2. You’re concerned that my famous Donkey Avenue dish Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together would attract flies. Please forgive my arrogance, but I think Mo Yan doth protest too much. What’s filthy about a dish that even famed critics and renowned musicians from Beijing shovel down their throats as fast as they can? What we are pursuing is beauty, nothing but beauty. It’s not true beauty if we didn’t create it. Creating beauty with beauty is not true beauty either; real beauty is achieved by transforming the ugly into the beautiful This has two levels of significance. Let me explain. First, there’s no beauty in sticking a donkey dick inside a donkey pussy and putting them on a plate, because they are dark as pitch, incredibly filthy, and they stink like hell No one would eat them, that’s for sure. But the head chef in Yichi Tavern soaks them in fresh water three times, bathes them in bloody water three times, and boils them three times in soda water. Then he strips the penis of its sinewy parts and plucks the pubic hair before frying them both in oil, simmering them in an earthen pot, and steaming them in a pressure cooker, after which he carves different patterns with his refined skills, adds rare seasoning, decorates the dish with bright-colored cabbage hearts, and, voila, the male donkey organ is transformed into a black dragon and the female organ into a black phoenix. A dragon and a phoenix kissing and copulating, coiling around an array of reds and purples, filling the air with fragrance and looking so alive, a treat for the mind and the eye. Isn’t that transforming the ugly into the beautiful? Second, donkey dick and donkey pussy are vulgar terms that assail one’s sense of propriety and cause the imagination of the weak-willed to run wild. Now we change the former’s name into dragon and the latter into phoenix, for the dragon and the phoenix are solemn totems of the Chinese race, lofty, sacred, and beautiful symbols that signify meanings too numerous to mention. Can’t you see that this too is transforming the ugly into the beautiful? Sir, suddenly I sense how similar the process of producing Donkey Avenue’s most famous culinary dish is to the creative process in literature and the arts. Both originate from life yet transcend life. Both transform nature to benefit the human world. Both elevate the vulgar to the level of nobility, convert sensual desire into art, convert grain into alcohol, and turn grief into power.
Sir, I will never replace this dish, regardless of the scare tactics you choose to persuade me.
I believe that ‘Ecstasy’ and ‘Red Locusts’ are two of your best works. Those people who criticize you do so because they have eaten so many placentas and so many babies that the inner heat has risen and fried their brains. Why worry about what they say? The head of Liquorland’s Writers Association is one of those who can’t go without his placenta for even a day. He drinks a soupy mix of placenta and duck eggs, a whole bowlful, which is why his essays are heavy with ‘human taste.’
3. Sir, Yu Yichi is so mysterious, I’m afraid of him. He wants me to write his biography and promises me a big payday, so I’m conflicted. But since you encouraged me to write, I’ll embolden myself by gulping down the soup of courage. But now I want even more for the two of us to collaborate. You’re famous enough that if you helped on the writing, Yu Yichi would be so overjoyed his ass would swing like a pendulum. You don’t know how adorable he is when his ass swings, but just imagine a little Peke frolicking in the snow. He has deep pockets and is never stingy with his money, so you’ll be amply rewarded for your troubles. Besides, you must come visit our Liquorland, take a tour to broaden your views. I think that would benefit your writing, just as a baby banquet is beneficial to one’s health. No matter how you look at it, it’s your loss if you don’t visit Liquorland, if for no other reason than you won’t otherwise get to sample Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together.
4. As for the beginning section of ‘Donkey Avenue,’ since you praised its grandiloquence, what’s wrong with a little ‘nonsense’? There are so many publications full of tongue-twisting rubbish these days, why should I ‘delete altogether’ my ‘grandiloquent nonsense’? I’m unwilling and unable to accept your recommendation.
5. The father of the twin dwarf sisters is indeed a leader in the Central Government, so why ask me to downgrade him? Besides, even if I wanted to demote him to the head of a remote mountain village, would he do it? He’d likely fight me to the death over it. On the other hand, since literature and art are, after all, fabrications, if people want to identify the characters with real-life people, let them. That’s not my problem. And if I have to pay with my life if his heart explodes from anger? Well, a life for a life, so be it. ‘A true soldier fears not death, so do not attempt to frighten him with it.’ decapitation feels like the wind blowing off a hat.’ ‘Twenty years from now I’ll be a hero again.’
Sir, please send my regards to Zhou Bao and Li Xiaobao, and ask the two gentlemen if they need any good liquor. Also, in October, Liquorland will host its first Ape Liquor Festival, a rare occasion not only in Liquorland but throughout Greater China. Vintage liquors from all over the world will be available to valiant individuals from all corners to drink to their hearts’ content. All the delicacies in this world will await you - Mo Yan, my mentor - and you can wolf them all down. Your family is also invited. My father-in-law, Yuan Shuangyu, is the Vice-Director of the Technical Advisory Committee for this first annual Ape Liquor Festival, so you will want for nothing.
Wishing you good health,
I am Your disciple
Li Yidou
written in drunkenness
Chapter Five
I
Ding Gou’er wrapped his long arms tightly around the lady trucker’s waist and crushed his lips skillfully against hers. She wrenched her head this way and that to break off the kiss, but he matched her, wrench for wrench, neutralizing her movements. And in the midst of those struggles he sucked both her fleshy lips into his mouth. She blubbered a series of curses: Goddamn it! Goddamn you! These goddamn its and goddamn yous were spit right into Ding Gou’er’s mouth, where they were soaked up by his tongue, his gums, and his throat. Experience told him that the struggle probably wouldn’t last long, that pretty soon her face would turn red and moist, she’d start breathing hard, her belly would heat up, and she’d melt in his arms like a tame little kitten. That’s how women are. But what actually happened quickly proved he had blurred the distinction between the general and the specific. The woman was not incapacitated by the anesthesia in his mouth, and her struggle to resist did not abate just because he had her in a lip-lock; in fact, it increased and grew more frenzied. She clawed at his back, she kicked him in the legs, she kneed him in the groin. Her belly was hot as live cinders, her breath intoxicating as strong liquor. Incredibly aroused, Ding Gou’er was willing to subject his body to as much abuse as necessary before breaking off the kiss. He even tried to force his tongue between her clenched teeth. That was his downfall.
He never imagined that when she unclenched her teeth, it was just a ploy to allow his tongue to slip into her mouth. Then, with a sudden reclamping of her teeth, she drew a screech from the investigator, as a stabbing pain quickly spread from his tongue to every inch of his body. Ding Gou’er’s arms flew off the lady trucker’s waist, and he leaped away, a foul yet sweet taste emanating from a hot sticky liquid filling his mouth. He knew, as he clapped his hand over his mouth, that this spelled trouble. All of a sudden, no tongue. Bad news! In the investigator’s long history of romantic conquests, this was his first tragic failure. You fucking daughter of a whore! he cursed inwardly, as he bent over to spit out a mouthful of blood. Stars lit up the sky, but the ground was hazy; he knew he’d spit out blood, even though he couldn’t see the color of the stuff. What worried him most, of course, was the tongue itself, so he gently tried touching his teeth and lips; happily, it was still attached, but he detected a small gap on the tip. That’s where the blood was coming from.
Ding Gou’er was enormously relieved that his tongue hadn’t been bitten off. But he’d paid an annoyingly steep price for that kiss. He had to teach her a lesson, but how?
She was standi
ng only a few feet away, looking straight at him, so close he could hear her labored breathing. He felt her body warmth through his thin shirt. She was staring at him, head held high, and now she was brandishing a monkey wrench. In the brightening starlight he took note of the angry expression on her animated face. Sort of like a naughty little girl. With a wry laugh, he grumbled:
You’ve got sharp teeth.’
She was breathing heavily. I held back,’ she said. ‘I can bite through ten-gauge wire.’
This brief bit of dialogue brightened the special investigator’s mood. The pain in his tongue turned to a dull ache. He reached out to pat her on the shoulder, but she jumped back in self-defense, raised the wrench over her head, and shouted. ‘How dare you! Touch me and I’ll split your skull open!’
I’m not going to hit you, my pet,’ he said, quickly drawing his hand back. I wouldn’t dare. Let’s talk this out peaceably, what do you say?’
‘Pour the water into the radiator!’ she commanded breathlessly.
As the night air grew heavy, Ding Gou’er felt a chill. Picking up his bucket and filling the radiator, as he was told, he was suddenly enveloped in a cloud of steam from the engine. That warmed him up. Water gurgling as it entered the radiator reminded him of a thirsty ox lapping up much-needed water. A shooting star tore through the Milky Way, insects were chirping all around, and the sound of waves beating against a distant shore came on the wind.
After they were back in the cab, he looked out at the bright lights of Liquorland, and was struck by feelings of loneliness, like a lamb that’s strayed from the flock.
As he rested on the padded cushions of the lady trucker’s sofa, Ding Gou’er was thoroughly intoxicated, he was enchanted. His sweat-soaked, alcohol-drenched clothing had been tossed out onto the balcony to continue sending their odors into the vast expanse of sky. His body was encased in a loose-fitting, downy-soft, warm and toasty bathrobe. That fine little pistol of his, along with several dozen bullets neatly stacked in their clips, rested on a tea table, the muzzle glinting a soft blue, the cartridges sparkling like gold. He was reclining on the sofa, his eyes narrowed to mere slits as he listened to the sounds of splashing coming from the bathroom and tried to picture hot shower water slipping down the lady trucker’s shoulders and breasts. Everything that had occurred after his tongue was bitten was like a dream. He hadn’t said another word after climbing into the truck, nor had she; instead he’d conscientiously and rather mechanically focused his attention on the roar of the engine and the sound of the tires on the road. The truck flew down the highway, Liquorland approaching very fast. Red lights, green lights, left turns, right turns. They entered the Brewer’s College through a side gate and pulled into the parking lot. She got out of the cab; he followed her. When she walked, so did he; when she stopped, he did too. Although everything had a bizarre quality, somehow it seemed completely natural He might as well have been her husband or her boyfriend, the way they sauntered into her apartment. Now, as he contentedly digested the wonderful meal she had prepared, he lay back on the sofa and sipped a glass of wine, enjoying the sights of her well-furnished living room and waiting expectantly for her to emerge from her shower.
From time to time a sharp pain in his tongue rekindled his vigilance. Maybe she was setting an even more insidious trap, maybe some ferocious man would suddenly appear, since this room had obviously been home to a male occupant. So what! I’m not leaving, even if two ferocious men appeared! He finished the glass of sweet wine and let himself sink into sweet reveries.
She emerged from the bathroom in a cream-colored bathrobe and bright red shower slippers. This was a woman who knew how to walk, the seductive sway of an exotic dancer. The wooden floor creaked beneath her feet. She was bathed in golden lamplight. Wet hair clung to her scalp, which was nice and round, like a perfectly shaped gourd that shone as it floated above her bathrobe in the halo of light. ‘Grab prosperity with one hand, sweep away indecency with the other.’ Curiously, this popular slogan popped into his head. She stood in front of him with crossed feet, her bathrobe loosely tied. A birthmark on her snowy white thigh looked like a watchful eye. The two mounds of flesh swelling up from her chest were also white. Ding Gou’er lay there, his eyelids drooping, enjoying the scenery and not moving a muscle. All he had to do was reach out and tug the belt around her waist for the lady trucker to be fully revealed to him. She was acting more like a lady of noble birth than a lady trucker. Having examined the house and its furnishings, the investigator was pretty sure that her husband was no lightweight. He lit another cigarette, a sly fox studying the bait in a trap,
‘All looks and no action.’ the lady trucker commented with annoyance. ‘What kind of Communist Party member are you?'
‘This is how undercover communists deal with female agents.’
‘Really?’
‘In the movies.’
‘Are you an actor?’
‘Studying to be one.’
Slowly she untied the belt of her robe, which fell around her feet when she shrugged her shoulders. Slim and graceful was the phrase that came to his mind.
Cupping her breasts with her hands, she asked, ‘What do you think?’
The investigator replied, ‘Not bad.’
‘What now?’
‘Continue to observe.’
She picked up his pistol, loaded it with a practiced hand, then stepped back to put some distance between them. The lamplight softened, encasing her body in gold. Not the whole body, of course; the rings around her nipples were dark red, her nipples like two bright red dates. Slowly she raised the gun, until it was aimed at the investigator’s head.
He shuddered a bit, his eyes fixed on the blue steel of the muzzle and the black hole at the end. He was used to pointing guns at other people’s heads, always the cat watching the mouse squirm under its sharp claws. Most of those mice, facing death, trembled with fear and peed their pants. Only a few could feign calmness, though a shaking fingertip or a twitch at the corner of the mouth usually exposed their fear. Now the cat had become the mouse; the judge had become the judged. He studied his own pistol as if it were the first time he’d seen it. The luster, like blue glazed tile, was as enchanting as the bouquet of vintage liquor, its smooth outlines displayed a kind of evil beauty. At this moment, it was God it was fate it was the Grim Reaper. Her large pale hand squeezed the carved handle, her long, slender index finger rested against the trigger, just a twitch away from driving the firing pin into the cartridge. Experience told him that a pistol in this state is no longer a piece of cold iron, but a living object with thoughts feelings culture morality. There is an enriched soul within - it is the soul of the gun holder. Without realizing it, this reverie relaxed him, until he was no longer focused on the muzzle, from which the bullet would emerge. It was just part of the gun. He took a leisurely drag on his cigarette.
An autumn wind blew in from the yard, gently billowing the silk drapes. Drops of cold condensation on the steamy bathroom ceiling fell noisily into the tub. He watched the lady trucker like a man appreciating a museum painting. To his surprise he discovered that a naked young woman holding a gun she was prepared to use could be incredibly sexy. At that moment, the pistol was no longer a simple handgun, but an organ of sexual conquest, a throbbing weapon. Ding Gou’er had never been one of those communists who can close their eyes in the presence of a woman. As we have already seen, he had a sex-crazed mistress. Now, to add some detail to the picture, he’d also had his share of one-night stands. In days past, he’d have easily held this little lamb in his grasp, like a ferocious tiger that had come charging down off the mountain. What gave him pause this time was: First, ever since arriving in Liquorland, he’d felt trapped in a labyrinth, confused and paranoid. Second, the tip of his tongue still ached. Facing this demonic butterfly, with her twisted personality, he dared not make a careless move, particularly since his head was in the sights of the business end of a pistol. Was there any guarantee this demon wouldn’t pull the trigger?
It’s so much easier than biting someone - besides, it’s civilized, modern, and filled with romance. The contrast between the roomy, well-appointed quarters the woman lived in and the grinding job she performed perplexed him. I nearly lost my tongue over a little kiss. What if I … who could guarantee the safety of the family jewels? Suppressing his ‘bourgeois promiscuous inclinations’ and rekindling his ‘awesome proletarian righteousness,’ he sat there, solid as Mount Tai, facing a bare-assed woman and the black muzzle of a pistol, so decorous and composed, a look of utter serenity on his face, that he could surely lay claim to the mantle of tragic hero the likes of which the world has seldom seen. Calmly he watched the scene change.
The lady trucker’s face reddened, her excited nipples quivered, like the voracious mouths of tiny animals. The investigator could hardly keep from throwing himself on her and biting them. The sharp pain in his tongue kept him in his seat.
She sighed softly. ‘I surrender,’ she said.
She tossed the pistol down onto the table and raised her hands ostentatiously. ‘I surrender,’ she said again, ‘you win …’ With her arms in the air and her legs spread wide, all the points of entry were wide open.
‘How can you be so blase?’ she asked the investigator in exasperation. ‘Am I too ugly for you?’
‘No, you’re quite good looking,’ he replied languidly.
‘Then why?’ She turned mocking. ‘Not castrated, are you?’
‘I’m afraid you’ll bite it off.’
‘Male praying mantises die when they mount the females, but that doesn’t keep them from climbing on.’
‘Don’t give me that. I’m no praying mantis.’
‘You goddamned coward!’ the lady trucker cursed and turned her back on him. ‘Get the hell out of here. I’m going to masturbate!’