The Republic of Wine

I

The Mine Director and Party Secretary stood facing him; they were holding their left arms bent across their chests, their right arms thrust out, palms straight, like a pair of professional traffic policemen. Their faces were so alarmingly alike they seemed to serve as one another’s mirror. Between them lay a path, about a meter wide and covered with a scarlet carpet, which intersected with a floodlit corridor. Ding Gou’er’s heroic mettle vanished in the face of this genuine show of courtesy, and as he cowered near the two dignitaries, he did not know if he should step forward. Their cordial looks were like redolent grease assailing his nostrils, getting thicker by the moment and not lessened or diluted by Ding Gou’er’s hesitancy. The gods never speak – how true that is. But while the men didn’t speak, their bearing was more infectious and more powerful than the sweetest, most honeyed words ever spoken, and they left you powerless to resist. Partly because he felt he had to, and partly because he was so grateful, Ding Gou’er stepped in front of the Mine Director and Party Secretary, who immediately fell in behind him, the three men forming a triangle. The corridor seemed endless. This baffled Ding Gou’er, for he clearly recalled the layout of the place: Only a dozen or so rooms occupied the space enclosed by sunflowers, too few to accommodate a corridor this long. Every three paces a pair of red lamps shaped like torches hung on facing walls covered with milky white wallpaper. The brass hands holding the torches were shiny bright and remarkably lifelike, as if protruding through the walls themselves. With growing trepidation he imagined two lines of bronze men standing on the other side; walking down the red-carpeted corridor was like marching between a phalanx of armed guards. I’ve become a prisoner, and the Party Secretary and Mine Director are my military escort. Ding Gou’er’s heart skipped a beat as cracks opened in his brain to let in a few threads of cool reason. He reminded himself of the importance of his mission, his sacred duty. Playing house with a young female hadn’t prevented him from carrying out this sacred duty, but drinking might. He stopped, turned, and said:

I’m here to conduct an investigation, not drink your liquor.’

There was more than a hint of inhospitability in his voice. The Mine Director and Party Secretary exchanged looks that were exactly alike; without a trace of irritation, they said with the same warmth and friendliness they had displayed from the beginning:

‘We know, we know, we’re not asking you to drink.’

Poor Ding Gou’er still couldn’t tell which of the two men was the Party Secretary and which was the Mine Director; but, afraid he might offend them by asking, he decided to keep muddling along, particularly since the two men were the spitting image of each other, as were the official positions of Party Secretary and Mine Director.

‘After you, please. Whether you drink or not doesn’t alter the fact that you have to eat.’

So Ding Gou’er kept walking, thoroughly annoyed with the triangular formation of one in front and two in the rear, as if the corridor led not to a banquet but to a courtroom. He tried slowing down so they could walk in a straight line. Fat chance! Every time he hung back, they kept pace, maintaining the integrity of the triangle and leaving him always in the position of the one under escort.

The corridor veered abruptly and the red carpet began sloping downward; the torches were brighter than ever, the hands holding them more menacing, as if they were truly alive. A flurry of alarming thoughts flickered in his head, like golden flies, to which he reacted by instinctively clasping his briefcase even more tightly under his arm, until that lump of cold, hard steel rubbed against his ribs to calm him a bit. Two seconds was all it would take to point the black muzzle at the men’s chests, even if that sent him straight to Hell or right to his grave.

By now, he knew, they were well underground; even though the torches and red carpet were as bright and colorful as ever, still, he felt chilled, chilled but not actually cold.

An attendant with bright eyes and sparkling teeth, in a scarlet uniform and a fore-and-aft cap, was waiting for them at the end of the corridor. Her welcoming smile, mastered through long experience, and the heavy aroma of her hair had the desired calming effect on Ding Gou’er’s nerves. Fighting back the urge to kiss her hair, he conducted a silent self-criticism and self-exoneration. The girl opened a door with a shiny stainless-steel doorknob. At last the triangle disintegrated, and Ding Gou’er breathed a sigh of relief.

A luxurious dining room appeared before them. The colors and lights were soft enough to evoke thoughts of love and happiness, or would have if not for the faint wisps of a very strange odor. Ding Gou’er’s eyes lit up as he drank in the room’s decor: from cream-colored sofas to beige curtains, from a spotless white ceiling with floral etchings to a spotless white tablecloth. The light fixtures were exquisite and delicate, like a string of fine pearls; the floor had a mirrorlike finish, obviously recently waxed. As he was sizing up the room, the Party Secretary and Mine Director were sizing him up, unaware that he was trying to locate the source of that strange odor.

The circular table had three tiers. The first was devoted to squat glasses of beer, long-stemmed glasses of grape wine, and even longer-stemmed glasses of strong colorless liquor, plus ceramic teacups with lids, sheathed imitation-ivory chopsticks, a variety of white ceramic plates, stainless-steel utensils, China-brand cigarettes, wooden matches with bright red heads in specially designed boxes, and fake crystal ashtrays in the shape of peacock tails. Eight plates of cold cuts adorned the second tier: shredded eggs and rice noodles with dried shrimp, hot and spicy beef strips, curried cauliflower, sliced cucumbers, ducks’ feet, sugared lotus root, celery hearts, and deep-fried scorpions. As a man of the world, Ding Gou’er saw nothing special in them. The third tier was occupied only by a potted cactus covered with thorns. Just the sight of it made Ding Gou’er squirm. Why not a vase of fresh flowers? he wondered.

There was the usual polite deferring all around before they sat down, and it seemed to Ding Gou’er that, given the circular shape, there was no seat of honor to worry about. But he was put right on that score when the Party Secretary and Mine Director insisted that he sit nearest the window, which was in fact the seat of honor. He acquiesced, and was immediately sandwiched between the Party Secretary and Mine Director.

A bevy of attendants fluttered around the room like so many red flags, sending drafts of cool air his way and spreading that strange odor to every corner of the room; it was, to be sure, mixed with the fragrance of their face powder and the sour smell of sweat from their armpits, plus smells from other parts of their bodies. The more the odor merged with the other smells, the less poignant it became, and Ding Gou’er’s attention was diverted.

A steaming apricot-colored hand towel dangling from a pair of stainless-steel tongs appeared in front of Ding Gou’er, catching him by surprise. As he reached for the towel, instead of cleaning his hands, he allowed his eyes to trace the tongs up to a snowy white hand and beyond that a moon face with dark eyes beneath a veil of long lashes. The folds of the girl’s eyes made it seem as if she had scarred eyelids, but that was not the case. Now that he’d had a good look, he wiped his face with the towel, then his hands; the towel was scented with something that smelled a bit like rotten apples. He’d no sooner finished his ablutions than the tongs whisked the towel away from him.

As for the Party Secretary and Mine Director, one handed him a cigarette, the other lit it.

The strong colorless liquor was genuine Maotai, the grape wine was from Mount Tonghua, and the beer was Tsingtao. Either the Party Secretary or the Mine Director, one or the other, said:

‘As patriots we boycott foreign liquor.’

Ding Gou’er replied:

‘I said I wasn’t drinking.’

‘Comrade Ding, old fellow, you’ve come a long way to be with us. How does it make us look if you don’t drink? We’ve dispensed with the formalities, since this is just a simple meal. We can’t show the intimate relationship between official ranks if you won’t drink with us, can we? Have a little, just a little, to let us save face.’

With that the two men raised their liquor glasses and held them out to Ding Gou’er, the colorless liquid sloshing around ever so gently, its distinctive bouquet very tempting. His throat began to itch and his salivary glands kicked in, sending spittle pressing down on his tongue and wetting his palate. He stammered:

‘So sumptuous… more than I deserve…’

‘What do you mean, sumptuous, Comrade Ding, old fellow? Are you being sarcastic? We have a small mine here, with little money and few frills, and a mediocre chef. While you, old Ding, come from the big city, have traveled widely, and have seen and done everything. I imagine there isn’t a fine beverage anywhere you haven’t sampled, or a game animal you haven’t tasted. Don’t embarrass us, please,’ said either the Party Secretary or the Mine Director. Try to put up with this meager fare the best you can. As ranking cadres, we must all respond to the call of the Municipal Party Committee to cinch up our belts and make do. I hope you’ll be understanding and make allowances.’

A torrent of words flowed from the two men as they eased their glasses ever closer to Ding Gou’er’s lips. With difficulty he swallowed a mouthful of sticky saliva, reached for his own glass, and held it out, feeling the exceptional heft of the glass and the quantity of liquid it held. The Party Secretary and Mine Director clinked glasses with Ding Gou’er, whose hand shook for a moment, spilling a few drops of liquor between his thumb and forefinger, where the skin turned joyously cool. As that joyous coolness sank in, he heard voices on either side of him say: ‘A toast to our honored guest! A toast!’

The Party Secretary and Mine Director drained their glasses, then turned them upside down to show that not a drop remained. Ding Gou’er was well aware of the three-glass penalty for leaving a single drop in one’s glass. He first drank down half the contents, and his mouth was suddenly awash with ambrosia. Not a word of criticism emerged from the two men, who merely held up their empty glasses to show him. Succumbing to the awful power of peer pressure, Ding Gou’er drained his glass.

The three empty glasses were quickly refilled.

‘No more for me,’ Ding Gou’er demurred. ‘Too much liquor makes work impossible.’

‘Happy events call for double! Happy events call for double!’

Ding Gou’er quickly covered his glass with his hand.

1 said, no more,’ he said, ‘that’s it for me.’

‘Three glasses to begin the meal. It’s a local custom.’ With three glasses of liquor now under his belt, Ding Gou’er was getting light-headed, so he picked up his chopsticks and reached out for some rice noodles, which, with their mixed-in eggs, were slippery. Either the Party Secretary or the Mine Director, helpful as always, anchored the two thin noodles with his own chopsticks and helped carry them to his mouth.

‘Suck!’ he directed loudly.

Ding Gou’er sucked with all his might, and with a loud slurp, the quivering noodles slipped into his mouth. One of the attendants covered her mouth and giggled. A woman laughing for all to see raises a man’s sense of glee. Suddenly, the atmosphere around the table had turned lively.

The glasses were refilled; the Party Secretary or Mine Director raised his and said, ‘A visit by Special Investigator Ding Gou’er to our humble mine is a great honor, and on behalf of all the cadres and miners, let me offer three toasts. Refusing to drink them will show your disdain for members of the working class, to the black-faced miners who dig the coal’

Noting the blush of excitement on the man’s pale face, Ding Gou’er contemplated the eloquent toast, so pregnant with significance that he could not refuse. It was as if the eyes of thousands of coal miners, in their hard-hats and tightly cinched belts, sooty from head to toe, white teeth glistening, were trained on him, raising a tumult in his heart. With a show of bravado, he tossed down three glassfuls, one after the other.

The other man wasted no time in raising his glass to wish Special Investigator Ding Gou’er good health and happiness on behalf of his own eighty-three-year-old mother. Now Ding Gou’er was a filial son whose white-haired old mother still lived in the countryside, so how could he refuse to drink, son to mother?

After nine cups of liquor had sloshed into his stomach, the investigator felt his consciousness being stripped from his body. No, stripped is the wrong image. He was sure that his consciousness had turned into a butterfly whose wings were curled inward for the moment, but was destined to emerge with exquisite beauty from the central meridian of his scalp, stretching its neck as it worked its way out. The empty shell abandoned by the butterfly of his consciousness would be its cocoon, devoid of heft, light as a feather.

At his hosts’ urging, he had no choice but to drink, one cup after another, as if trying to fill a bottomless pit, yet leaving not even a tiny echo in its wake. As they drank and drank, an unending succession of steaming, mouth-watering dishes was trundled into the room by three red serving girls, like three tongues of flame, like three balls rolling here and there, lightning-fast. He vaguely recalled eating a red crab the size of his hand; thick juicy prawns covered in red oil; a green-shelled turtle steeped in celery broth; a stewed chicken, golden yellow in color, its eyes reduced to tiny slits, like a new variety of camouflaged tank; a red carp, slick with oil, its gaping mouth still moving; steamed scallops stacked in the shape of a little pagoda; as well as red-skinned turnips, so fresh they could have just been plucked from the garden. His taste buds were alive with aromatic tastes: oily, sweet, sour, bitter, spicy, salty; his mind visited by a welter of thoughts, he gazed around the room through the aromatic haze. A pair of eyes suspended in the air saw molecules of colors and odors of every conceivable shape moving with infinite freedom in the finite space to form a three-dimensional body in the shape and size of the dining hall. To be sure, there were also molecules stuck to the wallpaper, stuck to the window curtains, stuck to the sofa covers, stuck to lamps, stuck to red girls’ eyelashes, stuck to the greasy foreheads of the Party Secretary and Mine Director, stuck to all those shimmering beams of light, once shapeless, now possessing bending, twisting shapes…

After a while, he sensed that a hand with many fingers was offering him a glass of red wine. The last remaining dregs of consciousness in the shell that was his body pulled together for one final Herculean effort to help his fragmented self follow the spinning movements of that hand, like the spreading petals of a pink lotus. The glass of wine also grew out in layers, like a doctored photograph, forming a pink mist in those relatively stable, relatively scarlet surroundings. It was not a glass of wine, it was the sun rising in the morning, a fireball of cold beauty, a lover’s heart. He would soon sense that it had taken on the appearance of a murky brown full moon that had once hung in the sky, before boring its way into the dining hall, or a swollen grapefruit, or a yellow ball covered with fuzz, or a hairy fox spirit. His consciousness sneered as it hung from the ceiling, and cool air from the air conditioner broke through the barriers that kept it from reaching the top, where it gradually cooled and formed butterfly wings of incomparable beauty. Having broken free of the body housing it, his consciousness spread its wings and soared around the dining hall Sometimes it rubbed against the silken window curtains – of course, its wings were thinner, softer, and brighter than the curtain material; sometimes it rubbed against the chandelier, with its refracted light; sometimes it rubbed against the cherry-red lips and peach-red nipples of the red girls, or other, even more private, more cunning parts. Traces of it were everywhere: on teacups, on liquor bottles, in floorboard cracks, between strands of hair, in the microscopic holes of China-brand cigarette filters… Like a rapacious, territorial wild animal, it left its mark on everything. For a winged consciousness, there were no barriers; it was shapeless, yet had shape; it threaded its way happily and freely through and among the beaded rings on the chandelier, from ring A to ring B and from ring B to ring C. It went wherever it wanted, circulating round, back and forth, weaving in and out without hindrance. But at last it tired of its game and made its way under the skirt of a voluptuous red girl, where it caressed her legs like a gentle breeze, raising goosebumps, until a moist, oily feeling was replaced by a dull, heavy one. It rose at high speed, closed its eyes as it flew through the forest, the tips of green shrubs rubbing the wings with a scratchy sound. Its ability to fly and change shape allowed it to leap tall mountains and ford wide rivers. It teased a little red mole in the valley between the two arched breasts and had some fun with a dozen or so beads of sweat. Its final move took it up into a nostril, where it tickled her nose hairs with its antennae.

The red girl sneezed loudly, spitting the thing out like a projectile, which struck the cactus on the dining table’s third tier. It bounced off as if it had been slapped by a thorny hand. Ding Gou’er had a splitting headache, his stomach was churning like a powerful whirlpool, and his skin itched painfully, as if covered by prickly nettles. It stopped on his scalp to rest, to gasp for breath, and to sob. Ding Gou’er’s eyes were working again, and he saw the Party Secretary and Mine Director raise their glasses in a toast. Their voices bounced off the walls, like waves crashing on a rocky shore before being dragged back out to sea, or a shepherd boy on a mountain peak calling out to his flock: Wa – wa – wa – Hey-ya -hey-ya – hey-ya -

Here we go again, thirty cups… on behalf of Deputy Head Jin… thirty cups, drink up drink up drink up, anybody who doesn’t drink doesn’t deserve to be called a man… Diamond Diamond Diamond Jin knows how to drink… the old fellow can drink an ocean of liquor, vast and boundless…

Diamond Jin! The name bored into Ding Gou’er’s heart like a diamond drill, and as the wrenching pain seemed to tear it apart, he opened his mouth and spewed a small river of filthy liquid along with a frightening verbal assault: ‘That wolf- urp – who eats braised baby boys – urp – wolf -!’ Like a frightened bird, his consciousness returned; his intestines were in knots, causing unspeakable agony. A pair of fists thumped him on the back. Urp – urp – liquor – sticky liquid, tears and snot pouring down: Autumn rains turn the earth and sky gray, a green sheet of water fills the eyes.

‘Feeling better, Comrade Ding Gou’er?’ ‘Comrade Ding Gou’er, are you feeling any better?’ ‘Go on, throw up, get rid of it. You’ll feel better when all that bitter juice is out of your stomach.’

‘All people need to throw up, good hygiene requires it.’ He was propped up by the Party Secretary on one side and the Mine Director on the other, each thumping him on the back as they fed encouraging remarks into his waiting ears, like country doctors trying to save a drowned child or teachers trying to educate a wayward youth.

After Ding Gou’er had brought up a stomachful of green liquid, a red serving girl coaxed a cup of green dragon-well tea past his lips, then another red serving girl tried to do the same with a glass of yellow, aged Shanxi vinegar, and either the Party Secretary or the Mine Director forced a piece of candied lotus root into his mouth, while the other held a piece of honeyed snow pear under his nose, and a red serving girl wiped his face with a cool towel treated with peppermint oil, and another red serving girl swept up the mess on the floor, and another red serving girl followed behind her, cleaning the last traces of the mess with a mop treated with disinfectant, and another red serving girl removed the dishes and glasses from the table, and another red serving girl laid out new settings.

Deeply moved by this lightning-quick series of ministrations, Ding Gou’er wished he hadn’t blurted out his accusation as he was retching a moment ago; he was about to apologize for any offense when either the Party Secretary or the Mine Director said:

‘Ding, old fellow, what do you think of our serving girls?’

Embarrassed by the question, Ding Gou’er looked into those tender flower-bud faces and said approvingly:

‘Good! Great! Wonderful!’

Obviously well trained, the red serving girls rushed up to the table like a litter of hungry puppies or a troop of Young Pioneers presenting bouquets to honored guests. Empty glasses all but covered the three levels of the dining table, so the girls picked up the nearest glass, big or small, filled it with red wine, yellow beer, or colorless liquor, and raised it raucously to toast Ding Gou’er.

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.

II

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’ Literature¹.

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

III

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 Citizens⁹ 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

IV

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:

‘Treasure’s daddy, the water’s too hot. Burning his skin will lower the grade.’

‘This little family wrecker, his water’s got to be just right, not too cold, not too hot. All right, add half a gourdful of cool water.’

The woman scrambled to her feet without covering her droopy breasts; the hem of her blouse hung limply between her legs, like a soggy old flag. After scooping out half a gourdful of water, she dumped it into the basin and stirred it rapidly with her hand.

‘It isn’t hot,’ she said, ‘it really isn’t. Stop crying, Treasure, stop crying.’

Little Treasure’s crying died down a bit, but he continued to struggle. A bath was the last thing he wanted, and Jin Yuanbao had to keep forcing him down into the basin. The woman stood to the side, gourd in hand, as if in a trance. ‘Are you dead, or what?’ Jin Yuanbao barked. ‘Give me a hand here!’

As if waking from a dream, she put down the gourd and knelt beside the basin, where she began washing the boy’s back and his bottom. Their eldest daughter – a girl of seven or eight clad only in baggy red knee-length shorts, her shoulders hunched, hair a mess, barefoot – walked into the room rubbing her eyes.

‘Die [father], Niang [mother], how come you’re washing him? You going to cook him and feed him to us?’

‘Get back to bed, damn it!’ Jin Yuanbao snapped viciously.

At the sight of his elder sister, Little Treasure cried out to her. But the girl, not daring to say another word, turned and slinked back into the other room, stopping in the doorway to watch her parents at work.

Having cried himself hoarse, Little Treasure could only sob, a hollow, listless sound. The grime on his body turned to greasy mudballs in the murky water.

‘Bring me a washing gourd and a piece of soap,’ the man said.

The woman fetched the items from behind the stove. ‘You hold him,’ Jin Yuanbao said, ‘while I scrub.’

The woman and Yuanbao changed places.

Yuanbao dipped the washing gourd first in the water, then in the soap dish, and began scrubbing the boy, his neck and his bottom, and everything in between, including even the spaces between his fingers. Covered with soap bubbles, Treasure cried out in pain; the room was suffused with a strange, offensive odor.

‘Treasure’s daddy, not so rough. Don’t break the skin.’

‘He’s not made of paper,’ Yuanbao said. ‘His skin’s tougher than that! You don’t know how cunning those inspectors are. They even probe the assholes, and if they find any grime, they lower their appraisal by one grade. Each grade is worth more than ten yuan.’

Finally, the bath was finished, and Yuanbao held Little Treasure while the woman dried him off. His skin glowed red in the lamplight and gave off a pleasant, meaty smell. The woman fetched a new suit of clothes and took the boy from his father. Little Treasure began a new search for the breast, which his mother gave him.

Yuanbao dried his hands and filled his pipe with tobacco. After lighting it with the lantern and blowing out a mouthful of smoke, he said:

I’m soaked with sweat, thanks to this little brat.’

Little Treasure fell asleep, holding the nipple in his mouth. His mother held on to him, reluctant to let go.

‘Give him to me.’ Yuanbao said. 'I've got a long way to go this morning.’

The woman slipped the nipple out of the boy’s mouth, which twitched as if the nipple were still in it.

Jin Yuanbao picked up the paper lantern with one hand, his sleeping son with the other, and went out into the lane, which led to the village’s main street. While walking down the lane, he could feel a pair of eyes on his back from the door, and that caused him much emotional distress; but once he was out on the street, the feeling disappeared without a trace.

The moon was still out, turning the blacktop gray. Roadside poplars, their branches bare, looked like gaunt standing men, the tips pale and ghostly. He shivered. The lantern cast a warm, yellow glow, its flickering shadow looming large on the surface of the road. He sniffled as he looked at the waxen tear running down the wick. A dog alongside someone’s wall barked languidly; he looked down at the dog’s shadow, sharing the sense of languor as he heard it scurry noisily into a haystack. When he left the village, he heard crying children, and looked up to see lights burning in the windows of peasant huts; he knew they were doing what he and his wife had done a while earlier. Knowing he’d gotten the jump on them lightened his mood a bit.

As he neared the Earth God Temple on the village outskirts, he took a packet of spirit money out of his pocket, lit it with the lantern, and laid it in a cauldron by the temple door. The flames licked up through the paper like coiling snakes. He looked inside the temple, where the Earth God himself sat for all time, a spirit-wife seated on either side; all three had icy smiles on their faces. The Earth God and his wives had been fashioned by Stonemason Wang, black stone for him, white for his wives. The Earth God was larger than both his wives put together, like an adult between two children. Thanks to the inadequate skills of Stonemason Wang, all three were ugly as could be. In the summer, owing to a leaky roof, moss grew on the statues, leaving a green, oily sheen. As the spirit money burned, the charred paper curled inward like white butterflies, and scarlet-tipped flames shimmered around the edges before dying out. He heard the paper crackle.

Having thus written off his son’s residence registration to the local deity, Jin Yuanbao put the lantern and the little boy on the ground and knelt down to kowtow to the Earth God and his wives. Then he picked up his son and lantern and hurried off.

He reached Salty River by the time the sun rose above the mountain. Salt trees lining the riverbank seemed made of glass; the water was bright red. He blew out the lantern and hid it among the salt trees, then walked to the landing to wait for the ferry to ply its way across the river.

As soon as the boy was awake, he started bawling. Afraid that the energy used for crying might melt off pounds, Yuanbao knew he needed to pacify the child. At his age, he had already begun walking, so Yuanbao took him over to the sandy bank and snapped a branch off a nearby salt tree as a makeshift toy. Taking out his pipe and tobacco, he felt a soreness in his arms when he lifted it to his mouth. By then the boy was smashing black ants in the sand with his toy, which was so heavy it nearly tipped him over when he raised it above his head. The red sun climbing into the sky lit up not only the surface of the river, but the boy’s face as well. Yuanbao was content to let his son play by himself. The river was half a li or so in width, its serene water muddy and turgid. When the sun made its appearance in the sky, it lay reflected in the river like a fallen post on a sheet of yellow satin. No sane person would consider building a bridge over a river like this.

The ferry was still tied up on the opposite bank, bobbing up and down in the shallows and looking very small at this distance. Not a big boat to begin with – he’d ridden it before – it was run by a deaf old man who lived in a rammed-earth hut by the river. Yuanbao saw a thread of greenish smoke rising from the hut, and knew that the deaf ferryman was cooking his breakfast. All he could do was wait.

As time passed, other passengers walked up, including two old-timers and a teenage boy, plus a middle-aged woman carrying an infant. The old couple, apparently husband and wife, sat quietly, staring at the muddy water with eyes blank as marbles. The boy, stripped to the waist and barefoot, wore only a pair of blue shorts; his face, like his nearly naked body, was pale and scaly. After running over to the river’s edge to release a stream of urine into the water, he walked up next to Jin Yuanbao’s son to watch the black ants being pounded into mush by the salt-tree branch. He said something unintelligible to the boy, who, astonishingly, seemed to understand him, since he laughed and flashed his baby teeth. The unkempt hair of the sallow-faced woman was tied up by a white string. She was wearing a blue jacket over black pants, both recently washed. Jin Yuanbao watched with alarm as she held the baby up to pee. A boy! A competitor. But a closer examination showed him to be much thinner than his own son; his skin was dark, his hair a dull brown. Confident that the boy was not in Little Treasure’s league, he felt generous.

‘Sister-in-law.’ he said casually, ‘is that where you’re headed too?’

She looked at him suspiciously and hugged her child closer. Her lips trembled, but she said nothing.

Rebuffed, Jin Yuanbao walked off to gaze at the scenery across the river.

The sun had leaped a good ten feet above the river, which had turned from a dirty yellow to a glassy gold. The ferry remained quietly tethered on the opposite bank, as smoke continued curling up from the ceiling of the hut; no sign of the deaf ferryman.

Little Treasure and the scaly boy had walked, hand in hand, down the riverbank; anxiously, Yuanbao ran after them and scooped Little Treasure into his arms, leaving the scaly boy to look up at him with an uncomprehending stare. Little Treasure started to bawl and struggled to get down out of his father’s arms.

‘Don’t cry,’ his father said to pacify him, ‘don’t cry, now. Let’s watch the old ferryman pole his boat over.’

He glanced again at the opposite bank; as if he had willed it, a man who seemed to glow limped toward the ferry, where several prospective passengers fell in behind him.

Jin Yuanbao held tight to Little Treasure, who soon calmed down and stopped crying. Haltingly, he complained that he was hungry, so his father took a handful of fried soybeans from his pocket, chewed them up, and transferred the pasty mixture to Little Treasure’s mouth. Again the boy started crying, as if to protest the food, which he swallowed nonetheless.

The ferry was about halfway across the river when a tall, bearded man burst from the salt-tree thicket. Carrying a child who was at least two feet in length, he joined the crowd of waiting passengers.

Jin Yuanbao, his mouth smelling like burned nuts, tensed fearfully for some reason as he looked at the bearded man, who was sizing up the people on the riverbank. His eyes were big and very dark, his nose pointed and slightly hooked. The child in his arms – a boy- was dressed in a brand-new red outfit with gold stitching here and there, which made him stand out, even though he curled inward. His hair was thick and bristly, his face soft and white, but his slender eyes looked exceptionally old as they surveyed the scene. Definitely not the eyes of a child. And those ears, so big and fleshy. It would have been impossible not to take note of him, even though he was cradled in the bearded man’s arms.

The bow of the ferry turned upstream as it drew up to the bank. The waiting passengers clustered together, eyes glued to the boat as it reached the shallows. Exchanging his scull for a bamboo pole, the deaf old man maneuvered the boat toward the bank, the bow raising dirty red waves until it was parallel with the land. A motley group of seven people jumped down off the boat after placing small bills or shiny coins in a gourd hanging beside the cabin; the deaf old man stood there, bamboo pole in hand, watching the river as it flowed east.

Once the incoming passengers had disembarked, the people waiting on the bank scurried aboard. Jin Yuanbao should have been first to board, but he lingered a moment to let the bearded man go ahead of him. The middle-aged woman carrying the child was right behind, followed by the old couple, who were aided by the scaly teenager: first he helped the old lady aboard, then the old man, before spryly leaping onto the bow himself.

Jin Yuanbao, seated directly across from the bearded man, was frightened by the man’s deep, dark eyes, and even more so by the sinister gaze of the boy in red cradled in his arms. That was no child, it was a little demon, pure and simple. The penetrating look so unsettled Yuanbao that he couldn’t sit still, and he fidgeted so much he made the boat rock. The old boatman may have been deaf, but he decidedly was not dumb.

‘You, there,’ he said loudly, ‘sit still.’

To avoid the little demon’s gaze, Yuanbao turned to look at the water, at the sun, at a solitary gray gull skimming the surface of the river. And still he was uneasy, as a series of chills swept over him, until he was forced to stare at the bare back of the boatman as he poled them across the river. Though the back was bent, the old man was quite muscular; years of living on the water had turned his skin the color of polished bronze. The sight of his body brought Jin Yuanbao a measure of comfort and revitalization, which is why he was reluctant to avert his eyes from it. The old man worked at a steady rhythm, gently moving his paddle-shaped scull from the stern, churning the water like a long brown fish chasing after them. The creaks and groans of the rope that lashed the scull down, the crashing of waves against the bow, and the old man’s labored breathing all merged into a song of tranquillity; but Jin Yuanbao was anything but tranquil. Little Treasure began to howl, and he felt the child’s head press painfully into his chest, as if frightened; he looked up and found himself pinned down by the awl-like gaze of the little demon. A spasm wracked Yuanbao’s heart, his hair stood on end. Turning away from the gaze, he hugged his son close, as a cold sweat soaked through his clothes.

They made it to the other bank – finally. As soon as the ferry was tied up, Yuanbao took a sweat-soaked bill out of his pocket and stuffed it into the deaf old man’s gourd, then hopped off the boat and onto the damp sand of the riverbank. Without so much as a glance behind him, he scurried across the sandy beach with his son in his arms. After climbing over the embankment, he found the road to town, and took off like a meteor, his feet moving like pistons. He was in a hurry to get to town, and in an even bigger hurry to put as much distance between the little demon in red and himself as possible.

The road was broad and level, and seemingly endless. Only a few yellow leaves remained on the dense yet well-spaced branches of roadside poplars; here and there a sparrow or a crow chirped or cawed. The late-autumn sky was high, the air clean; not a cloud anywhere, but Yuanbao had no time to enjoy the passing scenery as he hurried along like a rabbit trying to outrun a wolf.

It was noon by the time he reached town, tired and thirsty; Little Treasure was hot as a cinder in his arms. He reached into his pocket, found he still had a few coins, and headed for a little wineshop, where he sat at a corner table and ordered a bowlful of bottom liquor, most of which he poured down Little Treasure’s throat, saving a mouthful for himself. When he raised his hand to drive off some flies buzzing around Little Treasure’s head, his hand froze in mid-air, as if struck by lightning.

There, in another corner, sat the bearded man, the little demon who had thrown such fear into Jin Yuanbao’s heart perched atop the table and drinking a glass of liquor as if it were water, his practiced, easy movements showing he knew his way around such an establishment. His body did not fit his movements or his manner, creating an absurd sight for everyone in the room, waiter and customer alike, their eyes glued to the little demon. But the bearded man seemed oblivious to the stares around him, too busy drinking his Penetrating Fragrance to notice. Yuanbao quickly finished his drink, tossed four coins onto the table, picked up Little Treasure, and ran out of the shop, his head so low his chin nearly touched his chest. Materialistic by nature, he was known in his village for his courage; but today was different – he had become a man terrified of his own suspicions.

It was afternoon nap time when Yuanbao found himself standing in front of the Special Purchasing Section of the Culinary Academy, which was housed in a spotless white building with a domed roof and ringed by a high brick wall with a moon gate. A garden of exotic plants and flowers, evergreens, and lush hedges surrounded an oval pond with a man-made hill that spewed water like a volcano, but in the shape of a chrysanthemum, an unending geyser of blooming and falling. The water splashed noisily when it hit the surface of the pond, which was home to turtles with intricate shell patterns. Even though this was Jin Yuanbao’s second visit, he was still on pins and needles, like a man about to enter a fairy grotto, every pore of his body tremulous with the prospect of blessings.

Thirty or more people were lined up beside the steel railing; Yuanbao went to the end of the line, behind the bearded man and the little demon in red, whose head emerged above the bearded man’s shoulder, the same sinister gaze in his malevolent eyes.

Yuanbao opened his mouth to scream. But he didn’t dare, not there.

Two excruciatingly long hours later, the sound of a bell came from inside the building, breathing life into the dispirited, tired people in line, who stood up and began cleaning the faces or wiping the noses or straightening the clothes of the little boys in their arms. A few of them even powdered their sons’ faces with cotton and added saliva-moistened dabs of rouge to their cheeks. Yuanbao wiped Little Treasure’s sweaty face with his jacket sleeve and ran his fingers through the boy’s hair. Only the bearded man kept his composure, as the little demon lay curled in his arms, taking in the scene with his cold eyes – calm, cool, collected.

The steel door up front swung open on groaning hinges to reveal a bright, spacious room. The business of purchasing was about to begin, and the only notable sounds were children’s sobs. Purchasing agents spoke to their clients in hushed tones, lending the scene a peaceful, harmonious air. Yuanbao dropped back a bit in line, fearful of the little demon’s gaze. It couldn’t hurt, since the space inside the railing was wide enough to accommodate only one child-laden adult at a time. No one could squeeze past him from behind. The sound of splashing water in the fountain rose and fell, but never stopped completely; birds chirped in the trees.

After a woman came out of the room empty-handed, the bearded man and the little demon went in to be interviewed. Yuanbao and Little Treasure were a good ten feet away, too far to hear what was said. Putting his fears aside, Yuanbao observed them carefully. He watched a man in a white uniform and a red-bordered chef’s hat take the little demon from the bearded man. The normally somber look on the little demon’s face was replaced by a smile that terrified Yuanbao; the staff worker, on the other hand, seemed unaffected, since the smile was intended to give him a warm, fuzzy feeling. After removing the little demon’s clothes, the man prodded his chest with a glass rod, which made him giggle. A moment later, Yuanbao heard the big man bellow:

‘Second-grade? You’re trying to cheat me, damn you!’

The staff worker raised his voice slightly:

'I know my business, friend, and how to judge quality. This boy of yours has heft, that I’ll admit. But his skin is leathery and his flesh is tough. If he hadn’t smiled so sweetly, he’d be no better than third-grade!’

The bearded man grumbled angrily before snatching the proffered bills. After a cursory count, he stuffed them into his pocket and walked out of the room with his head down. Yuanbao heard the little fellow inside, who’d had a second-grade tag stuck to his skin, curse the retreating back of the bearded man:

‘You fucking murderer! I hope you get hit by a truck as soon as you walk outside, you bitch-fucking bastard, you!’

His voice was shrill and hoarse, and no one alive could possibly have mistaken the vile language as having come from the mouth of a child not even three feet tall. Yuanbao looked into that face, which had been smiling only a moment ago and was now scowling angrily, his brow creased, and he was reminded of a pint-sized butcher. All five staff workers leaped to their feet in astonishment, faces clouded with fear; for a moment they didn’t know what to do. The little demon, hands on his hips, spat a mouthful of saliva at them, then swaggered over to a crowd of huddled children with tags on their bodies.

The staff workers stood dumbfounded for a moment, then exchanged glances, as if comforting one another: No big deal, right? No big deal.

The work recommenced. A ruddy-faced, middle-aged man in a chef’s cap sitting behind a desk motioned genially to Jin Yuanbao, who rushed up to him. His heart was in his mouth. Little Treasure started crying again, and Yuanbao tried his best to calm him. He recalled what had happened on the previous occasion: He had arrived late that time, and the quota was already filled. He might have been able to beg his way in the door, but Little Treasure had cried so hard he’d nearly gone crazy. Now it was happening all over again.

‘Good little boy, don’t cry,’ he said imploringly. ‘People don’t like children who cry all the time.’

The worker asked softly:

‘Was this child born specifically for the Special Purchasing Section?’

Yuanbao’s throat was so painfully dry that his affirmative answer sounded forced and strange.

‘So, he’s not a person, right?’ the worker continued.

‘Right, he’s not a person.’

‘What you’re selling is a special product and not a child, right?’

‘Right.’

‘You give us the merchandise, we pay you. You’re a willing seller, we’re willing buyers, a fair business transaction. Once the exchange is made, there’ll be no quibbling, is that right?’

‘Right.’

‘OK, put your thumbprint here.’ The worker slid a prepared document across the desk along with an ink pad.

‘I don’t know how to read, comrade,’ Yuanbao said. ‘What does this say?’

‘It’s a written version of the transaction we just completed,’ the worker replied.

Yuanbao left a big red thumbprint in the spot pointed out to him by the worker. He felt relieved, as if he’d finished what he came to do.

A staff member walked up and took Little Treasure from him. He was still bawling, which the woman brought to a halt by squeezing his neck. Yuanbao bent down to watch as she removed Little Treasure’s clothes and quickly but efficiently examined him from head to toe, including a look up his little asshole and a tug at his foreskin to check the head of his little pecker.

She clapped her hands and announced to the man behind the desk:

‘Top grade!’

Yuanbao nearly burst with excitement; he damn near cried.

Another staff member picked up Little Treasure and put him on a scale.

‘Twenty-one catties, four ounces,’ he announced softly.

A staff member punched a little machine, from which a slip of paper emerged with a whirr. He motioned Yuanbao over.

‘Top grade goes for a hundred yuan a cattie,’ he said to Yuanbao as he walked up to the machine. ‘Twenty-one catties, four ounces works out to be two thousand one hundred forty yuan in People’s Currency.’

He handed Yuanbao a stack of bills and the slip of paper.

‘Count it,’ he said.

Yuanbao was trembling so badly he could barely make his way through the stack of bills. His mind was like mush. Holding on to the money for dear life, he asked with a catch in his voice:

‘Is this all mine?’

The man nodded.

‘Can I go now?’

The man nodded.