The Republic of Wine (9 page)

With respectful best wishes,

Your disciple

Li Yidou

PS:
A friend of mine is off to Beijing on business, and I've asked him to deliver a case of twelve bottles of Liquorland's finest, Overlapping Green Ants, which I helped develop in the lab. I hope you enjoy it.

Li Yidou

Dear Doctor of Liquor Studies

How are you?

Thanks for the Overlapping Green Ants. The color, bouquet, and taste are all first-rate, though I get the feeling there's a lack of harmony somehow, sort of like a girl with lovely features who lacks that indefinable appeal to make her a true beauty. The liquor from my hometown is known for its high quality, too, though it doesn't compare with what you make in Liquorland. According to my father, before Liberation [1949], in that little, underpopulated village of ours, there were two distilleries producing sorghum liquor, and both had recognizable names. One was Zongji, the other was Juyuan. They employed dozens of hired hands, not to mention mules and horses and all the noise that went along with it As for making liquor out of millet, well, just about every family in the village did it, and it was pretty much a case of wine-scented air above every house. One of my father's uncles once gave me a detailed explanation of how the distilleries operated, including the distilling art, the technology, management, things like that. He'd worked at Zongji for over a decade. His descriptions produced a wealth of material for the chapter Sorghum Wine' in my novel
Red Sorghum
. The pervasive smell of liquor in and around my hometown was also a constant inspiration.

Liquor interests me very much; I've thought long and hard about the relationship between it and culture. The chapter ‘Sorghum Wine' in my novel gives a pretty good picture of my thoughts on the subject. I've long wanted to write a novel on liquor, and making the acquaintance of a true-to-life doctor of liquor studies like you is the great good fortune of three lifetimes. Ill probably be bombarding you with questions from now on, so please stop referring to me as ‘Sir.'

'I've read both your letter and the story ‘Meat Boy,' and have many thoughts to share with you, in no particular order of importance. I'll start with your letter: i. In my view, the human traits of arrogance and humility are contradictory and interdependent at the same time. It's impossible to say which is good and which is bad. The truth is, people who appear to be arrogant are in fact humble, and people who seem to be humble, deep down are quite arrogant. There are people who are arrogant at certain times and under certain circumstances, but extremely humble at other times and under different circumstances. Absolute arrogance and life-long humility probably do not exist. Your ‘drunken arrogance' is, to a large extent, a chemical reaction, and no fault can be found in that. So your feeling of self-satisfaction after
you've
been drinking is fine with me, and a couple of well-placed curses toward
Citizens
⁹
Literature
don't break any laws I'm aware of, especially since you didn't include any slurs against their mothers or anything. All you said was. If they decide not to publish it, they must be blind.'

2. Mr Li Qi had reasons for writing his novel the way he did, and if you don't like it, just toss it aside and forget it. If you run into him someday, give him a couple of bottles of Overlapping Green Ants, then make yourself scarce. Do not - repeat, do not - make the mistake of adopting the revolutionary-romantic tactic of giving him ‘the verbal fight of his life.' This fellow is closely connected to the criminal underground. His meanness is matched only by his brutality, and he'll stop at nothing. There's a story going round about a Beijing literary critic who wrote an article critical of Li Qi's literary offerings one night, after putting away a fine meal, and published it in some newspaper. Before three days had passed, this literary critic's old lady was kidnapped by Li Qi's men and taken to Thailand, where she was sold into prostitution. So take my advice and stay clear of this individual. There are plenty of people in this world God himself wouldn't offend. Li Qi is one of them.

3. Since you say your mind is made up to devote yourself to literature, I'll never again advise you to play the prodigal son, if for no other reason than to keep you from loathing me. If a person inadvertently provokes someone into loathing him, there's nothing he can do. But if he does it intentionally, it's like ‘rolling your eyes up to look in a mirror - a search for ugliness.' I'm ugly enough already, so why would I roll up my eyes?

You saved your strongest language for those lousy bastards' who want to ‘monopolize the literary establishment.' I couldn't be happier. If there are lousy bastards out there trying to monopolize the literary establishment, I'll curse and yell right alongside you.

I was an instructor at the Baoding Officer Candidate School more than ten years ago, and several hundred students took my classes. I seem to recall two named Liu Yan. One was fair-skinned and always glowering; the other was dark-skinned, short and fat. Which one works with you?

Where having harsh words for Wang Meng is concerned, I really can't recall, but I think I did read his essay urging young writers to engage in a little cold self-evaluation, you know, size up the situation. It's possible I felt it was an attack on me, which likely made me very uncomfortable. But it's unlikely I'd launch an attack on Wang Meng in a class in which I was promoting communism.

If you want to know the truth, I've never tossed away my beggar's staff, and if I were to toss it away someday, I'd surely not go out and ‘beat up a beggar,' would I? But there are no guarantees, since people can't dictate the changes they'll undergo throughout their lifetime.

Now for your story: 1. You call it grim realism.' Can you tell me what that means? I can't say for sure, although I have an idea. The contents of your story make me shudder, and all I can say is, I'm glad it's fiction. There'd be big trouble if you'd written a journalistic essay with the same contents. 2. As for publishability, normally there are two standards that apply: ideological and artistic. I can never figure either of them out. And I mean just that. I'm not pussy-footing. Fortunately,
Citizens' Literature
has a fine crop of editors, so let them decide.

I've already sent your story to the editorial department of
Citizens' Literature
, and as far as hosting a dinner or sending gifts is concerned, I'm afraid I don't know enough about either to even try. Whether that stuff works with big publications like
Citizens' Literature
or not, that you'll have to find out for yourself.

Wishing you

Good luck,

Mo Yan

Meat Boy, by Li Yidou

A late autumn night; the moon was out, hanging in the western sky, the edges of its visible half blurred like a melting ice cube. Cold rays of light danced in the sleepy village of Liquor Scent. Someone's rooster crowed from a chicken coop. The sound was muffled, as if emerging from a deep cellar.

Muted though the sound was, it still roused the wife of Jin Yuanbao from her sleep. She wrapped a quilt around her shoulders and sat up, feeling disoriented in the surrounding mist. Pale moonbeams slanted in through the window, stamping white designs on the black quilt. Her husband's feet stuck out from under the covers to her right, icy cold. She covered them with a corner of the quilt. Little Treasure slept curled up on her left, his breathing deep and even. The muffled crows of roosters from even farther away came on the air. She shivered and climbed down off the bed, throwing a jacket over her shoulders as she walked into the yard, where she gazed up into the sky. Three stars hung in the west and the Seven Daughters rose in the east. It would soon be dawn.

The woman went inside and nudged her husband.

‘Time to get up.' she said. ‘The Seven Daughters are up already.'

The man stopped snoring and smacked his lips a time or two before sitting up.

Is it dawn already?' he asked, with a hint of confusion.

‘Just about,' the woman said. ‘Get there a little earlier this time, so it won't be a wasted trip like the last time.'

Slowly the man draped his lined coat over his shoulders, reached out for a tobacco pouch at the head of the bed, filled his pipe, and stuck it between his lips. Then he picked up a flint, a stone, and some tinder to make a fire. Angular sparks flew, one landing on the tinder, which caught fire when he blew on it. The deep red flame glowed in the dark room. He lit his pipe and took a couple of quick puffs. He was about to snuff out the tinder when his wife said:

‘Light the lantern.'

‘Are you sure you want to?' he asked.

‘Go ahead and light it,' she said. ‘A tiny bit of lantern oil can't make us any poorer than we are now.'

He took a deep breath and blew again on the tinder in his hand, watching it grow brighter and brighter and finally turning into a real flame. The woman brought the lantern over and lit it, then hung it on the wall, where it cast its feeble light throughout the room. Husband and wife exchanged hurried glances, then looked away. One of the many children sleeping next to the man was talking in his sleep, loudly, like shouting slogans. One of the others reached out and rubbed the greasy wall. Yet another was weeping. The man tucked the one child's arm back under the covers and nudged the weeping child.

‘What are you crying about?' he said impatiently. ‘Little family wrecker!'

The woman took a deep breath. ‘Shall I boil some water?'

‘Go ahead,' the man replied. ‘A couple of gourdfuls will be enough.'

The woman thought for a moment, then said, ‘Maybe three this time. The cleaner he is, the better our chances.'

The man raised his pipe without replying, then peeked over at the corner of the bed, where the little brat was sleeping soundly.

The woman moved the lantern over to the door, so the light would shine into both rooms. After washing out the wok, she dumped in the three gourdfuls of water, put the lid on, and picked up a handful of straw, which she lit from the lantern and carefully inserted into the stove. The fire blazed as she fed it more straw, golden tongues of flame licking up to the surface and bringing color to the woman's face. The man sat on a stool beside the bed and stared blankly at the woman, who seemed younger somehow.

The water gurgled to a boil and the woman added more kindling to the stove. The man knocked the bowl of his pipe against the bed, cleared his throat, and said hesitantly:

‘Big-Tooth Sun's wife, over at East Village, is pregnant again, and she's still got one at the tit.'

‘Everybody's different,' the woman said agreeably. ‘Who wouldn't like to have a baby every year? And triplets each time?'

‘Big-Tooth's got it made, the son of a bitch, just because his brother-in-law's an inspector. He had poor-quality goods, but that didn't stop him. When he'd have been lucky to reach second-grade, he came out of it with special grade.'

‘Becoming an official's easy if you've got connections at court. That's the way it's always been,' the woman said.

‘But Little Treasure is a cinch to be first-grade. No other family can match our investment,' the man said. ‘You ate a hundred catties of beancakes, ten carp, four hundred catties of turnips …'

‘I ate? That food may have gone into my stomach, but it stayed there just long enough to turn into milk for him to suck out of me!'

Steam from the boiling water seeped out from under the lid of the wok, causing the lamplight to flicker weakly, like a little red bean, in the misty air.

The woman stopped feeding the stove and turned to the man.

‘Bring me the wash basin,' she demanded.

He grunted a reply and went into the yard, quickly returning with a chipped black ceramic basin. The bottom was covered by a thin layer of frost.

The woman removed the lid from the wok, releasing a cloud of steam that nearly extinguished the lantern. Slowly the light returned to the room. She picked up the gourd and scooped hot water into the basin.

‘Aren't you going to add cool water?' the man asked.

She tested the water with her hand. ‘No,' she said, ‘it's just right. Go get him.'

The man went into the next room, bent down, and lifted up the boy, who was still snoring. When he started crying, Jin Yuanbao patted him on the bottom and made cooing sounds.

‘Treasure, Little Treasure, don't cry. Daddy's going to give you a bath.'

The woman took the child from him. Little Treasure crooked his neck and nestled against her bosom, groping with his hands.

‘Want Mama … milk…'

She had no choice but to sit in the doorway and open her blouse. Little Treasure took a nipple into his mouth and immediately began gurgling contentedly. The woman was hunched over, as if the child were weighing her down.

The man stirred the water in the basin with his hand.

‘He's had enough,' he said to hurry her along. ‘The water's getting cold.'

The woman patted Little Treasure's bottom.

‘Treasure,' she said, ‘my Treasure, stop sucking. You've already sucked me dry. Time for a bath. When you're all clean, we'll take you to town for an outing.'

She pushed the child away, but Treasure refused to give up the nipple, stretching it as far as it would go, like a worn-out piece of rubber.

The man reached out and jerked the child away. The woman moaned, Treasure shrieked tearfully. Jin Yuanbao patted his bottom, harder this time, and said angrily:

‘What are you screeching about?'

‘Not so hard,' the woman complained. ‘Bruises will lower the grade.'

After stripping Treasure's clothes off and tossing them aside, the man tested the water again. ‘It's pretty hot,' he mumbled, ‘but that'll put a little color in him.' He laid the naked boy down in the basin, drawing yelps of pain louder than the screeches of a moment earlier. As if elevated from a rolling hill to a towering mountain peak. The boy's legs curled inward as he fought to climb out of the basin. But Jin Yuanbao kept pushing him back. Beads of hot water splashed the woman. Quickly covering her face with her hands, she complained softly: