II
Dear Elder Brother Yidou
I received your latest letter and the story ‘Cooking Lesson.’
As for visiting Liquorland, I’ve already broached the subject with my superior. He’s not particularly keen on letting me go, since I’m in the military. Besides, I’ve just been promoted from captain to major (I lose two stars and gain a bar, and since I think three stars and a single bar would look much better, Fm not as pleased as I might be), and I should go down to company headquarters to eat and live and drill with the troops, so I can write stories or ‘reportage’ that reflect the lives of our soldiers in this new age. Going into the provinces to find material puts me under the jurisdiction of local administrators, which complicates matters, even for Liquorland, which has attracted so much attention in recent years because of everything that’s been going on there. I’m not ready to give up yet, and will keep trying. There are plenty of fine-sounding excuses I could come up with.
Liquorland’s first annual Ape Liquor Festival should be an interesting, successful event. While everybody’s drinking and having a good time, saturating the air with the bouquet of good liquor, I hope this pudgy body of mine can make an appearance among the tipsy, drink-besotted alcoholic troops.
I’ve reached an impasse in my novel. That slippery investigator from the Higher Procuratorate is fighting me every step of the way. I don’t know whether to kill him off or have him go mad. And if I choose to finish him off, I can’t decide whether he should shoot himself or die in a drunken stupor. I got him good and drunk in the previous chapter. And because I'm having trouble reconciling all these tormenting problems, I went ahead and got good and drunk myself. But instead of enjoying a good buzz, all I got was a vision of Hell It’s a lousy place, I tell you.
I spent a whole night reading ‘Cooking Lesson’ (I read it several times). I’m finding it harder and harder to comment upon your stories. But if forced to say something, I guess I’d more or less repeat what I’ve said before: that it lacks a consistency of style, that it’s too capricious, that the characters aren’t well developed, and that sort of thing. I think that instead of bringing up the same old thing again and again, I’m better off keeping my mouth shut. Nonetheless, I did as you asked and made a special trip to Citizens’ Literature. Zhou Bao and his co-editor were away from the office, so I left the story on their desk with a note. You’ll have to trust to luck on this one, but my gut tells me it’ll be hard to publish. You and I have never met, but since we’re like old friends by now, I’m giving it to you straight.
I’m convinced you can write a first-rate story that will be just right for Citizens’ Literature. It’s just a matter of time. It’ll happen sooner or later, so don’t be disappointed or downcast.
By my calculations, you’ve sent me a total of six stories to be forwarded for consideration; that includes ‘Yichi the Hero,’ which I have here. If I come to Liquorland, I probably should retrieve the manuscripts from Citizens’ Literature, so I can return them to you in person. Sending them by mail is risky and bothersome. Every time I go to the post office, I’m a bundle of nerves for days after confronting the stony faces of the ladies or gentlemen at the windows. It’s as if they’re waiting to unmask a spy or nab a bomber, or something. They make you feel as if the package you want to mail is filled with counter-revolutionary tracts.
Don’t worry if you can’t find a copy of Strange Events in Liquorland. Plenty of oddball books like that have appeared in recent years, most simply thrown together to make money. They’re pretty much worthless.
Wishing you
Good writing!
Mo Yan
III
Dear Mo Yan, Sir
Greetings!
Just knowing there’s a chance youll visit Liquorland has me jumping for joy. I look forward to your visit with the anticipation of ‘Waiting for the stars, waiting for the moon, I long to see the sun rise over the mountain.’ Some classmates of mine work for the Municipal Party Committee and for the government (not menial jobs, either, but official posts, some more important than others), so if you need a formal invitation from either organization, or something along that line, I can ask them to help out. Chinese in leadership positions are impressed by official seals, and I’ll bet it’s no different in the army. As for the stories, I must admit I’m disappointed and downcast. No, it’s more than that - I’ve got a bone to pick with Zhou Bao and Li Xiaobao. They’ve sat on those manuscripts, without even a letter of acknowledgment, which doesn’t say much about their attitude toward people. I know they’re busy, and that if they answered every letter from an amateur writer, they wouldn’t have time for anything else. I understand that perfectly well, but I’m angry just the same. If they won’t do it for the sake of the monk, then do it for the sake of the Buddha. After all, I’ve got you to recommend me. Sure, I know it’s not healthy, that low morale is harmful to the creative process, and I’m working hard to keep my morale problem in check. Being one of those who will ‘Never give up till he sees the Yellow River,’ and ‘Never calls himself a man till he reaches the Yangtze.’ I’m determined to keep writing, undaunted by setbacks.
Everyone at the college is up to his ears in preparations for the Ape Liquor Festival. The department has given me the job of using the sickness wine in our storeroom to make an alcohol base and distill a special liquor for sale during the Ape Liquor Festival If I’m successful, I can expect substantial monetary rewards. That’s very important to me. Of course I won’t abandon my stories for the sake of monetary rewards. No, I’ll keep writing, devoting ten percent of my energy to working on the sickness wine, and the other ninety percent to my fiction.
I’m sending you my latest, a story called ‘Swallows’ Nests.’ Your criticisms are welcome. I’ve summed up my feelings toward my earlier work: I believe that the reason my stories haven’t been published has to do with intervening in society. So I’ve corrected that failing in ‘Swallows’ Nests.’ It’s a story far removed from politics and from the capital. If this one doesn’t get published, then I’ve been ‘abandoned even by Heaven’!
Peace, as always,
Li Yidou
IV
Swallows’ Nests, by Li Yidou
Why does my mother-in-law never age or lose her beauty, and why does she still have arching breasts and a curvaceous derriere even though she’s over sixty? Why is her belly as flat as fine steel plate, without an ounce of fat? Why is her face as smooth as the mid-autumn moon, not a wrinkle anywhere, and why are her teeth so white and clean, neither broken nor loose? Why is her skin as smooth and silky as priceless jade? Why are her lips bright red, why does her kissable mouth always smell like barbecue? And why is she never sick, unvisited even by the symptoms of menopause?
As a son-in-law, maybe I’m out of line, but as a dyed-in-the-wool materialist, I say what needs to be said. And what needs to be said here is, although my mother-in-law is in her sixties, she could produce a dozen little brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law for me if the law permitted and she was willing. Why does she seldom fart, and on those rare occasions when she does, why, instead of smelling bad, do her farts actually smell like sugar-fried chestnuts? Generally speaking, a beautiful woman’s belly is filled with bad odors; in other words, beauty is only skin deep. How, then, can my mother-in-law be not only pretty on the outside, but fragrant and appetizing inside as well? All these question marks have snared me like fish hooks, turning me into a balloon fish that has blundered into choice fishing waters. They torment me as much as they probably bore you, dear readers. You’re probably saying, Can you believe the way this Li Yidou guy is auctioning off his own mother-in-law? My dear friends, I am not ‘auctioning off’ my mother-in-law, I am studying my mother-in-law. My research will greatly benefit the human race, and I shall not falter, even if it angers my mother-in-law.
At first I assumed it was primarily because she was born into a family of swallows’-nests gatherers that I inherited a mother-in-law like Oloroso sherry- a beautifu
l, uniform color, a rich, invigorating bouquet, full-bodied yet mellow, a sweet, silky flavor, a wine well suited for cellaring, and one that improves with age - rather than one like some rustic wine made of sweet-potatoes, with a murky color, a pungent, disagreeable aroma, flat and characterless, and a flavor not much different from insecticide.
In line with a current trendy narrative strategy, I may now say that our story is about to begin. But before entering the story proper, which belongs both to me and to you, please allow me three minutes to impart some specialized know-how you will need in order to avoid obstacles as you move along. I had planned to write just enough for you to read for a minute and a half, and leave the rest of the time for you to think. So let’s cut the crap about stuff like ‘As soon as the fox starts thinking, the tiger laughs,’ or ‘You can’t stop the sky from hailing or your mother from marrying,’ which, as everyone knows, was a comment by Mao when Lin Biao was trying to get away. Let them laugh. If a few hundred million of them laughed themselves to death, there’d be no need for birth control and my mother-in-law could use her still healthy organs to present me with some little brothers-in-law or sisters-in-law. Please, no more BS. OK, no more BS. I hear your angry shouts, and take note of your impatience, like the prairie liquor produced in Inner Mongolia. You’re still a lot like a bottle of that roiling 120-proof Harbin liquor made from sorghum chaff, the one that packs such a wallop.
Collocalia restita, Aves class, the rain-swallow family, is about 18cm long, has black or brown feathers with a blue sheen, and a gray-white belly. Its wings are long and pointed, its legs short and pink, with four front-facing talons. Gregarious, insectivorous, they build their nests in caves. The male secretes saliva from glands in the throat; once it has solidified, it is called ‘swallow’s nest.’
Collocalia restita are found in Thailand, the Philippines, Indonesia, Malaysia, and deserted islands off the coastal provinces of Guangdong and Fujian in southeast China. Early June is when they build nests to raise their young. But before that, the male and female mate following an animated courtship, after which the male perches on the cave’s stone wall, flicking its head back and forth as it secretes the saliva, like spring silkworms spinning silk. Threads of transparent, sticky saliva stick to the stone wall and solidify to form swallow’s nest. According to reports from observers, the male bird neither sleeps nor eats during this nest-building process, which demands of the bird that it flick its head tens of thousands of times. It is an arduous process, more difficult than shedding one’s heart’s blood. The first nest, formed completely with bird saliva, contains virtually no impurities, so its color is pure white and crystal clear and its quality so fine that it is commonly referred to as ‘white nest’ or ‘official nest.’ When this nest is removed, the bird will make a second one, but an insufficient amount of saliva forces it to mix in its own feathers. And, since the bird has to exert itself to produce more saliva, it is often streaked with blood. The end result, which is of lower quality, is called ‘feathered nest’ or ‘bloody nest.’ If the second nest is also removed, the bird will make yet a third one, but it has no culinary value, since it is mainly made of algae, with little saliva.
The first time I saw my mother-in-law, she was using a silver needle to remove impurities from a nest soaked in soda water: blood, feathers, and seaweed. Now we know that was a ‘bloody nest.’ Pouting like an angry platypus, my mother-in-law grumbled, Would you look at this, how can this be called a swallow’s nest? It’s nothing but a jumbled feather nest, a magpie’s nest, or a crow’s nest. Calm down, said my teacher, Yuan Shuangyu, as he took a sip of the blended liquor he himself had made - it had the elegant, noble bouquet of orchids. In this day and age, everything’s adulterated. Even the swallow has learned the trick. In my view, ten thousand years down the road, if humans are still around, swallows will be using dog shit to build their nests. The fermenting bird’s nest jiggled in her hands. She was looking at her husband, my future father-in-law, dumbstruck. I can’t imagine how something as repulsive as a dog’s brain could be more valuable than gold. Is it really as wondrous as you folks claim? He sized up the thing in her hand with a cold look. She said, You don’t know anything about anything, except liquor. Her face reddened slightly as she threw down the bird’s nest and took off to who-knows-where like a little whirlwind. It was my first visit to my wife’s house. She said her mother wanted to show off her culinary skills, and I was surprised and perplexed to see her fling the bird’s nest away like that and just walk off. But the old man said, Never mind, she’ll be back. She knows swallow’s nests as well as I know liquor. We’re both top in our fields.
As my father-in-law predicted, my mother-in-law returned before long. Having removed all the impurities from the nest, she made some bird’s nest soup for us. My father-in-law and my wife refused to drink any; he said it smelled like chicken shit, she said that, given the smell of blood, it was a bowl of heartless soup replete with extreme cruelty, emblematic of the fact that human beings are the source of all evil. My wife, who has a heart filled with abundant love, was applying for membership in the Worldwide Animal Protective League in Bonn. At the time my mother-in-law said, Little Li, don’t pay any attention to these fools. Their so-called love of humanity is a sham. Confucius said that a gentleman should stay away from the kitchen, but he never had a meal without meat sauce. One must be meticulous about fine food and choice meats. When he accepted students, he demanded ten packets of dried meat in lieu of tuition. If they don’t want any, that’s fine, let’s drink ours. My mother-in-law said, We Chinese have been eating swallows’ nests for a thousand years. It’s the most valuable tonic in the world. Don’t underestimate its nutritional value just because it’s ugly, for it can aid a child’s growth and development, maintain a woman’s youthful appearance, and prolong an old man’s life. Not long ago, a Professor Ho of Hong Kong’s Chinese University discovered an ingredient in swallows’ nests that prevents and cures AIDS. If she ate swallow’s nest, my mother-in-law said, pointing to my wife, she wouldn’t look like she does. To which my wife replied angrily, I’d rather look like this than eat that stuff. Turning to stare at me, she said, Tell me, is it good? Not wanting to offend my wife or my mother-in-law, I muttered, What can I say? How should I put it? Ha ha ha ha ha. My wife said, Aren’t you the slick one! My mother-in-law put some more into my bowl and looked at her daughter provocatively. My wife said, You’ll both have nightmares. Like what? my mother-in-law asked. My wife said, Flocks of swallows pecking at your brains. My mother-in-law said, Little Li, just drink your soup, and ignore this daffy girl. She ate a crab yesterday, so why isn’t she afraid that crabs will attack her nose with their pincers? She went on, When I was a little girl, I hated people who gathered swallows’ nests. But after moving to the city, I realized that my hatred was groundless. More and more people are eating them these days, because there are so many more rich people. But money is no guarantee that you can get your hands on top-quality ‘official nests.’ The best nests, the Siamese Tributes from Thailand, never get past Beijing. These blood nests are the best that people in small cities like Liquorland can hope for. And they sell for eight thousand a kilogram in People’s Currency, well out of reach for the average person. All this she said with appropriate gravity and at least a hint of braggadocio. Swallows’ nests may be wonderful, and all that, but, honestly, it doesn’t taste very good, and I’d much prefer something as satisfying as braised pork.
Unstintingly, my mother-in-law continued my education on swallows’ nests. After dealing with their nutritional value she moved on to preparation, which didn’t interest me much. What did interest me was the story she told of gathering swallows’ nests, the story of her family, her story.
My mother-in-law was born into a family with a long history of gathering swallows’ nests. When she was still in her mother’s womb, she heard the painful chirpings of the swallows and absorbed the nutrients of their nests. Her mother was a gluttonous woman whose appetite grew even more rapacious when she
was pregnant. She often ate swallows’ nests behind her husband’s back and was never discovered, because she was so skilled at stealing food. My mother-in-law said her mother was born with a set of teeth that were harder than steel, teeth that could chew through tough dry swallows’ nests. She never stole a whole nest - her husband always kept count - but would skillfully gnaw off an inch or so from the bottom of each nest where it had been scarred by knives during removal, leaving undetectable marks. My mother-in-law said her mother ate nothing but the best ‘official nests,’ for those that hadn’t gone through the refinement process were the most nutritious. My mother-in-law said that all prized food items lose a significant amount of their nutritional content in the cooking process. Progress, she said, always comes at a cost. Humans invented cooking to please their taste buds, and sacrificed their fierce, brave nature. The reason Eskimos who live near the North Pole have such strong bodies and the ability to endure extreme cold is unquestionably tied to the fact that they eat raw seal meat. If one day they master the complicated and delicate culinary techniques of the Chinese, they will no longer be able to live there. My mother-in-law’s mother ate a great amount of raw swallows’ nests, so my mother-in-law was a healthy newborn with dark black hair and pink skin, a voice far louder than any baby boy, and four teeth in her mouth. Her father, being a superstitious man who believed that a newborn baby with teeth will bring bad luck to the family, dumped my mother-in-law outside in the weeds. It was the middle of winter. Although it’s never terribly cold in Guangdong, the December nights can still be bone chilling. My mother-in-law slept through the night there in the weedy cold, and survived, which changed her father’s mind; he carried her back into the house.