Chapter 152: The Chairman at Seventy-Five

Chapter 152: The Chairman at Seventy-Five

The chairman turned seventy-five in February. The birthday celebrated at Bloom—not at the Hannam-dong house (the chairman’s preference having shifted, over four years of retirement, from the four-meter ceilings to the two-point-seven-meter room where the attention was). The birthday cupping—a special cupping, a birthday cupping, the format that the cafe produced for the community’s significant birthdays because the community’s significant birthdays were celebrated the way the community celebrated everything: through the cup.

The birthday bean was from Boseong. Not coffee—tea. Green tea. The Boseong green tea that the chairman’s wife had drunk and that the chairman had kept in the ceramic canister for twenty-three years and that Hana had been drinking on Sundays for two years. The birthday cupping being: a tea cupping. The first tea cupping in Bloom’s history. The coffee cafe cupping—tea.

“Tea at a coffee cupping,” Serin said. The academy instructor’s observation—the observation that the protocol was being broken and that the breaking was—intentional. “The coffee cupping protocol applied to tea. The same slurping. The same tasting notes. The same communal evaluation. Applied to—the other drink.”

“The other drink.”

“The wife’s drink. Applied at the husband’s birthday. The birthday that brings the wife’s practice into the husband’s space. The tea entering the cafe. The way the cafe entered the chairman’s life—through the practice. The practice that connects the drinks the way the practice connects the people.”

The tea was steeped—not bloomed. Three minutes—the wife’s duration. The three minutes that Jihye had performed every afternoon and that the chairman had taught Hana and that was now being performed at the cafe by—the chairman. The chairman steeping the tea. At the cupping table. For the community. The husband performing the wife’s practice in the barista’s space.

Twelve cups of Boseong green tea. Twelve seats. The cupping table holding—tea instead of coffee. The same table. The same attention. The different drink.

The community tasted. Twelve people slurping tea the way twelve people slurped coffee—with the intentional, cupping-protocol, the-attention-is-in-the-slurp methodology that the Saturday mornings had established. The methodology applied to tea producing—the same result. The same shared attention. The same silence during the tasting. The same communal evaluation after the tasting.

“The tea tastes like—rain,” Gihun said. The cortado customer tasting tea for the first time at the cupping table. The seventy-three-year-old whose palate had been trained by twelve years of cortados now applied to—the other beverage. “The tea tastes like the rain that Hana described. The rain on the hills. The Boseong rain.”

“The Boseong rain,” Hana confirmed. From her seat. The seven-year-old who had been drinking the grandmother’s tea for two years and who was now—the tea’s expert. The child who had tasted the tea more recently and more frequently than any adult at the table. “The tea tastes like rain because the tea grew in the rain. The same way the coffee tastes like sun because the coffee grew in the sun. The rain and the sun being—the memory.”

“The memory that the drink carries.”

“The memory. The tea carries the rain. The coffee carries the sun. The drinks being—the carriers. The carriers of the place’s memory.”

The chairman tasted his wife’s tea. At his birthday cupping. In the cafe that had taught him to taste. The tasting producing—the closing of the circle. The circle that had started with Jihye’s tea and that had traveled through Jihye’s death through the chairman’s grief through the cupping table through the Tuesday lessons through the deposit through the retirement through the TIA through the Boseong grave through Hana’s Sunday tea practice—the circle now closing. At the birthday. At the cupping table. With Jihye’s tea in the Bloom cup.

“The tea is—good,” the chairman said. The word. Applied to the tea. The same word applied to the cortado and the pour-over and the jjigae and the tofu-on-cashmere and every other thing that the Bloom vocabulary evaluated. “Good” applied to the wife’s tea by the husband at the husband’s seventy-fifth birthday at the cafe that the wife’s instruction had—produced.

“Good,” Gihun agreed. The cortado customer agreeing with the tea’s evaluation. The two men—the seventy-three-year-old retired postal worker and the seventy-five-year-old retired chairman—agreeing at the cupping table. The two men who had lost wives. The two men who practiced the daily memorial through different cups. The two men who understood—through the loss, through the practice, through the twelve years of showing up—that “good” was the word that the wives would have used.

“Eunji would say good,” Gihun said. Quietly. To the chairman. The private communication between two men who shared—the grief. The grief expressed through different cups at the same counter. “Eunji would say: good. About the tea. About the birthday. About—the cafe that holds both of us.”

“Jihye would say good,” the chairman replied. Quietly. To Gihun. The private communication returned. “Jihye would say: good. About the cortado. About the practice. About—the cafe that teaches what the wives taught.”

“The cafe that teaches what the wives taught.”

“관심. The thing that both wives taught. Through tea. Through morning coffee. Through the daily practice of paying attention. The cafe being—the wives’ lesson. Institutionalized. Available. Daily.”

“The wives’ lesson.”

“The wives’ lesson. Taught by a barista who never met the wives. The barista who teaches—unknowingly—what the wives knew. The barista being—the continuation. The continuation of the wives’ instruction. Through coffee rather than through tea. Through the bloom rather than through the steeping. Through—the same thing.”

“The same thing.”

“관심. Always 관심.”

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The chairman’s seventy-fifth birthday produced—a decision. Not a dramatic decision (the chairman’s post-retirement decisions were all undramatic, the retirement having removed the drama-producing mechanisms of corporate life). A quiet decision. The kind that the bloom produced—through patience, through the waiting, through the arrival at the exact temperature.

The decision was: the chairman would fund a scholarship. Not a corporate scholarship (the corporate scholarships had been managed by Kang Group’s foundation and were now managed by the professional management). A personal scholarship. The chairman’s personal fund. The fund that would pay for: one student per year to attend the Bloom Coffee Academy. One student who could not afford the tuition. One student per year—selected by the academy, funded by the chairman, educated by the practice.

“One student per year,” the chairman said. To Hajin. At the Monday shift. The 7:00-to-7:25 window. The private conversation between the retired chairman and the barista. “One student per year who cannot afford the tuition and who wants to learn the bloom. The student funded by—the deposit. The same deposit that funded the academy’s space. The deposit now funding—the student.”

“The deposit funding the student.”

“The deposit being—Jihye’s fund. The fund that the wife’s instruction produced. The fund that says: the attention should be available. To everyone. Regardless of the ability to pay. The attention that Jihye practiced for free—in the kitchen, in the afternoon, with the tea—the attention should not cost money. The attention should be—free.”

“The attention should be free.”

“Free. The way the bloom is free—the bloom costs thirty-two seconds, not money. The way the bergamot is free—the bergamot costs patience, not won. The attention’s currency is—time. Not money. The scholarship removes the money barrier. The student provides—the time. The time being: the eight weeks. The sixteen sessions. The daily practice.”

“The student provides the time.”

“The student provides the time. The chairman provides the money. The academy provides the teaching. The combination producing—the practitioner. The practitioner who could not afford the teaching and who receives the teaching through—the wives’ fund. The fund that Jihye and Eunji—through their husbands, through the grief, through the cups—produced.”

“Jihye and Eunji produced the fund.”

“The two wives who taught attention. The two wives whose instruction the cafe continues. The two wives whose fund—through the chairman’s money and through the cortado’s love letter—will produce: one new practitioner per year. One new pair of hands carrying the bloom. One new person who learns what the wives knew.”

“One student per year.”

“One student per year. The same pace as the chalkboard’s lines—one per year. The pace that the practice requires. Not ten students. Not fifty. One. The one that receives—full attention. The same attention that the cup receives. The same attention that the bloom produces. Applied to—one student.”

“One cup at a time.”

“One student at a time. One cup at a time. One line at a time. The pace that produces—the depth. The depth that the width cannot.”

“The scholarship is the depth.”

“The scholarship is the depth. One student, deeply funded. Fully supported. Eight weeks of—full attention. The attention that the money enables and that the teaching provides and that the wives’—” He paused. The pause that the wives’ names produced. Shorter now than five years ago. The grief’s volume decreasing through the practice of expressing. “—that the wives’ instruction requires.”

“The Jihye-Eunji Scholarship.”

“The names?”

“The names. The scholarship named for—both wives. The two women who taught attention and whose teaching the scholarship continues. The two names on the scholarship. The two women whose cups—the tea and the cortado—produced the fund.”

The chairman was quiet. The specific, the-names-are-being-considered quiet that the chairman produced when the decision involved—the wives. The wives whose names were—sacred. The names that the chairman and Gihun spoke rarely and carefully because the names carried—the weight. The weight of the loss and the love and the twenty-three years and the thirteen years of the grief that the practice had—held.

“The Jihye-Eunji Scholarship,” the chairman said. Accepting the name. The name that connected the two wives across the death that separated them and the counter that connected their husbands. The name that said: two women who never met share this scholarship. Two women who taught attention in different kitchens through different cups share—the fund. The fund that produces the practitioners who carry the attention that the women taught.

“The Jihye-Eunji Scholarship.”

“Announced at the next Saturday cupping. The community informed. The community that carries—the wives’ names. The community that produces—the practitioners. The community that is—the wives’ legacy.”

“The wives’ legacy.”

“The legacy that every cup carries. The legacy that every ‘good’ confirms. The legacy that the scholarship—institutionalizes. The institutionalization of the wives’ instruction. Through the fund. Through the student. Through—the practice.”

The Monday shift ended. 7:25. The chairman’s departure. Gihun’s arrival at 7:30. The two men’s schedules separated by five minutes—the five minutes that connected the two lives that the counter held. The chairman departing with the scholarship’s name. Gihun arriving with the cortado’s love letter. The two practices—the fund and the letter—sharing the counter. Sharing the morning. Sharing—the wives.

“Good,” Gihun said. At 7:30. The cortado. The word. Eunji’s word. The word that the scholarship now carried. The word that the fund would produce in every student who graduated through the Jihye-Eunji Scholarship. The word that said: the attention is present. The wives’ instruction is—continued. Through the cup. Through the fund. Through the practice.

Good.

Same everything.

Including the scholarship.

Including the wives whose names the scholarship carried.

Including the students who would learn the bloom through the fund that the grief produced and that the practice sustained.

Every day.

Like this.

Always.