Nguyễn Tuân (1910-1987) was a renowned Vietnamese author who was born in Hà Nội in 1910 and began his writings in the early 1930s. He wrote “Vang Bóng Một Thời” in 1940, a collection of short stories and essays, one of which is “The Clay Teapots” (Những Chiếc Ấm Đất).
As far as I understand, the true meaning of the title, “Vang Bóng Một Thời,” is still being debated by many scholars. For me,“Vang Bóng Một Thời” means “The Passing of A Golden Era.” I am sure some would disagree with my interpretation, and that’s ok. In translating this short story, I am simply trying to share with my children and their friends writings that have touched me--and in some way--changed my life.
The Clay Teapots
The midday sun is at its highest in the sky. The abbot of the Ochna Tree Hill Temple strolls leisurely back to the dining quarter. The old monk removes his conical hat and as he is getting ready to eat, he hears the voice of a young boy at the temple gate.
A novice respectfully climbs the three-step stair leading up to the hall. “Teacher, Mr Sáu’s son is here to see you.”
“Was the temple gate closed? Go quickly and open it so he won’t have to wait too long in the sun. The gate of a temple should always be open. From now on, remember to wake up early to chant your daily prayers, and as soon as you finish the bell striking ceremony, open the temple gate widely. Close it in the evening after you are done with your sutra study, lest the pilgrims will complain.”
A moment later, a 17-year-old young man--swanky in his black gown, slanted cuffs, tray in hand--enters the hall and bows deeply to the abbot.
“Venerable Sir, my father asks me to bring you a pot of spring tea. And also to ask your permission to draw a bucket of water from the well of the temple.”
The old monk, who is used to the give-and-take habits of old Mr. Sáu, chuckles lightly. On his wrinkled face, the smile shows no warmth, nor passion, only gentleness.
“So, how are you going to carry it home?”
“I have servants with shoulder yokes and wooden buckets waiting outside.”
“Amitabha Buddha! Coming here all the way from the village in this heat just to get water; Mr. Sáu must be so particular. Do sit down and rest. The novice will lead the water carriers to the well. You must be hungry. Here, share with us some gifts from the Buddha. The fruits have already been brought down from the altar.”
“Venerable Sir, I have already eaten at home.”
The abbot of the Ochna Tree Hill Temple does not insist and just smiles benignly.
“Do you know how many years Mr. Sáu has gotten his water from the temple well? Almost ten years. There are few who enjoy tea the way your father does. He would only use water from the well of this temple. Sometimes I wonder who he was in past lives. Our destinies have been delightfully entwined for such a long time.”
Mr. Sáu’s son sees that the old man-servant is looking for him, with the water-filled bucket hooked to his shoulder yokes, as he struggles to keep water from spilling onto the green stone-paved courtyard. With the diffidence of a student speaking to his elder, the son quickly stands up, requesting permission to leave.
“Venerable Sir, I must go home because we have guests for the tea party. Perhaps my father is waiting for the water.”
The old monk quickly follows them to the veranda. From his wide sleeves, he pulls out a hand fan, unfolds it completely to shade his head, and says to the novice, “Run quickly to the garden and gather a few peach branches with their leaves still attached.” He then advises, “Hold on a minute. Putting a few peach branches on top of the bucket will prevent the water from splashing out and also will keep it cooler.
The water people kowtow to the monk. On the dry sandy road, the buckets sway with the quick footsteps of the old man-servant, splashing water onto the ground, forming star shapes which meander along the path of the reptiles. If this midsummer noon is a moonlit night, and if the temple gate is an entry to the realm of fairies, then these star drops poetically mark the road back for the mortals en route to their earthly homes.
The midday sun scorches the parched rice fields at the foothills, and steam rises up from the ground like a trail of smoke playing with the trees surrounding the village.
Standing at the temple gate and looking down below, the old monk squints his eyes at the blinding light. The water people are just mere dots, each movement kicking up a cloud of hazy dust. The southern wind blows hard and repeatedly, bringing the dust inside the towering temple gate. The monk thinks of Mr. Sáu and lets out a sigh, grieving for sentient beings still caught in the karma cycle.
Mr. Sáu had been acquainted with the temple for quite some time now--even prior to the arrival of the old monk. In fact, the statues of the Triple Buddhas, made of jackfruit wood on the dais, and the Mahayana sutras, printed on paper, were gifts from him. The bell that hangs in the hall was also donated by Mr. Sáu during the restoration of the temple. Every time the temple requested donations, his name was on top of the list.
The Ochna Tree Hill Temple is located on the hill, away from the villages, and thus was not frequented by too many guests. Amongst those who did come, Mr Sáu received special treatment by the abbot. Once a month, the monk invited him for a vegetarian meal, and upon his departure, the monk always presented him with a Chu Mặc orchid plant. Usually, at each meeting, the two old men conversed by the temple well for a long time. The monk wouldn’t talk much during these times, quietly contemplating the reflection of Mr. Sáu from the bottom of the well. The shadow of the old monk barely remained still on the surface of the cold well water. Every now and then, a few drops would drip gently from the basalt rock, making a tik-tok sound.
Mr. Sáu leaned over the mossy edge and points into the depth of the well, saying, “Our temple well is very unique; the water is so pure and sweet. Perhaps I am addicted to tea because of this water. I could never leave this place because I cannot bring the well water with me. Teacher, please mark my oath: If the well ever dries up, I will immediately give away my most valuable tea set. This water is the only kind that does not alter the flavor of tea. Teacher, I cannot understand why the hill is elevated, yet water is able to converge. I think the terrain of this temple may be put to good use ... ”
Afraid that Mr. Sáu would broaden the conversation to topics not appropriate for a hermit who has forsaken earthly matters, the monk quickly steered the subject to the temple’s jackfruit trees and the fact that they were bearing many fruits that year. He then dragged Mr. Sáu to the library for a round of tea. As a charming tradition, at every tea ceremony held at the temple, Mr Sáu had reveled in preparing and serving tea for the two of them.
Lately, perhaps Mr. Sáu has been too busy. Several lunar cycles have passed, but he has not come by to drink tea or enjoy the flowers. The monk keeps looking at the orchid flowers, making tut-tut sounds. Finally, he cut the flower and put it in a small vase.
Now, Mr. Sáu only sends his people to ask for the well water.
Earlier today, while he watched Mr. Sáu’s son and his servant bringing the water back home, the old monk said to the younger monk, “This Mr. Sáu, without his passion for the taste of Chinese tea--and he is passionate to a fault--could have been a stay-at-home monk. He could care less about fame and fortune. He squandered his inheritance and he cares more about a teapot than immediate wealth. But if one day there is no more Chinese tea to enjoy, how he would suffer. Buddha taught that craving is suffering. Among the four oceans of teardrops belonging to sentient beings, some may belong to an old man who keeps on going tirelessly to the temple to get well water for his tea. Namo Amitabha Buddha!”
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Today, Mr. Sáu seems to be very fond of his guest, who has just told him a story. Rubbing the bottom of the teacup against the rim of the antique plate, the stranger says,“Once, there was a peculiar beggar. Being in the profession of beggary, one simply cannot look down on anybody, yet he was highly selective of which house to beg from. He only frequented very wealthy households and insisted on meeting the person of the house before soliciting.
Once, he wobbled straight inside the house of a rich man while he and his guests were enjoying a tea party. He gingerly approached the threshold
and hunkered down at the base of the pillar. No one said anything, waiting to see what he was up to. But he did not do anything, just watch people enjoying their tea. He inhaled deeply and seemed to like the fragrance of tea, which permeated the air.
Seeing that the beggar was advanced in age and not too filthy, the host asked if he wanted some leftover food, or perhaps sweet gourd sticky rice, as the man did in the proverb. The beggar scratched his head, approached with a grin, and politely asked the host to allow him to ‘share the tea.’
Everybody thought he was a little deranged, but they did not have the heart to kick him out and even poured him a cup of hot tea. He timidly apologized and stated that he wanted a fresh teapot instead. He then opened his miser’s bag and carefully removed a single clay teapot. Finding the whole thing to be amusing and a little bizarre, they even loaned him a serving tray and enough Chinese coal to boil a kettle of water.
After respectfully asking permission, the beggar sat with his legs crossed and delicately rinsed the pot and cup. He filled the teapot with hot water, then poured tea into the smaller jackfruit seed cup.
At that moment, no one thought of him as a beggar, even though he was in tattered, threadbare clothes.
After the first cup, he went on to drink another. Suddenly, he squinted his eyes and smacked his lips. He then stood up with palms pressed together and politely addressed the host, “Here, a poor beggar like me, treated so generously by all of you. This poor wretch has nothing more to ask. Unfortunately, your tea was contaminated with chaff, so the second round doesn’t taste that good.”
He kowtowed, washed the teaware, wiped the tray clean, then gave it back to the owner. Afterwards, he cleaned his single teapot, blew the spout clear of debris and put it away in his miser’s bag. He grabbed his conical hat, again kowtowed to everybody and hobbled away.
Everyone thought he was kooky and paid him no heed. But that evening, as the host examined the tea container carefully, he found several pieces of chaffs.”
As the guest reaches this part of the story, old Mr. Sáu is beside himself with delight, he slaps his thigh, then his guest’s, and roars loudly:
“If that old beggar is still alive, I would have invited him to move in so that we could enjoy good tea together all day. As you know, I have so many invaluable teapots.”
“I think that was just a story that our forefathers made up to amuse themselves during tea parties. There can be no such bizarre character--it is an anecdote.”
“No. I think that it is quite conceivable that there once was such a character. I think that the old beggar became so knowledgeable after he has squandered his whole inheritance into the world of tea and ultimately living the life of begging for a living. I am sure he has tasted White Monkey and Beheaded Horse Tea. But my dear guest, we must have a second round of tea. Yes? Such an interesting story deserves more than one pot of tea. Shouldn’t it?
And while Old Mr. Sáu was dumping the wasted tea leaves into an ornatedly-decorated, wide-brimmed bowl, the guest was admiring the fair cup. He complimented:
“Your teapot is very valuable. It is a chicken liver color, ‘Thế Đức teapot.’
People say ‘First Thế Đức;-second Lưu Bội;-third Mạnh Thần.’ Your Thế Đức has a lot of tea stains already. My Mạnh Thần two-drinkers teapot at home has not been used much and thus doesn’t have many tea stains.”
Mr. Sáu quickly poured all the boiled water into the small teapot He held the copper kettle up close to the guest’s face:
“Can you see the rough bumps inside the copper kettle? The Chinese, they call them metal fires. Water bubbles much faster if there are metal fires. All five metal fires!”
“Are you able to tell the difference between over-boiled and just-boiled water?”
“You must be talking about ‘fish’s eyes, crab’s eyes,’ are you not? When the water bubbles are equal to the eyes of crabs, that means the water has just boiled. And when the bubbles are as big as fish’s eyes, then the water is over-boiled.”
Both host and guest laugh out loud, each drinks two more cups. Mr Sáu sees his guest to the gate, saying:
“If you are ever in the neighborhood, please visit me at my humble abode as an old friend. We will enjoy a few rounds of tea, haha.”
That year the Nhị Hà river rose to a dangerously high level. No wonder the few thousand logan trees planted on the surface of the dike in the region bore many fruits. Finally, the sturdy dam broke. Because Mr. Sáu’s house was located at the end of the strong current, it was not swept away. When the flood subsided, The brick gate was undamaged and the pair of distich written on red papers remained intact, the writing still clear:
“Elegant as immortals, wealthy as gods, they ride horses around the willow road.”
“Grass grown in the backyard, flowers scattered on the ground, I brew tea by the apricot flower veranda.”
The next year, the dam broke again. Mr. Sáu’s brick gate remained standing. But this time the red paper distich faded and the alluvial soil sediment coated the writings with thick lines of mud.
The guest, the man who told the story about the beggar/tea expert had been away on business for the last few years. One day, he happened to be in the neighborhood and decided to stop by to pay a visit to his old friend. He was sadly touched when informed by the neighbor that Mr Sáu has sold his house and moved away. The neighbor added: “If you want to find him, go to the district market on the eighth day, that’s when they have the flea market. That’s all we know.”
That’s right. Nowadays, Mr. Sáu is not doing too well. He is struggling to make ends meet, even a meal a day is hard to come by let alone drinking tea. Occasionally when somebody gives him some loose tea leaves, he carefully wraps them in paper and tuck them in his body for later enjoyment. But he never quite lost his taste for the finer things in life. Whenever he sees lotuses in bloom in someone’s pond, he plucks a few stamens to marinate the tea with.
On the days of the market in session, Mr. Sáu occupies a corner of the stand belongs to a man from the same village. He would set up a display of about ten teapots, which in the old days, would not have sold any, even for a stack of silver. The odd thing is he sells clay teapots in two stages. In the beginning, he sells only the pots without lids for a cheap price.
“ That’s how you get a good price. Once they have the body of the teapot, they will really pay in order to get a lid that fits. That’s smart business,” he once whispered to the ear of a relative.
He chuckles, then turns to a prospective customer who was caressing the teapots of different color, some in the shape of strawberry basket, annona fruit, fig, or persimmon. He told him:
“Don’t worry. Come by during the next market day and I’ll have the lid for you. No, no. It is a Chinese teapot. If you don’t believe me, just turn it upside down. See how the spout and the rim are perfectly levelled with the flat surface? If you want to make sure, let it float in the water. If it floats evenly, then it is Chinese.”
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