The Republic of Wine
There were few lights on the street, now that most of the shops were closed. But there were plenty of lights in the compounds behind the shops. Loud, dull noises emerged from one compound after another, and the investigator wondered what the people were doing there. The lady trucker supplied the answer:
‘They butcher the donkeys at night.’
In what seemed like a split second, the roadway turned treacherous; the lady trucker slipped and fell hard on her backside. He fell alongside her when he tried to help her up. Together they broke the umbrella, snapped the ribs; she flung it into the ditch, as the drizzle turned into a hailstorm, the air around them suddenly cold and clammy. Chilled air bored through the spaces between his teeth. He pressed her to move on. Donkey Avenue, narrow and gloomy, had become a place of horror, a lair of criminal activity. Hand in hand with his lover, the investigator entered the tiger’s lair. He saw the words with extraordinary clarity. A herd of glossy donkeys came down the street toward them, blocking their way at the very moment they spied the large signboard - Yichi Tavern - beneath a red light.
The donkeys were huddled closely together. A rough count revealed twenty-four or twenty-five of the animals, every one of them glossy black, down to the last hair. Drenched by the rain, their bodies glistened. Well fed, with handsome faces, they looked to be quite young. Either to combat the cold or because they detected something frightful in the air of Donkey Avenue, they huddled as closely together as possible. When those in the rear pushed their way deeper into the herd, they invariably forced out some of those in the middle. The sound of their donkey hides scraping together was like prickles jabbing the investigator’s skin. The heads of some of the donkeys, he saw, were low; others held their heads high. But every one of them was twitching its floppy ears. They pressed forward, squeezing in and being squeezed out, their hoofs clip-clopping and sliding on the cobblestone road, raising a sound of applause. The herd was like a mountain in motion as it passed in front of them, followed, he saw, by a black youngster hopping along behind them. He noted a distinct resemblance between the black youngster and the scaly youngster who had stolen his things. But as he opened his mouth to shout, the youngster let loose with a piercing whistle so sharp it sliced through the heavy curtain of night and initiated an eruption of braying in the donkey herd. Experience told the investigator that when donkeys brayed they planted their feet and raised their head to focus their energy into the sound. These donkeys, to his surprise, ran as they brayed. A strange, heart-gripping phenomenon. Letting go of the lady trucker’s hand, he burst forward, unafraid, determined to get his hands on this donkey-herding youngster; but all he managed to do was crash heavily to the ground, cracking the back of his head on the cobblestones. His ears swelled with a strange buzzing as two huge yellow orbs danced before his eyes.
By the time the investigator regained consciousness, the herd of donkeys and the youngster driving them along were nowhere to be seen. All that remained was the lonely, dreary strip of Donkey Avenue stretching ahead of him. The lady trucker gripped his hand tightly.
‘Did you hurt yourself?’ she asked, obviously concerned.
Tm all right.’
1 don’t think so. You took quite a fall.’ she sobbed. ‘You must have a concussion or something.’
Her words brought the realization of a splitting headache. Everything looked like a photographic negative. The lady trucker’s hair, her eyes, and her mouth were pale as quicksilver.
Tm afraid you’re going to die …’
Tm not going to die,’ he said. ‘Why are you trying to jinx me by talking about dying when my investigation is just getting started?’
‘Jinx you?’ she fired back angrily. ‘I said I was afraid you’d die.’
His pounding headache drained any interest he had in keeping up the conversation, and he reached out to touch her face in a conciliatory gesture. Then he rested his arm on her shoulder; like a battlefield nurse, she helped him cross Donkey Avenue. Suddenly, the eyes of a sleek sedan snapped on; stealthily, the car pulled away from the curb, freezing the two of them in its headlights. There was murder in the air - he felt it. He pushed the lady trucker away, but she sprang back and wrapped her arms around him. But there would be no murder, not tonight, because as soon as the sedan moved out into the middle of the street, it sped past, its white exhaust beautiful to behold in the glare of red tail-lights.
They were right in front of the Yichi Tavern, which was brightly lit, as if there were a celebration going on inside.
Standing beside the flower-bedecked front door were two serving girls less than three feet tall. They wore identical red uniforms, sported the same beehive hair style, had nearly identical faces, and wore the same smile. To the investigator, there was something artificial about the twin girls; they looked like mannequins made of plastic or plaster. The flowers between them were so lovely they, too, seemed artificial, their perfection lifeless.
They said:
‘Welcome to our establishment.’
The tea-colored glass door flew open, and there in the center of the room, on a column inlaid with squares of glass, he saw an ugly old man being propped up by a grimy woman. When he realized that it was a reflection of him and the lady trucker, he gave up all hope. He was about to turn and leave when a little boy in red hobbled up with amazing speed and said in a tinny voice:
‘Sir, Madam, are you here for dinner or just some tea? Dancing or karaoke?’
The little fellow’s head barely reached the investigator’s knee, so in order to converse, one had to throw his head back, while the other was forced to bend down low. Two heads - one large, the other small - were face to face, with the investigator occupying the commanding position, which helped to lighten his mood. He was struck by the spine-chilling look of evil in the boy’s face, despite the benign smile that all tavern service people are trained to effect. Evil of that magnitude is not easy to mask. Like ink seeping through cheap toilet paper.
The lady trucker answered:
‘We want to drink, and we want dinner. I’m a friend of your manager, Mr Yu Yichi.’
The little fellow bowed deeply:
‘I recognize you, Madam,’ he said. ‘We have a private room upstairs.’
As the little fellow led the way, the investigator was taken by how much the little creep resembled one of the demons in the classic novel Monkey. He even fantasized that the tail of a fox or a wolf was hidden in the crotch of his baggy pants. The polished marble floor made their muddy shoes look especially grimy, rein-stilling feelings of inferiority in the investigator. Out on the dance floor, beautifully decked-out women were dancing cheek-to-cheek with men whose faces glowed with health and happiness. A dwarf in a tuxedo and white bow tie, perched atop a high stool, was playing the piano.
They followed the little fellow up the winding staircase and into a private room, where two tiny serving girls ran up with menus. The lady trucker said:
‘Please ask Manager Yu to come up. Tell him Number Nine is here.’
While they waited for Yu Yichi, the lady trucker demonstrated a lack of decorum by taking off her slippers and wiping her mud-caked feet on the spongy carpet. Then she sneezed, loudly, from the effects of the stuffy air. When one of her sneezes wouldn’t come, she looked up at the light, squinted, and screwed up her mouth to help it along. The look disgusted the investigator, who was reminded of a donkey in heat when it sniffs the odor of a female donkey’s urine.
In one of the between-sneeze lulls, he asked:
‘Are you a basketball player?’
‘Ah-choo - what?’
‘Why Number Nine?’
‘I was his ninth mistress, ah-choo -’
II
Dear Mo Yan, Sir
Greetings!
I have passed your message to Mr Yu Yichi, who gleefully replied, ‘Now what do you say? I told you he’d write my biography, and that’s what he’s going to do.’ He also said that Yichi Tavern’s doors are always open to you. Not long ago, the municipal
government earmarked a large sum of money for repairs to Yichi Tavern. It’s open twenty-four hours a day, and is richly appointed, lavish and sumptuous. With a modicum of modesty, you might say it’s three-and-a-half star quality. Recently they entertained some Japanese, and the little runts went home happy as clams. Their group leader even wrote a piece for The Traveler magazine, in which Yichi Tavern scored very high. So when you come to Liquorland, you can stay at Yichi Tavern and enjoy untold pleasures without spending a cent.
I had a lot of fun with my chronicle-story ‘Yichi the Hero.’ In my last letter I said it was my gift to you, to which you can refer when you write his biography. Still, I’m keeping an open mind about what you said. My failing is that I have too rich an imagination, and sometimes I lose control and digress so much I lose sight of the principles of writing fiction. From now on, I’ll take your critique to heart, and work like the devil to write fiction worthy of the name.
Sir, I hope with all my heart that you will pack your things soon and come to Liquorland. Anyone who passes up the opportunity to visit Liquorland has wasted his time on this earth. In October well hold the first-ever Ape Liquor Festival. It will be a lavish, unprecedented spectacle, with something exciting planned every day for a month. It’s not something youll want to miss. Of course, the second annual festival will be held next year, but it won’t be nearly as stirring as the first, or as epochal My father-in-law has been up in White Ape Mountain, south of the city, living with the apes for three years just so he can learn the secrets of Ape Liquor, and has nearly gone native up there. But that’s the only way he’ll ever find out how to prepare the stuff, just as there’s only one way to write a good novel.
Some years back I came across a copy of that book you want, Strange Events in Liquorland, at my father-in-law’s place, but I haven’t seen it since. I phoned a friend at the Municipal Party Committee’s Propaganda Department, and asked him to find a copy for you, no matter what it takes. The little booklet is filled with vicious innuendo, which is all the proof I need that it was written by a modern contemporary. Whether that person is Yu Yichi is open to question. As you said, Yu is half genius, half demon. Here in Liquorland he is both vilified and praised, but because he’s a dwarf, few people are willing to engage him in a real ‘knives and spears’ struggle. That’s why nothing seems to bother him, and why he can get away with murder. He’s probably taken good and evil about as far as either of them will go. Now, I'm a man of meager talents and limited knowledge, not nearly up to grasping this individual’s inner world. There’s gold here, just waiting for you to come claim it.
It’s been a long time since those stories of mine were submitted to Citizens’ Literature, and I’d be grateful if you’d give the editors another nudge. At the same time, you’re free to invite them to our first annual Ape Liquor Festival. I’ll do my best to arrange for their room and board. I’m confident that the generous citizens of Liquorland will make them feel right at home.
Last, but not least, I’m sending you my latest story, ‘Cooking Lesson.’ Before writing it, Sir, I read virtually everything written by the popular ‘neo-realist’ novelists, absorbing the essence of their work and adapting it to my own style. I hope you’ll send this story to the editors of Citizens’ Literature, since I firmly believe that by continuing to submit my work to them, sooner or later I’ll touch the hearts of this pantheon of gods who spend their days in jade palaces gazing up at the sky to watch the Moon Goddess brush her hair.
Wishing you continued success with your writing, I am
Your disciple
Li Yidou
III
Cooking Lesson, by Li Yidou
Before she went crazy, my mother-in-law was a graceful beauty -even though she was in her middle years. There was a time when I felt she was younger, prettier, and sexier than her daughter, who was my wife. At the time, my wife worked on the special column desk of the Liquorland Daily News, where she published some exclusive interviews that drew strong reactions. She was dark and skinny, her hair was yellow and brittle, her face was a rusty brown, and her mouth reeked like stinking fish. By contrast, my mother-in-law was plump, her skin was white and soft, her hair was so black it seemed to ooze oil, and her mouth emitted the fragrance of barbecue the day long. The striking difference between my wife and my mother-in-law, when put side by side, naturally reminded one of the struggle between classes. My mother-in-law was like the well-kept concubine of a big landowner, whereas my wife was like the eldest daughter of an old, dirt-poor peasant. No wonder the hatred between them was so deep seated they didn’t speak to each other for three years. My wife would rather sleep out in the newspaper yard than go home. Every time I went to see my mother-in-law, my wife would become hysterical, cursing me with languge unfit to print, as if I were visiting a prostitute, not her own mother.
To tell the truth, in those days, I did indeed harbor vague fantasies over my mother-in-law’s beauty, but these evil thoughts, bound up by a thousand steel chains, had absolutely no chance to develop and grow. But then my wife’s curses were like a raging fire burning through those chains. So I confronted her:
If one day I sleep with your mother, you will bear full responsibility.’
‘What?’ she asked, enraged.
If you hadn’t called my attention to it, I’d have never considered the possibility of someone making love with his own mother-in-law,’ I said venomously. ‘The only real difference between your mother and me is our ages. We’re not related by blood. Besides, recently your own newspaper ran an interesting story about a young man in New York named Jack who divorced his wife and married his mother-in-law.’
My wife let out a scream, her eyes rolled back, and she fainted dead away. I hurriedly splashed a bucket of cool water over her and pricked the area between her nose and upper lip and the spot between her thumb and index finger with a rusty nail. Finally, after half an hour, she came to sluggishly. With staring eyes, she lay in the mud like a stiff, dry log. The shattered lights of despair in her eyes sent chills down my spine. Tears welled up in her eyes and flowed toward her ears. At this moment, I thought, the only thing to do was apologize with all my heart.
Calling her name affectionately, while holding back my disgust, I kissed her nauseatingly stinky mouth, at the same time conjuring up thoughts of her mother’s mouth, which always smelled like barbecue. No taste-treat could compare with taking a sip of brandy and kissing her mother’s mouth; it would be like washing down fine barbecue with good brandy. Strangely enough, age had not eroded the attraction of youth in that mouth, which was moist and red even without lipstick, and was filled with sweet mountain grape juice. Her daughter’s lips, on the other hand, weren’t even on a par with the skins of those grapes. In a drawn-out, thin voice, she said:
‘You can’t fool me. I know you love my mother, not me. You married me only because you fell in love with her. I’m just a stand-in. When you kiss me, you’re thinking about my mother’s lips. When you’re making love with me, you’re thinking about my mother’s body.’
Her sharp words were like a paring knife that was flaying my skin. In anger I said - I patted her face softly, pulled a long face - and said:
I’ll slap you if you keep spouting that nonsense. You’re letting your imagination run wild, you’re hallucinating. People would laugh if they saw you. And your mother would explode with anger if she knew what you were saying. I am a Doctor of Liquor Studies; a dignified, imposing man among men. No matter how shameless I might be, I’d never dream of doing something even an animal wouldn’t stoop to do.’
She said:
‘Yes, you’ve never done it, but you want to. Maybe you’ll never do it as long as you live, but you’ll be thinking about it the whole time. If you don’t want to do it during the day, you’ll want to do it at night. If you don’t want to do it when you’re awake, you’ll want to do it in your dreams. You won’t want to do it while you’re alive, but you’ll want to do it after you’re dead.’
I stood
up and said:
‘That’s an insult to me, to your mother, even to yourself.’
She said:
‘Don’t you dare get angry. Even if you had a hundred mouths, and even if those hundred mouths all spat out sweet words at the same time, you’d never succeed in deceiving me. Ai, What’s the point in going on? Just to be an obstacle, to be despised by others, to suffer? Why not just die? That would solve everything …
‘When I die you two can do whatever you want.’ With her stumpy little fists, which looked like donkey hooves, she pounded her own breasts. Yes, when she was lying on her back, all that showed on her concave chest were two nipples in the shape of black dates. On the other hand, my mother-in-law’s breasts were as full as those of a young woman, showing no signs of withering or sagging. Even when she wore a thick, double-knit sweater, they arched like doughty mountains. The reversal of figure between a mother-in-law and a wife had pushed the son-in-law to the edge of the abyss of evil. How could they blame me? Losing control of myself, I started to scream. I don’t blame you, I blame myself. She uncurled her fists and tore at her clothes with a pair of talons; the buttons popped off, exposing her bra. My god! Like a footless person wearing shoes, she was actually wearing a bra! The sight of her scrawny chest forced me to turn away. I said: