The Republic of Wine
‘You poor thing,’ he said, ‘you poor little darling.’
She wrapped her arms around his legs and gazed up at him tenderly.
‘I’m leaving,’ he said. I’ll not allow your husband to get away with his crimes.’
‘Take me with you,’ she said. ‘I hate him. I’ll help you. They eat infants.’
She stood up, dressed quickly, and took a bottle from the cabinet. In it was some ocher-colored powder.
‘Know what this is?’ she asked.
The investigator shook his head.
It’s infant powder.’ she said. ‘They use it as a tonic.’
‘How’s it made?’ the investigator asked.
It’s produced by the hospital’s Special Nutrition Unit,’ she replied.
‘From live babies?’
‘Yes, live ones. You can hear them crying.’
‘Come on, we’re off to the hospital’
She took a cleaver out of the cabinet and handed it to him.
With a laugh, he tossed it onto the table.
That drew a crisp cackle out of the lady trucker, sort of like a laying hen, or a wooden wheel rolling over cobblestones. Then with a smile like that of a bat, she threw herself at him again, wrapped her arms tenderly around his neck, and, with the same tenderness, wrapped her legs around his knees. With a struggle, he managed to pry her off, but she was right back at him, like a bad dream that won’t go away. The investigator hopped all over the place, monkey-style, trying to keep away from her.
‘Jump on me one more time,’ he panted, ‘and I’ll put a bullet in you!’
Stunned for a moment, she cried out hysterically, ‘Go ahead, put a bullet in me! Do it, you ingrate, put a bullet in me!’
She ripped open her blouse, sending a purple Plexiglass button to the floor, where it hit with a crisp ping and began rolling around like a tiny animal, first one way, then the other. Whatever force moved it seemed undeterred by the pull of gravity or the friction of the hardwood floor. Stomping on it angrily, the investigator felt it slip around under his foot, tickling him through his sock and thick-soled shoe.
‘What kind of person are you? Did Diamond Jin instruct you to do this?’ The sentimental attachment the investigator felt for the woman after sex was already dissipating; as his heart began to harden, it turned the color of cold steel. ‘If so, then you’re a co-conspirator,’ he said with a sneer, ‘and have eaten infants along with them. Diamond Jin must have ordered you to block my investigation.’
‘What an ill-fated woman I am …’ She began to sob, then cried openly, her face awash with tears, her shoulders heaving. ‘Five times I've been pregnant, and each time he’s sent me to the hospital in my fifth month for an abortion … he ate every one of the aborted fetuses…’
Overcome by the grief of despair, she wobbled and was about to topple, when the investigator reached out to steady her; she reacted by falling into his arms and nibbling at his neck. Then she bit him - hard. With a screech of pain, the investigator drove his fist into her belly. She croaked like a frog and crashed to the floor, face up. Her teeth were sharp, as Ding Gou’er knew from experience. He touched his wounded neck and drew back two bloody fingers, while she lay on the floor, eyes open. But as the investigator turned to leave, she rolled over to block his way. ‘Dear elder brother!’ she wailed. ‘Don’t leave me, let me kiss you…’ That gave him an idea: fetching a length of nylon rope from the balcony, he bound her to the chair. Struggling mightily to get free, she screamed:
‘Goddamned gigolo, I’ll bite the life out of you, you goddamned gigolo!’
The investigator took out a handkerchief, gagged her with it, then ran out as if his life depended on it, slamming the door behind him. Dimly he could hear the chair legs banging against the hardwood floor, and was afraid that the tenacious lady bandit might come after him, chair and all. His flying feet slapped against the concrete stairs, raising a deafening noise. In spite of the fact that the lady trucker lived in a low building, the staircase kept winding and winding, as if leading him down to the depths of Hell. As he was negotiating a bend in the stairs, he ran headlong into an elderly woman coming up the stairs. Her protruding belly felt like a leather sack filled with some sort of liquor; instead of yielding to the pressure, the liquid merely shifted. He then watched as she fell backwards on the steps, frantically waving her stubby arms. Her face was very large and very pale, like a head of cabbage tucked away for the winter. Inwardly cursing his bad luck, the investigator felt a clump of toadstools suddenly sprout in his brain. Hopping down onto the landing, he reached out to help the woman to her feet. She was moaning, her eyes closed, the sound müd yet bleak. Feeling guilty, the investigator bent down and put his arms around her waist to help her up. Not only was she heavy, she wouldn’t stop rolling around, and the effort to lift her up swelled the blood vessels in the investigator’s head to bursting point. A stabbing pain shot through the spot on his neck where the lady trucker had bitten him. Finally, the old woman cooperated by wrapping her arms around his neck, and together they managed to get her to her feet. But her greasy fingers on his wounded neck caused such excruciating pain that he broke out in a cold sweat. Her breath smelled like rotten fruit, so unbearably foul that he loosened his grip, sending her sprawling back onto the stairs, where she jiggled like a burlap sack filled with mung-bean noodles; she was holding on to his trousers for dear life. Noticing that the backs of her hands glistened with fish scales, suddenly he watched as two fish - one a carp, the other an eel - wriggled out of a plastic bag she’d been carrying. The carp flopped crazily on the stairs, while the eel - yellow face, green eyes, two erect, wiry whiskers -wriggled along stealthily, sluggishly. The water in the sack spilled slowly onto the stairs, soaking one step, then the next. He heard himself ask dryly:
‘Are you OK, old lady?’
1 broke my hip,’ she replied, ‘and tore up my intestines.’
Hearing her describe her injuries in such detail, the investigator knew that a whole lot of trouble was about to come crashing down on his unlucky head once again. He was in a bigger pickle than even that hapless carp; naturally, the carefree eel was infinitely better off than he. His first thought was to get away from this old woman, but instead he bent over and said:
I’ll carry you to the hospital, old auntie.’
The old woman replied:
‘My leg’s broken, and my kidneys have been damaged.’
He sensed an air of poison swelling in his gut. The carp flopped up onto his shoe. His foot flew, and so did the fish, right into the metal banister.
‘You owe me a fish!’
He stomped on the eel as it slithered by.
‘I’ll carry you to the hospital!’ he repeated.
The old woman hung on to his legs for dear life.
‘Don’t even think about it!’
‘Old auntie,’ he said, ‘your hip’s broken, your leg’s broken, your intestines are all torn up, and your kidneys have been damaged. If you don’t go to the hospital, you’ll die right here. Is that what you want?’
If I do, I’ll take you along with me,’ the old woman said resolutely. He felt her grip grow more powerful.
The investigator sighed forlornly. Looking down at the stairs and at the two dying fish, then out at the gloomy gray sky beyond the broken window, he didn’t know what to do. Just then the strong smell of alcohol drifted in through the window, along with the clang-clang of sheet metal being struck. Suddenly chilled to the bone, he longed for a drink.
Grim laughter burst over him and the old woman, then footsteps. The lady trucker was coming downstairs, one baby step at a time, standing up straight and carrying the chair behind her.
He greeted her with an embarrassed laugh. Instead of being alarmed, he was actually happy to see her. Better to be burdened by a young woman than an old one, he was thinking. He smiled. And that smile calmed his mind, as if the sun of hope had just broken through the haze of despair. He noted that she’d already bitten through the han
dkerchief he’d tied around her mouth, increasing his admiration for the sharpness of her teeth. The chair tied to her body slowed her progress, its rear legs bumping against the stairs with each descending step. He nodded to her, she nodded back. Coming to a stop alongside the old woman, she swung her body like a tiger whipping its tail around, slamming the chair into the woman. He heard her demand ferociously:
‘Let him go!’
The old woman looked up and mumbled what sounded like a curse before letting her arms drop. Freed at last, the investigator stepped back to put some distance between him and the old woman.
She said to the old woman:
‘Do you know who he is?’
The old woman shook her head.
‘He’s the Mayor.’
Clambering to her feet, the old woman grabbed the banister and shuddered.
Moved by her plight, the investigator hurried to say:
‘I’ll take you to the hospital for a checkup, old auntie.’
The lady trucker said:
‘Untie me.’
He did, and the chair fell to the floor. As the lady trucker was flexing her arms, the investigator turned and ran. He heard her footsteps behind him.
As he ran out the front door, he caught his sleeve on a waiting bicycle. Craaash! The bicycle hit the ground. Riiiip. There went his coat. The mishap slowed him down just enough for the lady trucker to lasso him around the neck with her rope. She drew the noose tight and choked the breath right out of him.
She dragged him outside as if he were a dog or some other dumb animal. A steady drizzle falling into his eyes clouded his vision as he reached up to loosen the rope’s choke-hold. Something round flew past, scaring the hell out of him. Then he saw a shaven-headed little boy run past, soaked to the skin and covered with mud, as he chased down his football. He cocked his head and pleaded:
‘Dear little woman, let me go. I’d hate for anybody to see me like this.’
With a flick of the wrist, she drew the noose even tighter.
‘Aren’t you good at running?’ she said.
‘I won’t run, I won’t, not if my life depended on it.’
‘Promise you won’t abandon me, that you’ll take me with you?’
‘I promise, I give you my word.’
She loosened the rope to let the investigator slip his head out of the noose. He was about to give her hell when dulcet sounds emerged from her tender lips:
‘You, you’re like a little boy. Without me to look after you, you’re at the mercy of everyone out there.’
Touched by her words, which sent warm currents swirling through his belly, the investigator welcomed the shower of happiness that settled over him like a spring rain, wetting not only his eyelids, but his eyes as well
The fine drizzle wove a soft, dense net around the buildings, the trees, everything. He felt her reach out and take hold of his arm, heard a crisp click, and watched a pink umbrella snap open in her other hand and rise above them, covering their heads. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he put his arm around her waist and took the umbrella from her, like any considerate husband. He wondered where the umbrella had come from, but his suspicions were quickly driven away by happiness.
The sky was so dark and misty, he couldn’t tell if it was morning or afternoon. A watch would have helped, but his had been stolen by the little demon. The fine rain beat a light tattoo on the umbrella. It was a sweet but melancholy sound, like a fine French wine -sad, sentimental, anxious, worried. He wrapped his arm more tightly around her, until he could feel her cold, clammy skin under her satin pajamas; there was a gentle squirming in her stomach. Huddled closely together, they walked down the Brewer’s College asphalt path between rows of Chinese ilex trees, with their glistening leaves, like the orange nails of pretty girls. Milky white steam carrying the fragrance of burned coal rose from the towering mounds of coal outside the mine. The heavy air pushed back the hideous black smoke trying to force its way out of smokestacks, turning it into black dragons that coiled and writhed in the lowering sky.
They walked together out of the Brewer’s College compound and strolled arm-in-arm in the shade of the willow trees on the bank of a little river from which opaque steam and the fragrance of alcohol rose. From time to time, drooping willow branches scraped the nylon shell of the umbrella, sending large drops of rain skittering down across the ribs. The narrow path was covered by drenched golden-yellow leaves. Abruptly the interrogator lowered the umbrella and stared at the green willow branches.
‘How long have I been in Liquorland?’ he asked.
The lady trucker replied:
‘You’re asking me? Who do you expect me to ask?’
The investigator said:
‘This is no good. I must get to work.’
The corner of her mouth twitched. In a mocking tone, she said:
‘Without me, you'll never get to the bottom of anything.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘What is it with you?’ she said. ‘You’ve slept with me, and you don’t even know my name?’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I asked, but you wouldn’t tell me.’
‘You never asked me.’
‘I sure did.’
‘No you didn’t.’ She kicked him. ‘You never asked.’
‘OK, OK, I never asked. So I’m asking now.’
‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘You’re Hunter and I’m Mickey. We’re partners. How’s that?’
‘Good old partner,’ he said, patting her on the waist, ‘where do we go now?’
‘What do you want to investigate first?’
‘A gang of rotten criminals, headed by your very own husband, who kill and eat infants.’
‘I’ll take you to see someone who knows everything there is to know here in Liquorland.’
‘Who?’
‘I won’t tell you unless you kiss me.’
He gave her a peck on the cheek.
‘I’ll take you to see the proprietor of Yichi Tavern, Yu Yichi.’
Arm-in-arm they strolled out onto Donkey Avenue under a dark sky; the investigator’s gut feeling told him that the sun had already settled behind the mountains - no, it was just then sinking behind them. Drawing upon his imagination, he pictured the fabulous scene: the sun, an enormous red wheel, forced earthward, radiates thousands of brilliant spokes to dress the rooftops, the trees, the faces of pedestrians, and the cobblestones of Donkey Avenue in the tragically valiant colors of a fallen hero. The despot of the Kingdom of Chu, Xiang Yu, stands on the bank of the Wu River, holds his spear in one hand and the reins of his mighty steed in the other as he gazes blankly at the angry waters rushing by. But at this moment there was no sun above Donkey Avenue. Immersed in the enveloping mist, the investigator was mentally engulfed by melancholy and sentimentalism. Suddenly he was struck by the absurdity of his trip to Liquorland - absolutely ridiculous, a ludicrous farce. Floating in the filthy water of a ditch running alongside Donkey Avenue were a rotten head of cabbage, half a clove of garlic, and a hairless donkey tail, silently clumped together and giving off muted rays of green, brown, and blue-gray under the dim streetlights. The investigator mused agonizingly that these three lifeless objects should be taken together as symbols for the flag of a kingdom in decay; even better, they could be carved on his own tombstone. As the sky pressed down, he saw the drizzling rain in the artificial yellow light, like floating threads of silk. The pink umbrella looked like a colorful toadstool. He felt hungry and cold, sensations that erupted into his consciousness after he’d seen the clump of garbage in the roadside ditch. At the same time, he was aware that the seat and cuffs of his trousers were soaked through, his shoes were caked with mud and filling up with water, producing a squishing noise as he walked, like a loach slurping through mud in a riverbed. On the heels of these strange sensations, his arm was frozen numb by the icy coldness of her body, except for his hand, with which he attempted to touch her belly, the source of the sorry rumblings. She was wearing only pi
nk pajamas and a pair of fuzzy bedroom slippers. As she shuffled along, the appearance was not so much of walking as of being carried along by a pair of mangy cats. The long history of men and women, he thought to himself, was actually very much like the history of class struggle: sometimes the men are victorious, sometimes the women, but in the end the victor is also the vanquished. His relationship with this lady trucker, his thoughts continued, was sometimes a game of cat and mouse, while at other times it was a case of two wolves, one with short forelegs, the other with short hind legs, working together. They made love, but they also fought like mortal enemies, the weights of tenderness and ferocity striking a perfect balance. His little thing must be frozen solid, he thought; he also imagined that she was frozen solid. Reaching up to touch one of her breasts, he discovered that something that had once been nice and springy had turned into something as cold and hard as the metal weight on a hand scale, like an unripe banana or an apple stored in an icebox.
Cold?’ His question was patent nonsense, but he forged ahead: ‘Why not go to your place. I can carry out my investigation after the weather warms up.’
Her teeth were chattering, but she said stiffly:
‘No!’
'I'm concerned that the cold might be too much for you.’
'I said no!'
Holding the hand of his close comrade in arms, Mickey, the crack detective Hunter walked silently down Donkey Avenue on a cold, drizzly autumn night… These were the thoughts running through the head of the investigator, like lyrics flashing across the screen in a karaoke bar. He was mighty, Herculean; she was stubborn and intractable, but could be affectionate and passionate when she wanted to be. Donkey Avenue was virtually deserted. Potholes filled with water like frosted glass gave off a dull glimmer. Just how long he’d been in Liquorland he couldn’t say, but he’d spent all that time on the periphery of the city; the city itself was a mystery, one that finally beckoned to him on this late night. For the investigator, Donkey Avenue, with its long history, brought to mind the sacred conduit between the legs of the lady trucker. He quickly criticized himself for this objectionable association. He was like a pale adolescent suffering from compulsive behavior, incapable of restraining the shocking metaphor spinning in his head. Wonderful memories fluttered toward him. He was vaguely conscious of the likelihood that the lady trucker was destined to be his true lover, and that his body and hers were already linked by a heavy metal chain. He sensed that he had already foolishly developed feelings for her, which ran the gamut from hate to pity and to fear; this was love.