The Republic of Wine

  The investigator took off running, and as he passed by a large gateway, he spied a courtyard crowded with luxurious sedans, into which some men dressed to the nines were climbing. Sensing trouble, he turned down a narrow lane, where he came across a little girl who repaired shoes. She wore a blank expression, as if deep in thought. As he was standing there, a heavily made-up woman jumped out from under a colored plastic banner above a café door and blocked his way. Come inside for a bite to eat, sir, she said, and something to drink. Twenty percent off everything. She sidled up next to him, her face exuding passion the likes of which he seldom saw. I don’t want anything to eat, Ding Gou’er said, and nothing to drink. But the woman grabbed his arm to drag him inside. You don’t have to eat or drink anything, she said, just come in and take a load off your feet. With rising anger, he sent her sprawling in the dirt. Big Brother, she bawled, come out here, this hooligan hit me! With a fearful jump, Ding Gou’er tried to leap over the prostrate woman, but she wrapped her arms around his legs and wouldn’t let go. He fell on top of her in a heap. Scrambling to his feet, he kicked her savagely. She grabbed her stomach and rolled on the ground in agony. As he looked up, a hulking man with a liquor bottle in his left hand and a meat cleaver in his right ran out of the café. This was big trouble, so he spun around and took off flying, at least that’s how it felt to him, with the form and speed of a track star - no pounding heart, no gasping for breath. When he finally turned to look back, he saw that the man had given up the chase and was taking a piss alongside a concrete utility pole. Now exhaustion crept in; Ding Gou’er’s heart was racing and he was covered by cold, sticky sweat. His legs were too rubbery to take another step.

  The ill-fated investigator followed his nose to a three-wheeler, where its owner, a young man, was frying wheatcakes and an old woman, probably his mother, was standing alongside taking money from the customers. He was so hungry, he could feel his stomach reaching up to his throat for something to eat. But he was broke. A green military motorcycle roared up and screeched to a stop alongside the three-wheeler. Panic-stricken, the investigator was about to run for his life when he heard the sergeant in the sidecar say to the peddler: Hey, Boss, fry us up a couple of those wheatcakes. The investigator heaved a sigh of relief.

  The investigator studied the two soldiers: the taller of the two had big eyes and bushy brows, the shorter one had more delicate features. They stood around the stall shooting the breeze with the young fellow frying wheatcakes, a comment here, a response there, a bunch of bullshit passing back and forth. The young fellow brushed some hot sauce on top of the steaming wheatcakes. His customers flipped the cakes from one hand to the other as they ate, noisily, tastily, arduously, and in no time, they had wolfed down three apiece. The short soldier reached into his overcoat and took out a bottle of liquor, which he handed to his comrade. Want a drink? he asked. With a giggle, his tall comrade said, Might as well. Ding watched as the soldier stuck the neck of the comely little bottle into his mouth and took a hearty drink. Then he noisily sucked in a mouthful of air and smacked his lips. Good stuff, he said, terrific stuff. His short comrade took the bottle, tipped his head back, and drank. His eyes nearly closed in rapture. A moment later, he said, Goddamned good stuff, this is more than just liquor! The tall soldier went over to the motorcycle and took two thick scallions out of the sidecar. After peeling off the roughage, he handed one to his short comrade. Try this, he said, genuine Shandong scallion. fve got some peppers, the short one said, pulling some bright red peppers out of his pocket. Genuine Hunan chilis, he said proudly. Want some? You’re not a revolutionary if you don’t eat chilis, and if you’re not a revolutionary you must be a counter-revolutionary. True revolutionaries eat scallions, the tall one countered. Their hackles up, they advanced toward each other, one brandishing scallions in the air, the other waving a handful of chilis. The tall one poked his comrade in the head with his scallions, the short one crammed his chilis into his comrade’s mouth. The wheatcake peddler rushed up to keep things from getting out of hand. No fighting, comades. You’re both really revolutionary, as I see it. The soldiers backed off, huffing and puffing with anger, which had the wheatcake peddler in stitches. Ding Gou’er, appreciating the humor of it, started laughing too. The peddler’s mother walked up to him. What are you laughing at? You look like a troublemaker to me. No I’m not, Ding Gou’er was quick to reply, I’m really not. Who but a troublemaker would laugh like that? Like what? Ding Gou’er asked. With a flick of the wrist, the old woman produced a tiny round mirror, as if snatching it out of thin air, and handed it to Ding Gou’er. See for yourself, she said. He was shocked by what he saw. There between his eyes was a bloody bullet hole and, as he could see, a shiny yellow bullet moving around in the convolutions of his brain. With a gasp of alarm, he dropped the mirror as if it were a piece of hot steel; it hit the ground and spun on its edge, projecting a shiny dot of light on the faded red surface of a distant wall. A close examination of the words on the wall showed that it was a ridiculous slogan: Eliminate The Evils Of Alcohol And Sex. Abruptly understanding the implications of the slogan, he walked up to the wall and touched the painted words, which also burned his finger, like red-hot steel When he turned back, the two soldiers were gone, so were the wheatcake peddler and his mother; the motorcycle stood there looking sad and lonely. He walked up and found a bottle of liquor in the sidecar. Picking it up and giving it a shake, he watched a multitude of bubbles, like little pearls, rise to the top. The liquid was green, as if made from mung beans. The bouquet of fine liquor seeped up through and around the cork, which he removed; a sense of comfort washed over him as he inserted the cool neck of the bottle into his overheated mouth. The green contents slid down his throat like a lubricant, drawing whoops of joy from his stomach and intestines, like a schoolchild holding a bouquet of flowers. His spirits revived, as would seedlings watered by cool rain after a long drought, and before he knew it, he had drunk every drop. Wishing there were more, he took one last rueful look at the bottle before tossing it away, mounting the motorcycle, and gripping the handlebars; he stomped down on the starter and felt the motorcycle come restlessly to life, like a proud steed - snorting loudly, pawing the ground, and flicking its tail, ready to run. The second he released the brake, the motorcycle bumped its way up onto the road, then, with a triumphant roar, took off like a shot. It felt as if the motor between his knees knew precisely what he wanted, there was no need for him to drive; all he had to do was sit tight and hold on to keep from being thrown. The roar of the engine turned into the whinnying of a horse; he felt the warmth of his steed’s belly between his thighs and smelled the intoxicating odor of animal sweat. They left one gleaming vehicle after another in their wake, while those coming in their direction stared in wide-eyed terror before pulling over to the side of the road to get out of the way. An icebreaker cleaving its way through an arctic floe or a steamship knifing through the ocean. He was drunk from exhilaration. Several times he was sure they were going to crash, could, in fact, hear the other vehicles’ screams of terror, but somehow disaster was always headed off in the nick of time; with a margin of error no greater than the thickness of a needle, at the last moment, these objects parted like jelly and moved out of the way of him and his mighty steed. A river appeared up ahead; there was no bridge, naturally. Water roared down the deep ravine, sending icy whitecaps into the air. He pulled back on the handlebars, and the motorcycle rose skyward; suddenly feeling as light as a sheet of paper, he was twisted and crumpled by strong gusts of wind, while enormous glittery stars above him seemed so close he could reach out and touch them. Am I on my way to Heaven? he wondered. If I am, does that mean I’ve become an immortal? He sensed that something he’d always thought would be incredibly difficult to achieve was suddenly and easily within his grasp. He watched as a spinning wheel fell away from the motorcycle. Then another, and another. He shrieked in terror, the sound bouncing off treetops like the passing wind. He hit the ground, the wheel-less motorcycle lodged itself inele
gantly in the crotch of a tree, startling a bunch of squirrels that began gnawing at the machinery on which he had sat. Never imagining that squirrels’ teeth were that sharp, so strong they could chew through metal as if it were little more than rotten tree bark, he shook his legs to get the kinks out, and was glad to see he’d come through the crash-landing unscathed. He got to his feet and took a dazed look around. Winding round the trunks of towering trees surrounding him were lush tendrils of climbing vines on which large flowers like purple paper cut-outs bloomed. The vines were home to clusters of grape-like fruit, both purple and green, all plump and juicy, and so perfectly shaped as to have been carved from fine jade. The semi-transparent skins could barely contain the juices inside; you couldn’t ask for better wine grapes. Dimly he recalled that the lady trucker, or maybe some other nameless, pretty girl, had told him that a white-haired old professor was living up in the mountains, where he and the apes were brewing the finest liquor the world had ever seen. Its skin was smoother than that of a Hollywood starlet, its eyes more enchanting than those of an angel, its lips sexier than the painted lips of a ravishing queen. It was more than liquor, it was a creation of the gods, born of divine inspiration. His attention was caught by pillars of bright light amid the branches, where white mist curled, and apes leaped around: some bared their teeth and made hideous faces; others were grooming their companions, picking off lice and ticks. A big, husky male, whose bushy white eyebrows made him an elder, plucked a leaf from a branch, rolled it into a tube, put it up to his lips, and blew through it, producing a shrill whistle. All the apes quickly gathered round, forming three lines in comic imitation of humans, then stood more or less at attention, looking left and right to dress ranks. This is great, the investigator mused. Their military formation was a joke, what with their bowed legs, stooped posture, and heads that were thrust way out in front; but, after all, they were apes, and he couldn’t be too picky. It takes humans at least six months of rigorous training to meet honor-guard standards, which includes tying their legs together, stuffing boards down their pants, and sleeping without a pillow at night. No, he thought, I can’t be too picky. Their raised tails looked like clubs. Many of the fruit-laden branches were propped up with sticks to keep them from snapping off. The same held true for the apes. When people get old, they need canes. In Beijing there’s a Front Cane Lane, which must mean there’s also a Rear Cane Lane; now if lanes need canes, front and rear, what about apes? They have them in the rear only, and when they climb a tree, their bright red bottoms are out there for all to see. Following a pep talk by the old ape, they broke ranks and began climbing the vines, swinging back and forth as they picked the purple and green grapes, each as big as a ping-pong ball. As he licked his lips, bitter saliva gathered in his mouth. He reached out to pick some grapes, but they were just beyond his reach. Meanwhile, the apes, grapes piled on their heads, shinnied down the vines and noisily dumped the grapes into an open well. The bouquet of alcohol, lovely as a beautiful woman, rose from the well in what seemed to be clouds of sticky mist. Craning his neck to peer down into the well, he saw the golden orb of the moon reflected in what looked like a bronze mirror lining the bottom. The apes hung by their arms, a whole line of them, like you read about in stories. It was a beautiful sight, all those cute, cuddly apes, with their weird expressions. If only he had a camera, he was thinking, this picture would rock the world of photojournalism and earn him a big-time international award worth 100,000 US, which would convert into 600,000 of People’s Currency, enough for him to eat and drink in style for the rest of his life and still have plenty left over for his son to go to college and get married. The boy’s teeth had grown in already, two big incisors with a gap between them, which gave him the appearance of a dippy little girl All of a sudden, the apes began dropping into the well, splintering the moon’s watery reflection and sending splashes of gold flying, making rustling noises as they stuck to the sides of the well like dollops of syrup. Moss grew on the stone walls alongside a type of fungus known as supernatural grass, which is golden red. A red-crested heron swept down and carried off one of the supernatural grass stalks, then stuck out its legs, stretched its wings, and flew into the bright moon. No doubt taking it as a gift to Chang’e, the goddess of the moon, a celestial body covered by soft golden sand in which two tracks of human footprints, left there by American astronauts, will last for half a million years. Two astronauts, a pair of spectral wanderers. The sun’s reflection on the moon is too bright for human eyes to endure. He stood beneath the moon, his hair transformed into golden threads, clean-shaven but dressed in rags, his face battered and bruised; he carried an oaken bucket in one hand and a wooden ladle in the other. Scooping liquor from the bucket, he poured it slowly onto the ground, where it formed semi-transparent honey-colored ribbons of liquid that quickly turned gummy, like newly made rubber. It looked so tasty he could hardly wait to sample it. Are you that professor from Liquorland’s Brewer’s College, the one who’s supposed to be not quite right in the head? he wanted to ask. He said, I am China’s King Lear, standing beneath the captivating moon. King Lear stood in a violent rainstorm cursing Heaven and earth, while I stand in the moonlight singing the praises of mankind. Ancient fairy tales sooner or later become reality, liquor is mankind’s greatest discovery. Without it there would be no Bible, there would be no Egyptian pyramids, there would be no Great Wall of China, no music, no fortresses, no scaling ladders to storm others’ fortresses, no nuclear fission, no salmon in the Wusuli River, and no fish or bird migrations. A fetus in its mother’s womb can detect the smell of liquor; the scaly skin of an alligator makes first-rate liquor pouches. Martial-arts novels have advanced the brewer’s art. What was the source of Qu Yuan’s lament? There was no liquor for him to drink. Drug peddling and drug use are rampant in Yunnan. Why? Because the liquor there is inferior. Cao Cao forbade the production of liquor as a grain-conservation measure; a perfect example of a wise man doing something stupid. How can anyone prohibit liquor? Prohibiting the production and consumption of liquor is on a par with prohibiting sexual intercourse while urging an increase in population - it can’t be done. Avoiding the stuff is harder than breaking free of the pull of gravity; the day an apple falls up is the day liquor can be prohibited. The lunar craters look just like liquor cups of unsurpassed excellence, the Roman Coliseum could be converted into a giant fermentation cellar. Sour-Plum Wine, Bamboo-Leaf Green, Imperial-Scholar Red, Out-of-Bottle Redolence, Sunny Spring, Intoxicated Emperor, Almond Village, Lotus-Blossom White… these are all pretty good liquors. But compared to my Ape Liquor, it’s night and day. Someone once said you can enhance liquor with human piss. That’s an imaginative manifestation. In Japan, treating ailments with urine has gained considerable popularity; they say you can ward off a host of diseases by drinking a cup of your own urine every morning. The legendary physician Li Shizhen had a good point when he said that a child’s urine can lower internal fires. True connoisseurs of liquor do not need to snack when they drink, so Diamond Jin and his ilk show what inferior drinkers they are by cooking infants to go with their liquor…