I hate you, you scaly demon!
No, I don’t hate you, I want only to laugh. But I can’t, as a matter of fact. He noticed the fire on the carpet and stood up slowly. Lifting one leg of his shorts, he reached in with two fingers, grabbed hold of his water hose, which was pretty big for his size, hard but not erect, and as scaly as the rest of his body, and took aim at the burning carpet. A loud spray of water produced an equally loud sizzle. It was a gusher, powerful enough to put out two such fires. I relaxed as I breathed in the mixed odor of urine and a drenched fire.
He began stripping the clothes from my body, determined to remove my jacket, one way or the other. I heard him panting. Once his task was accomplished, he put the jacket on. The hem came down to his knees. After picking up his new toys, he stuffed them into the jacket pockets. Now what was he going to do?
He spit the knife out and, gripping it in his hand, took a look around the room. He then carved the character for ten [+] into the wall four times, put the knife back between his teeth, as if clenching a willow leaf, flicked his floppy sleeves, and swaggered out of the room.
My body, having been dumped back onto the bed, snored on.
II
Dear Mo Yan, Sir
Please permit me to use that address. It’s the only way I can avoid feeling unhappy, awkward, or uncomfortable.
Sir, you are indeed my true, my genuine, mentor, for not only are you a master novelist, but you know your way around a liquor bottle. Your novels are as finely crafted as the foot wrappings of a practiced grandmother. With liquor your accomplishments are, if anything, even greater. It is no great achievement in this day and age to locate a fine novelist, nor, for that matter, a master disciple of the bottle. But to find them both in a single individual is extraordinarily difficult. And you, Sir, are that unique individual.
Your analysis of Overlapping Green Ants was both incisive and accurate, the mark of a true connoisseur. The basic ingredients of this liquor are sorghum and mung beans, fermented in an old cellar. The culture for our distiller’s yeast is a mixture of wheat, bran, and peas, with a touch of chaff. The distilled liquor that emerges is a graceful, muted light green in color with a heavy fragrance, rich and full bodied, with a real kick. During the blending process, everything possible has been done to suppress its fiery nature, but with limited success so far. In order to get it to a liquor fair, we marketed the not-yet-perfected brew as Overlapping Green Ants. It is, as you say, high-quality liquor whose imperfection is a lack of harmony.
Using beautiful women as a metaphor for liquor is the best, most vivid means of characterizing its qualities. Your intuition in this regard was right on the mark. My father-in-law, Professor Yuan Shuangyu, and I have been trying to come up with ways of improving Overlapping Green Ants for a long time, and our contemplations have nearly reached maturity; unfortunately, I have, of late, become so intoxicated with literature that I can think of nothing else.
Sir, in this vast world, with its teeming multitudes, liquor swells like the seas and spirits flow like rivers, yet the number of true devotees, those who enjoy fine liquor as they marvel over beautiful women, are rare as morning stars, as the feathers of a phoenix or the horn of a unicorn, as a tiger’s penis and a dinosaur egg. You, Sir, are one of them, as am I, your disciple. So, too, is my father-in-law, Yuan Shuangyu; Deputy Head Diamond Jin counts as half of one. The great Tang poet, Li Bai, is one. I raise my glass to the moon ’ With my shadow, we make three.’ How can that be, you ask? Li is one, the moon is another, the third is the liquor. For the moon is Chang’e, the heavenly beauty! The liquor is ‘Qinglian.’ the green lotus, an earthly marvel Li Bai and his liquor are fused into one, becoming what he styled himself- Li Qinglian. That is why he was able to produce such exquisite visions as he roamed freely between Heaven and earth. His fellow Tang poet, Du Fu, counts as half. His intake of liquor was, in the main, limited to village brews, poor in quality, overaged and bitter, coarse and lacking polish, like an old widow; no wonder he was unable to write poetry that was vigorous and lively. Cao Mengde [Cao Cao] was one; singing a song when drinking is the same as serenading a beautiful woman. Life is short, beautiful women are like the morning dew. Beauty is constantly aflow and easily lost, so one must enjoy it while one can. From ancient times till today, a span of five thousand years, the number of individuals who have understood that drinking fine spirits is like adoring a beautiful woman does not exceed a few dozen. All the rest are foul leather sacks that can be filled with any brackish liquid. Why waste a drop of Overlapping Green Ants or Eighteen-Li Red on the likes of them?
The mere mention of Eighteen-Li Red makes your disciple’s heart flutter. Sir, believe me when I say that it is a masterpiece of earth-shaking proportions. Pissing into a vat of liquor as a blending maneuver was an astonishing touch that only a creative master could have dreamed up. It constitutes a landmark in the history of distilling liquor. The most glorious events invariably incorporate elements of the most despicable nature. People everywhere know that honey is sweet, but how many know what goes into its making? They say that the primary ingredient of honey is nectar from flowers! Yes it is, no one can say differently. Saying that the primary ingredient of honey is nectar is as accurate as saying that the primary ingredient of liquor is alcohol, but that tells us nothing. There are dozens of minerals in liquor, did you know that? There are also dozens of micro-organisms in liquor, did you know that? And there are many more things, most of which even I cannot name, in liquor. Did you know than If my father-in-law does not know and I do not know, it is a cinch that you do not know. There is ocean water in honey, did you know that? And there is manure in honey, did you know that? Honey cannot be produced without fresh excrement, did you or did you not know that?
I have been reading in periodicals recently that certain benighted individuals, who don’t know the first thing about making liquor, have taken offense at your surpassingly uncanny pioneering work, saying that pissing in a vat of liquor is a blasphemy against civilized society. They are ignorant of the fact that the pH factor and water quality play a decisive role in the character of liquor. If the water tends toward alkalinity, the result will be a sour liquor, not fit to drink; but if you add the urine of a healthy boy, you wind up with Eighteen-Li Red (the name itself has a better ring than Scholar Red or Daughter Red), an ‘aromatic, full-bodied liquor that leaves a honey-sweet aftertaste.’ There is nothing absurd in this, so why must they display their ignorance? As a doctoral candidate in liquor studies, I proclaim: this is science! Science is a solemn endeavor that allows for no hypocrisy. If you don’t know something, you must study; there is no call for histrionics, and certainly no room for ad hominem attacks! Besides, what’s so dirty about urine? For those individuals who sleep with prostitutes and come away with syphilis, gonorrhea, or AIDS, of course their urine is dirty. But, Sir, what your granddad released into the vat of liquor was a little boy’s urine, pure as spring water. The classical masterwork Materia Medica, by Mr Li Shizhen, China’s famed pharmaceutical master, is absolutely clear on this point: the urine of a little boy as an added ingredient in medicinal herbs is effective in the treatment of high blood pressure, coronary heart disease, arteriosclerosis, glaucoma, breast calcification, and other chronic diseases. Don’t tell me they’re willing to launch ad hominem attacks on Mr Li Shizhen! The urine of a little boy is the most sacred and mysterious fluid on the face of the earth, and even the Devil himself isn’t sure just how many precious elements it contains. The Japanese Prime Minister drinks a glass of urine every day to stay healthy and vigorous. Liquorland’s Party Secretary Jiang mixed the urine of a little boy into lotus-root congee to attack the cause of his long-term insomnia. Urine is a true marvel, the finest symbol of human existence. Sir, let’s ignore that bunch of ignoramuses. The People’s Commissar, Comrade Stalin, said: ‘We shall ignore them!’ They deserve nothing but horse piss.
In your letter you said you’re going to write a novel about liquor. Only you can shoulder up such a heavy bur
den. My mentor, your soul is the soul of liquor, through and through; your body is the body of liquor, inside and out. Your liquor body is in perfect harmony: red flowers and green leaves, blue mountains and emerald waters, limbs that are hale and hearty, harmonious movements, graceful bearing, elegant motion, true flesh and blood, the picture of life; take anything away and it is too short, add anything and it is too long. My mentor, you are a living, breathing bottle of Eighteen-Li Red! To help in your research on liquor, I have prepared ten bottles of Overlapping Green Ants, ten bottles of Red-Maned Stallion, and ten bottles of Oriental Beauty. I'll send them all with the next school bus for Beijing. From this day on, Sir, stride forward boldly, a bottle forever at your side, pen always at hand, and let those idiots blather away.
The story I sent you last time, ‘Meat Boy,’ is not a piece of reportage, but it reads like one. It is absolutely true that some of Liquorland’s totally corrupt and inhuman Party cadres feast on little boys. I hear that someone has been sent down to investigate, and if someday all this comes to light, it will rock the world. In the future, who but your disciple could write a piece of reportage about this major story? With the explosive material I have at hand, tell me, who has a claim to arrogance, if not me?
I have heard nothing from Citizens’ Literature. I’d be grateful if you’d lean on them for me.
Our Liu Yan is a deckle-faced, glowering’ woman, and could be the ‘pale-faced glowering’ woman you recall. Her freckles might be the byproduct of several illicit pregnancies. She told me once that she is the most fertile of soils, and gets pregnant by any man who comes in contact with her. She also said that the unborn fetuses she leaves behind are invariably snatched away to be consumed by hospital personnel. I’ve heard that the nutritional value of a six- or seven-month-old fetus is very high, and that makes sense. The fetus of a deer is widely known to be a high-potency tonic, isn’t it? An embryonic egg has high nourishment value, hasn’t it?
I’m including my most recent work, ‘Child Prodigy,’ with this letter. It is written in the style of ‘demonic realism.’ After you’ve given it a critical reading, please forward it to Citizens’ Literature. I’ll not rest until I’ve broken through this ‘Gate of Hell’!
Wishing you
Happy writing,
Your disciple
Li Yidou
III
Child Prodigy, by Li Yidou
Gentle reader, not long ago I wrote a story for you about a meat child. In it I took pains to paint a picture of a little boy wrapped in red cloth. Perhaps you can recall his extraordinary eyes: mere slits through which a cold but mature glare emanated. They were the typical eyes of a conspirator. Yet they grew not in the face of a conspirator, but were inlaid in the face of a boy not quite three feet tall, which is why they are so unforgettable, and why they had such a shocking effect on a decent farmer in the Liquorland suburbs, Jin Yuanbao. Within the confines of that medium-length story it was impossible to delve deeply into the child’s background, so he appears as a full-blown stock image: the body of a not-quite three-foot-tall boy with a shock of bristly hair, the eyes of a conspirator, a pair of large, fleshy ears, and a gravelly voice. He is a little boy, nothing more, nothing less.
This story unfolds in the Special Purchasing Section of a Culinary Academy, beginning at dusk. Gentle reader, ‘our story, in fact, is already well underway.’
The moon was out that night, because we needed it to be. A big red moon rose slowly from behind the artificial hill at the Culinary Academy, its rosy beams slanting in through the double-paned windows like a pink waterfall and turning their faces soft and gentle. They were all little boys, and if you have read my ‘Meat Boy,’ you know who I’m talking about. The little demon was one of them, and would soon be in the position of their leader, or their despot. We shall see.
The boys had cried themselves out before the sun went down behind the mountain. Their faces were tear-streaked, their voices hoarse, all but the little demon, of course. You’d never catch him crying! Back while the other boys were crying their eyes out, he paced the floor like an overgrown goose, hands clasped behind his back as he circled the large room with its lovely scenery. Every once in a while he landed a well-placed kick on the backside of a bawling child. That invariably produced a high-pitched squeal, followed by muted sobs. His foot was transformed into a cure for the weeps. Eventually, he kicked all thirty-one children. And in the midst of sobs from the smallest boy among them, they saw the lovely moon leaping about on the artificial hill like a proud red steed.
Crowding up to the window, they grasped the sill and gazed outside. Those stuck behind the front row held on to the shoulders ahead of them. A fat little boy with a snotty nose raised a chubby finger and pointed skyward.
‘Mama Moon,’ he whimpered, ‘Mama Moon …’ One of the other boys smacked his lips and said: ‘It’s Auntie Moon, not Mama Moon. Auntie Moon.’ A sneer worked its way down the face of the little demon, who screeched like an owl, sending shivers down the boys’ spines as they turned to see what was wrong. What they saw was the little demon squatting atop the artificial hill, irradiated by red moonbeams. His red clothes looked like a fireball. The man-made waterfall on the hillside shimmered like red satin as it cascaded beautifully and continuously into the pool at the foot of the hill. Water splashed noisily like strings of cherries.
The children were no longer looking at the moon; instead, they huddled together and gaped at him in stupefaction.
Children,’ he said in a low voice, ‘prick up your ears and listen to what your sire has to say. That gizmo, that thing that looks like a proud red steed, is not a mama and it’s not an auntie. It’s a ball, a celestial being, one that revolves around us, and its name is simply “moon”!’
The children looked at him uncomprehendingly.
He jumped down off the artificial hill, and as he did, his baggy red clothes billowed in the wind, transformed into a pair of grotesque wings.
Clasping his hands behind him, he paced back and forth in front of the children. From time to time he wiped his mouth with his sleeve or spit on the glossy stone floor. Suddenly he stopped, raised an arm that was thin as a goat’s leg, and waved it in the air.
‘Listen to me, children,’ he said sternly. ‘You have never been human beings, not since the day you were born. Your parents sold you, like pigs or goats! So from now on, I’ll stomp anyone who cries for his mommy or daddy!’