The Republic of Wine (23 page)

Don't be shy, brothers and sisters. Loosen your belts, let your bellies hang out, eat till you burst. There'll be no toasting, since we're all family. Just drink to your hearts' content. And don't worry about the bill. Today you can bleed me. ‘Donkey ribs in wine, for your dining pleasure.' ‘Donkey tongue in brine, for your dining pleasure.' ‘Braised donkey tendons, for your dining pleasure.' ‘Pear and lotus root donkey throat, for your dining pleasure.' ‘Golden whip donkey tail, for your dining pleasure.' ‘Steamed and fried donkey intestines, for your dining pleasure.' ‘Stewed donkey hooves with sea cucumbers, for your dining pleasure.'

‘Five-spice donkey liver, for your dining pleasure.' … and so on …

A medley of donkey dishes flows onto our table, filling stomachs that are now stretched taut as drums, and drawing rumbling belches out of the diners. Our faces are covered with a film of donkey grease, through which weariness shows, like donkeys worn out from turning a millstone. Comrades, you must be exhausted by now. I stop an attendant and ask, ‘How many more dishes are there?'

‘Twenty or so, I guess,' she replies. 'I'm not exactly sure. I just bring out what they give me.'

I point to the friends around the table. ‘They're nearly full. Can't we skip some of the dishes?'

With a show of reluctance, she says, ‘You ordered a whole donkey, and you've barely made a dent in it.'

‘But we're stuffed,' I plead. ‘Dear young lady, won't you please ask the kitchen to just bring out the best and forget the rest.'

The lady says, ‘You disappoint me, but, OK, I'll talk to them.'

She is successful. Out comes the final dish.

‘Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together, for your dining pleasure. Enjoy!'

She wants us to enjoy the sight of the dish before beginning our dining pleasure.

One of our group, a sourpuss of a woman - and not very smart, either - asks the attendant, ‘Which part of the donkey is this made of?'

Without hesitation, she answers, ‘It's the donkey's sex organ.'

The woman blushes, but, unable to control her curiosity, asks, ‘We only ordered one donkey, so how could there be…' She puckers up her lips to point at the ‘dragon' and ‘phoenix' on the plate.

‘The chef felt terrible that you missed over a dozen dishes,' the waitress replies, ‘so he added a set of female donkey's genitalia to create this dish.'

Please dig in, ladies and gentlemen, dear friends, don't be shy. These are the donkeys' jewels, as delicious as they are ugly. If you don't eat, it's your loss. If you do, it's still your loss, sooner or later, if you know what I mean. Come on, dig in, give it a try, eat eat eat Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together.

As everyone wavers, their chopsticks raised, my old friend Yu Yichi saunters into the dining room. I jump to my feet to introduce him to you:

This is the famous Mr Yu Yichi, manager of Yichi Tavern, standing member of the Chinese People's Political Consultative Conference, standing member of the Board of Governors of the Metropolitan Entrepreneurs Association, provincial model worker, and candidate for national model worker. He is hosting today's banquet.'

All smiles, he walks around the table shaking hands and passing out perfumed business cards cramped with printing in Chinese and some foreign language. I can see that everyone warms to him at once.

He glances at the Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together and says, ‘So, you've even been given this dish. Now you can truly say you've eaten donkey.'

Expressions of gratitude emerge from around the table, my brothers and sisters, and every one of you has a smarmy grin on your face.

‘Don't thank me, thank him,' he points to me, ‘Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together is not an easy dish to prepare. It's considered immoral. Last year, several renowned people made it known they wanted to try it, but were unsuccessful because they weren't up to par. So I can say, you have true gourmet luck'

He downs three glasses of Black Pearl (a famous Liquorland drink that relieves indigestion) with each of us. A strong liquor, Black Pearl is sort of like a meat grinder, which produces rumbling noises in our stomachs.

‘Don't worry about the rumblings down there. Doctor of Liquor Studies is here.' Yu Yichi points to me. ‘Go on, have some, try it. Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together loses its flavor when it's cold.' He picks up the dragon head with his chopsticks and places it in front of the lady who has expressed such an interest in donkey sex organs. Showing no modesty, she gobbles up the head in big mouthfuls, while everyone else attacks the dish with their chopsticks, finishing it off in no time, like a strong wind sweeping clouds from the sky.

He says, with a sinister smile, ‘You won't be able to sleep tonight.'

Do you all understand what he meant by that?

My friends, ladies and gentlemen, this story has more or less reached its end, but you're such good friends that I want to chew the fat with you a bit longer.

That night, when the donkey banquet was finally over, we stumbled out of Yichi Tavern and into the late night air. Stars filled the sky and night dew covered the ground; a bluish, moist light was reflected off Donkey Avenue. Some drunken cats were fighting on people's roofs, causing the tiles to sing out. The cold dew was like a frost, sending leaves floating to the ground from trees on both sides of the street. Some of my friends, who were half drunk, started to sing revolutionary songs. Broken phrases like donkey lips and horses' mouths, southern tunes and northern melodies, not much gentler on the ears than the cats' screeches from the rooftops. I won't even dignify the rest of their ugly behavior with a comment. While all this was going on, we heard crisp hoofbeats at the eastern end of the street. Suddenly, a little black donkey with wine-glass-shaped hooves and lamplike eyes shot down the street and appeared in front us, like a black arrow. I was stunned, and so, apparently, were the others, since the singers closed their mouths, and so did those who were about to puke. Everyone's drunken eyes stared at the little black donkey, watching it gallop from the eastern end of the street to the western end, and then from the western end to the eastern end. After three complete trips, it stood quietly in the middle of Donkey Avenue, its body like shimmering ebony, but no sound escaped, as if it were a statue. Our bodies stiffened, we stood frozen to the spot, waiting to see if reality could verify legend. And sure enough, following some loud tile clattering, a black shadow flew down and landed on the back of the donkey. It was indeed a youngster whose bare skin shimmered like scales; he was carrying a bundle on his back and was biting down on a willow-leaf dagger that emitted a cold light.

Dear Mo Yan

Greetings!

I don't know how to express what I feel at this moment. My dear, most respected mentor, your letter was like a bottle of vintage liquor, like a thunderclap in spring, like a shot of morphine, like a gigantic opium bubble, like a pretty young thing … that brought spring to my life and cheered me body and soul I am not a hypocritically modest gentleman; I know and dare to announce publicly that I am bursting with talent that has been hidden away like the Imperial Concubine of the Tang, like a steed that has been forced to pull carts in a village. Now, at last, Li Shimin, the Tang Emperor, and Bo-le, the true horse breeder, have shown up hand in hand! My talent has been recognized by you and Mr Zhou Bao, one of China's nine renowned editors. I feel the frenzied joy of the poet Du Fu when he packed his books to return to his war-torn home. How to celebrate? Nothing except liquor would do, so I took out a bottle of genuine Du Kang from the liquor cabinet, uncorked it with my teeth, held the opening with my lips while tipping my head back, and finished the bottle without coming up for air. Happily, drunkenly, as if floating on air, I picked up the pen to write my dear mentor, in pursuit of a grand calligraphic style, inspiration rushing like the tides, fanning out like a peacock's tail, like a hundred flowers blooming.

Sir, you took time out of your busy schedule to give my humble work ‘Donkey Avenue' a serious reading, for which I am moved to tears of gratitude, until my face is wet with tears and snivel. Now, please allow me to respond to each of the issues you raised in your letter, i. The little red demon who raised hell in the country of meat children in my story is a real person in Liquorland. Some of the rotten officials here are so utterly corrupt that they violate the world's ultimate taboo by eating baby boys. This story was revealed to me by my mother-in-law, former associate professor at the Culinary Academy, and Director of the Culinary Research Center. She said there's a village in the Liquorland suburbs that specializes in producing meaty little boys, a place where the villagers don't give a second thought to the whole business. They sell their meaty little boys as if they were disposing of fattened little pigs, never troubled by gut-wrenching pain. I don't think my mother-in-law would lie about something like that. Since she'd gain neither fame nor profit by lying to me, why lie? No, she absolutely would never lie about it. I know this has severe consequences, and I could get into trouble if I were to write about it. But you have taught me that a writer should always bravely face life, risking death and mutilation in order to dethrone an emperor. So I went ahead with no concern for my own safety. Of course, I also know that literary works ‘should originate from life yet rise above it,' and should create ‘typical characters in typical circumstances,' so I made the image of the little red demon more colorful by adding some oil here, a little vinegar there, and a bit of gourmet powder here and there. The scaly boy was a little hero who, moving through Liquorland like a shadow, performed many good deeds, eliminating evil and eradicating the bad, stealing from the rich to give to the poor. He has come to the aid of all the rascals on Donkey Avenue, who treat him like a god. I haven't yet had a chance to behold his majestic countenance, but that doesn't prove he doesn't exist. Many people on Donkey Avenue have seen him, and everyone in Liquorland knows about him. Anything he does at night and where he did it is known all over town the next day. Whenever his name is mentioned, cadres grind their teeth, common citizens are beside themselves with joy, and the head of Public Security's legs cramp up. Sir, the existence of this young hero is a natural consequence of social development; his gallant behavior has actually achieved the goal of calming the people and venting their anger, which has led to an increase in social stability and solidarity. His existence helps redress imperfect laws that cater to those in power. Why do you think the people haven't risen up against Liquorland's corrupt cadres? The scaly boy, that's why. Everyone has been waiting to see him punish those corrupt officials. Being punished by him means being punished by justice, which means being punished by the people. The scaly boy has become the embodiment of justice, the enforcer of the people's will, the pressure valve of law and order. If not for him, Liquorland would be mired in chaos. He may not be able to stop the officials' corrupt behavior, but he can reduce the people's anger. In point of fact, he has been an invaluable aid to Liquorland's municipal government, but, ironically, some muddle-headed officials have called for his arrest.

Are the scaly boy and the little red demon the same person? Please forgive my presumptuousness, but I think your question is terribly naive. What does it matter if they're the same person or not? If they are, so what? And if they aren't, so what? The fundamental principle of literature is to create something out of nothing and to make up stories. My creation has not been altogether fashioned out of nothing, and is not entirely made up. To be honest, the scaly boy and the little red demon are identical and disparate at the same time. Sometimes one divides into two and sometimes two combine into one. Long separation ends in unification, long unification leads to separation. Heaven operates this way, so why not humans?

In your letter, you also claimed that the scaly boy's skills were portrayed with such grand exaggeration that they lost their veracity, a criticism I find hard to accept. In this day and age, when scientific breakthroughs occur daily, and humans can plant beans on the moon, what's the big deal about flying on eaves and walking on walls? Twenty years ago, our village showed a movie called
The White-Haired Girl Ballet
, in which the heroine walked on the tips of her toes. We took that as a challenge: If you can walk on your toes, why can't we? Practice! If we can't master the skill in one day, we'll take two; if two days won't do, then three; if three days still aren't enough, then how about four days or five? Why can't we learn it in six days or seven? Eight days later, except for the really dumb Dog Two Li, a whole bunch of us kids had learned to walk on our toes. From then on, our mothers were forced to add thicker padding to the tips of our shoes. Now, if a group of no-talents kids like us could accomplish that, how about a genius like the scaly boy, who, additionally, bore a deep-seated hatred toward these people. He practiced his skills for vengeance; half the effort produced double the results.

You prattled on and on about kung-fu novels, but I haven't read a single one, and have no idea who Jin Yong or Gu Long are. I work only on serious literature in the style of Gorki and Lu Xun; strictly following the one and only true method of ‘combining revolutionary realism with revolutionary romanticism,' I have not taken a single wayward step, not once. I would never do anything that required me to sacrifice principle in order to please a few readers. On the other hand, since even a serious novelist like yourself has fallen under the spell of kung-fu novels, your disciple - that's me - will definitely read a few; maybe I'll benefit from them. As for Ms Ladybug, I think I came across her name in a public toilet somewhere. Apparently, she likes to write scenes with a ‘bloody flesh pillar growing out of the ground,' with strong sexual overtones. I haven't read anything by her. When I find time, I'll get one or two of her stories for bathroom reading. Ivan Michurin ran a brothel in God's botanical garden. Would Big Sister Hua, who wears the writer's laurel on her head, dare to open a brothel in the fiction garden of socialism?