Emmi Itäranta - Memory of Water

Anger gathered in my throat like burning dust.

‘You should know without being told,’ I said before I could stop myself.

‘Noria,’ my father said.

Niiramo began to laugh a slowly accumulating, low laughter. The sweat droplet fell from his quaking cheek to the collar of his jacket and the fabric absorbed it.

‘You amuse me, Miss Kaitio,’ he said. ‘You have a lot to learn, about the ceremony and the world. I’ll let time and experience take care of it. In thirty years you’ll find yourself evaluating another young tea master’s graduation performance, and when he tells you that the ceremony is not about showing one’s wealth, you too will laugh.’

Never. Not in this life, not in ten thousand others.

Master Niiramo’s laughter faded slowly. He looked at me.

‘Then, of course, there is the unfortunate fact of your gender,’ he said. ‘Your father would have done wisely to mention it to me beforehand. I’d like to know why you believe that a woman can practise the profession of a tea master successfully.’

I understood now why Niiramo had looked so surprised when he had first seen me. Had Major Bolin purposefully neglected to mention that I wasn’t a man when talking Niiramo into this? I looked at my father, but he couldn’t help me. This was a battle I had to fight on my own.

‘Master Niiramo, might I ask you in turn why you believe a woman is not fit to be a tea master?’ I enquired.

‘It is written in the old scriptures,’ Niiramo replied. ‘Li Song writes, “A woman shall not walk the path of tea masters, lest she be ready to abandon her life as a woman.”’

I didn’t think the citation precluded women’s right to be tea masters in any way, but instead of arguing about wordings I said, ‘I believe it is possible to change the surface of things while retaining their core intact, just as it is possible to retain the surface appearances while carving the core hollow.’

Niiramo was quiet. I wondered if I had gone too far. The room was silent. Outside the wind chime sounded once, twice, three times.

Eventually he spoke.

‘I want you to understand this. If you were a candidate in one of the cities, I would demand you to retake the test. Yet I know the same standard can’t be expected in these backwater areas and, of course, not from a female apprentice. You have learned your craft solely from your father, and have never had a chance to make yourself familiar with the customs and knowledge of other tea masters. I see no obstacle to granting you the title of a tea master as of today’s ceremony, even if it wouldn’t have fulfilled the criteria under other circumstances or judged by a less benevolent master. However, I would advise you to be more alert about etiquette in the future, particularly if you receive guests from the cities or the military.’

I wanted to say something, but I saw my father’s expression, now closer to despair than annoyance, and I remained silent.

‘Are you ready?’ Master Niiramo asked.

I bowed.

‘Noria Kaitio,’ Niiramo read from the scroll. ‘Today, on the fifteenth day of the eighth month, Year of Koi Fish in New Qian time, you have been granted the title of a practising tea master,’ he continued. Niiramo handed the scroll to me. Under the text were his and my father’s signatures. Master Niiramo moved to the side and my father stepped in front of me. I accepted the leather-covered book he gave to me and read the oath I had learned by heart:

‘I am a watcher of water. I am a servant of tea. I am a nurturer of change. I shall not chain what grows. I shall not cling to what must crumble. The way of tea is my way.’

I bowed low, and my father lowered his head. When I looked up, I saw his eyes moisten. He opened his mouth to speak, but sound caught in his throat.

‘I nearly forgot,’ Niiramo disrupted the silence. ‘Commander Taro sent his congratulations. He was right: your water has an extraordinarily good aroma.’

‘I should have warned you about the teaware beforehand,’ my father said to me in the kitchen, when we were wrapping two cups used in the ceremony in fabric for Master Niiramo as a gift, as was customary. ‘I knew he would be picky about it. I don’t approve of the way he spoke to you, but we never need to see him again.’ I had a feeling he was going to scold me because of my behaviour, but thought better of it.

‘Are you coming to Moonfeast?’ I asked him.

My father shook his head.

‘I’ve seen it all enough times. Sleep is more alluring to me now than the feast.’

Before leaving the house I took the scroll and the blank tea master’s book into my room and placed them on the bed. I glanced at myself in the mirror. My face was still red from the ceremony, and the tunic of my master’s outfit had dark, moist stains in the armpits. I changed into clean clothes and spread the outfit on the bed next to the book.

As I turned to put the book on my desk, I saw a thin white parcel that shone pale as moon on the dark wooden surface, and I recognised my mother’s handwriting in the letters spelling my name across it. My father must have brought it into my room before the ceremony.

The envelope was big: not a stiff mail pouch woven of seagrass, but made of real paper. Inside I discovered a large, thin shawl of fine wool. I knew my mother couldn’t have found it in our village, and possibly not even in the Scandinavian Union. Anything but the coarsest wool was difficult to come by. She must have ordered the shawl from faraway cities. I looked for a note, and my hand caught a small white slip of paper inside the envelope. I pulled the paper out and read:

To Noria, the new tea master, from your proud mother. Be happy today!

I brought the shawl close to my face. I expected it to smell of her hair soap and scented oil, but it only carried a faint smell of wool and paper. There was no trace of her.

I wrapped it around myself anyway.

I arranged the master’s outfit on a hanger and hung it from the curtain pole. Just then I happened to glance out of the window and saw Niiramo standing outside on the grass, waiting for his helicarriage to arrive. His face was weary and his eyes closed, and he brought a handkerchief to his brow in order to dab the sweat dry. His shoulders were slumped, as if extreme, previously hidden exhaustion had taken hold of him.

I shoved a small waterskin into my bag and flung the bag over my shoulder. Then I picked up a blaze lantern and a box of feastcakes from my desk and left.

When I reached her family’s house, Sanja was already waiting for me, sitting outside in an armchair that had seen better days. Minja was nodding sleepily in her arms, sucking on a piece of cloth filled with seeds. Sanja sprang up when she saw me and Minja woke up.

‘How did it go?’ she enquired.

‘You have a permanent invitation to my tea ceremonies,’ I said.

‘Congratulations!’ she exclaimed and grinned. ‘I’ll skip it, though, I’ve never been to one of those things and I wouldn’t know what to do.’ Sanja embraced me, dangling Minja with one arm. She was caught between us and began to protest loudly. ‘Wait, I’ll be back in a minute.’

Sanja vanished into the house, and after a moment she returned, holding a basket covered with cloth. She had left Minja inside, probably with her mother.

‘This is for you,’ she said.

I took the basket and lifted the cloth. Under it there was a box Sanja had clearly made herself. Not for the first time, I admired her skill with things I could never have done. I knew how to cite texts and perform movements and bow my head before guests, but she knew how to take things apart with her hands and put them together again in a different way, reshaping them until something new and astonishing emerged. She had fashioned a rectangular, multi-coloured box out of pieces of scrap metal and plastic and wood, an uneven, glistening surface where vine-like patterns climbed across the sides and the lid, entwined and spiralled out of sight again.