The Republic of Wine (41 page)

Quoting a big chunk of my father-in-law's handout has probably annoyed the hell out of you. Sorry. I'm bored out of my skull too, but I have no choice. Please bear with me a little longer, it'll be over soon, just another minute. Regrettably, we can only go back to circa the tenth century BC to ascertain the origins of liquor through written records. It is perfectly legitimate to speculate that the origins of liquor predate recorded history, since many archeological finds provide sufficient evidence. The history of liquor exceeds ten thousand years, excavated evidence for which includes a clay liquor tripod from Longshan, China, beautifully crafted ‘zun' and ‘jia' wine vessels from Da Wen Kou, and the liquor rites on a fresco found in Spain's Altamira caves.

Students, my father-in-law said, liquor is an organic compound, naturally produced as one of Nature's ingenious creations. It is made of sugar transformed by enzymes into alcohol, plus some other ingredients. There are so many plants with sugar content that they will never be exhausted. Fruits with high sugar content, like grapes, are easily broken down by enzymes. If a pile of grapes is brought to a low, moist place by the wind, water, birds or animals, the proper amount of water and the right temperature can activate the enzymes on the skins to turn grape juice into sweet, delicious liquor. In China, an old saying goes, ‘Apes make liquor.' The ancient text ‘Evening Talks in Penglong' records the following: ‘There are many apes in Mount Huang. In the spring and summer, they pick flowers and fruits, and place them in a low place among rocks, where the mixture ferments into liquor with an aroma that can be detected for several hundred paces.' An ‘Occasional Note from Western Guang' in
Miscellaneous Jottings
records: ‘Apes abound in the mountains of such Western Guang prefectures as Pingle. They are skilled in plucking flowers to make liquor. When woodcutters enter the mountains, those who find their nests can retrieve several pints of liquor. It is fragrant and delicious, and has been named Ape Liquor.' Now if apes knew how to pick a variety of fruits and put them in a shallow place to brew liquor, how much more likely is it for our human ancestors? Other countries have stories similar to that of apes making liquor. For instance, French brewers generally believe that birds collect fruit in their nests, but unforeseen incidents prevent them from swallowing the fruit. As time passes, birds' nests become containers for making liquor. Humans must have been inspired by birds and beasts in their pursuit of the secrets of making liquor. The natural appearance of liquor and the emergence of plants with sugar content probably occurred at about the same time. So it is safe to say that, before there were humans, the earth was already permeated with the aroma of liquor.

So when did humans actually start distilling liquor? The answer to this question lies in the discovery by humans of the existence of liquor in Nature. Some of the boldest ones, or those who were dying of thirst, drank the liquor in shallows among the rocks or from the birds' nests. After tasting this marvelous elixir and experiencing great pleasure, they flocked off to look for more shallows among the rocks and for more birds' nests. The motivation to make their own liquor naturally occurred after they had drunk all the liquor they could find. Imitation followed motivation; they copied monkeys by throwing fruit into shallows and into birds' nests. But they didn't always succeed; sometimes the fruit dried up and sometimes it simply rotted away. Many times humans abandoned their quest to learn from the apes, but the overpowering seductiveness of the elixir enticed them into summoning their courage and starting over again with their experiments. Eventually, their experiments succeeded, and a fruity liquor was created with Nature's help. Ecstatic, they danced naked in their fire-lit caves. This process of learning how to make liquor occurred simultaneously with a mastery of planting crops and domesticating animals. When grains replaced meat and fish as the people's main staple, they began experimenting with the fermentation of grains. The motivation for these experiments might have been accidental, or might have come as a revelation from God. But when the first drop of liquor formed from steam accumulating in an earthenware still, human history turned a new, magnificent page. It was the start of the glorious age of civilization.

That ends my lecture, my father-in-law announced.

Now that class was over, my father-in-law gulped down the remaining liquor in his flask and smacked his lips repeatedly. Then he put it in his pocket, stuffed his briefcase under his arm, and, after casting me a mean yet meaningful glance, walked out of the classroom, head held high, chest thrust out.

Four years later, I graduated from college and took an exam to become my father-in-law's graduate student. The title of my thesis was ‘Latin American “Magic Realist” Novels and the Distilling of Liquor.' It won high praise from my father-in-law, and I passed the oral defense with ease. It was even sent to the
Journal of Brewer's College
, where it was published as the leading essay. My father-in-law accepted me as his Ph.D. student and happily approved my area of research: How are a distiller's emotions manifested in the physics and chemistry of the distilling process, and how do they affect the overall taste of a liquor? My father-in-law believed that my topic, with its fresh angle, was both highly significant and highly interesting. He suggested that I spend a year in the library, reading all the relevant books and collecting sufficient materials, before sitting down to write.

Following my father-in-law's instructions, I threw myself, body and soul, into my studies at the Liquorland Municipal Library. One day I found a rare book called
Strange Events in Liquorland
, which included an article that particularly interested me. I recommended it to my father-in-law. How could I have known that it would affect him so profoundly that he would go off to White Ape Mountain to live with the apes? I'll quote the entire story here for you; read it if you want to, skip it if you don't.

In Liquorland there lived an old man surnamed Sun, who had a fondness for drink. Blessed with a great capacity for liquor, he consumed several pints at each sitting. He had once owned ten acres of fertile land and tiled houses with dozens of rooms, but they all went to pay his drinking expenses. His wife, surnamed Liu, took the children and remarried. The old man wandered the streets, with matted hair, a dirty face, and tattered clothes, a common beggar. When he saw someone buying liquor, he begged some by kneeling in front of the person and kowtowing until his forehead bled. It was a pitiful sight. Suddenly one day, a white-haired old man with a young face materialized in front of him and said, ‘A hundred li southeast of here is a tree-lined mountain called White Ape Mountain, where apes have created ponds overflowing with wine. Why not take yourself there to drink? Is it not better than begging here?' Hearing those words, Sun kowtowed without a word of thanks and left like a whirlwind. Three days later, he reached the foothills of the mountain, and when he looked up, he saw a dense growth of trees but no path. So he climbed by holding on to vines and roots. Gradually he entered thickets where ancient trees reached the sky and blocked out the sun, the forest floor a mass of entangled vines and roots, where birds' cries came in waves. A giant animal appeared before him. It was the size of an ox, with electrifying eyes and thunderous roars that shook the plants and trees. Terrified, Sun tried to run away, and in his haste, fell into a deep ravine. Hanging upside down from a tree, he thought he would surely die. Then the aroma of wine entered his nostrils, quickly revitalizing him. He climbed down the tree and, following the aroma, came to a place overgrown with shrubs, where strange flowers and rare fruit hung from the treetops. A little white ape was picking a cluster of amber-like purple fruit. When it bounded away, the old man followed it to an open space. He saw a giant rock several feet wide, with a hollow in the middle, at least a yard deep. The little ape threw the fruit into the hollow area with a crackling sound like broken tiles. The smell of wine billowed upward. Moving closer to take a look, he saw that the hollow was filled with vintage wine. A group of apes came up carrying large leaves like rounded fans, folded into the shape of plates, which they used to scoop up the wine. Before long, they were all engaged in laughable behaviors: stumbling around, baring their teeth, and casting flirtatious looks. When the old man approached them, the apes retreated several feet, shouting angrily. But he paid no heed. He rushed up, thrust his neck into the hollow, and began sucking up wine like a whale. He did not rise for a long time, and when he did, his insides had been cleansed, his mouth was filled with a wonderful taste, and he felt like a weightless immortal. He then imitated the apes' drunken behavior: jumping up and down, shouting and yelling. The apes quickly followed his example, and they all got along very well. From then on, he remained in the area near the rock, sleeping when he was tired and drinking as soon as he woke up, sometimes playing games with the apes. He enjoyed himself so much that he did not want to go back down the mountain. People in his village all thought he was dead, telling tales about him that were known even to children. Decades later, a woodcutter entered the mountains and met up with Sun, whom he mistook for a mountain deity, because Sun had white hair with a young complexion, a healthy body, and high spirits. The woodcutter knelt to kowtow to Sun, who looked him over and asked, ‘Is your name Sanxian?' The woodcutter replied, ‘Yes.' Sun said, ‘I am your father.' As a child, the woodcutter had heard that his father was a drunk who was tricked into going up the mountain, where he died. He was surprised and bewildered to encounter his father on this day. The old man related his adventures and recalled incidents of days past among the family. Finally believing the story, the woodcutter asked the old man to return to the village so he could take care of him. But the old man laughed and said, ‘Is there a wine pond in your house from which I can drink at will?' He told his son to wait while he went off through the treetops, swinging on vines like a nimble ape. After a short while, he returned with a section of bamboo, the ends of which were stuffed with purple flowers. He handed it to his son, saying, There is ape wine inside the bamboo. It can improve your health and help you maintain a youthful appearance.' His son took the bamboo home, where he removed the seal and poured the contents into a basin. It was deep blue, like indigo, with a strong, rich bouquet unmatched in the human world. Being very filial, the woodcutter filled a bottle with the liquid and gave it to his father-in-law, who in turn gave the wine to his master, a gentryman named Liu. Mr Liu saw the wine and was greatly surprised. He asked about its origin. The servant told Mr Liu what his son-in-law had told him. Mr Liu reported to the provincial governor, who sent dozens of people to comb the mountain. After several months, they found only overgrown trees and thickets of thorny plants, and returned with nothing to report.

When I finished reading the story, I felt I had stumbled upon a rare treasure, so I quickly made a copy at the service desk, which I took to my father-in-law's place to present it to him. It was an evening three years ago. When I arrived, my father-in-law and my mother-in-law were having a quarrel over dinner. A storm raged outside, with thunder and lightning. Blue bolts of lightning, like long, crackling whips, beat on the windows and rattled the glass. I shook the water out of my hair. My nose stung from being pelted by hailstones mixed with rain, and tears welled up in my eyes. My mother-in-law took one look at me and said angrily:

‘A married daughter is like spilled water. You solve your own problems. This isn't civil court.'

I knew she'd gotten the wrong idea, but before I could explain, I was interrupted by a powerful sneeze. In the midst of my nasal spasm, I heard my mother-in-law grumble:

‘Are you one of those men who treat liquor as their wives? Are you…'

I didn't understand what she meant at the time, but, of course, I do now. Back then I just saw a grumbling woman whose face was turning reddish purple, her heart apparently filled with loathing. She seemed to be talking to me, but her eyes - stiff, focused, frozen, and cold as snake eyes - were fixed on my father-in-law. I'd never seen a look like that before, and even now, when I recall it, a chill skips across my heart.

My father-in-law was sitting properly at the dinner table, maintaining the airs of a college professor. Under the warm lamplight, his gray hair looked like the fine threads of a silkworm, but with each bolt of blue lightning outside the window, it was transformed into strands of cold, green soybean noodles. He ignored my mother-in-law and kept drinking alone. It was a bottle of Italian Widow Champagne, a golden liquid like the smooth, warm bosom of a western girl, strings of tiny bubbles sizzling like the sound of her whispers. The fruity bouquet of the wine was elegant, pleasant, and refreshing; the more you smelled it, the longer the aroma stayed with you. It was magnificent beyond imagining. Gazing at this kind of wine was better than staring at the naked body of a western girl; smelling this kind of wine was better than kissing a western girl; drinking this kind of wine…

He lovingly caressed the smooth, green, jadelike bottle with one hand and fondled a tall-stemmed glass with the other. His long, slender fingers toyed with the glass and the bottle with erotic tenderness. He raised the glass to eye level to let the bright lamplight shine on the softly tinted liquid, and as he admired it, a hint of impatience showed in his eyes. Holding the glass under his nose to sniff it, he held his breath and opened his mouth joyously. Then he took a tiny, an absolutely tiny, sip, barely moistening the tip of his tongue and his lips, as rays of excitement shot from his eyes. Pouring the glassful into his mouth and holding his breath, he kept the liquid in his mouth without swallowing for a moment. Puffed-out cheeks made his face rounder than usual, his chin pointier. I was surprised to note that he had no beard, not a single whisker. Those weren't the lips and chin of a man. He swished the liquid around in his mouth, which must have brought him great joy. Red spots appeared on his face, like unevenly applied rouge. The way he held the liquor in his mouth so long affected me physically - I heard the sound of rushing water. A bolt of lightning turned the room green. Amid that green spasm, he swallowed the wine, and I watched it travel down his throat. Then he licked his lips, and his eyes moistened, as if he were crying.
I'
d
seen him drink in class before, and there was never anything unusual about it. But at home, he turned sentimental, and that was quite unusual. Watching my father-in-law caress his glass and admire the liquid in it somehow spawned images of a gay man; although I'd never actually seen a gay man, I believed that what gay men did when they were alone must be similar to how my father-in-law treated his bottle, his glass, and his wine.