The Republic of Wine

I

The boy sat cross-legged in the middle of the gilded platter, golden brown and oozing sweet-smelling oil, a giddy smile frozen on his face. Lovely, naive. Around him was spread a garland of green vegetable leaves and bright red radish blossoms. The stupefied investigator swallowed back the juices that rumbled up from his stomach as he gawked at the boy. A pair of limpid eyes gazed back at him, steam puffed out of the boy’s nostrils, and the lips quivered as if he were about to speak. His smile, his naive loveliness, filled the investigator’s mind with many thoughts; somewhere, he sensed vaguely, he’d seen this boy. Somewhere, and not so long ago. Crisp laughter rang in the investigator’s ears. The aroma of fresh strawberries surged from the boy’s tiny mouth. Tell me a story, Papa. Leave Papa alone. The pink-faced child was cradled by the sweet-smiling wife. All of a sudden, her smile turned strange, spooky. Her cheeks twitched noticeably with feigned mystery. Bastards! He banged his fist on the table and stood up angrily.

A meaningful smile showed on Diamond Jin’s face, the Mine Director and Party Secretary grinned craftily. The investigator thought he must be dreaming. He opened his eyes to survey the scene; the boy was still sitting cross-legged on the platter.

‘After you, Comrade Ding, old fellow,’ Diamond Jin said.

‘This is a famous dish in these parts,’ the Party Secretary and Mine Director said. It’s called Stork Delivering a Son. We serve it only to visiting dignitaries. It’s a dish they won’t forget for as long as they live, one that has drawn nothing but praise. We’ve earned a lot of convertible currency for the nation by serving it to our most honored guests. Such as yourself, sir.’

‘After you, Comrade Ding! Special Investigator Ding Gou’er of the Higher Procuratorate, please sample our Stork Delivering a Son.’ The Party Secretary and Mine Director waved their chopsticks in the air, urging their guest to dig in.

The boy exuded a powerful, irresistible fragrance. His mouth watering, Ding Gou’er reached into his briefcase to feel the cold muzzle and star-inlaid carved handle of his pistol. The muzzle was round, the sight atop it triangular; it was cool to the touch. Everything felt just right, his senses were in good working order. I’m not drunk, I’m Investigator Ding Gou’er, on assignment in the city of Liquorland to investigate a group of cadres, led by Diamond Jin, who are reputed to be feasting on little boys, a serious charge, a major charge, a damning accusation, a cruelty virtually unknown anywhere in the world, a corruption unprecedented in the history of man. I am not drunk, I am not hallucinating. They’re mistaken if they think they can get away with this. A braised chad has been placed on the table in front of me, in their words, a platter of Stork Delivering a Son. My mind is clear, but fll test my faculties, just in case: eighty-five times eighty-five is seven thousand two hundred twenty-five. There, that should prove it. They killed a little boy for my dining pleasure. These conspirators want to make me an accessory by stuffing his flesh into my mouth. He whipped out his pistol.

‘Don’t move.’ he commanded. ‘Put your hands up, you monsters!’

The three men sat there stunned, but the red girls shrieked and huddled together, like a flock of startled chicks. Pistol in hand, Ding Gou’er pushed back from the table and retreated a couple of steps, until he was standing with his back to the window. If they had any battle experience, he thought, they’d have little trouble wresting the pistol out of my hand. But they didn’t, and now all three were staring down the barrel of his gun. They’d better not move, if they knew what was good for them. His briefcase had fallen to the floor when he stood up. The skin between his thumb and index finger felt the cold steel of the pistol resting against it; he tested the gentle give of the trigger. He had released the safety when he pulled the pistol from his briefcase, so the bullet and firing pin were ready for the next move; one twitch is all it would take.

‘You bastards.’ he said coldly. ‘You lousy Fascists! Get your hands up, I said!’

Diamond Jin raised his hands slowly; the Party Secretary and Mine Director followed suit.

‘Comrade Ding, old fellow, aren’t you carrying this joke a little too far?’ Diamond Jin asked with a smile.

‘Joke?’ Ding Gou’er gnashed his teeth in anger. ‘Who do you think is joking? You child-eating monsters!’

Diamond Jin threw his head back and roared with laughter. The Party Secretary and Mine Director laughed too, but foolishly.

‘Old Ding, good old Ding, you’re a fine comrade with a strong humanistic bent, for which I respect you,’ Diamond Jin said. ‘But you’re wrong. You’ve made a subjective error. Look closely. Is that a little boy?’

His words had the desired effect on Ding Gou’er, who turned to look at the boy on the platter. He was still smiling, his lips parted slightly, as if he were about to speak.

‘He’s incredibly lifelike!’ Ding Gou’er said loudly.

‘Right, lifelike, Diamond Jin repeated. ‘And why is this fake child so lifelike? Because the chefs here in Liquorland are extraordinarily talented, uncanny masters.’

The Party Secretary and Mine Director echoed his praise:

‘And this isn’t the best we have to offer! A professor at the Culinary Academy can make them so that even the eyelashes flutter. No one dares let his chopsticks touch one of hers.’

‘Comrade Ding, old fellow, put down your gun and pick up your chopsticks. Join us in sampling this unique taste-treat!’ Diamond Jin lowered his hands and made a welcoming gesture to Ding Gou’er.

‘No!’ Ding Gou’er replied sternly. ‘I hereby proclaim that I will not participate in this feast of yours!’

A look of irritation appeared on Diamond Jin’s face as he said in measured tones:

‘You sure are stubborn, Comrade Ding, old fellow. We are all men who raised their fists and took an oath before the Party flag. The people’s pursuit of happiness may be your responsibility, but it is also mine. Don’t delude yourself into thinking that you’re the only decent person in the world. People who have partaken of Liquorland’s child feast include senior leaders in the Party and the government, highly respected friends from the five great continents, plus renowned artists and celebrities from China and the rest of the world. They have praised us effusively. You alone, Investigator Ding Gou’er, have responded to our lavish treatment by drawing a weapon on us!’

The Party Secretary or Mine Director echoed the sentiment: ‘Comrade Ding Gou’er, what evil wind has clouded your vision? Are you aware that your pistol is aimed not at class enemies, but at your very own class brothers?’

Ding Gou’er’s wrist faltered, the barrel of his gun sagged. His eyes blurred and the lovely butterfly that had returned to its cocoon began to squirm again. Feelings of dread pressed down on him like a boulder, weighing heavily on his shoulders until he felt that his position was untenable, and that his skeleton could crumble at any moment. He was face-to-face with a bottomless, foul-smelling cesspool that would pull him down into its obliterating muck and keep him there forever. But that cunning little fellow, the boy gushing perfume, a tiny son joining ranks with his mother, sitting amid a fairy mist the shape and color of a lotus flower, raised his hand, actually raised his hand toward me! His fingers were stubby, pudgy, meaty and so very lovely. Wrinkles on his fingers, three circular seams; the back of his hand sporting four prominent dimples. The sweet sound of his laughter wound round the fragrance hanging in the air. The lotus began to levitate, carrying the child along with it. His round little belly button, so childish and innocent, like a dimple on a cheek. You sweet-talking brigands! Don’t think you can lie and cheat your way out of this! The cooked little boy smiled at me. You say this child is actually a famous dish. Whoever heard such nonsense? During the Warring States period, Yi Ya cooked and fed his son to Duke Huan of Qi, and the taste was superb, like tender lamb, but better. You bunch of Yi Yas, where do you think you’re going? Get your hands up, and take what’s coming to you! Yi Ya had it all over you. At least he cooked his own son. You cook other people’s sons. Yi Ya was a member of the feudal landlord class, and devotion to his king was a noble calling. You are ranking Party cadres who kill the sons of common folk to fill your own bellies. Heaven will not tolerate such sins! I hear the piteous wails of little boys in the steamers. I hear them wailing in crackling woks, on chopping blocks, in oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar, sugar, anise powder, peppercorns, cinnamon, ginger, and cooking liquor. They are wailing in your intestines, in the toilets, and in the sewers. They are wailing in the rivers and in the septic tanks. They are wailing in the bellies of fish and in the soil of farmlands. In the bellies of whales, sharks, eels, and hairtail fish. In tassels of wheat, in kernels of corn, in tender peapods, in the vines of sweet potatoes, in the stalks of sorghum, and in pollens of millet. Why are they wailing? They cry and they cry, they howl, breaking the heart of anyone who hears the sound emerging from apples, from pears, from grapes, from peaches and apricots, and from walnuts. Fruit stalls carry the sound of children crying. Vegetable stalls carry the sound of children crying. Slaughterhouses carry the sound of children crying. From the banquet tables of Liquorland come the chilling, skin-crawling wails of one murdered little boy after another. Who should I shoot if not you three?

He saw greasy faces floating in the mist surrounding the braised boy, appearing and disappearing like the glitter of broken glass. Greasy, cynical, disdainful smiles were draped across their transient faces. The fires of anger filled his chest. Righteous, vengeful flames blazed, turning the room the dazzling bright red of lotus blossoms. You bastards! he roared. Your day of judgment has arrived! He heard a roar erupt from the top of his head, and it sounded strange to him. It bounced against the ceiling and silently shattered into shards like fallen petals, the fragmented sounds dragging behind them smoky red tails that settled like dust over the banquet table. He squeezed the trigger in the direction of the kaleidoscopic faces, those faces with their glass inlays, those sinister smiles. With a crack, the trigger drove the firing pin into the green rump of that lovely, shiny copper casing, igniting the gunpowder, faster than the eye can see, compressing the gas and sending the bullet forward, ever forward ever forward ever forward forward forward. With a deafening explosion and a puff of smoke, the bullet burst from the mouth of the barrel. The explosion rolled like waves, ear-splitting crescendos, causing all the unrighteous, all the inhumane to tremble before it. Causing all the decent and honest, all the good and beautiful, all the sweet-smelling to clap their hands and laugh joyously. Long live righteousness, long live truth, long live the people, long live the Republic. Long live my magnificent son. Long live boys. Long live girls. Long live the mothers of boys and girls. Long live me, too. To all, long life, long life, long long life.

Beginning to froth at the mouth, the special investigator mumbled incoherently, slowly, like a dilapidated wall crumbling to dust. Drinking glasses swept off the table by his hand and the pistol it held were sent crashing into his body, soaking his clothes and his face with beer, strong colorless liquor, and grape wine. He lay on the floor, face down, like a corpse fished out of a fermentation vat.

Many minutes passed before Diamond Jin, the Party Secretary, the Mine Director, and the huddled group of red serving girls recovered and crawled out from under the table, rose from the floor, or stuck their heads out from under someone’s skirt. The overpowering smell of gunpowder permeated the dining room. Ding Gou’er’s bullet had struck the braised boy right between the eyes, shattering the head and sending brain matter splattering against the wall, a mixture of reds and whites, steaming and redolent, releasing an abundance of emotions. The braised boy was now a headless boy. The unsmashed parts of his skull had tumbled to the edge of the table’s second tier, between a platter of sea cucumbers and another of braised shrimp, pieces of head like shattered watermelon rind, or pieces of watermelon rind like shattered head, watermelon juices dripping like blood, or blood dripping like watermelon juices, soiling the tablecloth and soiling the people’s eyes. A pair of eyes like purple grapes or purple grapes like a pair of eyes rolled around on the floor, one skittering behind the liquor cabinet, the other rolling up to a red serving girl, who squashed it with her foot. She rocked back and forth briefly, a shrill ‘Waaf emerging from between her lips.

In the wake of that ‘Waa!’ Party spirit, principle, and morality – all those qualities that combine to make a leader – returned to their minds and coordinated their actions. The Party Secretary or Mine Director stuck out his tongue and tasted pieces of the boy’s brains that had bespattered the back of his hand. It must have been delicious, because he smacked his lips and said:

‘He’s ruined a perfectly good plate of food!’

Diamond Jin gave the fellow tasting the splattered brain a dirty look, bringing embarrassment to his face.

‘Help Comrade Ding to his feet.’ Deputy Head Jin said, ‘and be quick about it! Clean off his face and feed him a bowl of sobering-up soup.’

The red serving girls sprang into action. After helping Ding Gou’er to his feet, they wiped his mouth and face, but didn’t dare clean his hands. He was still holding the pistol, which could go off again at any time. They swept up the broken glass and mopped the floor, then propped up his head and pried open his mouth with a sterilized stainless-steel tongue-depressor to insert a hard plastic funnel, through which they fed him sobering-up soup, one spoonful after another.

‘What grade soup is that?’ Diamond Jin asked.

‘First,’ the red serving girl in charge replied.

‘Use second grade,’ Diamond Jin said. ‘It’ll sober him up faster.’

The serving girl went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of gold-colored liquid. As the wooden stopper was removed, a cool, refreshing odor went straight from the bottle into the hearts of the people in the room. They poured more than half of the golden liquid into the funnel. Ding Gou’er coughed, he choked, the liquid shot up out of the funnel like a geyser.

He felt a cool stream of liquid enter his digestive tract, where it extinguished the fires and reawakened his mental faculties. Now that his body had come back to life, he recaptured the beautiful butterfly of consciousness that was trying to climb out of his skull. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the headless little boy sitting in the gilded platter; that sent stabbing pains straight to his heart. Dear mother! he blurted out involuntarily. Oh the agony! He raised his pistol.

Diamond Jin raised his chopsticks.

‘Comrade Ding Gou’er,’ he said, ‘if we really are monsters who eat little boys, you have every right to shoot us dead. But what if we aren’t? The Party gave you that pistol to punish evil-doers, not to indiscriminately snuff out the lives of the innocent.’

‘If you have something to say, out with it,’ Ding Gou’er said.

Diamond Jin took one of his chopsticks and thrust it into the headless little boy’s darling little erect penis. The boy crumbled in the platter and turned into a pile of body parts. Using his chopstick as a pointer, Diamond Jin launched into his clarification:

‘This is one of the boy’s arms, it’s made of rich lotus root from Moon Lake, melon, and sixteen herbs and spices, fashioned with extraordinary artistry. This leg is actually a special ham sausage. The boy’s torso is made from a processed suckling sow. The head, to which your bullet put an end, was fashioned out of a silver melon. His hair was nothing more than strings of the hirsute vegetable. Now it’s impossible for me to give you a detailed and accurate description of all the materials or the meticulous and complex workmanship that went into the preparation of this famous dish, since it’s patented here in Liquorland. Besides, I have only a rough idea myself. Otherwise, I’d be a chef too. But I am authorized to inform you that this dish is legal and humane, and that it should be the target of chopsticks, not a bullet.’

Having said his piece, Diamond Jin picked up one of the boy’s hands and began eating it hungrily. The Party Secretary or Mine Director stabbed an arm with a silver fork and placed it on Ding Gou’er’s plate.

‘Go ahead, Comrade Ding, old fellow,’ he said respectfully, ‘dig in.’

Still agitated, Ding Gou’er subjected the arm to a careful examination. It had the appearance of rich lotus root, yet looked like a real arm. The aroma was certainly seductive, sweet, like that of lotus root, yet uniquely unfamiliar. Sheepishly he put the pistol back into his briefcase. Just because I’m here on special assignment doesn’t mean I can go around shooting anyone and anything I please! I must be more careful. Diamond Jin picked up a sharp knife and – one-two-three – chopped the other arm into ten pieces. He picked up one and held it out to Ding Gou’er.

‘Five-eyed lotus root,’ he said. ‘How about an arm, does it have eyes?’

As he listened to Diamond Jin gnaw on the arm, he could tell it was lotus root. He looked down at the piece in front of him, and couldn’t decide if he should try it or not. The Party Secretary and Mine Director were chewing on the boy’s legs. Diamond Jin handed him the knife and smiled his encouragement. Taking the knife, he tentatively laid the blade against the arm. As if drawn by a magnet, it sank into the armlike lotus root with a slurp and sliced it in two.

He picked up a piece of the arm with his chopsticks, closed his eyes, and crammed it into his mouth. Waaa, my god! His taste buds cheered in unison, his jaw muscles twitched, and a hand reached up from his throat to pull the thing down.

‘That’s the ticket.’ Diamond Jin said cheerfully. ‘Now Comrade Ding Gou’er is wallowing in the muck with the rest of us. You’ve eaten a little boy’s arm.’

Ding Gou’er froze. ‘You told me it wasn’t real,’ he said as his suspicions returned.

‘Oh, my dear comrade,’ Diamond Jin said, ‘don’t be silly. I was just having fun with you! Use your head. Liquorland’s a civilized city, not some savage, backwater nation. Who could bear to actually eat children? That the Higher Procuratorate believed such a fantastic tale and actually sent someone to investigate makes quite a case for its standards. Those of a novelist with an overactive imagination, if you ask me.’

The two mine dignitaries held out their glasses.

‘Comrade Ding,’ they said, ‘you had no reason to fire your pistol. Your punishment is three glasses!’

Ding Gou’er accepted this well-deserved punishment with equanimity.

‘Comrade Ding, you see everything in black and white,’ Diamond Jin said. ‘You either love or you hate. Here’s to you, three glasses!’

As a man who thrived on flattery, Ding Gou’er happily complied.

Now with six glassfuls in his stomach, the blur returned. When the Mine Director or Party Secretary passed half of the other arm to him, he threw down his chopsticks, snatched it up in both hands, grease and all, and attacked it with his teeth.

Everyone laughed as Ding Gou’er gobbled up the arm. The Mine Director and Party Secretary urged the red serving girls to toast their guest. The coquettish red girls managed to coax Ding Gou’er into downing another twenty-one glassfuls. He was stuck to the ceiling when he heard Diamond Jin say his good-byes. From his vantage point on the ceiling he watched Diamond Jin walk tranquilly out of the dining hall and heard him tell the Mine Director and Party Secretary to attend to something on his way out. The spring-hung naugahyde-covered doors were opened by two red girls, one on either side, respectful and attentive. He noticed how their hair was coifed atop their heads, he noticed their necks, and he also noticed the swellings on their chests. He immediately castigated himself for being such a degenerate voyeur. He saw the Party Secretary and Mine Director say something to the leader of the red serving girls on their way out. Now that all the men had left the room, the red serving girls crowded around the table and dug in, stuffing food into their mouths with both hands. They ate like barbarians, a far cry from their demeanor of a moment before. He saw the shell of his body, slouched in a chair like a hunk of dead meat, his neck pressing against the chair back, his head flopping to one side, liquor dribbling out of his mouth like an overturned gourd. From his vantage point on the ceiling, he wept over the half-dead body he had left behind.

Once they finished eating, the girls wiped their mouths with the tablecloth. One of them picked up a pack of China cigarettes when no one was looking and stuffed it into her bra. He sighed in commiseration for her breast, which had to share its cup with cigarettes. He heard the girl in charge say:

‘Come on, girls, carry this drunken kitty over to the guest house,’

Two girls tried lifting him up by the arms, but had trouble holding him, as if he were a rag doll. He heard a girl with a mole behind one ear grumble, The damned dog! That angered him. He watched as one of the girls picked up his briefcase, unzipped it, and took out the pistol, turning it over in her hand to get a good look at it. He cried out in alarm from the ceiling: Put that down! It could go off. But they might as well have been deaf. God help me! She shoved the pistol back into the briefcase, then unzipped an inner pocket and removed his mistress’s photograph. Come look at this! she said. The red girls crowded round and happily voiced their opinions. His anger reached its peak, as a stream of filthy language spewed from his mouth. The girls were oblivious to it all.

At long last, the red serving girls managed to hoist up my body enough to drag me out of the dining room and onto the hallway carpet, as if they were disposing of a corpse. One of them kicked me in the calf- intentionally. Slut. My flesh may be insensate, but my spirit isn’t. Hovering three feet above their heads, I flapped my wings and began to glide through the air, following behind my useless corporeal body and gazing at it with deep sadness. It was, it seemed, a very long hallway. I watched the liquor seep out of my mouth and run down my neck. It stank to high heaven, and the red girls plugged their noses to avoid it. One had an attack of the dry heaves. With my head slumped on my chest, my neck looked like a wilted stalk of garlic. No wonder my head lolled back and forth. I couldn’t see my face, but had a bird’s-eye view of both my pale ears. One of the red girls followed along carrying my briefcase.

At long last we made it to the end of the seemingly endless hallway, where I saw a familiar large hall. They dumped my body on the carpet, face up. The sight of that face shocked me: eyes squeezed shut, skin the color of old, torn window paper. My parted lips revealed a motley mouthful of teeth, some white, some black. A foul, boozy breath spilled out, and it was all I could do to keep from throwing up. Shivers wracked my flesh, and my pants were soaked. What a pity, I’d wet myself.

After resting to catch their breath, the red girls carried me out of the hall. A sea of sunflowers lay beneath a blood-red sun, the golden yellow blossoms exuding warmth against the scarlet background. A gleaming silver sedan was parked on a smooth cement road that cut through the sunflower forest. Diamond Jin climbed into the back seat of the car, which drove off slowly, the twin gentlemen waving as it passed by and picked up speed. The red girls dragged me down the road to the accompaniment of a barking dog beneath a sunflower plant whose stem was as thick as a tree trunk. Its glossy black body, topped by white ears, lurched back and forth each time it barked, accordion-fashion. Where were they taking me? Lights all around shone like shifty eyes. All the machinery was just as it had been that morning, including the windlass at the mouth of the mine. A gang of black-faced men in hard-hats came walking up. For some unknown reason, I was afraid to meet up with these men. If they had friendly intentions, well and good, but if not, I was in for it. The men quickly lined up on both sides of the road, forming a gauntlet past which the red serving girls carried me. My nostrils picked up the smell of sweat and damp mine-shaft stench. The men’s eyes bored through my body like drills. Some hurled curses as I passed by, but the red serving girls held their heads high and thrust out their chests proudly, ignoring the men. Then I realized that the curses, filled with sexual innuendo, were directed at them, not at me.

They carried me into a remote little building, where two women in white sat across from each other at a writing desk, their knees touching; some words had been carved on the desk. Their knees moved away slightly when we entered the shack; one of the women pressed a button on the wall, causing a door to open slowly. An elevator, apparently. After they carried me inside and closed the door, I saw Vd guessed correctly. The descent was meteoric, and I followed my body down the shaft, like a kite being tugged by its string. Down and down we went. A coal mine, I thought admiringly, which meant that all the activity would be underground. I was convinced they could have built an entire Great Wall underground if they had wanted to. The elevator shuddered noisily three times – we had reached the bottom. A blinding white light filled my eyes as I was carried into a sumptuous grand hall on whose watery smooth marble walls human shadows danced; the relief patterns on the ceiling were illuminated by hundreds of exquisite little lamps. Flowers and potted plants were arrayed around four enormous angular columns with marble facing. The sight of scabby goldfish swimming in an ultra-modern aquarium made my skin crawl. The girls placed my body in room 401.1 had no idea how the number 401 was arrived at, and wondered what kind of place this was. Manhattan’s high-rises stretch up to Heaven; Liquorland’s reach down to Hell. The girls stripped the shoes off my feet before laying me on a bed; my briefcase wound up on a tea table. They left. Five minutes later, a cream-colored serving girl opened the door and walked in to put a cup of tea on the table. Some tea for your honor, I heard her say to my body.

My body did not reply.

The cream-colored girl wore heavy makeup; her lashes were as thick as hog bristles. Just then the telephone at the head of the bed rang. She reached out and picked up the receiver with tapered fingers. The room was so quiet I could hear a man’s voice on the other end.

'Is he awake?’

‘He hasn’t moved. He’s scary.’

‘See if he’s got a heartbeat.’

She laid her palm on my chest; a palpable look of disgust on her face.

‘He’s got one,’ she said.

‘Give him some sobering-up tonic’

‘OK.’

The cream-colored girl left the room. I knew she’d be right back. She returned with a metal syringe, the kind veterinarians use. Since the tip was made of soft plastic, I didn’t have to worry about an injection. After inserting the tip between my lips, she forced some medicinal liquid through the syringe.

Before long, I heard the sounds of my body coming to and saw its arms move. It said something. It emitted a powerful force that tried to snag me. I struggled, turning myself into a sort of suction cup on the ceiling to resist being drawn downward; but I sensed that a part of me had already fallen prey to the force.

With difficulty, it sat up and opened its eyes, staring blankly at the wall for a long time. It picked up the teacup and drained it thirstily before falling backwards on the bed.

Quite a while later, the door opened softly and a barefoot, bare-chested boy wearing only a pair of blue shorts walked in; about fourteen or fifteen years old, he had scaly skin. He was light on his feet, making no sound at all as he approached me, like a black cat. I watched him with considerable interest. He looked familiar; I’d seen that boy somewhere before. A knife shaped like a willow leaf clenched between his teeth gave him the appearance of a black cat with a fish in its mouth.

I was scared, believe me, scared for that half-dead body of mine. At the same time I was puzzled over how a demon like that could have found his way into this hidden underground spot. The door closed by itself, creating a silence that pounded against my eardrums. As the scaly boy drew up next to me, I smelled a fishy odor, that of a scaly anteater that has just crawled out from under a rock. What was he going to do? His hair, matted and filled with burrs, smelled like little snakes, which slithered into my nostrils and headed straight for my brain. My body sneezed, sending the little demon crashing to the carpeted floor. He scrambled to his feet and touched my throat with his claws. The knife in his mouth emitted a cold blue glint. Oh, how I wanted to warn my body, but I couldn’t. I wracked my brains – squeezed them dry is more like it – to recall how, when, and where I’d done anything to offend this little demon. He reached out again, this time to pinch that area called the neck, like a master chef preparing to slaughter a chicken. I could feel his terrifying, hard claw, and still my body lay there helpless, snoring away, oblivious to the knowledge that the Grim Reaper hovered mere inches away. I found myself wishing he’d take the knife from his mouth and plunge it into my body’s throat to bring an end to my suffering there in my ceiling perch. But he didn’t. Now that he’d had his fill of pinching my throat, his claw moved down to touch my clothing and go through my pockets. He removed a Hero-brand gold fountain pen, took off the cap, and drew some lines on the back of his hand. There were scales there too. After drawing a line, he pulled his hand back, and his lips parted in what might have been a grin and might have been a pained look. I guess the nib made his skin itch, a sensation that either brought him pleasure or rekindled a fond memory. Over and over he drew lines; over and over his lips parted. Each line produced a scratchy sound, and I knew that my top-of-the-line Hero 800 gold fountain pen was a goner. It had been awarded to me as a model worker. This idiotic game went on for half an hour at least, until finally he laid the pen on the floor and recommenced his search of my pockets. He removed a handkerchief, a pack of cigarettes, an electronic cigarette lighter, my ID card, a remarkably lifelike toy pistol, my wallet, and a couple of coins. By the looks of it, this treasure trove had a dizzying effect on him. Like a greedy little boy, he laid it all out on the floor between his legs and began playing with each item as if he were the only person in the world. The fountain pen, of course, no longer interested him. Naturally, instinctively, he picked up the toy pistol and held it in front of him. The chrome barrel glinted in the artificial light. It was a perfectly crafted imitation of the real thing, the kind American military officers wear on their hips. It was beautiful. I knew there were still some caps in the chamber, ready to explode as soon as the trigger was pulled. Joy and excitement made his eyes sparkle enticingly. I was worried he’d give himself away if he pulled the trigger. How much difference was there between the boy’s arm and the fresh lotus root? Was my body being tricked? But it was too late to do anything. Pow! He pulled the trigger. I saw blue smoke and heard the explosion in the same instant. I held my breath, waiting for the sound of hurried footsteps outside the door and for the cream-colored girls and their guards to come bursting into the room. What could a gunshot in the middle of the night mean but murder or suicide? I began to worry about the plight of my scaly visitor, not wanting him to be caught. I must be honest -1 was intrigued by the little fellow, but not because of his scales. There are plenty of scaly creatures – fish, snakes, anteaters – and all but the anteaters, those clumsy, somewhat affected, animals, give me the creeps; I don’t care for cold, smelly fish, and dreary serpents disgust me. But my conjectures proved groundless. The gunshot changed nothing: no one came barging into the room, nothing. My visitor fired another round; in truth, this second explosion was unspectacular, commonplace, at least in that soundproof room, with its thick carpet, protected ceiling, and papered walls. He sat there undisturbed – no fear, no shock; either he was deaf or was a seasoned veteran, unfazed by such things. Having tired of the pistol, he tossed it aside and picked up my wallet, removing its contents – money, grain rations, cafeteria coupons, and expenditure receipts I hadn’t yet turned in for reimbursement. He fiddled with the cigarette lighter, from which a bright tongue of flame erupted. He smoked a cigarette. He coughed. He flicked the cigarette onto the carpet. My god! The carpet caught fire, and the stench of burning material rose in the air. Then it hit me: If my body was reduced to ashes, I’d be nothing but a puff of smoke. Its extinguishing would herald mine as well. Wake up, my body!

I hate you, you scaly demon!

No, I don’t hate you, I want only to laugh. But I can’t, as a matter of fact. He noticed the fire on the carpet and stood up slowly. Lifting one leg of his shorts, he reached in with two fingers, grabbed hold of his water hose, which was pretty big for his size, hard but not erect, and as scaly as the rest of his body, and took aim at the burning carpet. A loud spray of water produced an equally loud sizzle. It was a gusher, powerful enough to put out two such fires. I relaxed as I breathed in the mixed odor of urine and a drenched fire.

He began stripping the clothes from my body, determined to remove my jacket, one way or the other. I heard him panting. Once his task was accomplished, he put the jacket on. The hem came down to his knees. After picking up his new toys, he stuffed them into the jacket pockets. Now what was he going to do?

He spit the knife out and, gripping it in his hand, took a look around the room. He then carved the character for ten [+] into the wall four times, put the knife back between his teeth, as if clenching a willow leaf, flicked his floppy sleeves, and swaggered out of the room.

My body, having been dumped back onto the bed, snored on.

II

Dear Mo Yan, Sir

Please permit me to use that address. It’s the only way I can avoid feeling unhappy, awkward, or uncomfortable.

Sir, you are indeed my true, my genuine, mentor, for not only are you a master novelist, but you know your way around a liquor bottle. Your novels are as finely crafted as the foot wrappings of a practiced grandmother. With liquor your accomplishments are, if anything, even greater. It is no great achievement in this day and age to locate a fine novelist, nor, for that matter, a master disciple of the bottle. But to find them both in a single individual is extraordinarily difficult. And you, Sir, are that unique individual.

Your analysis of Overlapping Green Ants was both incisive and accurate, the mark of a true connoisseur. The basic ingredients of this liquor are sorghum and mung beans, fermented in an old cellar. The culture for our distiller’s yeast is a mixture of wheat, bran, and peas, with a touch of chaff. The distilled liquor that emerges is a graceful, muted light green in color with a heavy fragrance, rich and full bodied, with a real kick. During the blending process, everything possible has been done to suppress its fiery nature, but with limited success so far. In order to get it to a liquor fair, we marketed the not-yet-perfected brew as Overlapping Green Ants. It is, as you say, high-quality liquor whose imperfection is a lack of harmony.

Using beautiful women as a metaphor for liquor is the best, most vivid means of characterizing its qualities. Your intuition in this regard was right on the mark. My father-in-law, Professor Yuan Shuangyu, and I have been trying to come up with ways of improving Overlapping Green Ants for a long time, and our contemplations have nearly reached maturity; unfortunately, I have, of late, become so intoxicated with literature that I can think of nothing else.

Sir, in this vast world, with its teeming multitudes, liquor swells like the seas and spirits flow like rivers, yet the number of true devotees, those who enjoy fine liquor as they marvel over beautiful women, are rare as morning stars, as the feathers of a phoenix or the horn of a unicorn, as a tiger’s penis and a dinosaur egg. You, Sir, are one of them, as am I, your disciple. So, too, is my father-in-law, Yuan Shuangyu; Deputy Head Diamond Jin counts as half of one. The great Tang poet, Li Bai, is one. I raise my glass to the moon ’ With my shadow, we make three.’ How can that be, you ask? Li is one, the moon is another, the third is the liquor. For the moon is Chang’e, the heavenly beauty! The liquor is ‘Qinglian.’ the green lotus, an earthly marvel Li Bai and his liquor are fused into one, becoming what he styled himself- Li Qinglian. That is why he was able to produce such exquisite visions as he roamed freely between Heaven and earth. His fellow Tang poet, Du Fu, counts as half. His intake of liquor was, in the main, limited to village brews, poor in quality, overaged and bitter, coarse and lacking polish, like an old widow; no wonder he was unable to write poetry that was vigorous and lively. Cao Mengde [Cao Cao] was one; singing a song when drinking is the same as serenading a beautiful woman. Life is short, beautiful women are like the morning dew. Beauty is constantly aflow and easily lost, so one must enjoy it while one can. From ancient times till today, a span of five thousand years, the number of individuals who have understood that drinking fine spirits is like adoring a beautiful woman does not exceed a few dozen. All the rest are foul leather sacks that can be filled with any brackish liquid. Why waste a drop of Overlapping Green Ants or Eighteen-Li Red on the likes of them?

The mere mention of Eighteen-Li Red makes your disciple’s heart flutter. Sir, believe me when I say that it is a masterpiece of earth-shaking proportions. Pissing into a vat of liquor as a blending maneuver was an astonishing touch that only a creative master could have dreamed up. It constitutes a landmark in the history of distilling liquor. The most glorious events invariably incorporate elements of the most despicable nature. People everywhere know that honey is sweet, but how many know what goes into its making? They say that the primary ingredient of honey is nectar from flowers! Yes it is, no one can say differently. Saying that the primary ingredient of honey is nectar is as accurate as saying that the primary ingredient of liquor is alcohol, but that tells us nothing. There are dozens of minerals in liquor, did you know that? There are also dozens of micro-organisms in liquor, did you know that? And there are many more things, most of which even I cannot name, in liquor. Did you know than If my father-in-law does not know and I do not know, it is a cinch that you do not know. There is ocean water in honey, did you know that? And there is manure in honey, did you know that? Honey cannot be produced without fresh excrement, did you or did you not know that?

I have been reading in periodicals recently that certain benighted individuals, who don’t know the first thing about making liquor, have taken offense at your surpassingly uncanny pioneering work, saying that pissing in a vat of liquor is a blasphemy against civilized society. They are ignorant of the fact that the pH factor and water quality play a decisive role in the character of liquor. If the water tends toward alkalinity, the result will be a sour liquor, not fit to drink; but if you add the urine of a healthy boy, you wind up with Eighteen-Li Red (the name itself has a better ring than Scholar Red or Daughter Red), an ‘aromatic, full-bodied liquor that leaves a honey-sweet aftertaste.’ There is nothing absurd in this, so why must they display their ignorance? As a doctoral candidate in liquor studies, I proclaim: this is science! Science is a solemn endeavor that allows for no hypocrisy. If you don’t know something, you must study; there is no call for histrionics, and certainly no room for ad hominem attacks! Besides, what’s so dirty about urine? For those individuals who sleep with prostitutes and come away with syphilis, gonorrhea, or AIDS, of course their urine is dirty. But, Sir, what your granddad released into the vat of liquor was a little boy’s urine, pure as spring water. The classical masterwork Materia Medica, by Mr Li Shizhen, China’s famed pharmaceutical master, is absolutely clear on this point: the urine of a little boy as an added ingredient in medicinal herbs is effective in the treatment of high blood pressure, coronary heart disease, arteriosclerosis, glaucoma, breast calcification, and other chronic diseases. Don’t tell me they’re willing to launch ad hominem attacks on Mr Li Shizhen! The urine of a little boy is the most sacred and mysterious fluid on the face of the earth, and even the Devil himself isn’t sure just how many precious elements it contains. The Japanese Prime Minister drinks a glass of urine every day to stay healthy and vigorous. Liquorland’s Party Secretary Jiang mixed the urine of a little boy into lotus-root congee to attack the cause of his long-term insomnia. Urine is a true marvel, the finest symbol of human existence. Sir, let’s ignore that bunch of ignoramuses. The People’s Commissar, Comrade Stalin, said: ‘We shall ignore them!’ They deserve nothing but horse piss.

In your letter you said you’re going to write a novel about liquor. Only you can shoulder up such a heavy burden. My mentor, your soul is the soul of liquor, through and through; your body is the body of liquor, inside and out. Your liquor body is in perfect harmony: red flowers and green leaves, blue mountains and emerald waters, limbs that are hale and hearty, harmonious movements, graceful bearing, elegant motion, true flesh and blood, the picture of life; take anything away and it is too short, add anything and it is too long. My mentor, you are a living, breathing bottle of Eighteen-Li Red! To help in your research on liquor, I have prepared ten bottles of Overlapping Green Ants, ten bottles of Red-Maned Stallion, and ten bottles of Oriental Beauty. I'll send them all with the next school bus for Beijing. From this day on, Sir, stride forward boldly, a bottle forever at your side, pen always at hand, and let those idiots blather away.

The story I sent you last time, ‘Meat Boy,’ is not a piece of reportage, but it reads like one. It is absolutely true that some of Liquorland’s totally corrupt and inhuman Party cadres feast on little boys. I hear that someone has been sent down to investigate, and if someday all this comes to light, it will rock the world. In the future, who but your disciple could write a piece of reportage about this major story? With the explosive material I have at hand, tell me, who has a claim to arrogance, if not me?

I have heard nothing from Citizens’ Literature. I’d be grateful if you’d lean on them for me.

Our Liu Yan is a deckle-faced, glowering’ woman, and could be the ‘pale-faced glowering’ woman you recall. Her freckles might be the byproduct of several illicit pregnancies. She told me once that she is the most fertile of soils, and gets pregnant by any man who comes in contact with her. She also said that the unborn fetuses she leaves behind are invariably snatched away to be consumed by hospital personnel. I’ve heard that the nutritional value of a six- or seven-month-old fetus is very high, and that makes sense. The fetus of a deer is widely known to be a high-potency tonic, isn’t it? An embryonic egg has high nourishment value, hasn’t it?

I’m including my most recent work, ‘Child Prodigy,’ with this letter. It is written in the style of ‘demonic realism.’ After you’ve given it a critical reading, please forward it to Citizens’ Literature. I’ll not rest until I’ve broken through this ‘Gate of Hell’!

Wishing you

Happy writing,

Your disciple

Li Yidou

III

Child Prodigy, by Li Yidou

Gentle reader, not long ago I wrote a story for you about a meat child. In it I took pains to paint a picture of a little boy wrapped in red cloth. Perhaps you can recall his extraordinary eyes: mere slits through which a cold but mature glare emanated. They were the typical eyes of a conspirator. Yet they grew not in the face of a conspirator, but were inlaid in the face of a boy not quite three feet tall, which is why they are so unforgettable, and why they had such a shocking effect on a decent farmer in the Liquorland suburbs, Jin Yuanbao. Within the confines of that medium-length story it was impossible to delve deeply into the child’s background, so he appears as a full-blown stock image: the body of a not-quite three-foot-tall boy with a shock of bristly hair, the eyes of a conspirator, a pair of large, fleshy ears, and a gravelly voice. He is a little boy, nothing more, nothing less.

This story unfolds in the Special Purchasing Section of a Culinary Academy, beginning at dusk. Gentle reader, ‘our story, in fact, is already well underway.’

The moon was out that night, because we needed it to be. A big red moon rose slowly from behind the artificial hill at the Culinary Academy, its rosy beams slanting in through the double-paned windows like a pink waterfall and turning their faces soft and gentle. They were all little boys, and if you have read my ‘Meat Boy,’ you know who I’m talking about. The little demon was one of them, and would soon be in the position of their leader, or their despot. We shall see.

The boys had cried themselves out before the sun went down behind the mountain. Their faces were tear-streaked, their voices hoarse, all but the little demon, of course. You’d never catch him crying! Back while the other boys were crying their eyes out, he paced the floor like an overgrown goose, hands clasped behind his back as he circled the large room with its lovely scenery. Every once in a while he landed a well-placed kick on the backside of a bawling child. That invariably produced a high-pitched squeal, followed by muted sobs. His foot was transformed into a cure for the weeps. Eventually, he kicked all thirty-one children. And in the midst of sobs from the smallest boy among them, they saw the lovely moon leaping about on the artificial hill like a proud red steed.

Crowding up to the window, they grasped the sill and gazed outside. Those stuck behind the front row held on to the shoulders ahead of them. A fat little boy with a snotty nose raised a chubby finger and pointed skyward.

‘Mama Moon,’ he whimpered, ‘Mama Moon…’ One of the other boys smacked his lips and said: ‘It’s Auntie Moon, not Mama Moon. Auntie Moon.’ A sneer worked its way down the face of the little demon, who screeched like an owl, sending shivers down the boys’ spines as they turned to see what was wrong. What they saw was the little demon squatting atop the artificial hill, irradiated by red moonbeams. His red clothes looked like a fireball. The man-made waterfall on the hillside shimmered like red satin as it cascaded beautifully and continuously into the pool at the foot of the hill. Water splashed noisily like strings of cherries.

The children were no longer looking at the moon; instead, they huddled together and gaped at him in stupefaction.

Children,’ he said in a low voice, ‘prick up your ears and listen to what your sire has to say. That gizmo, that thing that looks like a proud red steed, is not a mama and it’s not an auntie. It’s a ball, a celestial being, one that revolves around us, and its name is simply “moon”!’

The children looked at him uncomprehendingly.

He jumped down off the artificial hill, and as he did, his baggy red clothes billowed in the wind, transformed into a pair of grotesque wings.

Clasping his hands behind him, he paced back and forth in front of the children. From time to time he wiped his mouth with his sleeve or spit on the glossy stone floor. Suddenly he stopped, raised an arm that was thin as a goat’s leg, and waved it in the air.

‘Listen to me, children,’ he said sternly. ‘You have never been human beings, not since the day you were born. Your parents sold you, like pigs or goats! So from now on, I’ll stomp anyone who cries for his mommy or daddy!’

He shook his clawlike hand and roared at the top of his lungs. The moon lit up his pale little face, from which two green lights emerged. Two of the boys burst into tears.

‘No crying!’ he screamed.

Reaching into the cluster of children, he dragged out the two crying boys and drove his fist into each of their little bellies, sending them thudding to the floor, where they rolled around like basketballs.

He laid down the law: ‘I’ll do the same to anybody I catch crying!’

The huddle of children grew tighter. None dared to cry.

‘Just wait,’ he said. ‘Leave the search for brightness up to me.’

He immediately commenced a search of the strange and very large room, hugging the walls like a prowling cat. Near the door he stopped and looked up at four lamp cords hanging in a row from the ceiling. He reached up, but the cords were a good three feet from the tip of his middle finger. He jumped a couple of times, but even with plenty of spring in his legs, he barely halved the distance. So, moving away from the wall, he dragged over a willow tree welded out of iron, climbed to the top, then grabbed the lamp cords and gave them a hard tug. With a crackle, all the lights in the room snapped on. There were neon lights, incandescent lamps, tungsten lamps, white lights, blue lights, red lights, green lights, and yellow lights. There were lights on the walls, lights in the ceiling, lights on the artificial hill, and lights on the artificial trees. The lights were blinding and multi-hued, like heaven and earth in a fairy-tale world. Forgetting their miseries and their worries, the children clapped and shouted joyously.

The little demon curled his lip derisively as he marveled over the masterpiece he had created. Then he went to the corner, where he picked up a ring of brass bells and shook them vigorously. Peals rang out, drawing the boys’ rapt attention. He wrapped the bells, which seemed to have been put there just for him, around his waist, spit out a mouthful of phlegm, and said:

Children, do you know where all this light comes from? No, you don’t. You’re from remote, backward villages where you smash rocks to make fire, so of course you don’t know where it comes from. I’ll tell you. The source of this light is called electricity.’

The children listened without making a peep. The red moon had receded from the room, leaving behind a row of gleaming eyes. The two boys who had been knocked to the ground climbed to their feet.

Is electricity good?’ he asked.

‘Yes, it is!’ the boys replied in unison.

‘Am I talented or aren’t I?’

‘Yes, you are!’

‘Are you going to do as I say?’

‘Yes, we are!’

‘All right, children, do you want a daddy?’

‘Yes, we do!’

‘Starting today, I’ll be your daddy. I’ll protect you, I’ll teach you and I’ll supervise you. Anyone who disobeys me will be drowned in the pool. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, we do!’

‘Call me Daddy three times. All together now.’

‘Daddy – Daddy – Daddy!’

‘Down on your knees and kowtow to me, all of you. Three times!’

Some of the boys, those with weak minds, did not understand everything the little demon said, but their ability to follow came to their aid. Thirty-one little boys fell to their knees in ragtag fashion, laughing and giggling, to kowtow to the little demon, who jumped onto the artificial hill and sat in the lotus position to receive his sons’ kneeling salute.

Once the ritual was ended, he selected four of the glibbest, most agile youngsters as team leaders and divided the thirty-one boys into four teams. With that done, he said:

‘Children, from this moment on, you are warriors. Warriors are bold youngsters who dare to fight and dare to conquer. I will train you to struggle against all people who want to eat us.’

Team One’s leader asked out of curiosity:

‘Daddy, who wants to eat us?’

‘Bastard!’ The little demon shook his bells. ‘Don’t ever interrupt me when I’m speaking.’

Team One’s leader said:

‘I made a mistake, Daddy. I won’t interrupt again.’

The little demon said:

‘Comrades, children, now I’ll tell you who it is who wants to eat us! They have red eyes, green fingernails, and gold-capped teeth!’

‘Are they wolves? Or tigers?’ asked a chubby, dimpled boy.

Team One’s leader gave little fatty a slap.

‘Don’t interrupt when Daddy’s speaking!’ he reprimanded him.

The fat kid bit his lip and stifled his sobs.

‘Comrades, children, they aren’t wolves, but they’re meaner than wolves. And they’re not tigers, but they’re scarier than tigers.’

‘Why do they eat children?’

The little demon frowned.

‘That makes me really, really mad! I said, no interruptions. Team leaders, take that boy out and make him stand alone as punishment.’

The four team leaders dragged the loose-lipped little boy out of the group; he bawled and fought so hard, you’d have thought they were dragging him to his execution. The moment they loosened their grip, his legs started churning and he hightailed it back to the group. When the team leaders ran back to drag him out again, they were stopped by the little demon:

‘Forget it, let him off this time! But let me repeat myself: You children are not permitted to interrupt when Daddy’s talking. Why do they want to eat children? Simple, they’ve grown tired of eating beef, lamb, pork, dog, donkey, rabbit, chicken, duck, pigeon, mule, camel, horse, hedgehog, sparrow, swallow, wild goose, common goose, cat, rat, weasel, and lynx, so they want to eat children. It’s because our meat is more tender than beef, fresher than lamb, more fragrant than pork, fattier than dog, softer than mule, harder than rabbit, silkier than chicken, more dynamic than duck, more straightforward than pigeon, livelier than donkey, more pampered than camel, springier than horse, finer than hedgehog, more dignified than sparrow, fairer than swallow, more mature than wild goose, not as chafly as common goose, more sedate than cat, more nutritious than rat, less demonic than weasel, and more common than lynx. Our meat tops the charts.’

Having exhausted his list and his wind, the little demon spit on the floor, looking a bit more tired than when he started.

‘Daddy,’ Team Two’s leader spoke up timidly, 'I've got something to say. Is it all right?’

‘Go ahead. I’ve talked myself out. Daddy would love to smoke some hemp right about now. Too bad there isn’t any.’ The little demon yawned.

‘How do they eat us, Daddy? Raw?’

‘They have many ways: fried, steamed, braised, cold sliced, fried with vinegar, dry fried, many many ways, but usually not raw. I said usually. They say a certain vice-mayor named Shen once ate a child raw, dipped in imported Japanese vinegar.’

The children huddled tightly, the timid ones sobbing softly.

That invigorated the little demon, who said, ‘Children, comrades, that is why you must do as I say. At this critical juncture, you must show your maturity and transform yourselves overnight into indomitable heroes. No more boo-hoos, no more sniveling. The only way to keep them from eating us is to unite as one, become an impregnable wall of iron and steel. We must become a hedgehog, a porcupine. They’ve eaten all the porcupine they want, and our meat is a lot milder than a porcupine’s. We must become a steel hedgehog, an iron porcupine, so we can make mush out of those man-eating monsters’ lips and tongues! They might eat well, but well mess up their digestion!’

‘But, but, these lights…’ Team Four’s leader was stammering.

The little demon waved him off. ‘I know what’s on your mind, you don’t have to say it. What you want to know is, if they plan to eat us, why give us such beautiful surroundings. Am I right?’

Team Four leader nodded.

‘All right, I’ll tell you,’ the little demon said. ‘Fourteen years ago, when I was still a child, I heard people say that the dignitaries of Liquorland ate little boys, and there were enough details in the rumor to make it frightening and mysterious at the same time. After that, my mother started delivering one baby boy after another. But every one of them reached the age of two, then suddenly disappeared. All I could think was, my kid brothers were eaten. At the time, I was ready to expose this monstrous crime, but was thwarted by a mysterious skin disease – scales all over my body that oozed pus when you touched them. It made people sick just to look at me, and no one saw me as an edible commodity. That kept me out of the tiger’s lair. Eventually, I turned to thievery. One day, I broke into an official’s home and drank a bottle of liquor with paintings of apes on the label Lo and behold, the scales began to fall off. With each layer, I got smaller, which is why I look like this today. So even though I have the appearance of a child, my mental capacity is as broad as the ocean. Their secret of eating children must be revealed, and I shall be your savior!’

The children’s attention was fixed on the little demon and his revelations.

‘Now why have they put us in such a big, beautiful room?’ he continued. ‘Because they want us to be content. If we’re not, our meat will turn sour and chewy. Children, comrades, this is what I want you to do. Turn this place into a shambles!’

The little demon picked up a rock from the artificial hill, took aim at a bright red lamp on the wall, and flung it. With his strength, the rock raised a draft as it cut through the air. But his aim was off- the rock thudded against the wall and bounced straight back, nearly taking the head off one of the boys. The little demon picked it up, took aim again and threw it. Another miss. This time followed by curses. He picked it up again, mustered up the tenacious strength of a baby at the nipple – Fuck your mother! – and heaved it with all his might. This time he was right on target. The lamp shattered, sending shards raining down on the floor; the forked filament blazed red for an instant, then went dark.

The children stood stock-still, watching him like marionettes.

‘Smash, start smashing! What are you waiting for?’

Some of the little boys yawned.

‘Daddy, I’m sleepy, I want to go to bed…’

The little demon rushed up and started punching and kicking the yawning boys, eliciting yelps and screeches; one of the bolder, stronger boys actually hit back, drawing blood on the little demon’s face. Seeing his own blood, he stepped up and sank his teeth into the boy’s ear with such ferocity that he bit off half of it.

That was when the door opened.

An elderly serving woman in a spotless white uniform opened the door and rushed into the room. It wasn’t easy, but she finally managed to separate the little demon and the little boy, who was crying so hard he nearly passed out. The little demon was spitting blood, green light streamed from his eyes. But he didn’t say a word. His victim’s severed ear was twitching on the floor. When the serving woman spotted the ear, then the little demon’s face, she paled, let out a fearful yelp, and ran out of the room, her rear end wrenching from side to side, the heels of her shoes raising a mad tattoo on the floor.

The little demon climbed the iron willow tree and pulled the plug on all the lights; a soft threat filled the enclosing darkness:

I’ll bite the ear off anybody who squeals!’

He then walked over to the artificial hill, where he washed the blood off his mouth at the waterfall.

A clatter of footsteps sounded outside the door. Most likely a horde of people about to enter the room. So the little demon picked up the rock with which he’d smashed the wall lamp and hid behind the iron willow tree to wait.

The door was pushed open and a white figure entered, hugging the wall as it groped along in the dark. The little demon took aim at the upper half of the figure and let fly. The figure cried out in pain and started to wobble; the people on the other side of the door ran off in panic. The little demon went over, picked up the rock, took aim on the white figure again, and heaved it with all his might. The figure crumpled to the floor.

A while later, beams of bright light streamed in the door, followed by people with flashlights. The little demon scooted nimbly into the corner, where he lay on the floor, face down, and pretended to be asleep.

Then the lights snapped on above seven or eight husky men, who picked up the unconscious serving woman in white. They also picked up the injured boy, along with his severed ear, and carried them out of the room. Then it was time to find out who was responsible for all this evil.

The little demon was flopped out on the floor snoring loudly. When a man in white picked him up by the nape of his neck, his arms and legs flailed in the air as a series of wails erupted from his mouth, like a pitiful little cat.

The ferreting-out process produced no results. The children were exhausted from a very tiring day, and unbelievably hungry. And after being harassed by the little demon, they could barely hold their heads up and couldn’t think straight. And so the investigation ended amid the rumble of snores.

The men in white turned off the lights, locked the door, and left. In the darkness, the little demon smirked.

Early the next morning, before the sun was even up, the little demon got to his feet in the misty room, took the brass bells out from under his shirt, and rang them as hard as he could. The frantic pealing startled the children out of their sleep. After squatting on the floor to relieve themselves, they rolled over and went back to sleep under the glaring eyes of the little demon.

Once the sun was up, a red light flooded the room; by then the children were up and sitting around weeping. They were famished. Hardly a trace of the previous night’s excitement remained in their heads. All that energy, all that time spent trying to nurture a sense of power in them, totally wasted. The frustrated little demon wondered how he was going to make anything out of this bunch.

Just so I won’t screw things up as a storyteller, I’ll narrate my tale objectively, avoiding, as much as possible, any descriptions of what was going on inside the heads of the little demon and the children. Ill stick to their behavior and their speech, and leave it to you readers to interpret what sparked their behavior and lay behind their speech. This is not an easy story to tell, because the little demon keeps coming up with ways to smash it to pieces. He is not a good little boy, that’s for sure. (In truth, my story is just about wrapped up.)

Breakfast was sumptuous: egg-drop soup, steamed rolls made of fine flour, milk, bread, jam, salted bean sprouts, and sweet-and-sour radish slices.

The old man who delivered their breakfast took his job seriously, carefully filling each plate or bowl and handing it to one of the children. The little demon got a portion, which he received with his head lowered deferentially, so as not to upset the old fellow, who nonetheless watched him out of the corner of his eye.

After the old fellow left, the little demon looked up, eyes shining, and said:

‘Comrades, children, don’t eat a bite of this! They want to fatten us up before they eat us. We’ll go on a hunger strike. Children, the skinnier you are, the later they’ll get around to eating you, and maybe never.’

But the children paid no heed to his impassioned plea; maybe they had no idea what he was talking about. The sight and smell of all that food was all they could think about, so they dug in, stuffing their faces and raising quite a din. The little demon’s first impulse was to get rough with them, but he put that foolish thought out of his mind just in time to see a tall man walk into the room. With a furtive look at the man’s big feet, he picked up his glass of warm milk and took a long, loud drink.

Sensing the contemptuous look on the man’s face, he went back to his milk, with a vengeance, and attacked a steamed bun, making a point of getting his face as dirty as possible and gurgling loudly. In other words, he turned himself into a gluttonous fool.

‘Little pig!’ he heard the man say.

The man’s legs, both the thickness of stone pillars, ambulated toward the front, so the little demon looked up to stare at his back. He noticed that the man had a long, oval head beneath a cap from which several curls of brown hair peeked out. When the man turned around, the little demon saw a ruddy face, with a long, greasy, beaklike nose that resembled a deformed water chestnut smeared with lard.

‘Children.’ the man said with a devious smile, ‘did you have a good breakfast?’

Most replied that they had, but some said no.

‘Dear children.’ the man said, ‘you mustn’t eat too much at one sitting, or your digestion will suffer. Now let’s go play a game, all right?’

No response from the children, who blinked in disbelief.

The man smacked himself on the head and admitted that he had foolishly forgotten that they were only children and hadn’t yet learned what games were all about. ‘Let’s go out and play the hawk and the chicks, what do you say?’

Shouting their approval, the children followed the man out into the yard. With apparent reluctance, the little demon tagged along.

As the game began, the hawk-nosed man chose the little demon to be the mother hen – maybe because his red clothes made him so conspicuous – with all the other children lined up behind him as the brood. The man was to be the hawk. Flapping his arms, he stared at them and bared his teeth as he began to screech.

Suddenly the hawk swooped down, scrunching up its beak until it nearly touched its thin upper lip, a menacing glare radiating from its eyes. This was indeed a savage, carnivorous raptor. Its dark shadow fell upon the children from above. Nervously, the little demon eyed its deadly twitching talons, as it settled onto the carpet of green grass, then rose into the air, unhurriedly toying with the children, waiting for the right moment. A hawk is a very patient hunter. And since the initiative always rests with the attacker, the defender must never let down its guard, not for a minute.

Suddenly the hawk swooped down like lightning, and the little demon reacted by rushing valiantly to the tail-end of his troops to butt and bite and scratch until the targeted child was wrenched free of the hawk’s grasp. The other children whooped and hollered, excited and frightened at the same time, as they fled from the hawk. The little demon nimbly threw himself between hunter and prey. The glare in his eyes conquered that of the stunned hawk.

The second attack commenced, drawing the little demon back into the fray, as he broke free from the brood of children. His movements were too nimble and focused for a mere child. Before the hawk had time to react, the little demon was at its neck, and it suddenly feared for its life. It felt as if an enormous black spider had attached itself to its neck, or a vampire bat with bright red membranes flaring beneath its limbs. It wrenched its head violently to shake the child free, but in vain, for by then the little demon’s claws were buried in its eyes. The excruciating pain took all the fight out of it, and with a tortured howl, it stumbled forward and thudded to the ground like a felled tree.

The little demon jumped off the man’s head, a smirk on his face that can only be described as evil and brutal. Walking up to the children, he said:

Children, comrades, I scooped out the hawk’s eyes. It can’t see us. Now it’s time to play!’

The eyeless hawk writhed on the ground, sometimes arching like a footbridge and sometimes slithering like a dragon. Black blood oozed out from between its fingers, which covered its face, like squirming black worms. It wailed pitifully, a sad, shrill, chilling sound. Instinctively, the children huddled together. The little demon took a vigilant look all around; the compound was deserted, except for a few white butterflies flitting over the grass. Black smoke belched from a chimney on the other side of the wall, sending a cloud of heavy fragrance straight to the little demon’s nostrils. Meanwhile, the wails of the hawk grew increasingly pitiful and shrill So after a couple of frenetic spins, he jumped back onto the hawk’s back, quickly burying all ten claws into its throat. The look on his face was too horrifying for words as his fingers dug deep in the man’s thick neck. Did that give him the same feeling as thrusting his fingers into hot sand or a bucket of lard? Hard to say. Was he enjoying the satisfaction of revenge? Again, hard to say. You, my readers, are more intelligent than the author, something the narrator believes without question. Well, by the time the little demon withdrew his fingers, the hawk’s wails were barely audible; blood spurted from the holes in its neck, rising and falling, as if home to crabs that were foaming at the mouth. Holding up ten bloody fingers, the little demon announced calmly:

‘The hawk is in its death throes.’

The bolder children crowded around, with the others falling in timidly behind, all gazing down at the hawk’s expiring body. It was still twitching, writhing on the ground, though the intensity of movement was weakening. Suddenly the hawk’s mouth opened, as if to release a screech; but instead of sound, only blood emerged, making a pattering sound as it hit the grass, sticky and hot. The little demon picked up a handful of mud and stuffed it into the hawk’s mouth. Sounds rumbled up from the throat, followed by an explosion of mud and blood.

Children,’ the little demon demanded, ‘suffocate him, stuff up the hawk’s mouth, so he can’t eat us.’

The children sprang into action, as ordered. In unity there is strength. Dozens of hands scrambled to dig up mud, grass, and sand, and cram it into the hawk’s mouth; then, like a downpour of rain, they covered its eyes and pinched its nostrils shut. As the children’s enthusiasm mounted, they were in the grip of euphoria, enjoying the game of life as they buried the hawk’s head in mud. That is how children are; they will gang up on a poor frog, or a snake crossing the road, or a wounded cat. And after beating it half to death, they’ll crowd around to enjoy the spectacle.

‘Is he dead?’

A pop of air escaped from the hawk’s bottom.

‘He isn’t dead, he just farted. Keep stuffing.’

Another deluge of mud ensued, nearly burying the hawk – yes, it was all but buried under the mud.

When the person in charge of the Special Purchasing Section of the Culinary Academy heard a series of demonic wails in the yard outside the Meat Child Room, her neck and bladder constricted, and the demon of doom bored insect-like into her mind.

She stood up and walked over to the telephone, but when her right hand touched the handset, what felt like an electric shock shot up her arm from her fingertip, numbing half her body. Dragging her paralyzed body back over to the desk, she sat down, feeling as if she’d been cloven in two, one side cold, the other feverishly hot. Hastily, she opened a drawer and took out a mirror to look at herself. One half of her face was dark and ruddy, the other a ghostly white. Her nerves shot, she somehow made it back to the telephone, but her hand recoiled as if lightning had struck again as soon as she reached out. She seemed on the verge of crumpling to the floor, just as a divine light emerged from her brain to illuminate a road ahead. A lightning-struck tree stood beside the road, half of it a lush green, covered with leaves and luscious fruit, the other half with bronze limbs and an iron trunk, completely denuded, emitting a magical glow in a sea of sunlight. She knew at once: That tree is me. That thought filled her heart with intense warmth, and tears of joy wetted her cheeks. As if mesmerized or infatuated, she gazed at the half of that big tree that had been petrified by lightning, turning away from the green half in disgust. She called out for lightning, summoned it to turn the green half of the tree into bronze limbs and an iron trunk, to transform the tree into one glorious whole. She then reached out to the telephone with her left hand, and her body was as if on fire. Feeling ten years younger, she ran out into the yard and from there to the lawn in front of the Meat Child Room. When she saw the buried hawk, she burst out laughing. Clapping her hands, she said:

‘You’ve killed him well, children, killed him well! Now you must flee, get as far away from this den of murderous monsters as you can!’

With her in the lead, the children passed through a series of iron gates and wound their way through the labyrinthine grounds of the Culinary Academy. But her attempt was doomed to failure. With the exception of the little demon, who made good his escape, every one of the children was caught and dragged back, and the woman was discharged from her post. Why, gentle readers, do you think I've wasted so much ink on this woman? Because she is my mother-in-law. That is to say, she is the wife of Professor Yuan Shuangyu of the Brewer’s College. Everyone says she went crazy, and that’s how I see it. She spends her time these days at home writing letters of accusation, ream upon ream of them, all mailed off, some to the Chairman of the Central Committee, some to the provincial Party Secretary, one even to the legendary magistrate of Kaifeng Prefecture, Magistrate Bao. Now, I ask you, if she’s not crazy, who is? At this rate, she’ll go broke just buying stamps.

When two flowers bloom at once, take care of them one at a time. A gang of white-uniformed men dragged the fleeing boys back to the Meat Child Room. It nearly wore them out, since the boys had undergone the baptism of their mortal battle with the now-dead hawk, and had turned savage and crafty; they had run into a wooded area or into hidden spots in walls, or they had climbed trees, or they [had jumped into latrines. If there was a hiding place, they found it. The fact of the matter is, after my mother-in-law opened the iron gate of the Meat Child Room, the children went absolutely wild. Though she felt she was leading a group of children out of a den of monsters, it was pure fantasy, since the only thing following her was her own shadow. As she stood by the rear gate of the academy, loudly urging the children to flee, her shouts were heard only by old men and old women who lay hidden beside the waterway leading from the Culinary Academy to the nearby river, awaiting the passage of delectable scraps from the kitchen. My mother-in-law could not see them in their hiding spots amid the astonishingly dense foliage. So why did my mother-in-law, who held such an important position, go crazy? Whether or not it was the result of the electric shocks will require another story.

After the children’s escape was discovered, the Culinary Academy’s Security Section called an urgent meeting to map out emergency measures, including sealing off the academy. Once the gates were closed, detachments of crack troops began combing the grounds. During the search, ten of the troopers were bitten savagely by the meat children, and one, a woman, was blinded in one eye by a gouging finger. The academy leadership showered the wounded troops with sympathy and consoling words, and even distributed lavish bonuses based upon the severity of their injuries. The recaptured meat children were placed under strict surveillance in a secure room, where a roll call turned up one missing child. According to the white-uniformed serving woman, who had regained her senses after some emergency therapy, the escaped

who held such an important position, go it was a result of the electric shocks will meat child was none other than the boy who had wounded her. He must have also been the one who murdered the hawk. She vaguely recalled that he was dressed all in red, and had a pair of gloomy, snakelike eyes.

A few days later, a janitor out cleaning the waterway discovered a set of red clothing, filthy beyond description; but there was no trace of the little demon, the murderer, the leader of the meat children.

Gentle readers, would you like to know what happened to the little demon?

IV

Dear Doctor of Liquor Studies Yidou

Thanks for the letter. I’ve read your story ‘Child Prodigy.’ The little demon, wrapped in his red flag, had my heart pounding and my skin crawling. I couldn’t sleep for days. The language in this story is highly polished, my friend, and the ingenuity of the plot never seems to end; it puts me to shame. If you insist that I air specific views, I suppose I can offer a perfunctory criticism or two: the absence of any background on the little demon, which flies in the face of conventional realism, for instance, or the overly loose organization and relative lack of authorial restraint. Not worth worrying about. In the face of your ‘demonic realism,’ I shy away from any real criticism. I’ve already forwarded ‘Child Prodigy’ to Citizens’ Literature, Since this is an official publication, it’s flooded with manuscripts, most of which wind up at the bottom of towering stacks. So don’t be surprised that you’ve heard nothing about the two earlier stories. I wrote to a couple of renowned editors of Citizens’ Literature, Zhou Bao and Li Xiaobao, and asked them to check into it for me. The two ‘treasures’ [bao] are friends of mine, and I’m sure they’ll help out.

In your letter you mention writing about liquor -witticisms abound, serio.us yet humorous, inspirations from all sides, depth and breadth united – just what I’d expect from a doctor of liquor. You have my undying respect. I look forward to more discussions of liquor with you, since it’s a favorite topic of mine.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry over your claim that pissing in a liquor vat, as I wrote in Red Sorghum, is a technological marvel. I don’t know a thing about chemistry, and even less about the distiller’s craft. I wrote that episode as a practical joke, wanting to poke a little fun at all those esthetes, them with their eyes bloodshot from envy. Imagine my surprise when you proved, through scientific theory, the logic and lofty nature of this episode, and now, to my admiration for you I must add gratitude. This is what’s known as ‘The professional asks How? The amateur says Wow!’ or what we call ‘Plant a flower, and no blooms will show; drop a willow seed, and a shade tree will grow.’

Regarding Eighteen-Li Red, a serious lawsuit is in the works. After Red Sorghum won its prize at the Berlin Film Festival, the head of a distillery in my hometown came running over to the warehouse where I’d set up my study to tell me he wanted to make a batch of Eighteen-Li Red. Unfortunately, he couldn’t come up with the financial backing. A year later, on an inspection trip to our county, members of the provincial leadership asked to try some Eighteen-Li Red. It was an awkward moment, and after the dignitaries left, the county revenue office came up with the money for a task group responsible for a trial production of Eighteen-Li Red. By trial production, I thought that meant they were going to mix up a batch or two, design a new bottle, slap on a label, and that would be that. I don’t know if they added the piss of young boys or not. But when the distillery excitedly sent their new product to the county government office to report their success, Movies for the Masses published a notice about a press conference in Shenzhen, where the Eighteen-Li Red distillery in Henan’s Shangcai county announced to the film community that their brew was the bona fide Eighteen-Li Red from Red Sorghum. The cases of their liquor were stamped with the following (or words to this effect): The heroine of Red Sorghum, Dai Jiu’er, was originally from Shangcai county in Henan province, and only fled to Northeast Gaomi township in Shandong with her father during a famine. She had taken the recipe for Eighteen-Li Red from Shangcai county to Shandong’s Gaomi, which is why Shangcai county must be considered the real hometown of Eighteen-Li Red.

The head of the distillery in my hometown immediately attacked Henan’s Shangcai county for their deviousness, and sent someone with authentic Eighteen-Li Red to Beijing to ask me, as the author of the novel, to help him bring Eighteen-Li Red back to Gaomi township, where it belongs. But the clever people in Henan’s Shangcai county had already registered their Eighteen-Li Red with the trademark office, and since the law is dispassionate, our Eighteen-Li Red no longer had any legal standing. When the Gaomi people asked me to help them initiate a lawsuit, I said it was a suit without merit, that Dai Jiu’er is only a fictional character, not my real grandmother, and that it’s not illegal for the Shangcai county people to insist that she was originally from Henan. There was no way the Gaomi side could win. They’d just have to take their lumps this time. Later on, I heard that the Henan people rode their Eighteen-Li Red into the international market and earned quite a bit of foreign currency. I hope that’s true. For literature and liquor to be integrated like that is pretty terrific. And because of newly promulgated copyright laws, I’m going to go to Shangcai county with the film director Zhang Yimou to get a little of what I’ve got coming to me.

All the wonderful liquors you mentioned are renowned for their quality, but I don’t need any of them. What I do need – and badly – is material about liquor, and I hope youll send me some of the more important items. Naturally, I’ll pay the postage.

Please give my best to Liu Yan the next time you see her. Warmest regards,

Mo Yan