The Republic of Wine (4 page)

He could not help thinking about his recent behavior. A special investigator, highly regarded by the country's senior leaders, crouching on a pile of birchwood logs like a puppy too scared of the water to appreciate its surroundings; this behavior had already become a factor in his investigation of a case that would become an international scandal if the accusations proved to be true. So spectacular that if it were made into a movie, people would scoff. He supposed he was a bit drunk, but that didn't alter the fact that Crewcut was a sneak, and not altogether normal, no, decidedly not normal. The investigator's imagination began to soar, wings and feathers carried on gusts of wind. The crewcut young man is probably a member of the gang of people who eat infants, and was already planning his escape while he was leading me through the maze of logs. The path he chose was Ml of traps and dangers. But he had underestimated the intelligence of Ding Gou'er.

Ding clasped his briefcase to his chest, for in it, heavy and steely hard, was a Chinese six-nine repeater. Pistol in hand, he was bold, he was brave. Reluctantly he took a last look at the birchwood and oak logs, his colorful comrade logs. The cross-sectioned patterns turned them into targets, and as he fantasized hitting a bull's-eye, his legs carried him to the edge of the sunflower forest.

That a quiet, secluded place like this could exist in the midst of seething coal mines reminded him of the power of human endeavor. The sunflowers turned their smiling faces to greet him. He saw hypocrisy and treachery in those emerald green and pale yellow smiles. He heard cold laughter, very soft, as the wind set the broad leaves dancing and rustling. Reaching into his briefcase to feel his cold, hard companion, he strode purposefully toward the red buildings, head held high. With his eyes fixed on the red buildings, he felt a palpable threat from the surrounding sunflowers. It was in their coldness and the white burrs.

Ding Gou'er opened the door and walked in. It had been quite a journey, filled with a range of experiences, but finally he was in the presence of the Party Secretary and the Mine Director. The two dignitaries were about fifty, and had round, puffy faces like wheels of baked bread; their skin was ruddy, about the color of thousand-year eggs; and each had a bit of a general's paunch. They wore gray tunics with razor-sharp seams. Their smiles were kindly, magnanimous, like most men of high rank. And they could have been twins. Grasping Ding Gou'er's hand, they shook it with gusto. They were practiced hand-shakers: not too loose, not too tight; not too soft, not too hard. Ding Gou'er felt a warm current surge through his body with each handshake, as if his hands had closed around nice pulpy yams straight from the oven. His briefcase fell to the floor. A gunshot tore from within.

Pow-!

The briefcase was smoking; a brick in the wall crumbled. Ding Gou'er's shock manifested itself in hemorrhoidal spasms. He actually saw the bullet shatter a glass mosaic painting on the wall; the theme was Natha Raises Havoc at Sea. The artist had fashioned the heavenly Natha as a plump, tender little baby boy, and the investigator's accidental firing had mangled Natha's little pecker.

“A crack shot if I ever saw one!'

‘The bird that sticks out its head gets shot!'

Ding Gou'er was mortified. Scooping up his briefcase, he took out the pistol, and flipped on the safety.

‘I could have sworn the safety was on,' he said.

‘Even a thoroughbred stumbles sometimes.'

‘Guns go off all the time.'

The magnanimity and consoling words from the Mine Director and Party Secretary only increased his embarrassment; the high spirits with which he had stormed through the door vanished like misty clouds. Cringing and bowing low, he fumbled with his ID card and letter of introduction.

‘You must be Comrade Ding Gou'er!'

‘We're delighted you've come to assess our work!'

Too embarrassed to ask how they knew he was coming. Ding Gou'er merely rubbed his nose.

‘Comrade Director,' he said, ‘and Comrade Party Secretary, I've come on the orders of a certain high-ranking comrade to investigate reports that infants are being braised and eaten at your esteemed mine. This case has far-reaching implications, and strictest secrecy must be maintained.'

The Mine Director and Party Secretary exchanged a long look - ten seconds at least - before clapping their hands and laughing uproariously.

Ding Gou'er frowned and said reproachfully:

‘I must ask you to take this seriously. Liquorland's Deputy Head of Propaganda, Diamond Jin, who is a prime suspect, comes from your esteemed mine.'

One of them, either the Mine Director or the Party Secretary, said:

‘That's right, Deputy Head Jin was a teacher at the elementary school attached to the mine. But he's a talented and principled comrade, one in a million.'

‘I'd like you to fill me in.'

‘We can talk while we enjoy some food and drink.'

Before he could open his mouth to protest, he was bundled into the dining room.

My Dear, Esteemed Mo Yan

Greetings!

I am a Ph.D. candidate in liquor studies at the Brewer's College here in Liquorland. My name is Li, Li Yidou -One-Pint Li - but of course that's only a nom de plume. You'll forgive me for not revealing my real name. You are a world famous writer (that's not flattery), so you'll have no trouble figuring out why I chose that particular pseudonym. My body may be in Liquorland, but my heart is in literature, splashing away in the sea of literature. Which is why my academic adviser, who is my wife's father, the husband of my mother-in-law, thus my father-in-law - in elitist terms, lord of the castle, more commonly, ‘the man' - Yuan Shuangyu, Professor Yuan, is always criticizing me for ignoring my true career, and why he has even tried to goad his daughter into divorcing me. But I shall not be deterred. For the sake of literature, I would willingly climb a mountain of knives or rush into a sea of flames. ‘For thou I shalt waste away, happy that the clothes hang loose on my body.' My retort to him is always the same: What exactly is ignoring one's true career? Tolstoy was a military man, Gorki a baker and a dishwasher, Guo Moruo a medical student, and Wang Meng the Deputy Party Secretary of the Beijing branch of the Youth League in China's new democracy. They all changed careers and became writers, didn't they? When my father-in-law tried to counter my arguments, I just glared at him, like the legendary eccentric, Ruan Ji, except that I lacked the power of my illustrious predecessor and was unable to mask completely the white-hot anger in my black eyes. Lu Xun couldn't do it either, right? But you know all this already, so why am I trying to impress you? This is like reciting the
Three Character Classic
at the door of Confucius, or engaging in swordplay in front of the warrior Guan Yu, or boasting about drinking to Diamond Jin … but I stray from my purpose in writing.

My dear, esteemed Mo Yan, I have read with great enjoyment everything you've written, and I bow low in respect for you. One of my souls leaves the mortal world, one flies straight to Nirvana. Your work is on a par with Guo Moruo's ‘Phoenix Nirvana' and Gorki's
My Universities
. What I admire most about you is your spirit, like that of the ‘Wine God,' who drinks as much as he wants without getting drunk. I read an essay in which you wrote, ‘liquor is literature' and ‘people who are strangers to liquor are incapable of talking about literature.' Those refreshing words filled my head with the clarified butter of great wisdom, removed all obstacles to understanding. Truly it was a case of: ‘Open the gates of the throat and pour down a bucket of Maotall. There cannot be a hundred people in this world who are more knowledgeable about liquor than L You, of course, count among them. The history of liquor and the distillation of liquor, the classification of liquor, the chemistry of liquor, and the physical properties of liquor, I know them all like the back of my hand. Which is why I am so captivated by literature, and why I believe I am capable of producing good literature. Your judgment would be my liquor of assurance, serving the same purpose as that glass of liquor the martyred hero Li Yuhe took from Aunt Li just before he was arrested. So, Mo Yan, Sir, now you must know why I am writing this letter. Please accept the prostration of your disciple!

Recently I saw the film adaptation of your novel
Red Sorghum
, which you also worked on, and was so excited I could hardly sleep that night. So I drank, one glass after another. I was so happy for you. Sir, and so proud. Mo Yan, you are the pride of Liquorland! I shall appeal to people from all walks of life to pluck you from Northeast Gaomi township and settle you here in Liquorland. Wait for news from me.

I mustn't carry on too long in this first letter. I include with it a short story for your criticism. I wrote it like a man possessed the night I saw your movie
Red Sorghum
, after tossing and turning, and finally drinking the night away. If you think it has promise, I would be grateful if you would recommend it for publication somewhere. I salute you with enormous respect, and wish you

Continued success,
Your disciple

Li Yidou

PS:
Please let me know if you are short of liquor. I will attend to it right away.

Dear Doctor of Liquor Studies

Greetings!

Your letter and the story ‘Alcohol' both arrived safely.

I am a haphazardly educated person, which is why I hold college students in such high regard. And a Ph.D. candidate, well, that is the apex.

During times like this, it is fair to say that literature is not the choice of the wise, and those of us for whom it is too late can but sigh at a lack of talent and skills that leaves us only with literature. A writer by the name of Li Qi once wrote a novel entitled
Don't Treat Me Like a Dog
, in which he describes a gang of local punks who are deprived of opportunities to cheat or mug or steal or rob, so one of them says: Let's go become goddamned writers!
Yd
rather not go into detail regarding the implications. If you're interested, you can find a copy of the novel for yourself.

You are a doctoral candidate in liquor studies. I envy you more than is probably good for me. If I were a doctor of liquor studies, I doubt that I'd waste my time writing novels. In China, which reeks of liquor, can there be any endeavor with greater promise or a brighter future than the study of liquor, any field that bestows more abundant benefits? In the past, it was said that In books there are castles of gold, in books there are casks of grain, in books there are beautiful women.' But the almanacs of old had their shortcomings, and the word liquor' would have worked better than ‘books.' Take a look at Diamond Jin, that is, Deputy Head Jin, the one with the oceanic capacity for liquor, a man who has earned the undying respect of everyone in Liquorland. Where will you find a writer whose name can be uttered in the same breath as his? And so, little brother (Fm unworthy of being called ‘sir'), I urge you to listen to your father-in-law and avoid taking the wrong path.

In your letter you said that one of my essays inspired you to become a writer. That is a big mistake. I wrote the asinine words liquor is literature' and ‘people who are strangers to liquor are incapable of talking about literature' when I was good and drunk, and you must not take them to heart. If you do, this insignificant life of mine will be all but over.

I have read your manuscript carefully. I have no grounding in literary theory and hardly any ability to appreciate art. Any song and dance from me would be pointless. But I have mailed it off to the editors at
Citizens' Literature
, where the finest contemporary editors have gathered. If you are a true ‘thousand-li steed,' I am confident there's a master groom out there somewhere for you. I have plenty of liquor, but thanks for asking.

Wishing you
Health and happiness,

Mo Yan

Alcohol, by Li Yidou

Dear friends, dear students, when I learned that I had been engaged as a visiting professor at the Brewer's College, this supreme honor was like a warm spring breeze in midwinter sweeping past my loyal, red-blooded heart, my green lungs and intestines, as well as my purple liver, the seat of acquiescence and accommodation. I can stand behind this sacred podium, made of pine and cypress and decorated with colorful plastic flowers, to lecture to you primarily because of its special qualities. You all know that when alcohol enters the body, most of it is broken down in the liver… Diamond Jin stood at the podium in the General Education Lecture Hall of Liquorland's Brewer's College solemnly discharging his duties. He had chosen a broad and far-reaching topic for this, his first lecture - Liquor and Society. In the tradition of brilliant, high-ranking leaders, who steer clear of specifics when they speak in public - like God looking down from on high, invoking times ancient and modern, calling forth heaven and earth, a sweeping passage through time and space - he proved his worth as visiting professor by not allowing the details of the topic to monopolize his oration. He permitted himself to soar through the sky like a heavenly steed, yet from time to time knew he must come down to earth. The rhetoric flowed from his mouth, changing course at will, yet every sentence was anchored in his topic, directly or indirectly.

Nine hundred Liquorland college students, male and female, heads swelling, hearts and minds ready to take flight, along with their professors, instructors, teaching assistants, and college administrators, sat as one body, a galaxy of celestial small-fry gazing up at a luminous star. It was a sunshiny spring morning, and Diamond Jin stood behind a tall podium gazing out at his audience with diamond-clear eyes. Professor Yuan Shuangyu, who was well past sixty, sat in the audience, looking up at the stage, his white hair seeming to float above his head, the picture of elegance. Each strand of hair was like a silver thread, his cheeks were ruddy, his composure grand; like an enlightened Taoist, he was a man who embodied the spirit of a drifting cloud or a wild crane. His silvery head towering over all those others had the effect of a camel amid a herd of sheep. The elderly gentleman was my academic adviser. I knew him, and I knew his wife, and later on I fell in love with his daughter, and I married her, which meant that he and his wife became my in-laws. I was in the audience that day, a Ph.D. candidate majoring in liquor studies at the Brewer's College, and my academic adviser was my own father-in-law. Alcohol is my spirit, my soul, and it is also the title of this story. Writing fiction is a hobby for me, so I am free of the pressures of a professional writer; I can let my pen go where it wants, I can get drunk while I write. Good liquor! That's right, really really good liquor! Good liquor good liquor, good liquor emerges from my hand. If you drink my good liquor, you can eat like a fat sow, without looking up once. I set my liquor-filled glass down on a lacquered tray with a crisp clink, and when I close my eyes I can see that lecture hall now. The laboratory. All that lovely liquor in the Blending Laboratory, each glass beaker filled with a different red on the scale; the lights singing, the wine surging through my veins, in the flow of time my thoughts travel upstream, and Diamond Jin's small, narrow, yet richly expressive face has a seductive appeal. He is the pride and glory of Liquorland, an object of reverence among the students. They want their future sons to be like Diamond Jin, the women want their future husbands to be like Diamond Jin. A banquet is not a banquet without liquor; Liquorland would not be Liquorland without Diamond Jin. He drank down a large glass of liquor, then dried his moist, silky lips with a silk handkerchief that reeked of gentility. Wan Guohua, the flower of the Distilling Department, dressed in the most beautiful dress the world has ever seen, refilled our visiting professor's glass with liquor, her every motion a study in grace. She blushed under his affectionate gaze; we might even say that red clouds of joy settled on her cheeks. I know that pangs of jealousy struck some of the girls in the audience, while for others it was simple envy, and for yet others tooth-gnashing anger. He had a booming voice that emerged unobstructed from deep down in his throat, which he never had to clear before speaking. His coughs were the minor flaws of which only prominent people can boast, a simple habit that did nothing to lessen his refined image. He said: