The Republic of Wine

  Drawn by the enchanting expression on his son’s face, the investigator walked to the gate of the Martyrs’ Cemetery and saw the big dog with the tiger-like demeanor, which had once caused his hair to stand on end; it lay on its side under a dark green poplar tree, its legs thrust out stiffly, blood trickling from its mouth. Startled out of his wits, the investigator bent down and squeezed through the dog door. There wasn’t another soul on the ancient, pitted asphalt road, in the center of which a solitary concrete utility pole cast a lengthy shadow down the road. Blood-red rays of the setting sun fell on the investigator’s face as he stood up dejectedly. He stood there for a long while deep in thought, yet thinking about nothing tangible.

  The rumble of a train passing through the center of Liquorland gave him an idea. Walking down the road, he dimly sensed that he was heading in the direction of the railway station. But a river turned golden by the sun’s late-afternoon rays blocked his way. It was a gorgeous river scene, with colorful, creaky boats slipping across the surface into the sun. The men and women on one of the boats appeared to be lovers, since only lovers would have their arms around each other as they gazed straight ahead in silent infatuation. A burly woman in an old-style dress stood on the stern, straining and stretching as she worked the scull back and forth, shattering the golden glaze of the river and stirring up the stench of decaying bodies and the smell of heated distillery grains that permeated the water. In the eyes of the investigator, her labors seemed somehow artificial, as if she were acting on stage, not performing her task on a boat. Her boat glided past, followed by another, and another and another and another. All the passengers were love-struck young men and women, and all the women on the sterns performed their tasks with the same artificial air. The investigator felt sure that the passengers and the women sculling them along must have undergone some sort of rigorous training in a technical school. Unawares, he fell in behind the river-going contingent, following along on a road paved with octagonal cement blocks. On that late-autumn day, most of the leaves on the riverside willows had fallen to the ground; the few that clung to their branches seemed cut out of gold foil; beautiful and precious. As he followed the progress of the boats, Ding Gou’er felt more and more at peace, all mortal concerns disappearing from his consciousness. Some people walk toward the morning sun; he was walking toward the setting sun.

  At a bend in the river a broader expanse of water appeared in front of him. Lamps were already showing in the windows of ancient buildings. One after another, the boats tied up at the shore. The love-struck young men and women went ashore and were quickly swallowed up by the city’s bustling streets. The investigator had no sooner entered the city than he sensed that he was in an historical artifice. The pedestrians glided along like ghosts. Their aimless floating made him feel light as a feather; his feet didn’t touch the ground, it seemed.

  Eventually he followed people into a Temple of the Immortal Matron, where he saw a clutch of beautiful women on their knees kowtowing to the golden statue of a large-headed, fleshy-eared Matron. They were sitting on their heels. Infatuated, he admired their high-heeled shoes for the longest time, imagining the holes they poked in the ground. A little bald-pated monk hiding behind a column, slingshot in hand, was shooting the upraised hindquarters of the women with muddy spit wads. He never missed, to which the yelps emerging from beneath the Matron’s knee paid witness. And after each yelp, he clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and recited a Buddhist incantation. Wondering what the little monk was thinking, Ding Gou’er walked up and flicked the top of his head with his middle finger. That too produced a yelp - in a girl’s voice. Suddenly he was surrounded by dozens of people, accusing him of hooliganism and of taking liberties with the little nun, just like Ah-Q, the hero of Lu Xun’s story. A policeman grabbed him by the neck and dragged him out of the temple, where he gave him a shove and a kick in the rear. Ding Gou’er found himself on all fours on the steps of the temple, like a dog fighting over shit; his lip was split, his front tooth was loose, his mouth was filling up with brackish-tasting blood.

  Afterwards, as he was crossing an arched bridge, he saw sparkles on the surface of the water; they came from flickering lanterns. Large boats were sailing past, songs were being played and sung aboard the boats, and the whole scene seemed like a night procession of genies and fairies.

  After that he entered a tavern and spotted a dozen or more men in wide-brimmed hats sitting around a table feasting on liquor and fish. The fragrance of both assailed his nostrils and had him salivating in no time. Stopped from going up to beg something to eat and drink only by his sense of shame, his ravenous hunger soon got the upper hand; spotting an opening, he rushed the table like a hungry tiger pouncing on its prey. Then, grabbing a bottle of liquor in one hand and a whole fish in the other, he turned and ran out the door. A commotion erupted behind him.

  A while later, he hid in the shade of a wall to drink his liquor and eat his fish. Little but bones remained of the fish, so that’s what he chewed up and swallowed. He drank every last drop of liquor in the bottle.

  Later still, he wandered the area, gazing at the reflections of stars in the river and at the big, red moon, which looked like a golden-fleeced baby boy leaping out of the water. Sounds of aquatic delights were louder than ever; when he looked to see where they were coming from, he spotted a hulking pleasure-boat sailing slowly toward him from upriver. Backlit by a profusion of cabin lights, young women in old-style clothing were singing and dancing on the deck, pounding drums and blowing panpipes. In the cabin, a dozen or so neatly dressed men and women were sitting at a table playing finger-guessing games as they drank the fine liquor and feasted on the exotic foods arrayed in front of them. They were gobbling up the food - men and women alike. Different times, different styles. A woman with blood-red lips was gorging herself like an old sow, not coming up for air. Just watching her eat made Ding Gou’er dizzy. As the pleasure-boat neared, he could make out the passengers’ features and smell their fetid breath. He saw familiar faces. There was Diamond Jin, the lady trucker, Yu Yichi, Section Chief Wang, Party Secretary Li… even someone who looked remarkably like Ding himself. All his good friends and kinfolk, his lovers and his enemies, appeared to be participants at this cannibalistic feast. Why a cannibalistic feast? Because the piece de resistance, placed in the middle of a large gilded platter, all oily and redolent, was a plump little boy with a captivating smile.

  ‘Come here, my dear Ding Gou’er, come over here…’ He detected a mischievous yet undeniably fetching undertone to the lady trucker’s voice as she called out tenderly, and he saw her wave enticingly with a lily-white hand. Behind her, the stalwart Diamond Jin was bending down whispering to the diminutive Yu Yichi, the condescending smile on his lips answered by Yu Yichi’s knowing sneer.

  I protest –‘ Ding Gou’er screamed as, with a final burst of energy, he dashed toward the pleasure-boat. But before he got there, he stumbled into an open-air privy filled with a soupy, fermenting goop of food and drink regurgitated by Liquorland residents, plus the drink and food excreted from the other end, atop which floated such imaginably filthy refuse as bloated, used condoms. It was fertile ground for all sorts of disease-carrying bacteria and micro-organisms, a paradise for flies, Heaven on earth for maggots. Feeling that this was not the place where he should wind up, the investigator announced loudly, just before his mouth slid beneath the warm, vile porridge, ‘I protest, I pro -’ The pitiless muck sealed his mouth as the irresistible force of gravity drew him under. Within seconds, the sacred panoply of ideals, justice, respect, honor, and love accompanied a long-suffering special investigator to the very bottom of the privy…

  Chapter Ten

  I

  Dear Elder Brother Yidou

  I’ve asked someone to buy me a ticket on the September 27th train to Liquorland. According to the timetable, I arrive at 2:30 on the morning of the 29th. I know it’s a terrible hour, but it’s the only train I can take, and I’ll just have to trouble you to meet me
then.

  I’ve read ‘Ape Liquor,’ and have many thoughts about it. We can talk when I get there.

  Best wishes,

  Mo Yan

  II

  As he lay in the relative comfort of a hard-sleeper cot - relative to a hard-seater, that is - the puffy, balding, beady-eyed, twisted-mouthed, middle-aged writer Mo Yan wasn’t sleepy at all. The overhead lights went out as the train carried him into the night, leaving only the dim yellow glare of the floor lights to see by. I know there are many similarities between me and this Mo Yan, but many contradictions as well. I’m a hermit crab, and Mo Yan is the shell I’m occupying. Mo Yan is the raingear that protects me from storms, a dog hide to ward off the chilled winds, a mask I wear to seduce girls from good families. There are times when I feel that this Mo Yan is a heavy burden, but I can’t seem to cast it off, just as a hermit crab cannot rid itself of its shell. I can be free of it in the darkness, at least for a while. I see it softly filling up the narrow middle berth, its large head tossing and turning on the tiny pillow; long years as a writer have formed bone spurs on its vertebrae, turning the neck stiff and cold, sore and tingly, until just moving it is a real chore. This Mo Yan disgusts me, that’s the truth. At this moment its brain is aswarm with bizarre events: apes distilling liquor and dragging down the moon; the investigator wrestling with a dwarf; golden-threaded swallows making nests from saliva; the dwarf dancing on the naked belly of a beautiful woman; a doctor of liquor studies fornicating with his own mother-in-law; a female reporter taking pictures of a braised infant; royalties; trips abroad; cursing people out … What pleasure can he get from the jumble of thoughts filling his mind, I wonder?

  ‘Liquorland, next stop, Liquorland,’ a skinny little conductress announces as she sways down the corridor, slapping her ticket pouch as she passes. ‘Next stop, Liquorland. Reclaim your tickets, please.’

  Quickly Mo Yan and I merge into one. He sits up in his middle berth, which means that I sit up as well. My belly feels bloated, my neck stiff; I’m having trouble breathing and I have a terrible taste in my mouth. This Mo Yan is so filthy he’s hard to swallow. I watch him take a metal tag out of a gray jacket he’s worn for years and reclaim his ticket, then he jumps clumsily out of the middle berth and searches out his smelly shoes with smelly feet that resemble a pair of hermit crabs looking for new shells. He coughs twice, then wraps his filthy water mug in the filthy rag he uses to wash his face and feet, stuffs it into a gray travel bag and sits spellbound for a few minutes, staring at the hair of the pharmaceutical saleswoman sleeping noisily on the lower berth across from him. Finally he gets up and staggers in the direction of the door.

  When I step down off the train, my attention is caught by the contrast of white raindrops dancing in the murky yellow lamplight. The station platform is deserted except for two shuffling men in blue overcoats. Conductors huddle silently in the car doors like chickens in a henhouse that have somehow made it through another long night. The train is still, seemingly abandoned. The roar of water from behind the train indicates that the tanks are being refilled. Up front, the headlight blazes. A uniformed man beside the train pounds the wheels with a mallet, like a woodpecker going through the motions. The cars, all soaking wet, are panting, and the tracks, reaching out to distant stations in the bright headlight, are also soaking wet; by all appearances, it has been raining for quite a while, though I wasn’t aware of it on the train. Back when I was leaving Beijing my bus passed through Tiananmen Square, where bright sunlight brought the golden chrysanthemums and fiery red flowers to life. Sun Yat-sen, who stood in the square, and Mao Zedong, who hangs from the wall of the Forbidden City, were exchanging silent messages past the five-star flag hanging from a brand-new flagpole. I read in the paper that the pole is over forty meters high, and while it doesn’t appear to be that high, it surely must be, since no one would dare cut corners in erecting this sacred column. I’ve cooled my heels in Beijing for nearly ten years, wrapped in the skin of the writer Mo Yan, so I have a good feel for the place. Geologically, it’s in good shape, with no faults running beneath it. Now here I am, in Liquorland, and it’s raining. When going from one place to another, you sure can’t count on the weather. I never considered the possibility that the Liquorland train station would be so peaceful, so very peaceful, amid a gentle rainfall, the bright, warm and golden lamplight, shiny railroad tracks, chilled but refreshingly clean night air, and a darkened tunnel running beneath the tracks. The little train station has the feel of a detective novel, and I like it… When Ding Gou’er was walking down the passage beneath the tracks, the agreeable odor of the braised infant boy was still in his nostrils. Dark red, shiny grease ran down the face of the tiny, golden-bodied fellow, a smile of impenetrable mystery hanging in the corners of his mouth … I watch as the train roars to life and chugs out of the station. Not until the red caboose lantern disappears around the bend, not until the rumble comes from far into the dark night, like a disembodied illusion, do I pick up my bag and start walking on the bumpy floor of the underground tunnel, which is dimly lit by a few low-wattage bulbs. Since my bag has wheels, I set it down to drag behind me. But the noise from the wheels throws my heart and mind into an uproar, so I pick it up and carry it over my back. My footsteps are greatly magnified in the tunnel, making me feel empty inside … Ding Gou’er’s experiences in Liquorland had to have been closely linked to this underground tunnel There ought to be a secret marketplace for buying and selling meat children here somewhere; there ought to be a bunch of drunks, hookers, beggars, and half-crazed dogs hanging around, for this is where he was given some important clues … Unique descriptions of scene play a significant role in the success of fiction, and any first-rate novelist knows enough to keep changing the scenes in which his characters carry out the action, since that not only conceals the novelist’s shortcomings, but also heightens the reader’s enthusiasm in the reading process. Caught up in his thoughts, Mo Yan turns a corner and spots an old man curled up in a corner, a tattered blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Alongside him lies a green liquor bottle. It comforts me to know that in Liquorland even the beggars have access to drink. Given all the short stories the Doctor of Liquor Studies, Li Yidou, has written, each revolving around liquor, why hasn’t he written one about beggars? An alcoholic beggar wants neither money nor food; all he asks for is alcohol, and once he’s drunk, he can dance and sing, living the free and easy life of an immortal. Li Yidou, this curious fellow, I wonder what he’s like. I have to admit that the stories he sent me have transformed my own novel. I’d planned for Ding Gou’er to be a special agent with almost supernatural abilities, a man of brilliance and extraordinary talent; what he wound up being was a good-for-nothing drunk. I cannot continue the story of Ding Gou’er, and that is why I’ve come to Liquorland: for inspiration, to devise a better ending for my special investigator than drowning him in an open-air privy.

  Mo Yan spotted Li Yidou, Doctor of Liquor Studies and amateur short-story writer, as he approached the exit, a conclusion he reached instinctively when he saw a tall, skinny man with a triangular face. He headed straight for the slightly menacing eyes.

  The man stuck his long, bony hand over the railing and said, If I’m not mistaken, you must be Mo Yan.’

  Mo Yan took the icy-cold hand in his and said, ‘Sorry to put you to all this trouble, Li Yidou!’

  The duty ticket-taker pressed Mo Yan to show her his ticket. ‘Show his what?’ Li Yidou all but shouted. ‘Do you know who this is? He’s Mo Yan, the man who wrote the movie Red Sorghum, that’s who. He’s an honored guest of our Municipal Party Committee and government, that’s who!’

  Momentarily taken aback, she stared wordlessly at Mo Yan, which he found embarrassing. He quickly produced his ticket, but Li Yidou dragged him past the railing. ‘Don’t mind her,’ he said.

  Li Yidou took Mo Yan’s bag and threw it over his own shoulder. He must have been at least five-feet-ten, a head taller than Mo Yan, who took some comfort in noting that Li Yidou
was at least fifty pounds lighter than he.

  ‘Sir,’ Li Yidou said spiritedly, ‘as soon as I received your letter, I passed the good news to Municipal Party Committee Secretary Hu, who said, “Welcome, welcome, a hearty welcome.” I was here once already - last night - with a car.’

  ‘But I made it clear in my letter that I’d arrive in the early morning of the 29th.’

  ‘I was afraid that if you arrived ahead of schedule,’ Li Yidou replied, ‘you’d be all alone in a strange city. I preferred making an extra trip to having you wait for me all that time.’

  ‘I really have put you to a lot of trouble,’ Mo Yan said with a smile.

  ‘At first the municipal authorities wanted Deputy Head Diamond Jin to meet you, but I said I’m Mo Yan’s close friend, and since he and I don’t have to stand on ceremony, I’m the best person for the job.’