The Republic of Wine
Ding Gou’er, chalky white pistol in his hand, a smile on his lips, stood ramrod stiff, sort of like a pagoda pine. Wisps of green smoke from the muzzle of his pistol dissipated after rising above his head.
People crowded round the metal fence, dumbstruck. Time stood still, until someone shouted shrilly:
‘Help, murder -! Old Lü the gatekeeper’s been shot dead!’
Ding Gou’er. Pagoda pine. Dark green, nearly black.
‘The old dog was an evil bastard.’
‘See if you can sell him to the Gourmet Section of the Culinary Academy.’
‘The old dog’s too tough.’
‘The Gourmet Section only wants tender little boys, not stale goods like him.’
‘Then take him to the zoo to feed to the wolves.’
Ding Gou’er flipped the pistol in the air, where it spun in the sunlight like a silvery mirror. He caught it in his hand and showed it to the people crowding round the gate. It was a splendid little weapon, with the exquisite lines of a fine revolver. He laughed.
‘Friends,’ he said, ‘don’t be alarmed. It’s a toy gun, it isn’t real’
He pushed the release button and the barrel flipped open; he took out a dark red plastic disk and showed it around. A little paper exploding cap lay between each hole in the disk. ‘When you pull the trigger,’ he said, ‘the disk rotates, the hammer hits the cap, and -pow! It’s a toy, good enough to be used as a stage prop, but something you can buy at any department store.’ He reinserted the disk, snapped the barrel back into place, and pulled the trigger.
Pow-!
‘Like so,’ he said, a salesman making his pitch. ‘If you still don’t believe me, look here.’ He aimed the pistol at his own sleeve and pulled the trigger.
Pow-!
‘It’s the traitor Wang Lianju!’ shouted a driver who’d seen the revolutionary opera The Red Lantern.
‘It’s not a real gun.’ Ding Gou’er lifted his arm to show them.
‘You see, if it had been real, my arm would have a hole in it, wouldn’t it?’ His sleeve had a round charred spot, from which the redolent odor of gunpowder rose into the sunlight.
Ding Gou’er stuffed the pistol back into his pocket, walked up, and kicked the gatekeeper who lay on the ground.
‘Get up, you old fake,’ he said. ‘You can stop acting now.’
The gatekeeper climbed to his feet, still holding his head in his hands. His complexion was sallow, the color of a fine year-end cake.
‘I just wanted to scare you.’ he said, ‘not waste a real bullet on you. You can stop hiding behind that dog of yours. It’s after ten o’clock, long past the time you should have opened the gate.’
The gatekeeper lowered his hands and examined them. Then, not sure what to believe, rubbed his head all over and looked at his hands again. No blood. Like a man snatched from the jaws of death, he sighed audibly and, still badly shaken, asked:
‘What, what do you want?’
With a treacherous little laugh, Ding Gou’er said:
I’m the new Mine Director, sent here by municipal authorities.’
The gatekeeper ran over to the gate house and returned with a glistening yellow key, with which he quickly, and noisily, opened the gate. The mob broke for their vehicles, and in no time the clearing rocked with the sound of engines turning over.
A tidal wave of trucks and carts moved slowly, inexorably toward the now open gate, bumping and clanging into each other as they squeezed through. The investigator jumped out of the way, and as he stood there observing the passage of this hideous insect, with its countless twisting, shifting sections, he experienced a strange and powerful rage. The birth of that rage was followed by spasms down around his anus, where irritated blood vessels began to leap painfully, and he knew he was in for a hemorrhoid attack. This time the investigation would go forward, hemorrhoids or no, just like the old days. That thought took the edge off his rage, lessened it considerably, in fact. There’s no avoiding the inevitable. Not mass confusion, and not hemorrhoids. Only the sacred key to a riddle is eternal. But what was the key this time?
The gatekeeper’s face was scrunched up into a ludicrous, unnatural smile. He bowed and he scraped. ‘Won’t our new leader follow me into the reception room?’ Prepared to go with the flow - that was how he lived his life - he followed the man inside.
It was a large, spacious room with a bed under a black quilt. Plus a couple of vacuum bottles. And a great big stove. A pile of coal, each piece as big as a dog’s head. On the wall hung a laughing, pink-skinned, naked toddler with a longevity peach in his hands - a new year’s scroll - his darling little pecker poking up like a pink, wriggly silkworm chrysalis. The whole thing was incredibly lifelike. Ding Gou’er’s heart skipped a beat, his hemorrhoids twitched painfully.
The room was unbearably hot and stuffy from a fire roaring in the stove. The bottom half of the chimney and the surface of the stove had turned bright red from the furious heat. Hot air swirled around the room, making dusty cobwebs in the corners dance. Suddenly he itched all over, his nose ached dreadfully.
The gatekeeper watched his face with smarmy attentiveness.
‘Cold, Director?’
‘Freezing!’ he replied indignantly.
‘No problem, no problem, I’ll just add some coal…’ Muttering anxiously, the gatekeeper reached under the bed and took out a sharp hatchet with a date-red handle. The investigator’s hand flew instinctively to his hip as he watched the man shamble over to the coal bin, hunker down, and pick up a chunk of shiny black coal the size and shape of a pillow; steadying it with one hand, he raised the hatchet over his head and - crack - the coal broke into two pieces of roughly equal size, shining like quicksilver. Crack crack crack crack crack - the pieces kept getting smaller, forming a little pile. He opened the grate and released white-hot flames at least a foot into the air - whoosh. The investigator was sweating from head to toe, but the gatekeeper kept feeding coal into the stove. And kept apologizing: It’ll warm up any minute. The coal here is too soft, burns too fast, got to keep putting in more.’
Ding Gou’er undid his collar button and mopped his sweaty brow with his cap. ‘Why do you have a fire in the stove in September?’
It’s cold, Director, cold …’ The gatekeeper was shivering. ‘Cold … plenty of coal, a whole mountain of the stuff…’
The gatekeeper had a dried-out face, like an overcooked bun. Deciding he’d frightened the man enough, Ding Gou’er confessed that he was not the new Director, and that the man was free to heat the place up as much as he liked, since Ding Gou’er had work to do. The toddler on the wall was laughing, incredibly lifelike. He squinted to get a better look at the darling little boy. Gripping the hatchet firmly in his hand, the gatekeeper said, ‘You impersonated the Mine Director and assaulted me with your pistol Come along, I’m taking you to the Security Section.’ Ding Gou’er smiled and asked, ‘What would you have done if I had been the new Director?’ The gatekeeper slid the hatchet back under the bed and took out a liquor bottle. After removing the cork with his teeth, he took a hefty swig and handed the bottle to Ding Gou’er. A yellow slice of ginseng hung suspended in the liquid, along with seven black scorpions, fangs bared, claws poised. He shook the bottle, and the scorpions swam in the ginseng-enhanced liquid. A strange odor emanated from the bottle. Ding Gou’er brushed the mouth of the bottle with his lips then handed it back to the gatekeeper.
The man eyed Ding Gou’er suspiciously.
‘You don’t want any?’ he asked.
Tm not much of a drinker,’ Ding Gou’er replied.
‘You’re not from around here, I take it?’ the gatekeeper asked.
‘Old-timer, that is one plump, fair-skinned toddler,’ Ding Gou’er said.
He studied the gatekeeper’s face. It was a look of dejection. The man took another hefty swig and muttered softly, ‘What difference does it make if I burn a little coal? A whole ton of the stuff doesn’t cost more than …’
By now
Ding Gou’er was so hot he could no longer stand it. Though he found it hard to take his eyes off the toddler, he opened the door and walked out into the sunshine, which was cool and comforting.
Ding Gou’er was born in 1941 and married in 1965. It was a garden variety marriage, with husband and wife getting along well enough, and producing one child, a darling little boy. He had a mistress, who was sometimes adorable and sometimes downright spooky. Sometimes she was like the sun, at other times the moon. Sometimes she was a seductive feline, at other times a mad dog. The idea of divorcing his wife appealed to him, but not enough to actually go through with it. Staying with his mistress was tempting, but not enough to actually do it. Anytime he took sick, he fantasized the onset of cancer, yet was terrified by the thought of the disease; he loved life dearly, and was tired to death of it. He had trouble being decisive. He often stuck the muzzle of his pistol against his temple, then brought it back down; another frequent site for this game was his chest, specifically the area over his heart. One thing and one thing only pleased him without exception or diminution: investigating and solving a criminal case. He was a senior investigator, one of the very best, and well known to high-ranking cadres. He stood about five feet eight, was gaunt, swarthy, and slightly cross-eyed. A heavy smoker, he enjoyed drinking, but got drunk too easily. He had uneven teeth, and wasn’t bad at hand-to-hand combat. His marksmanship was erratic: in a good mood he was a crack shot; otherwise he couldn’t hit the broad side of anything. Somewhat superstitious, he believed in blind luck, and fortune seemed to follow him everywhere.
The Procurator General of the Higher Procuratorate handed him a China-brand cigarette and kept one for himself. Taking out his lighter, Ding lit the Procurator General's cigarette, then his own. The smoke filling his mouth tasted like buttery candy, sweet and delicious. Ding Gou’er noticed how ineptly the Procurator General smoked. He opened a drawer and took out a letter, glanced at it, then handed it over.
Ding Gou’er quickly read the scrawled letter from a whistle-blower. It was signed by someone calling himself Voice of the People. Phony, obviously. The contents shocked him at first; but then came the doubts. He skimmed the letter again, focusing on the marginal notations in the florid script of a senior official who knew him well.
He studied the eyes of the Procurator General, which were fixed on a potted jasmine on the window sill. The dainty white flowers exuded a subtle perfume. ‘Do you think it’s credible?’ he asked. ‘Could they really have the guts to braise and eat infants?’
The Procurator General smiled ambiguously. ‘Secretary Wang wants you to find out.
Excitement swelled in his chest, yet all he said was, ‘This shouldn’t be the business of the Procuratorate. What about the public security bureaus, are they napping?’
It’s not my fault I’ve got the famous Ding Gou’er on my payroll, is it?’
Slightly embarrassed, Ding Gou’er asked, ‘When should I leave?’
‘Whenever you like,’ the Procurator General replied. ‘You divorced yet? Either way it’s just a formality. Needless to say, we all hope there isn’t a word of truth in this accusation. But you are to say nothing about this to anyone. Use any means necessary to carry out your mission, so long as it’s legal’
‘I can go, then?’ Ding Gou’er stood up to leave.
The Procurator General also stood up and slid an unopened carton of China-brand cigarettes across the table.
After picking up the cigarettes and leaving the Procurator General’s office, Ding rode the elevator to the ground floor and left the building, deciding to go first to his son’s school. The renowned Victory Boulevard, with its unending stream of automobiles, blocked his way. So he waited. Across the street to his left a cluster of kindergartners was lined up at the crossing. With the sun in their faces, they looked like a bed of sunflowers. He was drawn to them. Bicycles brushed past, like schooling eels. The riders’ faces were little more than white blurs. The children, dressed in their colorful best, had tender, round faces and smiling eyes. They were tied together by a thick red cord, like a string of fish, or fruit on a spit. Puffy clouds of automobile exhaust settling around them glinted like charcoal in the sunlight and filled the air with their aroma; the children were just like a skewer of roast lamb, basted and seasoned. Children are the nation’s future, her flowers, her treasure. Who would dare run them over? Cars stopped. What else could they do? Engines revved and sputtered as the children crossed the street, a white-uniformed woman at each end of the line. Faces like full moons, encasing cinnabar lips and sharp white teeth, they might as well have been twins. Stretching the cord taut, they brusquely maintained order:
‘Hold on to the cord! Don’t let go!’
As Ding Gou’er stood beneath a roadside tree with yellowed leaves, the children crossed to his side, and waves of cars were already whizzing past. The column began to curve and bend; the children chirped and twittered like a flock of sparrows. Red ribbons around their wrists were fastened to the red cord. No longer standing in a straight line, they were still attached to the cord, and the women only had to draw it taut to straighten them out. Thoughts of the earlier shouts of ‘Hold on to the cord! Don’t let go!’ enraged him. What bullshit! How, he wondered, could they let go, when they’re tied to it?
He leaned against the tree and asked one of the women coldly:
‘Why do you tie them like that?’
She gave him an icy glare.
‘Lunatic!’ she said.
The children looked over at him.
‘Lu-na-tic-!’ they echoed in unison.
The way they drew out the syllables, he couldn’t tell if it was spontaneous or coached. Their lilting, falsetto voices rose like birds on the wing. Smiling idiotically, he nodded an apology to the woman on the far end, who dismissed him by looking away. He followed the column of children with his eyes until they disappeared down a lane bordered by a pair of high red walls.
It was a struggle, but he finally made it to the other side of the street, where a Xinjiang vendor roasting skewers of lamb hailed him in a heavy accent. He wasn’t tempted. But a long-necked girl walked up and bought ten. Reddened lips like chili peppers. Dipping the skewers of sizzling, greasy meat into the pepper jar, she bared her teeth as she ate, to protect her lipstick. His throat burning, he turned and walked off.
A while later he was in front of the elementary school smoking a cigarette and waiting for his son, who didn’t see him as he ran out the gate with his backpack. He had blue ink smudges on his face, the marks of a student. He called his son’s name. When the boy reluctantly fell in behind him, he told him he was being sent to Liquorland on business. ‘So what?’ Ding Gou’er asked his son what he meant by So What? ‘So what? means So what? What do you expect me to say?’
“So what? That’s right. So what?’ he said, echoing his son’s comment.
Ding Gou’er walked into the mine’s Party Committee Security Section, where he was greeted by a crewcut young man who opened a floor-to-ceiling cabinet, poured a glass of liquor, and handed it to him. This room too was furnished with a large stove, which kept the temperature way up there, if not as stifling as the gate house. Ding Gou’er asked for some ice; the young fellow urged him to try the liquor:
‘Drink some, it’ll warm you up.’
The earnest look made it impossible for Ding Gou’er to refuse, so he accepted the glass and drank slowly.
The office was hermetically sealed by perfectly dovetailed doors and windows. Once again Ding Gou’er started to itch all over, and rivulets of sweat ran down his face. He heard Crewcut say consolingly:
‘Don’t worry, you’ll cool off as you calm down.’
A buzzing filled Ding Gou’er’s ears. Bees and honey, he was thinking, and honeyed infants. This mission was too important to be undone by carelessness. The glass in the windows seemed to vibrate. In the space between heaven and earth outside the room, large rigs moved slowly and noiselessly. He felt as if he were in an aquarium, like a pet fish. Th
e mining rigs were painted yellow, a numbing color, an intoxicating color. He strained to hear the noise they made, but no dice.
Ding Gou’er heard himself say:
‘I want to see your Mine Director and Party Secretary.’
Crewcut said:
‘Drink up, drink up.’
Touched by Crewcut’s enthusiasm, Ding Gou’er leaned back and drained the glass.
He no sooner set down his glass than Crewcut filled it up again.
‘No more for me,’ he said. ‘Take me to see the Mine Director and Party Secretary.’
‘What’s your hurry, Boss? One more glass and we’ll go. I’d be guilty of dereliction of duty if you didn’t. Happy events call for double. Go on, drink up.’
The sight of the full glass nearly unnerved Ding Gou’er, but he had a job to do, so he picked it up and drank it down.
He put down the glass, and it was immediately refilled.
It’s mine policy,’ Crewcut said. If you don’t drink three, how edgy you will be.’
I’m not much of a drinker,’ Ding Gou’er protested.
Crewcut picked up the glass with both hands and raised it to Ding Gou’er’s lips.
‘I beg you,’ he said tearfully, ‘Drink it. You don’t want me to be edgy, do you?’
Ding Gou’er saw such genuine feeling in Crewcut’s face that his heart skipped a beat, then softened; he took the glass and poured the liquor down his throat.
‘Thank you,’ Crewcut said gratefully, ‘thank you. Now, how about three more?’
Ding Gou’er clamped his hand over the glass. ‘No more for me, that’s it,’ he said. ‘Now take me to your leaders.’
Crewcut looked at his wristwatch.
It’s a bit early to be going to see them now,’ he said.