Boiling

I made another big mistake last week. I was in Walmart – they have stores in China now - when I was seduced by the girl holding the instant kettle. She might have been Southeast Asian and had flawless brown skin and long, glossy hair. Her smiling face with its dark, sensuous eyes was a metre long and slightly blurred - only the kettle itself was in sharp focus. This poster girl did not sexually seduce me - her gummy smile and white t-shirt hinted at something wholesome. Rather, she seduced me with the idea in her hands.

The blurb, once I'd translated the Chinese characters, described a narrow heating coil which could boil water instantly. There would be "no waiting around" and it was "energy saving" since it only heated what you needed. Its sleek design and metallic sheen spoke of a modern, efficient lifestyle in tune with the young and effortlessly cool. As my life rolls inexorably toward middle age, it could be just what I need. Before I had chance to reflect on how fatuous all this was, a box had found its way into my trolley. The bespectacled checkout girl squinted at this pale foreigner as she scanned my WeChat Pay and deducted 699 yuan from my account.

After installing the new instant kettle on the sideboard by the microwave, I wasted little time disposing of the now antiquated model I had owned for two years. As I dropped it in the communal bin by the elevator, I recalled picking it out at the very same Walmart with my then girlfriend, Mira. She possessed a fine nose for quality, schooled at the market stall before Taobao became ubiquitous. Despite our East-West cultural differences, Mira knew what I liked and, more importantly, what I needed. The one she picked was a Bosch with a silver body and a black pop-up lid. Solid, dependable, and just what I was used to in the UK. I heard a crack as it struck the bottom of the steel bin. Likely the lid's popping-up days were over.

The first cup of tea with my instant kettle had to wait a whole day since I had neglected to stock up on essentials like tea bags. This was all-too-common since the split with Mira in the wake of another error of judgement – the Vietnamese girl with the dyed blonde hair. I positioned the cup under the chunky, overhanging nozzle and fingered at the circular 'start' button. The device whirred as a dribble of steamy water filled the cup, beating down on the teabag like awning in the rain. A mass of tiny bubbles formed around the bag as it rose with the water. As it neared the rim, I pressed 'stop' and the stream ceased, leaving the limp teabag to swirl amidst the phlegmy froth.

With the back of a spoon, I forced the bag to the bottom before grinding it into the porcelain base. As the tannin diffused, the bag rose gently to the surface and floated amidst the strange froth. After spooning out the bag and flicking it to the bin, I stirred vigorously to dissipate the froth. It stubbornly remained, however, swirling and reconfiguring and then evading my attempts to spoon it clear. You're supposed to clean the nozzle I thought, but the Chinese instructions said nothing about that. Finally, I brought the cup to my lips. The liquid was warm, but the taste was off. It was flatter and duller, and the aroma less vibrant. The heat dissipated rapidly, and the tea soured. I returned my first cup of instant tea to the kitchen and washed it down the sink.

With the old kettle, things had been different. I would stumble bleary-eyed from bed, grabbing it on the way to the kitchen sink. I watched as it filled from the gushing tap before setting it right on its power base. I flipped the switch and with the little red light, so began the wait. I might visit the bathroom or start the morning workout. Or after a late finish at work, I would unpack my bag and change clothes. Or if Mira was round, casual in her t-shirt and denim shorts, she'd pop the kettle on, shove me onto the sofa, then let her body fall on top of mine. There we would lie and listen in the silence before the roar began.

First it would be a distant roar; it could have been from the street outside. Then it felt closer; it was with us in the room. The pitch rose and then, as steam bubbles formed and collapsed, it reached its crescendo. To this symphony, I stretched my hamstrings on the chilly morning parquet or tossed aside my crumpled work shirt on summer evenings. Or Mira and I clasped hands, pressed between our warm bodies on the sofa.

In time, the roar gave way to a rumble as air pockets burst to the surface, heralding the final click and its bubbly dénouement. A few stretches were hurried to meet the morning goal, or I threw on of a pair of shorts and a t-shirt as night fell on those sultry summer workdays. The metallic click was Mira's cue to squeeze her slender figure between my body and the backrest of the sofa, before levering me off with her knees into a heap on the wooden floor.

"Make me a cup of English tea," she would say from her perch, "but without the milk — ugh!"

"Tea without milk is not tea!" was my usual repost, heaving my body from the floor.

I would prepare hers and mine, or more lately just mine, on the sideboard by the microwave. A wispy steam drifted from the spout, the tap water well-boiled and cleansed of bacteria. A tip of the kettle and the water cascaded into the cup, tossing the tea bag like a lifeboat in a storm. Tannins swirled in the turbulence and flavour suffused the water. Steam drifted from the cup and a malty aroma touched my nostrils. Tea bag out, a drop of milk in, and it was job done. The hot cup warmed our fingers during the winter months as we gazed into each other’s eyes.

I had also prepared a cup for the Vietnamese girl with the dyed blonde hair, the one and only time she came round. Mid-boil, she grew impatient and thrust my hand beneath the fabric of her white skirt. An hour later, I remember her sprawled on the sofa, her tanned legs draped over an armrest, as she sipped her tea. I also remember Mira, on that same sofa, drawing out between two fingers a strand of dyed blonde hair caught on the fabric. She held it up by the window and I caught her profile in the brilliant light, her eye lashes flickering in contemplation. She turned to face me again, her mascara beginning to smear. As she wiped away a tear a lasting fury fell across her face. She never drank my tea again.

***

I had a stroke of luck yesterday. The homeless lady near my building chanced upon the old kettle as she tore through the rubbish sacks. It lay on its side with the other items she had collected. I crouched beside her and with a glance she seemed to know, handing me the kettle with a sage look before gesturing me away. Some Sellotape was sufficient to secure the lid, though the popping mechanism was beyond repair.

***

A few moments ago, I flipped the switch and the little red light came on. The roar came, reached its crescendo, gave way to a low rumble, and then the loud metallic click. This time I simply listened while waiting. I don't know if Mira will forgive me, nor if I deserve it. She blocked me on WeChat so reaching out is no longer an option. The roar and rumble of the kettle is not a symphony nor any kind of music. It is simply one of those things in life worth waiting for.