao of pale fabric that fell to my ankles.

My hair was braided, smooth and restrained, drawn back in the practical style I wore outside the house.

Among the dark uniforms and modern cuts around me, I stood out.

No one needed to hear me speak to know that I was not Japanese.

Some glances slid past me quickly, others lingered a moment too long.

I did not lower my eyes.

Under the Kōminka policies, women like me were expected to dress differently now.

But if I was to be seen, then I would be seen as what I was.

All kind of people streamed by.

Japanese soldiers, merchants carrying woven baskets.

Women with parasols, children darting between adults.

I walked on, keeping close to the edge of the street.

My gaze caught on a newspaper stand where two men were talking.

The papers were stacked neatly, dark characters on pale pages.

One headline spoke of Europe.

Of war.

It was far away, and yet it seemed to echo everywhere in those days.

I turned away and continued on.

As I crossed the wide street, I knew I was being watched from the other side.

“Hey.”

I stopped.

Two soldiers stood near the curb, their uniforms worn open, caps pulled low.

A third leaned against a lamppost, arms crossed.

“Where are you headed in such a hurry?” one of them asked casually in Japanese.

I turned to face them.

“I’m on my way to an appointment,” I said evenly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

I took a step forward, but the man by the lamppost straightened and moved into my path.

“Hold on,” he said, openly assessing me now, my dress, my hair. “You’re Chinese, aren’t you?”

“And?”

A quiet chuckle.

“Bold,” the first said. “Walking around like that.”

“That is not your concern,” I replied.

The second soldier narrowed his eyes, stepped closer, and studied me a moment longer.

Then his expression changed.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “I know her.”

The others looked at him.

“That’s… what was it again?” He snapped his fingers. “The Tea Princess! From Pinglin.”

For an instant, no one spoke.

Then one of them laughed.

“The Tea Princess?” he repeated. “What’s she doing here?”

My stomach tightened, but I kept my face composed.

“If you recognize me,” I said calmly, “then you know I have business to attend to. Please let me pass.”

I moved again, but the man in front of me raised his arm, not roughly, but firmly enough to stop me.

“So famous, and all alone?” he said. “That’s not very wise.”

“I have nothing further to discuss with you.”

“Oh, just a few questions,” the other said. “You don’t often run into celebrities here.”

His gaze had sharpened.

I lifted my chin.

“You are overstepping your authority,” I said coolly.

He took another step closer.

“Watch how you speak with me or...”

“Soldier.”

The voice behind us was not loud.

Not sharp.

But it altered the air.

The men stiffened.

“What are you doing?”

One of them turned quickly, his face draining of color.

“T-Taii Onodera…”

Onodera stood a few steps away, his coat fastened neatly.

His gaze rested coolly on the small group, not on me.

“I asked you a question,” he said, more sharply now.

“We… we were just asking something.”

Onodera let his eyes pass over them once.

“Dismiss yourselves,” he said. “Immediately.”

They saluted in haste, muttered apologies, and retreated one by one until they were swallowed by the passing crowd.

Only then did he turn to me.

His expression was composed, controlled, as though he had done nothing more than restore order.

Yet for the briefest moment, I saw something else cross his face, perhaps guilt, perhaps relief.

He let out a quiet breath.

“Come,” he said.

I nodded and walked beside him.

Neither of us spoke.

And yet I knew that we were being seen.

By everyone.