Ding Gou’er whipped out his ID card. I’m here on important business,’ he said truculently, ‘so don’t try to stop me.’
Crewcut hesitated a moment, then said, ‘Let’s go.’
Ding followed Crewcut out of the Security Section office and down a corridor lined with doors, beside which wooden name-plaques hung.
‘The offices of the Party Secretary and Mine Director aren’t in this building, I take it,’ he said.
‘Just come with me,’ Crewcut said. ‘You drank three glasses for me, so you don’t have to worry that I’ll lead you astray. If you hadn’t drunk those three glasses, I’d have taken you to the Party Secretary’s office and simply handed you over to his appointments secretary.’
As they walked out of the building, he saw his face reflected dimly in the glass door and was shocked by the haggard, unfamiliar expression staring back at him. The hinges creaked when the door was opened, then sprang back and bumped him so hard on his backside that he stumbled forward. Crewcut reached out to steady him. The sunbeams were dizzyingly bright. His legs went wobbly, his hemorrhoids throbbed, his ears buzzed.
‘Am I drunk?’ he asked Crewcut.
‘You’re not drunk, Boss,’ Crewcut replied. ‘How could a superior individual like you be drunk? People around here who get drunk are the dregs of society, illiterates, uncouth people. Highbrow folks, those of the “spring snow,” cannot get drunk. You’re a highbrow, therefore, you cannot be drunk.’
This impeccable logic completely won over Ding Gou’er, who tagged along behind the man as they passed through a clearing strewn with wooden logs. A bit bewildering, given the range of sizes. The thick logs were a couple of meters in diameter, the thin ones no more than two inches. Pine, birch, three kinds of oak, and some he couldn’t name. Possessed of scant botanical knowledge, he was happy to have recognized those few. The gouged, scarred logs reeked of alcohol. Weeds that were already beginning to wither had sprouted between and among the logs. A white moth fluttered lazily in the air. Black swallows soared overhead, looking slightly tipsy. He tried to wrap his arms around an old oak log, but it was too thick. When he thumped the dark red growth rings with his fist, liquid oozed out over his hand. He sighed.
4What a magnificent tree this was at one time!’ he remarked.
‘Last year a self-employed winemaker offered three thousand for it, but we wouldn’t sell,’ Crewcut volunteered.
‘What did he want it for?’
‘Wine casks,’ Crewcut answered. ‘You must use oak for high quality wine.’
‘You should have sold it to him. It isn’t worth anywhere near three thousand.’
‘We do not approve of self-employment. We’d let it rot before we’d support an entrepreneurial economy.’
While Ding Gou’er was secretly applauding the Mount Luo Coal Mine’s keen awareness of the public ownership system, a couple of dogs were chasing each other around the logs, slipping and sliding as if slightly mad, or drunk. The larger one looked a little like the gate-house dog, but not too much. They scampered around one stack of logs, then another, as if trying to enter a primeval forest. Fresh mushrooms grew in profusion in the plentiful shade of the huge fallen oak, layers of oak leaves and peeled bark exuded the captivating smell of fermented acorn sap. On one of the logs, a mottled old giant, grew hundreds of fruits shaped like little babies: pink in color, facial features all in the right places, fair, gently wrinkled skin. And all of them boys, surprisingly, with darling little peckers all red and about the size of peanuts. Ding Gou’er shook his head to clear away the cobwebs; mysterious, spooky, devilish shadows flickered inside his head and spread outward. He reproached himself for wasting so much time at a place where he had no business spending any time at all. But then he had second thoughts. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I started this case, he was thinking, and I’ve already found a path through the maze - that’s damned efficient. His patience restored, he fell in behind the crewcut young man. Let’s see where he plans to take me.
Passing by a stack of birchwood logs, he saw a forest of sunflowers. All those blossoms gazing up at the sun formed a patch of gold resting atop a dark-green, downy base. As he breathed in the unique, sweet, and intoxicating aroma of birch, his heart was filled with scenes of autumn hills. The snow-white birch bark clung to life, still moist, still fresh. Where the bark had split open, even fresher, even more tender flesh peeked through, as if to prove that the log was still growing. A lavender cricket crouched atop the birch bark, daring someone to come catch it. Unable to contain his excitement, the crewcut young man announced:
‘See that row of red-tiled buildings there in the sunflower forest? That’s where you’ll find our Party Secretary and Mine Director.’
There looked to be about a dozen buildings with red roof tiles nestled amid the contrasting greens and golds in the forest of thick-stemmed, broad-leafed sunflowers, which were nourished by fertile, marshy soil. Under the bright rays of sunlight, the yellow was extraordinarily brilliant. And as Ding Gou’er took in the exquisite scenery, a giddy feeling bordering on intoxication spread throughout his body - gentle, sluggish, heavy. He shook off the giddiness, but by then Crewcut had vanished into thin air. Ding jumped up onto a stack of birchwood logs for a better vantage point, and had the immediate sensation of riding the waves - for the birchwood stack was a ship sailing on a restless ocean. Off in the distance, the mountain of waste rock still smoldered, although the smoke had given up much of the moisture it had carried at dawn. Undulating black men swarmed over the exposed mounds of coal, beneath which vehicles jostled for position. Human shouts and animal noises were so feeble that he thought something had gone wrong with his hearing; he was cut off from the material world by a transparent barrier. The apricot-colored rigs stretched their long limbs into the opening of the coal pit, their movements excruciatingly slow yet unerringly precise. Suddenly dizzy, he bent over and lay face-down on one of the birchwood logs. It was still being tossed by the waves. Crewcut had indeed vanished into thin air. Ding slid down off the birchwood log and walked toward the sunflower forest.
He could not help thinking about his recent behavior. A special investigator, highly regarded by the country’s senior leaders, crouching on a pile of birchwood logs like a puppy too scared of the water to appreciate its surroundings; this behavior had already become a factor in his investigation of a case that would become an international scandal if the accusations proved to be true. So spectacular that if it were made into a movie, people would scoff. He supposed he was a bit drunk, but that didn’t alter the fact that Crewcut was a sneak, and not altogether normal, no, decidedly not normal. The investigator’s imagination began to soar, wings and feathers carried on gusts of wind. The crewcut young man is probably a member of the gang of people who eat infants, and was already planning his escape while he was leading me through the maze of logs. The path he chose was Ml of traps and dangers. But he had underestimated the intelligence of Ding Gou’er.
Ding clasped his briefcase to his chest, for in it, heavy and steely hard, was a Chinese six-nine repeater. Pistol in hand, he was bold, he was brave. Reluctantly he took a last look at the birchwood and oak logs, his colorful comrade logs. The cross-sectioned patterns turned them into targets, and as he fantasized hitting a bull’s-eye, his legs carried him to the edge of the sunflower forest.
That a quiet, secluded place like this could exist in the midst of seething coal mines reminded him of the power of human endeavor. The sunflowers turned their smiling faces to greet him. He saw hypocrisy and treachery in those emerald green and pale yellow smiles. He heard cold laughter, very soft, as the wind set the broad leaves dancing and rustling. Reaching into his briefcase to feel his cold, hard companion, he strode purposefully toward the red buildings, head held high. With his eyes fixed on the red buildings, he felt a palpable threat from the surrounding sunflowers. It was in their coldness and the white burrs.
Ding Gou’er opened the door and walked in. It had been quite a journ
ey, filled with a range of experiences, but finally he was in the presence of the Party Secretary and the Mine Director. The two dignitaries were about fifty, and had round, puffy faces like wheels of baked bread; their skin was ruddy, about the color of thousand-year eggs; and each had a bit of a general’s paunch. They wore gray tunics with razor-sharp seams. Their smiles were kindly, magnanimous, like most men of high rank. And they could have been twins. Grasping Ding Gou’er’s hand, they shook it with gusto. They were practiced hand-shakers: not too loose, not too tight; not too soft, not too hard. Ding Gou’er felt a warm current surge through his body with each handshake, as if his hands had closed around nice pulpy yams straight from the oven. His briefcase fell to the floor. A gunshot tore from within.
Pow-!
The briefcase was smoking; a brick in the wall crumbled. Ding Gou’er’s shock manifested itself in hemorrhoidal spasms. He actually saw the bullet shatter a glass mosaic painting on the wall; the theme was Natha Raises Havoc at Sea. The artist had fashioned the heavenly Natha as a plump, tender little baby boy, and the investigator’s accidental firing had mangled Natha’s little pecker.
“A crack shot if I ever saw one!’
‘The bird that sticks out its head gets shot!’
Ding Gou’er was mortified. Scooping up his briefcase, he took out the pistol, and flipped on the safety.
‘I could have sworn the safety was on,’ he said.
‘Even a thoroughbred stumbles sometimes.’
‘Guns go off all the time.’
The magnanimity and consoling words from the Mine Director and Party Secretary only increased his embarrassment; the high spirits with which he had stormed through the door vanished like misty clouds. Cringing and bowing low, he fumbled with his ID card and letter of introduction.
‘You must be Comrade Ding Gou’er!’
‘We’re delighted you’ve come to assess our work!’
Too embarrassed to ask how they knew he was coming. Ding Gou’er merely rubbed his nose.
‘Comrade Director,’ he said, ‘and Comrade Party Secretary, I've come on the orders of a certain high-ranking comrade to investigate reports that infants are being braised and eaten at your esteemed mine. This case has far-reaching implications, and strictest secrecy must be maintained.’
The Mine Director and Party Secretary exchanged a long look - ten seconds at least - before clapping their hands and laughing uproariously.
Ding Gou’er frowned and said reproachfully:
‘I must ask you to take this seriously. Liquorland’s Deputy Head of Propaganda, Diamond Jin, who is a prime suspect, comes from your esteemed mine.’
One of them, either the Mine Director or the Party Secretary, said:
‘That’s right, Deputy Head Jin was a teacher at the elementary school attached to the mine. But he’s a talented and principled comrade, one in a million.’
‘I’d like you to fill me in.’
‘We can talk while we enjoy some food and drink.’
Before he could open his mouth to protest, he was bundled into the dining room.
II
My Dear, Esteemed Mo Yan
Greetings!
I am a Ph.D. candidate in liquor studies at the Brewer’s College here in Liquorland. My name is Li, Li Yidou -One-Pint Li - but of course that’s only a nom de plume. You’ll forgive me for not revealing my real name. You are a world famous writer (that’s not flattery), so you’ll have no trouble figuring out why I chose that particular pseudonym. My body may be in Liquorland, but my heart is in literature, splashing away in the sea of literature. Which is why my academic adviser, who is my wife’s father, the husband of my mother-in-law, thus my father-in-law - in elitist terms, lord of the castle, more commonly, ‘the man’ - Yuan Shuangyu, Professor Yuan, is always criticizing me for ignoring my true career, and why he has even tried to goad his daughter into divorcing me. But I shall not be deterred. For the sake of literature, I would willingly climb a mountain of knives or rush into a sea of flames. ‘For thou I shalt waste away, happy that the clothes hang loose on my body.’ My retort to him is always the same: What exactly is ignoring one’s true career? Tolstoy was a military man, Gorki a baker and a dishwasher, Guo Moruo a medical student, and Wang Meng the Deputy Party Secretary of the Beijing branch of the Youth League in China’s new democracy. They all changed careers and became writers, didn’t they? When my father-in-law tried to counter my arguments, I just glared at him, like the legendary eccentric, Ruan Ji, except that I lacked the power of my illustrious predecessor and was unable to mask completely the white-hot anger in my black eyes. Lu Xun couldn’t do it either, right? But you know all this already, so why am I trying to impress you? This is like reciting the Three Character Classic at the door of Confucius, or engaging in swordplay in front of the warrior Guan Yu, or boasting about drinking to Diamond Jin … but I stray from my purpose in writing.
My dear, esteemed Mo Yan, I have read with great enjoyment everything you’ve written, and I bow low in respect for you. One of my souls leaves the mortal world, one flies straight to Nirvana. Your work is on a par with Guo Moruo’s ‘Phoenix Nirvana’ and Gorki’s My Universities. What I admire most about you is your spirit, like that of the ‘Wine God,’ who drinks as much as he wants without getting drunk. I read an essay in which you wrote, ‘liquor is literature’ and ‘people who are strangers to liquor are incapable of talking about literature.’ Those refreshing words filled my head with the clarified butter of great wisdom, removed all obstacles to understanding. Truly it was a case of: ‘Open the gates of the throat and pour down a bucket of Maotall. There cannot be a hundred people in this world who are more knowledgeable about liquor than L You, of course, count among them. The history of liquor and the distillation of liquor, the classification of liquor, the chemistry of liquor, and the physical properties of liquor, I know them all like the back of my hand. Which is why I am so captivated by literature, and why I believe I am capable of producing good literature. Your judgment would be my liquor of assurance, serving the same purpose as that glass of liquor the martyred hero Li Yuhe took from Aunt Li just before he was arrested. So, Mo Yan, Sir, now you must know why I am writing this letter. Please accept the prostration of your disciple!
Recently I saw the film adaptation of your novel Red Sorghum, which you also worked on, and was so excited I could hardly sleep that night. So I drank, one glass after another. I was so happy for you. Sir, and so proud. Mo Yan, you are the pride of Liquorland! I shall appeal to people from all walks of life to pluck you from Northeast Gaomi township and settle you here in Liquorland. Wait for news from me.
I mustn’t carry on too long in this first letter. I include with it a short story for your criticism. I wrote it like a man possessed the night I saw your movie Red Sorghum, after tossing and turning, and finally drinking the night away. If you think it has promise, I would be grateful if you would recommend it for publication somewhere. I salute you with enormous respect, and wish you
Continued success,
Your disciple
Li Yidou
PS: Please let me know if you are short of liquor. I will attend to it right away.
III
Dear Doctor of Liquor Studies
Greetings!
Your letter and the story ‘Alcohol’ both arrived safely.
I am a haphazardly educated person, which is why I hold college students in such high regard. And a Ph.D. candidate, well, that is the apex.
During times like this, it is fair to say that literature is not the choice of the wise, and those of us for whom it is too late can but sigh at a lack of talent and skills that leaves us only with literature. A writer by the name of Li Qi once wrote a novel entitled Don’t Treat Me Like a Dog, in which he describes a gang of local punks who are deprived of opportunities to cheat or mug or steal or rob, so one of them says: Let’s go become goddamned writers! Yd rather not go into detail regarding the implications. If you’re interested, you can find a copy of the novel for
yourself.
You are a doctoral candidate in liquor studies. I envy you more than is probably good for me. If I were a doctor of liquor studies, I doubt that I’d waste my time writing novels. In China, which reeks of liquor, can there be any endeavor with greater promise or a brighter future than the study of liquor, any field that bestows more abundant benefits? In the past, it was said that In books there are castles of gold, in books there are casks of grain, in books there are beautiful women.’ But the almanacs of old had their shortcomings, and the word liquor’ would have worked better than ‘books.’ Take a look at Diamond Jin, that is, Deputy Head Jin, the one with the oceanic capacity for liquor, a man who has earned the undying respect of everyone in Liquorland. Where will you find a writer whose name can be uttered in the same breath as his? And so, little brother (Fm unworthy of being called ‘sir’), I urge you to listen to your father-in-law and avoid taking the wrong path.
In your letter you said that one of my essays inspired you to become a writer. That is a big mistake. I wrote the asinine words liquor is literature’ and ‘people who are strangers to liquor are incapable of talking about literature’ when I was good and drunk, and you must not take them to heart. If you do, this insignificant life of mine will be all but over.
I have read your manuscript carefully. I have no grounding in literary theory and hardly any ability to appreciate art. Any song and dance from me would be pointless. But I have mailed it off to the editors at Citizens’ Literature, where the finest contemporary editors have gathered. If you are a true ‘thousand-li steed,’ I am confident there’s a master groom out there somewhere for you. I have plenty of liquor, but thanks for asking.
Wishing you
Health and happiness,
Mo Yan
IV
Alcohol, by Li Yidou
Dear friends, dear students, when I learned that I had been engaged as a visiting professor at the Brewer’s College, this supreme honor was like a warm spring breeze in midwinter sweeping past my loyal, red-blooded heart, my green lungs and intestines, as well as my purple liver, the seat of acquiescence and accommodation. I can stand behind this sacred podium, made of pine and cypress and decorated with colorful plastic flowers, to lecture to you primarily because of its special qualities. You all know that when alcohol enters the body, most of it is broken down in the liver… Diamond Jin stood at the podium in the General Education Lecture Hall of Liquorland’s Brewer’s College solemnly discharging his duties. He had chosen a broad and far-reaching topic for this, his first lecture - Liquor and Society. In the tradition of brilliant, high-ranking leaders, who steer clear of specifics when they speak in public - like God looking down from on high, invoking times ancient and modern, calling forth heaven and earth, a sweeping passage through time and space - he proved his worth as visiting professor by not allowing the details of the topic to monopolize his oration. He permitted himself to soar through the sky like a heavenly steed, yet from time to time knew he must come down to earth. The rhetoric flowed from his mouth, changing course at will, yet every sentence was anchored in his topic, directly or indirectly.