The Republic of Wine (30 page)

‘You, you're like a little boy. Without me to look after you, you're at the mercy of everyone out there.'

Touched by her words, which sent warm currents swirling through his belly, the investigator welcomed the shower of happiness that settled over him like a spring rain, wetting not only his eyelids, but his eyes as well

The fine drizzle wove a soft, dense net around the buildings, the trees, everything. He felt her reach out and take hold of his arm, heard a crisp click, and watched a pink umbrella snap open in her other hand and rise above them, covering their heads. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he put his arm around her waist and took the umbrella from her, like any considerate husband. He wondered where the umbrella had come from, but his suspicions were quickly driven away by happiness.

The sky was so dark and misty, he couldn't tell if it was morning or afternoon. A watch would have helped, but his had been stolen by the little demon. The fine rain beat a light tattoo on the umbrella. It was a sweet but melancholy sound, like a fine French wine -sad, sentimental, anxious, worried. He wrapped his arm more tightly around her, until he could feel her cold, clammy skin under her satin pajamas; there was a gentle squirming in her stomach. Huddled closely together, they walked down the Brewer's College asphalt path between rows of Chinese ilex trees, with their glistening leaves, like the orange nails of pretty girls. Milky white steam carrying the fragrance of burned coal rose from the towering mounds of coal outside the mine. The heavy air pushed back the hideous black smoke trying to force its way out of smokestacks, turning it into black dragons that coiled and writhed in the lowering sky.

They walked together out of the Brewer's College compound and strolled arm-in-arm in the shade of the willow trees on the bank of a little river from which opaque steam and the fragrance of alcohol rose. From time to time, drooping willow branches scraped the nylon shell of the umbrella, sending large drops of rain skittering down across the ribs. The narrow path was covered by drenched golden-yellow leaves. Abruptly the interrogator lowered the umbrella and stared at the green willow branches.

‘How long have I been in Liquorland?' he asked.

The lady trucker replied:

‘You're asking me? Who do you expect me to ask?'

The investigator said:

‘This is no good. I must get to work.'

The corner of her mouth twitched. In a mocking tone, she said:

‘Without me, you'll never get to the bottom of anything.'

‘What's your name?'

‘What is it with you?' she said. ‘You've slept with me, and you don't even know my name?'

‘Sorry,' he said. ‘I asked, but you wouldn't tell me.'

‘You never asked me.'

‘I sure did.'

‘No you didn't.' She kicked him. ‘You never asked.'

‘OK, OK, I never asked. So I'm asking now.'

‘Forget it,' she said. ‘You're Hunter and I'm Mickey. We're partners. How's that?'

‘Good old partner,' he said, patting her on the waist, ‘where do we go now?'

‘What do you want to investigate first?'

‘A gang of rotten criminals, headed by your very own husband, who kill and eat infants.'

‘I'll take you to see someone who knows everything there is to know here in Liquorland.'

‘Who?'

‘I won't tell you unless you kiss me.'

He gave her a peck on the cheek.

‘I'll take you to see the proprietor of Yichi Tavern, Yu Yichi.'

Arm-in-arm they strolled out onto Donkey Avenue under a dark sky; the investigator's gut feeling told him that the sun had already settled behind the mountains - no, it was just then sinking behind them. Drawing upon his imagination, he pictured the fabulous scene: the sun, an enormous red wheel, forced earthward, radiates thousands of brilliant spokes to dress the rooftops, the trees, the faces of pedestrians, and the cobblestones of Donkey Avenue in the tragically valiant colors of a fallen hero. The despot of the Kingdom of Chu, Xiang Yu, stands on the bank of the Wu River, holds his spear in one hand and the reins of his mighty steed in the other as he gazes blankly at the angry waters rushing by. But at this moment there was no sun above Donkey Avenue. Immersed in the enveloping mist, the investigator was mentally engulfed by melancholy and sentimentalism. Suddenly he was struck by the absurdity of his trip to Liquorland - absolutely ridiculous, a ludicrous farce. Floating in the filthy water of a ditch running alongside Donkey Avenue were a rotten head of cabbage, half a clove of garlic, and a hairless donkey tail, silently clumped together and giving off muted rays of green, brown, and blue-gray under the dim streetlights. The investigator mused agonizingly that these three lifeless objects should be taken together as symbols for the flag of a kingdom in decay; even better, they could be carved on his own tombstone. As the sky pressed down, he saw the drizzling rain in the artificial yellow light, like floating threads of silk. The pink umbrella looked like a colorful toadstool. He felt hungry and cold, sensations that erupted into his consciousness after he'd seen the clump of garbage in the roadside ditch. At the same time, he was aware that the seat and cuffs of his trousers were soaked through, his shoes were caked with mud and filling up with water, producing a squishing noise as he walked, like a loach slurping through mud in a riverbed. On the heels of these strange sensations, his arm was frozen numb by the icy coldness of her body, except for his hand, with which he attempted to touch her belly, the source of the sorry rumblings. She was wearing only pink pajamas and a pair of fuzzy bedroom slippers. As she shuffled along, the appearance was not so much of walking as of being carried along by a pair of mangy cats. The long history of men and women, he thought to himself, was actually very much like the history of class struggle: sometimes the men are victorious, sometimes the women, but in the end the victor is also the vanquished. His relationship with this lady trucker, his thoughts continued, was sometimes a game of cat and mouse, while at other times it was a case of two wolves, one with short forelegs, the other with short hind legs, working together. They made love, but they also fought like mortal enemies, the weights of tenderness and ferocity striking a perfect balance. His little thing must be frozen solid, he thought; he also imagined that she was frozen solid. Reaching up to touch one of her breasts, he discovered that something that had once been nice and springy had turned into something as cold and hard as the metal weight on a hand scale, like an unripe banana or an apple stored in an icebox.

Cold?' His question was patent nonsense, but he forged ahead: ‘Why not go to your place. I can carry out my investigation after the weather warms up.'

Her teeth were chattering, but she said stiffly:

‘No!'

'I'm concerned that the cold might be too much for you.'

'I said no!'

Holding the hand of his close comrade in arms, Mickey, the crack detective Hunter walked silently down Donkey Avenue on a cold, drizzly autumn night… These were the thoughts running through the head of the investigator, like lyrics flashing across the screen in a karaoke bar. He was mighty, Herculean; she was stubborn and intractable, but could be affectionate and passionate when she wanted to be. Donkey Avenue was virtually deserted. Potholes filled with water like frosted glass gave off a dull glimmer. Just how long he'd been in Liquorland he couldn't say, but he'd spent all that time on the periphery of the city; the city itself was a mystery, one that finally beckoned to him on this late night. For the investigator, Donkey Avenue, with its long history, brought to mind the sacred conduit between the legs of the lady trucker. He quickly criticized himself for this objectionable association. He was like a pale adolescent suffering from compulsive behavior, incapable of restraining the shocking metaphor spinning in his head. Wonderful memories fluttered toward him. He was vaguely conscious of the likelihood that the lady trucker was destined to be his true lover, and that his body and hers were already linked by a heavy metal chain. He sensed that he had already foolishly developed feelings for her, which ran the gamut from hate to pity and to fear; this was love.

There were few lights on the street, now that most of the shops were closed. But there were plenty of lights in the compounds behind the shops. Loud, dull noises emerged from one compound after another, and the investigator wondered what the people were doing there. The lady trucker supplied the answer:

‘They butcher the donkeys at night.'

In what seemed like a split second, the roadway turned treacherous; the lady trucker slipped and fell hard on her backside. He fell alongside her when he tried to help her up. Together they broke the umbrella, snapped the ribs; she flung it into the ditch, as the drizzle turned into a hailstorm, the air around them suddenly cold and clammy. Chilled air bored through the spaces between his teeth. He pressed her to move on. Donkey Avenue, narrow and gloomy, had become a place of horror, a lair of criminal activity. Hand in hand with his lover, the investigator entered the tiger's lair. He saw the words with extraordinary clarity. A herd of glossy donkeys came down the street toward them, blocking their way at the very moment they spied the large signboard - Yichi Tavern - beneath a red light.

The donkeys were huddled closely together. A rough count revealed twenty-four or twenty-five of the animals, every one of them glossy black, down to the last hair. Drenched by the rain, their bodies glistened. Well fed, with handsome faces, they looked to be quite young. Either to combat the cold or because they detected something frightful in the air of Donkey Avenue, they huddled as closely together as possible. When those in the rear pushed their way deeper into the herd, they invariably forced out some of those in the middle. The sound of their donkey hides scraping together was like prickles jabbing the investigator's skin. The heads of some of the donkeys, he saw, were low; others held their heads high. But every one of them was twitching its floppy ears. They pressed forward, squeezing in and being squeezed out, their hoofs clip-clopping and sliding on the cobblestone road, raising a sound of applause. The herd was like a mountain in motion as it passed in front of them, followed, he saw, by a black youngster hopping along behind them. He noted a distinct resemblance between the black youngster and the scaly youngster who had stolen his things. But as he opened his mouth to shout, the youngster let loose with a piercing whistle so sharp it sliced through the heavy curtain of night and initiated an eruption of braying in the donkey herd. Experience told the investigator that when donkeys brayed they planted their feet and raised their head to focus their energy into the sound. These donkeys, to his surprise, ran as they brayed. A strange, heart-gripping phenomenon. Letting go of the lady trucker's hand, he burst forward, unafraid, determined to get his hands on this donkey-herding youngster; but all he managed to do was crash heavily to the ground, cracking the back of his head on the cobblestones. His ears swelled with a strange buzzing as two huge yellow orbs danced before his eyes.

By the time the investigator regained consciousness, the herd of donkeys and the youngster driving them along were nowhere to be seen. All that remained was the lonely, dreary strip of Donkey Avenue stretching ahead of him. The lady trucker gripped his hand tightly.

‘Did you hurt yourself?' she asked, obviously concerned.

Tm all right.'

1 don't think so. You took quite a fall.' she sobbed. ‘You must have a concussion or something.'

Her words brought the realization of a splitting headache. Everything looked like a photographic negative. The lady trucker's hair, her eyes, and her mouth were pale as quicksilver.

Tm afraid you're going to die …'

Tm not going to die,' he said. ‘Why are you trying to jinx me by talking about dying when my investigation is just getting started?'

‘Jinx you?' she fired back angrily. ‘I said I was afraid you'd die.'

His pounding headache drained any interest he had in keeping up the conversation, and he reached out to touch her face in a conciliatory gesture. Then he rested his arm on her shoulder; like a battlefield nurse, she helped him cross Donkey Avenue. Suddenly, the eyes of a sleek sedan snapped on; stealthily, the car pulled away from the curb, freezing the two of them in its headlights. There was murder in the air - he felt it. He pushed the lady trucker away, but she sprang back and wrapped her arms around him. But there would be no murder, not tonight, because as soon as the sedan moved out into the middle of the street, it sped past, its white exhaust beautiful to behold in the glare of red tail-lights.

They were right in front of the Yichi Tavern, which was brightly lit, as if there were a celebration going on inside.

Standing beside the flower-bedecked front door were two serving girls less than three feet tall. They wore identical red uniforms, sported the same beehive hair style, had nearly identical faces, and wore the same smile. To the investigator, there was something artificial about the twin girls; they looked like mannequins made of plastic or plaster. The flowers between them were so lovely they, too, seemed artificial, their perfection lifeless.

They said:

‘Welcome to our establishment.'

The tea-colored glass door flew open, and there in the center of the room, on a column inlaid with squares of glass, he saw an ugly old man being propped up by a grimy woman. When he realized that it was a reflection of him and the lady trucker, he gave up all hope. He was about to turn and leave when a little boy in red hobbled up with amazing speed and said in a tinny voice:

‘Sir, Madam, are you here for dinner or just some tea? Dancing or karaoke?'

The little fellow's head barely reached the investigator's knee, so in order to converse, one had to throw his head back, while the other was forced to bend down low. Two heads - one large, the other small - were face to face, with the investigator occupying the commanding position, which helped to lighten his mood. He was struck by the spine-chilling look of evil in the boy's face, despite the benign smile that all tavern service people are trained to effect. Evil of that magnitude is not easy to mask. Like ink seeping through cheap toilet paper.