Diamond Jin removed his suit coat, which was taken away by a red serving girl.
‘Comrade Ding, old fellow,’ he said, ‘would you say these thirty cups are filled with mineral water or colorless liquor?’
Ding Gou’er sniffed the air, but his sense of smell was anesthetized.
If you want to know the flavor of a pear, you must eat one. If you want to determine whether this is real liquor or not, you'll have to taste it for yourself. Please select any three of these cups.’
Now Ding Gou’er knew from the investigative materials he’d read that Diamond Jin was renowned for his drinking abilities, but he still had doubts. With the urging of the others, he picked out three of the cups and tasted their contents with the tip of his tongue. The liquid had a sweet, fermented taste. It was the real thing.
‘Comrade Ding, old fellow,’ Diamond Jin said, ‘those three are for you.’
It’s the custom,’ one of the others said. ‘You’ve already sampled them.’
Then they said, ‘We don’t miss it if you drink it, but we do if you spill it, for wastefulness is the greatest sin.’
Ding Gou’er had no choice but to drink down the three cups.
‘Thank you,’ Diamond Jin said, ‘thank you very much. Now it’s my turn.’
He picked up a cup of liquor and drank it down, noiselessly and without spilling a drop; his simple yet elegant style showed that he was no ordinary drinker. His pace quickened with each succeeding cup, but with no effect on accuracy or results - cadenced and rhythmic. He held out the last of the thirty cups and described an arc, like a bow moving across violin strings; the soft, elegant strains of a violin swirled in the air of the dining hall and flowed through Ding Gou’er’s veins. His caution began to crumble, as warm feelings toward Diamond Jin surfaced slowly, like water grasses budding atop a stream during a spring thaw. He watched Diamond Jin bring the last cup of liquor to his lips and saw a look of melancholy flash in the man’s bright black eyes; he was transformed into a good and generous man, one who emanated an aura of sentimentality, lyrical and beautiful. The strains of the violin were long and drawn-out, a light autumn breeze rustled fallen golden leaves, a small white blossom appeared in front of a grave marker; Ding Gou’er’s eyes grew moist, gazing at the cup as if it were a stream of water bubbling up past a rock and emptying into a deep green lake. There was love in his heart for this man.
The Party Secretary and Mine Director clapped and shouted their approval. Ding Gou’er, immersed in richly poetic emotions, kept still. A silence settled over the scene. The four red serving girls stood without moving, like canna indigos, each in a different pose, as if listening intently or deep in thought. A strange sound emerged from the air conditioner in the corner, shattering the stillness. The Party Secretary and Mine Director clamored for Deputy Head Jin to drain thirty more cups of liquor, but he shook his head.
‘No more for me,’ he said. ‘That would be wasteful. But since this is my first meeting with Comrade Ding, I must toast him three cups thrice.’
Ding Gou’er gazed in stupefaction at this man who could down thirty cups of liquor without showing it, and was so intoxicated by the man’s decorum, by his honeyed voice, and by the gentle glitter of his bronze or gold tooth inlay that he lost sight of the mathematical logic that three times three equals nine.
Nine cups were arrayed in front of Ding Gou’er, and nine more in front of Diamond Jin. Ding Gou’er was powerless to resist the man’s appeal; his consciousness and his body were moving in opposite directions. His consciousness screamed: You mustn’t drink! while his hand picked up the cup and emptied the contents into his mouth.
Nine cups of the strong liquor made the trip down to his stomach, and his tear ducts were working overtime. Why the tears were flowing he didn’t know, especially at a banqueting table. No one hit you, no one gave you an earful, so why are you crying? I’m not crying. Just because there are tears doesn’t mean I’m crying. More and more tears flowed, until his face looked like a puddle of rain-soaked lotus leaves.
‘Bring on the rice,’ he heard Diamond Jin say. ‘Let Comrade Ding eat something before he takes a rest.’
‘There’s still one more important dish!’
‘Oh,’ Diamond Jin said thoughtfully. ‘Then bring it in.’
A red serving girl removed the cactus plant in the middle of the table. Then two red serving girls entered carrying a large round gilded platter in which sat a golden, incredibly fragrant little boy.
II
Dear Mo Yan
I received your letter. Thanks for taking the time to write and for recommending my story to Citizens’ Literature. It’s not drunken arrogance - that would never do - when I say that my story opens new creative and artistic horizons and is filled with the spirit of the wine god. If Citizens’ Literature decides not to publish it, the editors must be blind.
I read the novel you recommended, Don’t Treat Me Like a Dog. It infuriated me, if you want the truth. Li Qi, the author, trampled all over the sublime, sacred endeavor we call literature, and if that’s tolerated, nothing is safe. If I ever meet him, I tell you, he’s in for the verbal fight of his life.
You were absolutely right when you said that if I applied myself diligently to the study of the craft I’d have a brilliant future in Liquorland, never having to worry about where my next meal or next suit of clothes came from; I’d have a house, status, money, and a bevy of beautiful women. But I am a young man with ideals, not content to steep in alcohol for the rest of my life. I want to be like the young Lu Xun, who gave up the study of medicine for a writing career; I want to give up alcohol for a writing career, to use literature to transform society, to transform the Chinese sense of nationhood. In pursuit of this lofty goal, I would gladly lose my head or spill my hot blood; and since I’m willing to do that, how could I concern myself with worldly possessions?
Mo Yan, Sir, my heart is set on literature, so firmly that ten mighty horses could not turn me from my goal. My mind is made up, so you needn’t try to change it. And if you do, I’m afraid that my feelings for you will turn to loathing. Literature belongs to the people. Why then should you be permitted to write, and not me? One of the you have to host a meal, go ahead. If a gift is required, you have my blessing. Ill take care of expenses (please remember to get receipts).
‘Meat Boy’ took a lot of effort to complete, so Citizens’ Literature is my first choice. I have my reasons: First, Citizens’ Literature is China’s ‘official’ literary magazine, in the forefront of new literary trends. Publishing a story there is better than publishing two in a provincial or municipal magazine. Second, I want to adopt the tactic of ‘pound away at one spot and forget the rest.’ That’s the only way to break into that mighty fortress, Citizens’ Literature1.
With respectful best wishes,
Your disciple
Li Yidou
PS: A friend of mine is off to Beijing on business, and I’ve asked him to deliver a case of twelve bottles of Liquorland’s finest, Overlapping Green Ants, which I helped develop in the lab. I hope you enjoy it.
Li Yidou
III
Dear Doctor of Liquor Studies
How are you?
Thanks for the Overlapping Green Ants. The color, bouquet, and taste are all first-rate, though I get the feeling there’s a lack of harmony somehow, sort of like a girl with lovely features who lacks that indefinable appeal to make her a true beauty. The liquor from my hometown is known for its high quality, too, though it doesn’t compare with what you make in Liquorland. According to my father, before Liberation [1949], in that little, underpopulated village of ours, there were two distilleries producing sorghum liquor, and both had recognizable names. One was Zongji, the other was Juyuan. They employed dozens of hired hands, not to mention mules and horses and all the noise that went along with it As for making liquor out of millet, well, just about every family in the village did it, and it was pretty much a case of wine-scented air above every house. One of my fa
ther’s uncles once gave me a detailed explanation of how the distilleries operated, including the distilling art, the technology, management, things like that. He’d worked at Zongji for over a decade. His descriptions produced a wealth of material for the chapter Sorghum Wine’ in my novel Red Sorghum. The pervasive smell of liquor in and around my hometown was also a constant inspiration.
Liquor interests me very much; I've thought long and hard about the relationship between it and culture. The chapter ‘Sorghum Wine’ in my novel gives a pretty good picture of my thoughts on the subject. I've long wanted to write a novel on liquor, and making the acquaintance of a true-to-life doctor of liquor studies like you is the great good fortune of three lifetimes. Ill probably be bombarding you with questions from now on, so please stop referring to me as ‘Sir.’
'I've read both your letter and the story ‘Meat Boy,’ and have many thoughts to share with you, in no particular order of importance. I’ll start with your letter: i. In my view, the human traits of arrogance and humility are contradictory and interdependent at the same time. It’s impossible to say which is good and which is bad. The truth is, people who appear to be arrogant are in fact humble, and people who seem to be humble, deep down are quite arrogant. There are people who are arrogant at certain times and under certain circumstances, but extremely humble at other times and under different circumstances. Absolute arrogance and life-long humility probably do not exist. Your ‘drunken arrogance’ is, to a large extent, a chemical reaction, and no fault can be found in that. So your feeling of self-satisfaction after you’ve been drinking is fine with me, and a couple of well-placed curses toward Citizens9 Literature don’t break any laws I’m aware of, especially since you didn’t include any slurs against their mothers or anything. All you said was. If they decide not to publish it, they must be blind.’
2. Mr Li Qi had reasons for writing his novel the way he did, and if you don’t like it, just toss it aside and forget it. If you run into him someday, give him a couple of bottles of Overlapping Green Ants, then make yourself scarce. Do not - repeat, do not - make the mistake of adopting the revolutionary-romantic tactic of giving him ‘the verbal fight of his life.’ This fellow is closely connected to the criminal underground. His meanness is matched only by his brutality, and he’ll stop at nothing. There’s a story going round about a Beijing literary critic who wrote an article critical of Li Qi’s literary offerings one night, after putting away a fine meal, and published it in some newspaper. Before three days had passed, this literary critic’s old lady was kidnapped by Li Qi’s men and taken to Thailand, where she was sold into prostitution. So take my advice and stay clear of this individual. There are plenty of people in this world God himself wouldn’t offend. Li Qi is one of them.
3. Since you say your mind is made up to devote yourself to literature, I’ll never again advise you to play the prodigal son, if for no other reason than to keep you from loathing me. If a person inadvertently provokes someone into loathing him, there’s nothing he can do. But if he does it intentionally, it’s like ‘rolling your eyes up to look in a mirror - a search for ugliness.’ I’m ugly enough already, so why would I roll up my eyes?
You saved your strongest language for those lousy bastards’ who want to ‘monopolize the literary establishment.’ I couldn’t be happier. If there are lousy bastards out there trying to monopolize the literary establishment, I’ll curse and yell right alongside you.
I was an instructor at the Baoding Officer Candidate School more than ten years ago, and several hundred students took my classes. I seem to recall two named Liu Yan. One was fair-skinned and always glowering; the other was dark-skinned, short and fat. Which one works with you?
Where having harsh words for Wang Meng is concerned, I really can’t recall, but I think I did read his essay urging young writers to engage in a little cold self-evaluation, you know, size up the situation. It’s possible I felt it was an attack on me, which likely made me very uncomfortable. But it’s unlikely I’d launch an attack on Wang Meng in a class in which I was promoting communism.
If you want to know the truth, I’ve never tossed away my beggar’s staff, and if I were to toss it away someday, I’d surely not go out and ‘beat up a beggar,’ would I? But there are no guarantees, since people can’t dictate the changes they’ll undergo throughout their lifetime.
Now for your story: 1. You call it grim realism.’ Can you tell me what that means? I can’t say for sure, although I have an idea. The contents of your story make me shudder, and all I can say is, I’m glad it’s fiction. There’d be big trouble if you’d written a journalistic essay with the same contents. 2. As for publishability, normally there are two standards that apply: ideological and artistic. I can never figure either of them out. And I mean just that. I’m not pussy-footing. Fortunately, Citizens’ Literature has a fine crop of editors, so let them decide.
I’ve already sent your story to the editorial department of Citizens’ Literature, and as far as hosting a dinner or sending gifts is concerned, I’m afraid I don’t know enough about either to even try. Whether that stuff works with big publications like Citizens’ Literature or not, that you’ll have to find out for yourself.
Wishing you
Good luck,
Mo Yan
IV
Meat Boy, by Li Yidou
A late autumn night; the moon was out, hanging in the western sky, the edges of its visible half blurred like a melting ice cube. Cold rays of light danced in the sleepy village of Liquor Scent. Someone’s rooster crowed from a chicken coop. The sound was muffled, as if emerging from a deep cellar.
Muted though the sound was, it still roused the wife of Jin Yuanbao from her sleep. She wrapped a quilt around her shoulders and sat up, feeling disoriented in the surrounding mist. Pale moonbeams slanted in through the window, stamping white designs on the black quilt. Her husband’s feet stuck out from under the covers to her right, icy cold. She covered them with a corner of the quilt. Little Treasure slept curled up on her left, his breathing deep and even. The muffled crows of roosters from even farther away came on the air. She shivered and climbed down off the bed, throwing a jacket over her shoulders as she walked into the yard, where she gazed up into the sky. Three stars hung in the west and the Seven Daughters rose in the east. It would soon be dawn.
The woman went inside and nudged her husband.
‘Time to get up.’ she said. ‘The Seven Daughters are up already.’
The man stopped snoring and smacked his lips a time or two before sitting up.
Is it dawn already?’ he asked, with a hint of confusion.
‘Just about,’ the woman said. ‘Get there a little earlier this time, so it won’t be a wasted trip like the last time.’
Slowly the man draped his lined coat over his shoulders, reached out for a tobacco pouch at the head of the bed, filled his pipe, and stuck it between his lips. Then he picked up a flint, a stone, and some tinder to make a fire. Angular sparks flew, one landing on the tinder, which caught fire when he blew on it. The deep red flame glowed in the dark room. He lit his pipe and took a couple of quick puffs. He was about to snuff out the tinder when his wife said:
‘Light the lantern.’
‘Are you sure you want to?’ he asked.
‘Go ahead and light it,’ she said. ‘A tiny bit of lantern oil can’t make us any poorer than we are now.’
He took a deep breath and blew again on the tinder in his hand, watching it grow brighter and brighter and finally turning into a real flame. The woman brought the lantern over and lit it, then hung it on the wall, where it cast its feeble light throughout the room. Husband and wife exchanged hurried glances, then looked away. One of the many children sleeping next to the man was talking in his sleep, loudly, like shouting slogans. One of the others reached out and rubbed the greasy wall. Yet another was weeping. The man tucked the one child’s arm back under the covers and nudged the weeping child.
‘What are you crying about?’ he sai
d impatiently. ‘Little family wrecker!’
The woman took a deep breath. ‘Shall I boil some water?’
‘Go ahead,’ the man replied. ‘A couple of gourdfuls will be enough.’
The woman thought for a moment, then said, ‘Maybe three this time. The cleaner he is, the better our chances.’
The man raised his pipe without replying, then peeked over at the corner of the bed, where the little brat was sleeping soundly.
The woman moved the lantern over to the door, so the light would shine into both rooms. After washing out the wok, she dumped in the three gourdfuls of water, put the lid on, and picked up a handful of straw, which she lit from the lantern and carefully inserted into the stove. The fire blazed as she fed it more straw, golden tongues of flame licking up to the surface and bringing color to the woman’s face. The man sat on a stool beside the bed and stared blankly at the woman, who seemed younger somehow.
The water gurgled to a boil and the woman added more kindling to the stove. The man knocked the bowl of his pipe against the bed, cleared his throat, and said hesitantly:
‘Big-Tooth Sun’s wife, over at East Village, is pregnant again, and she’s still got one at the tit.’
‘Everybody’s different,’ the woman said agreeably. ‘Who wouldn’t like to have a baby every year? And triplets each time?’
‘Big-Tooth’s got it made, the son of a bitch, just because his brother-in-law’s an inspector. He had poor-quality goods, but that didn’t stop him. When he’d have been lucky to reach second-grade, he came out of it with special grade.’
‘Becoming an official’s easy if you’ve got connections at court. That’s the way it’s always been,’ the woman said.
‘But Little Treasure is a cinch to be first-grade. No other family can match our investment,’ the man said. ‘You ate a hundred catties of beancakes, ten carp, four hundred catties of turnips …’