The Republic of Wine (8 page)

Ding Gou'er's skin was sticky with sweat, his lips seemed frozen, and his tongue had grown stiff - unable to spit out a word, he clenched his teeth and poured the magic elixir down his throat. As they say, even valiant generals wilt before a pretty face.

At this moment, he wasn't feeling very good, because the trouble-making little demon in his brain was wriggling around and once again poking its head out through his scalp. Now he knew what was meant when people said the body cannot contain the soul. The agonizing thought of his soul hanging upside down from the rafters scared the wits out of him, and he could barely keep from covering his head with his hands to block the escape route of his consciousness. Aware that that would show a lack of decorum, he was reminded of the beaked cap he had worn when he was making his move on the lady trucker. The cap, in turn, reminded him of his briefcase, and the dark pistol it contained, a thought that opened up the sweat glands under his arms. His darting glances caught the attention of one of the smarter red girls, who fetched his briefcase from somewhere. After taking it from her and assuring himself that his metal friend, that ‘hard' bargainer, was still inside, he stopped sweating. His beaked cap, however, was not there, and he thought back to the watchdog and the gatekeeper, to the young man in the Security Section, to the wooden logs, and to the sunflower forest; these scenes and the people in them seemed so remote at this moment that he wondered if he'd actually seen them, or if they were all part of a dream. As he carefully placed the briefcase between his knees, the wavering, disorderly spirit, with its mutinous tendencies, created a flashing light before his eyes, alternating between extreme clarity and blurred edges; he saw that his knees were covered by oily stains that appeared to be an illuminated map of China one moment and a darkened map of Java the next, and though they were sometimes a bit out of placement, he worked hard to straighten them out, hoping that the map of China would always be illuminated and that the map of Java would always be dark and blurry.

A moment before Diamond Jin, Deputy Head of the Liquorland Municipal Party Committee Propaganda Department, walked in the door, Ding Gou'er experienced sharp abdominal pains. A tangle of venomous snakes was writhing and twisting inside his guts: pungent, oh so pungent, sticky, ah so sticky, tangled, entwined, illicit, sneaky, pulling and dragging and hauling and hissing, a real tangle of venomous snakes, and he knew that his intestines were making mischief. The feeling moved upward, a burning flame, a balding bamboo broom sweeping the walls of his stomach -
scrape scrape
- as if it were a painted chamber pot with a buildup of filth. Oh, dear mother, the investigator groaned inwardly, this is more than I can bear! I've fallen on evil times. I've fallen into the sinister trap of the Mount Luo Coal Mine. Fallen into the trap of food-and-liquor! Fallen into the trap of pretty faces!

Ding Gou'er got to his feet, bent over at the waist, and found he couldn't feel his legs, which was why he never knew who or what guided him back into his seat. Was it his own legs or his brain? Was it the keen, sparkling eyes of the red girls? Or was it the Party Secretary and Mine Director who pushed down on his shoulders?

Once his hind quarters were resettled in the chair, he heard a rumbling noise escape from down below. The red girls covered their mouths and giggled. He didn't have the strength to react angrily; his body and his consciousness were filing for divorce, either that or - the same old trick - his turncoat consciousness was about to flee. At this painful, awkward moment, Deputy Head Diamond Jin, his body sparkling like diamonds, emitting a golden aroma, pushed open the red naugahyde-covered, soundproof door of the dining room, like a breath of spring, a ray of sunlight, the embodiment of ideals, the promise of hope.

He was an urbane, middle-aged man with a swarthy complexion, a high-bridged nose on a long face, and eyes shielded by tea-colored, silver-rimmed crystal-mirror spectacles. In the lamplight his eyes were like bottomless black wells. Of medium height, he was wearing a freshly pressed dark blue suit over a snowy white dress shirt and a blue-and-white striped tie. His black leather shoes shone like glass. He had a full head of loosely coifed hair, neither rumpled nor thinning. The man had one additional unique feature: a bronze (maybe gold) inlaid tooth. That, in a nutshell, was Diamond Jin.

Ding Gou'er got clearheaded in a big hurry, sensing, almost as if it were fate, that he was now face-to-face with his true adversary.

The Party Secretary and Mine Director jumped to their feet, unconcerned that they banged their knees on the edge of the table on their way up. Someone's sleeve knocked over a glass of beer, the yellow liquid quickly soaking the tablecloth and dripping onto their knees. They didn't care. Pushing their chairs back, they rushed from both sides of the table to greet the new arrival. Happy shouts of Deputy Head Jin, you're here! erupted even before the beer glass hit the table.

The man's booming laugh squeezed the air in the room in waves and pressed down on the beautiful butterfly atop Ding Gou'er's head. He stood up in spite of his desire not to. He smiled despite his wish to keep a straight face. A smiling Ding Gou'er rose to greet the man.

In unison, the Party Secretary and Mine Director said:

‘This is Deputy Head Diamond Jin of the Municipal Party Committee Propaganda Department, and this
is
Investigator Ding Gou'er of the Higher Procuratorate.'

Clasping his hands in front, Diamond Jin smiled and said:

‘My apologies for being so late.'

He thrust his hand toward Ding Gou'er, who shook it in spite of his desire not to. This child-eating devil's hand should be cold as ice, he thought. So why is it so warm and soft? And comfortably moist. He heard Diamond Jin say politely:

Welcome! I've heard wonderful things about you.'

Once everyone was seated, Ding Gou'er clenched his teeth in his determination not to take another drink, so as to remain in complete control of his faculties. It's time to go to work! he silently commanded himself.

He was now sitting shoulder to shoulder with Diamond Jin, and was prepared for anything. Diamond Jin, ah, Diamond Jin. You may be an impregnable fortress, you may be on intimate terms with the rulers, your roots may grow strong and deep, your network may be wide and far-reaching, but once you are in my grasp, your days are numbered. If bad times are in store for me, no one can look forward to good ones.

Diamond Jin spoke up:

‘Since I came late, I'll pay a penalty of thirty cups!'

Ding Gou'er certainly never expected to hear those words. Turning to look at the Party Secretary or Mine Director, he saw that the man was smiling knowingly. A red serving girl entered with a fresh liquor service on a tray. The cups sparkled as they were placed in front of Diamond Jin. Another red serving girl walked up with a decanter and filled them, bobbing like a phoenix nodding its head. Calling upon years of training, she filled them expertly, confidently, and purposefully, without spilling a drop. The pearl-like bubbles atop the first cup had not yet popped by the time the last cup was filled. They were a bed of unusual flowers that had bloomed in front of Diamond Jin; a sigh of awe escaped from Ding Gou'er. Awed first by the red serving girl's extraordinary skill and grace, and second by Diamond Jin's machismo. This proved the saying that ‘Without a diamond, one cannot create porcelain beauty.'

Diamond Jin removed his suit coat, which was taken away by a red serving girl.

‘Comrade Ding, old fellow,' he said, ‘would you say these thirty cups are filled with mineral water or colorless liquor?'

Ding Gou'er sniffed the air, but his sense of smell was anesthetized.

If you want to know the flavor of a pear, you must eat one. If you want to determine whether this is real liquor or not, you'll have to taste it for yourself. Please select any three of these cups.'

Now Ding Gou'er knew from the investigative materials he'd read that Diamond Jin was renowned for his drinking abilities, but he still had doubts. With the urging of the others, he picked out three of the cups and tasted their contents with the tip of his tongue. The liquid had a sweet, fermented taste. It was the real thing.

‘Comrade Ding, old fellow,' Diamond Jin said, ‘those three are for you.'

It's the custom,' one of the others said. ‘You've already sampled them.'

Then they said, ‘We don't miss it if you drink it, but we do if you spill it, for wastefulness is the greatest sin.'

Ding Gou'er had no choice but to drink down the three cups.

‘Thank you,' Diamond Jin said, ‘thank you very much. Now it's my turn.'

He picked up a cup of liquor and drank it down, noiselessly and without spilling a drop; his simple yet elegant style showed that he was no ordinary drinker. His pace quickened with each succeeding cup, but with no effect on accuracy or results - cadenced and rhythmic. He held out the last of the thirty cups and described an arc, like a bow moving across violin strings; the soft, elegant strains of a violin swirled in the air of the dining hall and flowed through Ding Gou'er's veins. His caution began to crumble, as warm feelings toward Diamond Jin surfaced slowly, like water grasses budding atop a stream during a spring thaw. He watched Diamond Jin bring the last cup of liquor to his lips and saw a look of melancholy flash in the man's bright black eyes; he was transformed into a good and generous man, one who emanated an aura of sentimentality, lyrical and beautiful. The strains of the violin were long and drawn-out, a light autumn breeze rustled fallen golden leaves, a small white blossom appeared in front of a grave marker; Ding Gou'er's eyes grew moist, gazing at the cup as if it were a stream of water bubbling up past a rock and emptying into a deep green lake. There was love in his heart for this man.

The Party Secretary and Mine Director clapped and shouted their approval. Ding Gou'er, immersed in richly poetic emotions, kept still. A silence settled over the scene. The four red serving girls stood without moving, like canna indigos, each in a different pose, as if listening intently or deep in thought. A strange sound emerged from the air conditioner in the corner, shattering the stillness. The Party Secretary and Mine Director clamored for Deputy Head Jin to drain thirty more cups of liquor, but he shook his head.

‘No more for me,' he said. ‘That would be wasteful. But since this is my first meeting with Comrade Ding, I must toast him three cups thrice.'

Ding Gou'er gazed in stupefaction at this man who could down thirty cups of liquor without showing it, and was so intoxicated by the man's decorum, by his honeyed voice, and by the gentle glitter of his bronze or gold tooth inlay that he lost sight of the mathematical logic that three times three equals nine.

Nine cups were arrayed in front of Ding Gou'er, and nine more in front of Diamond Jin. Ding Gou'er was powerless to resist the man's appeal; his consciousness and his body were moving in opposite directions. His consciousness screamed: You mustn't drink! while his hand picked up the cup and emptied the contents into his mouth.

Nine cups of the strong liquor made the trip down to his stomach, and his tear ducts were working overtime. Why the tears were flowing he didn't know, especially at a banqueting table. No one hit you, no one gave you an earful, so why are you crying? I'm not crying. Just because there are tears doesn't mean I'm crying. More and more tears flowed, until his face looked like a puddle of rain-soaked lotus leaves.

‘Bring on the rice,' he heard Diamond Jin say. ‘Let Comrade Ding eat something before he takes a rest.'

‘There's still one more important dish!'

‘Oh,' Diamond Jin said thoughtfully. ‘Then bring it in.'

A red serving girl removed the cactus plant in the middle of the table. Then two red serving girls entered carrying a large round gilded platter in which sat a golden, incredibly fragrant little boy.

Dear Mo Yan

I received your letter. Thanks for taking the time to write and for recommending my story to
Citizens' Literature
. It's not drunken arrogance - that would never do - when I say that my story opens new creative and artistic horizons and is filled with the spirit of the wine god. If
Citizens' Literature
decides not to publish it, the editors must be blind.

I read the novel you recommended,
Don't Treat Me Like a Dog
. It infuriated me, if you want the truth. Li Qi, the author, trampled all over the sublime, sacred endeavor we call literature, and if that's tolerated, nothing is safe. If I ever meet him, I tell you, he's in for the verbal fight of his life.

You were absolutely right when you said that if I applied myself diligently to the study of the craft I'd have a brilliant future in Liquorland, never having to worry about where my next meal or next suit of clothes came from; I'd have a house, status, money, and a bevy of beautiful women. But I am a young man with ideals, not content to steep in alcohol for the rest of my life. I want to be like the young Lu Xun, who gave up the study of medicine for a writing career; I want to give up alcohol for a writing career, to use literature to transform society, to transform the Chinese sense of nationhood. In pursuit of this lofty goal, I would gladly lose my head or spill my hot blood; and since I'm willing to do that, how could I concern myself with worldly possessions?

Mo Yan, Sir, my heart is set on literature, so firmly that ten mighty horses could not turn me from my goal. My mind is made up, so you needn't try to change it. And if you do, I'm afraid that my feelings for you will turn to loathing. Literature belongs to the people. Why then should you be permitted to write, and not me? One of the you have to host a meal, go ahead. If a gift is required, you have my blessing. Ill take care of expenses (please remember to get receipts).

‘Meat Boy' took a lot of effort to complete, so
Citizens' Literature
is my first choice. I have my reasons: First,
Citizens' Literature
is China's ‘official' literary magazine, in the forefront of new literary trends. Publishing a story there is better than publishing two in a provincial or municipal magazine. Second, I want to adopt the tactic of ‘pound away at one spot and forget the rest.' That's the only way to break into that mighty fortress,
Citizens' Literature
¹
.