The Republic of Wine (31 page)

The lady trucker answered:

‘We want to drink, and we want dinner. I'm a friend of your manager, Mr Yu Yichi.'

The little fellow bowed deeply:

‘I recognize you, Madam,' he said. ‘We have a private room upstairs.'

As the little fellow led the way, the investigator was taken by how much the little creep resembled one of the demons in the classic novel
Monkey
. He even fantasized that the tail of a fox or a wolf was hidden in the crotch of his baggy pants. The polished marble floor made their muddy shoes look especially grimy, rein-stilling feelings of inferiority in the investigator. Out on the dance floor, beautifully decked-out women were dancing cheek-to-cheek with men whose faces glowed with health and happiness. A dwarf in a tuxedo and white bow tie, perched atop a high stool, was playing the piano.

They followed the little fellow up the winding staircase and into a private room, where two tiny serving girls ran up with menus. The lady trucker said:

‘Please ask Manager Yu to come up. Tell him Number Nine is here.'

While they waited for Yu Yichi, the lady trucker demonstrated a lack of decorum by taking off her slippers and wiping her mud-caked feet on the spongy carpet. Then she sneezed, loudly, from the effects of the stuffy air. When one of her sneezes wouldn't come, she looked up at the light, squinted, and screwed up her mouth to help it along. The look disgusted the investigator, who was reminded of a donkey in heat when it sniffs the odor of a female donkey's urine.

In one of the between-sneeze lulls, he asked:

‘Are you a basketball player?'

‘Ah-choo - what?'

‘Why Number Nine?'

‘I was his ninth mistress, ah-choo -'

Dear Mo Yan, Sir

Greetings!

I have passed your message to Mr Yu Yichi, who gleefully replied, ‘Now what do you say? I told you he'd write my biography, and that's what he's going to do.' He also said that Yichi Tavern's doors are always open to you. Not long ago, the municipal government earmarked a large sum of money for repairs to Yichi Tavern. It's open twenty-four hours a day, and is richly appointed, lavish and sumptuous. With a modicum of modesty, you might say it's three-and-a-half star quality. Recently they entertained some Japanese, and the little runts went home happy as clams. Their group leader even wrote a piece for
The Traveler
magazine, in which Yichi Tavern scored very high. So when you come to Liquorland, you can stay at Yichi Tavern and enjoy untold pleasures without spending a cent.

I had a lot of fun with my chronicle-story ‘Yichi the Hero.' In my last letter I said it was my gift to you, to which you can refer when you write his biography. Still, I'm keeping an open mind about what you said. My failing is that I have too rich an imagination, and sometimes I lose control and digress so much I lose sight of the principles of writing fiction. From now on, I'll take your critique to heart, and work like the devil to write fiction worthy of the name.

Sir, I hope with all my heart that you will pack your things soon and come to Liquorland. Anyone who passes up the opportunity to visit Liquorland has wasted his time on this earth. In October well hold the first-ever Ape Liquor Festival. It will be a lavish, unprecedented spectacle, with something exciting planned every day for a month. It's not something youll want to miss. Of course, the second annual festival will be held next year, but it won't be nearly as stirring as the first, or as epochal My father-in-law has been up in White Ape Mountain, south of the city, living with the apes for three years just so he can learn the secrets of Ape Liquor, and has nearly gone native up there. But that's the only way he'll ever find out how to prepare the stuff, just as there's only one way to write a good novel.

Some years back I came across a copy of that book you want,
Strange Events in Liquorland
, at my father-in-law's place, but I haven't seen it since. I phoned a friend at the Municipal Party Committee's Propaganda Department, and asked him to find a copy for you, no matter what it takes. The little booklet is filled with vicious innuendo, which is all the proof I need that it was written by a modern contemporary. Whether that person is Yu Yichi is open to question. As you said, Yu is half genius, half demon. Here in Liquorland he is both vilified and praised, but because he's a dwarf, few people are willing to engage him in a real ‘knives and spears' struggle. That's why nothing seems to bother him, and why he can get away with murder. He's probably taken good and evil about as far as either of them will go. Now, I'm a man of meager talents and limited knowledge, not nearly up to grasping this individual's inner world. There's gold here, just waiting for you to come claim it.

It's been a long time since those stories of mine were submitted to
Citizens' Literature
, and I'd be grateful if you'd give the editors another nudge. At the same time, you're free to invite them to our first annual Ape Liquor Festival. I'll do my best to arrange for their room and board. I'm confident that the generous citizens of Liquorland will make them feel right at home.

Last, but not least, I'm sending you my latest story, ‘Cooking Lesson.' Before writing it, Sir, I read virtually everything written by the popular ‘neo-realist' novelists, absorbing the essence of their work and adapting it to my own style. I hope you'll send this story to the editors of
Citizens' Literature
, since I firmly believe that by continuing to submit my work to them, sooner or later I'll touch the hearts of this pantheon of gods who spend their days in jade palaces gazing up at the sky to watch the Moon Goddess brush her hair.

Wishing you continued success with your writing, I am

Your disciple

Li Yidou

Cooking Lesson, by Li Yidou

Before she went crazy, my mother-in-law was a graceful beauty -even though she was in her middle years. There was a time when I felt she was younger, prettier, and sexier than her daughter, who was my wife. At the time, my wife worked on the special column desk of the
Liquorland Daily News
, where she published some exclusive interviews that drew strong reactions. She was dark and skinny, her hair was yellow and brittle, her face was a rusty brown, and her mouth reeked like stinking fish. By contrast, my mother-in-law was plump, her skin was white and soft, her hair was so black it seemed to ooze oil, and her mouth emitted the fragrance of barbecue the day long. The striking difference between my wife and my mother-in-law, when put side by side, naturally reminded one of the struggle between classes. My mother-in-law was like the well-kept concubine of a big landowner, whereas my wife was like the eldest daughter of an old, dirt-poor peasant. No wonder the hatred between them was so deep seated they didn't speak to each other for three years. My wife would rather sleep out in the newspaper yard than go home. Every time I went to see my mother-in-law, my wife would become hysterical, cursing me with languge unfit to print, as if I were visiting a prostitute, not her own mother.

To tell the truth, in those days, I did indeed harbor vague fantasies over my mother-in-law's beauty, but these evil thoughts, bound up by a thousand steel chains, had absolutely no chance to develop and grow. But then my wife's curses were like a raging fire burning through those chains. So I confronted her:

If one day I sleep with your mother, you will bear full responsibility.'

‘What?' she asked, enraged.

If you hadn't called my attention to it, I'd have never considered the possibility of someone making love with his own mother-in-law,' I said venomously. ‘The only real difference between your mother and me is our ages. We're not related by blood. Besides, recently your own newspaper ran an interesting story about a young man in New York named Jack who divorced his wife and married his mother-in-law.'

My wife let out a scream, her eyes rolled back, and she fainted dead away. I hurriedly splashed a bucket of cool water over her and pricked the area between her nose and upper lip and the spot between her thumb and index finger with a rusty nail. Finally, after half an hour, she came to sluggishly. With staring eyes, she lay in the mud like a stiff, dry log. The shattered lights of despair in her eyes sent chills down my spine. Tears welled up in her eyes and flowed toward her ears. At this moment, I thought, the only thing to do was apologize with all my heart.

Calling her name affectionately, while holding back my disgust, I kissed her nauseatingly stinky mouth, at the same time conjuring up thoughts of her mother's mouth, which always smelled like barbecue. No taste-treat could compare with taking a sip of brandy and kissing her mother's mouth; it would be like washing down fine barbecue with good brandy. Strangely enough, age had not eroded the attraction of youth in that mouth, which was moist and red even without lipstick, and was filled with sweet mountain grape juice. Her daughter's lips, on the other hand, weren't even on a par with the skins of those grapes. In a drawn-out, thin voice, she said:

‘You can't fool me. I know you love my mother, not me. You married me only because you fell in love with her. I'm just a stand-in. When you kiss me, you're thinking about my mother's lips. When you're making love with me, you're thinking about my mother's body.'

Her sharp words were like a paring knife that was flaying my skin. In anger I said - I patted her face softly, pulled a long face - and said:

I'll slap you if you keep spouting that nonsense. You're letting your imagination run wild, you're hallucinating. People would laugh if they saw you. And your mother would explode with anger if she knew what you were saying. I am a Doctor of Liquor Studies; a dignified, imposing man among men. No matter how shameless I might be, I'd never dream of doing something even an animal wouldn't stoop to do.'

She said:

‘Yes, you've never done it, but you want to. Maybe you'll never do it as long as you live, but you'll be thinking about it the whole time. If you don't want to do it during the day, you'll want to do it at night. If you don't want to do it when you're awake, you'll want to do it in your dreams. You won't want to do it while you're alive, but you'll want to do it after you're dead.'

I stood up and said:

‘That's an insult to me, to your mother, even to yourself.'

She said:

‘Don't you dare get angry. Even if you had a hundred mouths, and even if those hundred mouths all spat out sweet words at the same time, you'd never succeed in deceiving me. Ai, What's the point in going on? Just to be an obstacle, to be despised by others, to suffer? Why not just die? That would solve everything …

‘When I die you two can do whatever you want.' With her stumpy little fists, which looked like donkey hooves, she pounded her own breasts. Yes, when she was lying on her back, all that showed on her concave chest were two nipples in the shape of black dates. On the other hand, my mother-in-law's breasts were as full as those of a young woman, showing no signs of withering or sagging. Even when she wore a thick, double-knit sweater, they arched like doughty mountains. The reversal of figure between a mother-in-law and a wife had pushed the son-in-law to the edge of the abyss of evil. How could they blame me? Losing control of myself, I started to scream. I don't blame you, I blame myself. She uncurled her fists and tore at her clothes with a pair of talons; the buttons popped off, exposing her bra. My god! Like a footless person wearing shoes, she was actually wearing a bra! The sight of her scrawny chest forced me to turn away. I said:

‘That's enough! Stop this madness. Even if you were to die, there's still your father to worry about.'

She pushed herself up into a sitting position, as terrifying lights shot from her eyes.

‘My father is only a front for people like you,' she said. ‘He cares about nothing but liquor, liquor liquor liquor! Liquor is his woman. If my father were normal, why would I need to worry so much?'

‘I've never seen a daughter like you,' I said, feeling powerless.

‘That's why I'm begging you to kill me.' Kneeling on all fours, she banged her bone-hard head on the cement floor and said, ‘I'm on my knees begging you, I'm banging my head to implore you. Please kill me, Doctor of Liquor Studies. There's a brand-new stainless-steel knife in the kitchen. It's sharp as the wind. Bring it over and kill me. Please, I beg you, kill me.'

She raised her head and arched her neck, which was long and thin, like that of a plucked chicken; greenish purple, the rough skin was marked by three black moles, and the swollen veins throbbed. Her eyes were rolled halfway up, her lips hung slack, her forehead was covered with dirt through which small drops of blood seeped, and her hair was as matted as a magpie's nest. How could this thing be called a woman? But she was my wife, and to tell the truth, her behavior horrified me. After horror came disgust. Comrades, what could I do? She sneered, her mouth like a tire tread, and I was afraid she was losing her mind. ‘My dear wife.' I said, ‘the saying goes: “Once a couple, the feelings between two people are deeper than the ocean.”
We've
been husband and wife for many years, so how could I have the heart to kill you? f d be better off killing a chicken, since then, at least, we could make a pot of soup. But if I killed you, I'd have to eat a bullet, fm not that stupid.'

With a hand on her own neck, she said softly:

‘Are you really not going to kill me?'

‘No, I'm not.'

'I think you ought to,' she said, drawing her finger across her throat, as if she were holding the knife that was sharp as the wind. ‘Ssst - one light touch, the veins of my neck would open up, and bright, fresh blood would spurt like a fountain. After half an hour, I'd be nothing but a transparent layer of skin. And then,' she continued, a sinister smile on her face, ‘you could sleep with that old demon who eats infants.'