The Republic of Wine

I

Ding Gou’er wrapped his long arms tightly around the lady trucker’s waist and crushed his lips skillfully against hers. She wrenched her head this way and that to break off the kiss, but he matched her, wrench for wrench, neutralizing her movements. And in the midst of those struggles he sucked both her fleshy lips into his mouth. She blubbered a series of curses: Goddamn it! Goddamn you! These goddamn its and goddamn yous were spit right into Ding Gou’er’s mouth, where they were soaked up by his tongue, his gums, and his throat. Experience told him that the struggle probably wouldn’t last long, that pretty soon her face would turn red and moist, she’d start breathing hard, her belly would heat up, and she’d melt in his arms like a tame little kitten. That’s how women are. But what actually happened quickly proved he had blurred the distinction between the general and the specific. The woman was not incapacitated by the anesthesia in his mouth, and her struggle to resist did not abate just because he had her in a lip-lock; in fact, it increased and grew more frenzied. She clawed at his back, she kicked him in the legs, she kneed him in the groin. Her belly was hot as live cinders, her breath intoxicating as strong liquor. Incredibly aroused, Ding Gou’er was willing to subject his body to as much abuse as necessary before breaking off the kiss. He even tried to force his tongue between her clenched teeth. That was his downfall.

He never imagined that when she unclenched her teeth, it was just a ploy to allow his tongue to slip into her mouth. Then, with a sudden reclamping of her teeth, she drew a screech from the investigator, as a stabbing pain quickly spread from his tongue to every inch of his body. Ding Gou’er’s arms flew off the lady trucker’s waist, and he leaped away, a foul yet sweet taste emanating from a hot sticky liquid filling his mouth. He knew, as he clapped his hand over his mouth, that this spelled trouble. All of a sudden, no tongue. Bad news! In the investigator’s long history of romantic conquests, this was his first tragic failure. You fucking daughter of a whore! he cursed inwardly, as he bent over to spit out a mouthful of blood. Stars lit up the sky, but the ground was hazy; he knew he’d spit out blood, even though he couldn’t see the color of the stuff. What worried him most, of course, was the tongue itself, so he gently tried touching his teeth and lips; happily, it was still attached, but he detected a small gap on the tip. That’s where the blood was coming from.

Ding Gou’er was enormously relieved that his tongue hadn’t been bitten off. But he’d paid an annoyingly steep price for that kiss. He had to teach her a lesson, but how?

She was standing only a few feet away, looking straight at him, so close he could hear her labored breathing. He felt her body warmth through his thin shirt. She was staring at him, head held high, and now she was brandishing a monkey wrench. In the brightening starlight he took note of the angry expression on her animated face. Sort of like a naughty little girl. With a wry laugh, he grumbled:

You’ve got sharp teeth.’

She was breathing heavily. I held back,’ she said. ‘I can bite through ten-gauge wire.’

This brief bit of dialogue brightened the special investigator’s mood. The pain in his tongue turned to a dull ache. He reached out to pat her on the shoulder, but she jumped back in self-defense, raised the wrench over her head, and shouted. ‘How dare you! Touch me and I’ll split your skull open!’

I’m not going to hit you, my pet,’ he said, quickly drawing his hand back. I wouldn’t dare. Let’s talk this out peaceably, what do you say?’

‘Pour the water into the radiator!’ she commanded breathlessly.

As the night air grew heavy, Ding Gou’er felt a chill. Picking up his bucket and filling the radiator, as he was told, he was suddenly enveloped in a cloud of steam from the engine. That warmed him up. Water gurgling as it entered the radiator reminded him of a thirsty ox lapping up much-needed water. A shooting star tore through the Milky Way, insects were chirping all around, and the sound of waves beating against a distant shore came on the wind.

After they were back in the cab, he looked out at the bright lights of Liquorland, and was struck by feelings of loneliness, like a lamb that’s strayed from the flock.

As he rested on the padded cushions of the lady trucker’s sofa, Ding Gou’er was thoroughly intoxicated, he was enchanted. His sweat-soaked, alcohol-drenched clothing had been tossed out onto the balcony to continue sending their odors into the vast expanse of sky. His body was encased in a loose-fitting, downy-soft, warm and toasty bathrobe. That fine little pistol of his, along with several dozen bullets neatly stacked in their clips, rested on a tea table, the muzzle glinting a soft blue, the cartridges sparkling like gold. He was reclining on the sofa, his eyes narrowed to mere slits as he listened to the sounds of splashing coming from the bathroom and tried to picture hot shower water slipping down the lady trucker’s shoulders and breasts. Everything that had occurred after his tongue was bitten was like a dream. He hadn’t said another word after climbing into the truck, nor had she; instead he’d conscientiously and rather mechanically focused his attention on the roar of the engine and the sound of the tires on the road. The truck flew down the highway, Liquorland approaching very fast. Red lights, green lights, left turns, right turns. They entered the Brewer’s College through a side gate and pulled into the parking lot. She got out of the cab; he followed her. When she walked, so did he; when she stopped, he did too. Although everything had a bizarre quality, somehow it seemed completely natural He might as well have been her husband or her boyfriend, the way they sauntered into her apartment. Now, as he contentedly digested the wonderful meal she had prepared, he lay back on the sofa and sipped a glass of wine, enjoying the sights of her well-furnished living room and waiting expectantly for her to emerge from her shower.

From time to time a sharp pain in his tongue rekindled his vigilance. Maybe she was setting an even more insidious trap, maybe some ferocious man would suddenly appear, since this room had obviously been home to a male occupant. So what! I’m not leaving, even if two ferocious men appeared! He finished the glass of sweet wine and let himself sink into sweet reveries.

She emerged from the bathroom in a cream-colored bathrobe and bright red shower slippers. This was a woman who knew how to walk, the seductive sway of an exotic dancer. The wooden floor creaked beneath her feet. She was bathed in golden lamplight. Wet hair clung to her scalp, which was nice and round, like a perfectly shaped gourd that shone as it floated above her bathrobe in the halo of light. ‘Grab prosperity with one hand, sweep away indecency with the other.’ Curiously, this popular slogan popped into his head. She stood in front of him with crossed feet, her bathrobe loosely tied. A birthmark on her snowy white thigh looked like a watchful eye. The two mounds of flesh swelling up from her chest were also white. Ding Gou’er lay there, his eyelids drooping, enjoying the scenery and not moving a muscle. All he had to do was reach out and tug the belt around her waist for the lady trucker to be fully revealed to him. She was acting more like a lady of noble birth than a lady trucker. Having examined the house and its furnishings, the investigator was pretty sure that her husband was no lightweight. He lit another cigarette, a sly fox studying the bait in a trap,

‘All looks and no action.’ the lady trucker commented with annoyance. ‘What kind of Communist Party member are you?'

‘This is how undercover communists deal with female agents.’

‘Really?’

‘In the movies.’

‘Are you an actor?’

‘Studying to be one.’

Slowly she untied the belt of her robe, which fell around her feet when she shrugged her shoulders. Slim and graceful was the phrase that came to his mind.

Cupping her breasts with her hands, she asked, ‘What do you think?’

The investigator replied, ‘Not bad.’

‘What now?’

‘Continue to observe.’

She picked up his pistol, loaded it with a practiced hand, then stepped back to put some distance between them. The lamplight softened, encasing her body in gold. Not the whole body, of course; the rings around her nipples were dark red, her nipples like two bright red dates. Slowly she raised the gun, until it was aimed at the investigator’s head.

He shuddered a bit, his eyes fixed on the blue steel of the muzzle and the black hole at the end. He was used to pointing guns at other people’s heads, always the cat watching the mouse squirm under its sharp claws. Most of those mice, facing death, trembled with fear and peed their pants. Only a few could feign calmness, though a shaking fingertip or a twitch at the corner of the mouth usually exposed their fear. Now the cat had become the mouse; the judge had become the judged. He studied his own pistol as if it were the first time he’d seen it. The luster, like blue glazed tile, was as enchanting as the bouquet of vintage liquor, its smooth outlines displayed a kind of evil beauty. At this moment, it was God it was fate it was the Grim Reaper. Her large pale hand squeezed the carved handle, her long, slender index finger rested against the trigger, just a twitch away from driving the firing pin into the cartridge. Experience told him that a pistol in this state is no longer a piece of cold iron, but a living object with thoughts feelings culture morality. There is an enriched soul within – it is the soul of the gun holder. Without realizing it, this reverie relaxed him, until he was no longer focused on the muzzle, from which the bullet would emerge. It was just part of the gun. He took a leisurely drag on his cigarette.

An autumn wind blew in from the yard, gently billowing the silk drapes. Drops of cold condensation on the steamy bathroom ceiling fell noisily into the tub. He watched the lady trucker like a man appreciating a museum painting. To his surprise he discovered that a naked young woman holding a gun she was prepared to use could be incredibly sexy. At that moment, the pistol was no longer a simple handgun, but an organ of sexual conquest, a throbbing weapon. Ding Gou’er had never been one of those communists who can close their eyes in the presence of a woman. As we have already seen, he had a sex-crazed mistress. Now, to add some detail to the picture, he’d also had his share of one-night stands. In days past, he’d have easily held this little lamb in his grasp, like a ferocious tiger that had come charging down off the mountain. What gave him pause this time was: First, ever since arriving in Liquorland, he’d felt trapped in a labyrinth, confused and paranoid. Second, the tip of his tongue still ached. Facing this demonic butterfly, with her twisted personality, he dared not make a careless move, particularly since his head was in the sights of the business end of a pistol. Was there any guarantee this demon wouldn’t pull the trigger? It’s so much easier than biting someone – besides, it’s civilized, modern, and filled with romance. The contrast between the roomy, well-appointed quarters the woman lived in and the grinding job she performed perplexed him. I nearly lost my tongue over a little kiss. What if I… who could guarantee the safety of the family jewels? Suppressing his ‘bourgeois promiscuous inclinations’ and rekindling his ‘awesome proletarian righteousness,’ he sat there, solid as Mount Tai, facing a bare-assed woman and the black muzzle of a pistol, so decorous and composed, a look of utter serenity on his face, that he could surely lay claim to the mantle of tragic hero the likes of which the world has seldom seen. Calmly he watched the scene change.

The lady trucker’s face reddened, her excited nipples quivered, like the voracious mouths of tiny animals. The investigator could hardly keep from throwing himself on her and biting them. The sharp pain in his tongue kept him in his seat.

She sighed softly. ‘I surrender,’ she said.

She tossed the pistol down onto the table and raised her hands ostentatiously. ‘I surrender,’ she said again, ‘you win…’ With her arms in the air and her legs spread wide, all the points of entry were wide open.

‘How can you be so blase?’ she asked the investigator in exasperation. ‘Am I too ugly for you?’

‘No, you’re quite good looking,’ he replied languidly.

‘Then why?’ She turned mocking. ‘Not castrated, are you?’

‘I’m afraid you’ll bite it off.’

‘Male praying mantises die when they mount the females, but that doesn’t keep them from climbing on.’

‘Don’t give me that. I’m no praying mantis.’

‘You goddamned coward!’ the lady trucker cursed and turned her back on him. ‘Get the hell out of here. I’m going to masturbate!’

The investigator flew off the sofa and grabbed her from behind, taking one of her breasts in his hand. She lay back in his arms, cocked her head, and grinned up at him. In spite of himself, he put his mouth next to hers, but his lips no sooner brushed up against her burning lips than stabbing pains re-attacked his tongue. ‘Ouch!’ he shouted, jerking his mouth out of harm’s way.

‘I won’t bite you…’ She turned and began to undress him.

Piece by piece, the investigator’s clothes were peeled away. He pitched in to help, like a lone traveler confronted by a highwayman. First she removed his bathrobe and flicked it into the corner, then she relieved him of his shorts and undershirt, tossing them over an arm of the chandelier. He gazed up at them, suddenly wishing he could have them back. The desire to retrieve them was very strong. Wanting to ‘pick the onions without delay,’ he jumped a good thirty centimeters off the floor. He touched them with the tip of one finger of his right hand, but his feet were quickly back on the carpet. The next jump was forestalled by a leg sweep from the lady trucker, which put him flat on his back.

Before the investigator could come to his senses, the lady trucker had straddled him. Grabbing hold of his ears, she began bouncing up and down, raising a tattoo of sonorous slaps on Ding Gou’er’s belly. His insides felt as if they were being crushed, and he shouted bloody murder. So the lady trucker reached out, picked up a smelly sock, and crammed it into his mouth. Her actions were violent and savage, not gentle or feminine. A foul, disgusting taste filled Ding Gou’er’s mouth; he wanted to cry out. Is this supposed to be making love? It’s more like hog-butchering. Just as his consciousness sent a command to his hands to shove this lady butcher off, she pinned his wrists to the floor, as if guessing what he had in mind. Ding Gou’er’s emotions were a welter of confusion. He wanted to struggle, and he didn’t want to. We’ve already seen why he wanted to struggle. And to find out why he didn’t want to, we need look no further than down between his legs, where he was undergoing a test of blood and fire. So he closed his eyes and put his fate in God’s hands.

And here is what happened: While the lady trucker, all hot and sweaty, was squirming and bouncing around on his belly, like a lovesick loach, snide laughter erupted high above him. Ding Gou’er opened his eyes, and was nearly blinded by a flurry of flash-bulb explosions, followed immediately by a series of shutter snaps, and finally the whirr of film rewinding inside an automatic camera. He sprang into a sitting position and swung at the passion-filled face of the lady trucker. His aim was perfect; with a loud crack and a frenzy of flash-bulb explosions, she fell over backwards, her shoulders settling slowly onto his upturned feet, her naked belly revealing many delicious secrets. More flash-bulb explosions, as the historical posture assumed by him and the lady trucker was photographed from every angle by her co-conspirator.

‘All right, Comrade Ding Gou’er, special investigator, it’s now time to have a little tete-a-tete,’ Diamond Jin said tauntingly as he stuffed the roll of film into his pocket, crossed his legs, and settled comfortably into the sofa. He made the muscle on his right cheek twitch as he spoke, which Ding Gou’er found quite disgusting.

Pushing the dazed lady trucker off his body, Ding Gou’er tried to stand up, but his legs were so wobbly he moved like a paralytic.

This is great!’ Diamond Jin said, moving his cheek muscle. ‘An investigator with awesome responsibilities paralyzed from the waist down from sexual overindulgence.’

Staring at the handsome, well-cared-for face, Ding Gou’er felt the fires of anger rage in his breast and spread throughout his body; his ice-cold legs felt as if thousands of tiny insects had suddenly come to life just under the skin. By propping himself on his arms, he somehow managed to stand, however wobbly. His plugged arteries snapped open, and as he began to move, he narrated his own actions: The investigator stands up and flexes his arms and legs. He picks up a hand towel and wipes down his sweaty body, including his belly, stained by love juices from the wife or the lover of Diamond Jin, Liquorland’s Deputy Head of Propaganda. As he wipes down his naked body, he regrets his fears of a moment ago. I’ve committed no crime, except for falling into a trap laid by criminals.’

He tossed the hand towel into the air and watched it float to the floor in front of Diamond Jin, whose cheek muscle was, by now, twitching frantically, and whose face had turned the color of cold steel. ‘That’s quite a woman you’ve got there,’ Ding Gou’er said. ‘Too bad she threw in her lot with scum like you.’

He stood there waiting for Diamond Jin to explode in anger. But the man merely burst out laughing, guffaws of towering strangeness, which threw Ding Gou’er into a panic.

‘What are you laughing at?’ he demanded. ‘Do you honestly think you can mask your guilt feelings with laughter?’

Diamond Jin stopped laughing abruptly, took a handkerchief out of his pocket to dry his eyes, and said, ‘I ask you, Comrade Ding Gou’er, just who is troubled by guilt feelings? You wormed your way into my home and raped my wife, for which I have solid evidence.’ He patted the pocket holding the film. ‘An officer of the law,’ he went on, ‘who breaks the very laws he’s sworn to uphold is guilty of a serious offense.’ He sucked air in through the corner of his mouth. ‘Now who has guilt feelings?’ he said derisively.

Ding Gou’er ground his teeth. ‘Your wife raped me!'

‘That’s the oddest thing I’ve ever heard!’ Diamond Jin said, his cheek still twitching. ‘A burly kung-fu master with a handgun raped by a defenseless female.’

The investigator turned to look at the woman, who was kneeling on the hardwood floor, her gaze clouded as if she were in a trance, fresh blood trickling from her nostrils. Shivers ran through Ding Gou’er’s heart, as irresistible good feelings for the lady trucker’s scorching belly returned in a rush, until his eyes stung and tears began to form. He knelt down to pick up the discarded bathrobe, then used it to wipe the blood from the woman’s nose and mouth. If only he hadn’t hit her so hard. He noticed two drops of water on the back of his hand. Great big opaque tears leaped noisily -pi-pa pa-pa – from her eyes.

Ding Gou’er lifted the lady trucker up in his arms, laid her on the bed, and covered her with a blanket. Then he jumped up, fetched his shorts from the chandelier, and put them on. After that, he opened the door to the balcony, retrieved the rest of his clothes, and got dressed. Diamond Jin’s cheek twitched as he watched Ding pick his pistol up from the table, uncock the hammer, and stick it into his belt before sitting down. ‘Let’s lay our cards on the table,’ Ding said.

‘What cards are those?’ Diamond Jin replied.

‘Don’t play dumb with me,’ Ding Gou’er said.

‘Not dumb, pained,’ Jin said.

‘Pained over what?’ Ding asked.

‘Pained over the realization that the ranks of cadres in our party have produced a degenerate like you!’

Ding: ‘I’m a degenerate because I seduced your wife. That’s degeneracy. But there are people who cook and eat little boys. And you can’t be degenerate if you aren’t even human! That’s bestiality!’

‘Ha ha ha…’ Diamond Jin clapped his hands and laughed gleefully. ‘This is just like The Arabian Nights? he said when he finally stopped laughing. ‘Here in Liquorland, we have a famous culinary dish of extraordinary imagination and creativity. Members of the Central Government have tried it, so have you. Therefore, if we’re cannibalistic beasts, then you are too.’

With a sneer, Ding Gou’er said, ‘If you have a clear conscience, why find it necessary to lure me into a sex-trap?’

‘Only Higher-Procuratorate scum like you have the perverse imagination to come up with a thought like that!’ Diamond Jin replied angrily. ‘Now I’d like to report to your honor on behalf of our city’s Party Committee and municipal government: We welcome Investigator Ding Gou’er of the Higher Procuratorate to our city. We are prepared to offer every assistance.’

‘You could easily block my investigation, you know,’ Ding Gou’er said.

Diamond Jin patted his pocket. ‘What we have here, to be precise, is two willing fornicators. But even though your behavior has been despicable, you have broken no laws. And even though I have the power to send you crawling back to where you came from, like a lowly dog, individual interests must be subordinated to public interests, so I will not stop you from carrying out your mission.’

Diamond Jin opened his liquor cabinet, took out a bottle of Maotai, unscrewed the cap, and poured two tau glasses, emptying the bottle. He offered one to Ding Gou’er and raised the other in a toast: ‘Here’s to a successful investigation!’ he said, clinking glasses with Ding Gou’er. He tossed his head back, and drank the liquor in one gulp. Holding up the now empty glass, he stared at Ding Gou’er, cheek twitching, eyes shining.

The sight of that twitching cheek muscle enraged Ding Gou’er, who held out his glass and, come hell or high water, drank every last drop.

‘Good for you!’ Diamond Jin shouted approvingly. ‘Now you’re acting like a real man!’ Returning to the liquor cabinet, he removed an armful of liquor bottles, all name brands. ‘Now let’s see who’s the better man,’ he said, pointing to the bottles, which he deftly opened and began pouring from. Splashes of liquor turned the air aromatic. ‘Anyone who doesn’t drink is the son of a whore!’ With his cheek twitching uncontrollably by now, Diamond Jin abandoned his sophisticated veneer in favor of a hardened, alcoholic look. ‘Are you up to it?’ he challenged, throwing his head back and emptying his glass. On and on the cheek twitched. ‘Some people would rather be known as the son of a whore than drink a little liquor!’

‘Who said I won’t drink?’ Ding Gou’er picked up his glass. Glug-glug – he drained it. A skylight opened up in his scalp and his consciousness was transformed into a demonic butterfly the size of a moon-shaped fan; it began to dance in the lamplight. ‘Drink… fuck your mothers, all of them, drink every drop of Liquorland’s…’ He saw his hand grow to the size of a prayer mat and sprout a mass of fingers that reached out to the liquor bottles, which shrank to the size of carpentry nails, embroidery needles, then suddenly swelled to the size of large goblets, metal buckets, mallets. The lamplight changed, the butterfly tumbled in the air. Only the twitching cheek muscle stayed true to form. Drink! Liquor lubricates like honey. His tongue and gullet felt unimaginably good, better than words can describe. Drink! He sucked it up as fast as he could, then watched the clear liquid slip soothingly down his brown, twisting gullet. His feelings soared, following the contours of the wall.

Diamond Jin moved slowly in the lamplight, then took off abruptly, a virtual comet. The expression on his face cut a swath through the golden aura of the room like a razor-sharp saber, opening up a patchwork of seams in which he moved freely, slipping and sliding, until, just as abruptly, he vanished.

The multi-hued butterfly looked worn out, its wings getting heavier and heavier, as if weighted down by morning dew. Finally it settled on one of the chandelier arms, its antennae trembling tragically as it watched its skeleton crash heavily to the floor.

II

Dear Mo Yan, Sir

I’m concerned that I haven’t heard from you for a long time. Is it because I went overboard regarding my achievements in my last letter, and all that wild talk upset you? If so, then your disciple is caught up in fear and trepidation, shivering in his boots, afraid even to sweat, guilty of crimes deserving a thousand deaths. ‘A true gentleman forgives the trifles of a petty man, and the broad mind of an able minister can accommodate a ferry boat.’ Please don’t find fault with a child like me. I don’t want to lose your affection under any circumstance. From now on I’ll heed your every word, and will never again argue with you.

If you really believe that the dish Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together has bourgeois liberalization tendencies, I’ll delete it from my story ‘Donkey Avenue,’ and that’s that. I can also look up Proprietor Yu of Yichi Tavern and ask him to remove the dish from his menu. A few days ago, when I mentioned you to him, his eyes lit up. He asked me, Is he the one who wrote Red Sorghum?' I said, ‘Yes, that’s him, my mentor.’ He said, ‘That mentor of yours is a true scoundrel who’s always as good as his word, and I think highly of him,’ I said, ‘Who do you think you are, calling my mentor a scoundrel?’ But he said, ‘From me that’s a compliment. At a time when sanctimonious hypocrites are everywhere, a “true scoundrel who’s as good as his word” is rare as gold.’ Sir, we cannot use ordinary logic on extraordinary people. This Mr Yichi is a true eccentric, a real mystery. Please don’t take offense just because he talks like a guttersnipe.

I told him I’d asked you to help me with his biography, and he was delighted. He said that only Mo Yan is qualified to write his life story. When I asked him why, he said, ‘Because Mo Yan and I are jackals from the same lair.’ To which I argued, ‘Mo Yan is one of the great young writers of his age. How can a dwarf like you be mentioned in the same breath?’ With a sneer, he said, ‘Calling him a jackal from the same lair is high praise from me. Do you know how many people would love to be considered a jackal from the same lair as me, but aren’t?’

Sir, I hope you won’t sink to his level. In these times, when everything’s all topsy-turvy, even the city’s ‘number one Liquorland beauty,’ the hostess of our local TV show, went to bed with him. That, as you can see, takes real skill. He has money, but lacks fame; you have fame, but no money. A perfect match. Sir, you don’t have to pretend to be above worldly matters, just do a little business with him. He said that if you’re willing to write his life story, he’ll make it worth your while. I urge you to accept the assignment, both to earn a pile of People’s Currency and to change your image of poverty and backwardness. Besides, Yu Yichi is a truly uncommon individual, and that has to pique your interest. Here’s an ugly freak not much more than a foot tall who has vowed to f- every beauty in Liquorland, and has damned near f-ed them all. Now that’s a mystery that has to get you thinking. With your literary genius and powerful writing style, The Life of Yu Yichi is bound to be a classic. He said that if you’re willing to come to Liquorland to write his life story, he’ll supply you with everything you need: You’ll stay in Liquorland’s finest hotel, drink Liquorland’s finest liquor, dine on our finest cuisine, smoke name-brand cigarettes, sip famous tea. He even said – on the QT, understand -that if there are other pleasures you seek, he’ll do whatever is necessary to make you happy. Sir, if you’re concerned that the interviews will be too taxing, I’ll be happy to do them for you. You won’t find a better offer than this if you walk around with a lantern. So please don’t hesitate another minute.

Sir, in order to further stir up your enthusiasm and convince you that Yu Yichi is your typical, lovable hooligan, I’ve written a story in the form of a chronicle, called ‘Yichi the Hero.’ I’d like your opinion of it. If you decide to come to Liquorland to write the biography, there’s no need to give the story to anyone else. You’ll be doing me a great favor, and I have nothing with which to repay your kindness. So we’ll just count this story as a modest token of my esteem for you.

Wishing you

Good writing,

Your disciple

Li Yidou

III

Dear Elder Brother Yidou

Your letter and the ‘chronicle-story’ ‘Yichi the Hero’ arrived safely.

Your last letter was uncompromisingly candid. I admire that, so you have nothing to fear. I couldn’t reply right away because I was out of town. Still no news regarding your stories, and I can only counsel patience.

Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together is only a culinary dish. As such it has no class attributes, and thus cannot possibly be attacked for having bourgeois liberalization tendencies. There’s no need to delete it from ‘Donkey Avenue,’ and certainly you needn’t remove it from the Yichi Tavern menu. If I visit Liquorland someday, I want to try this world-class gourmet treat, and how will I do that if it’s not on the menu? Besides, these objects have such high culinary value that it would be a shame not to eat them, and stupid to boot. And since they must be eaten, there’s probably no more civilized way to prepare them than as Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together. Finally, even if you tried to take it off the menu, Proprietor Yu wouldn’t permit it.

I’m getting more and more interested in this Yu Yichi character, and am willing in principle to work with him on his life story. He can set the fee. If he wants to give a lot, I’ll take it; if he wants to give a little, I’ll take that too; and if he doesn’t want to give anything, that’s OK with me. It’s not money that attracts me to the project, but his celebrated experiences. I have the vague impression that Yu Yichi is the very soul of Liquorland, that he embodies the spirit of his age – half angel, half devil. Revealing the spiritual world of this individual could very well constitute my greatest contribution to literature. You may forward my initial response to Mr Yu.

I’m not going to flatter you on ‘Yichi the Hero.’ You call it a short story, but to me it’s a hodgepodge, in every respect a mirror image of the scattered donkey parts in Yichi Tavern. In it you include a letter to me, excerpts from Strange Events in Liquorland, and the incoherent ramblings of Yu Yichi himself. It’s as unconstrained as a heavenly steed soaring through the skies, completely out of control. In years past I’ve been criticized as being out of control, but compared to you, I’m the embodiment of moderation. We live in an age of strict adherence to law and order, and that includes the writing of fiction. For that reason, I do not intend to send your manuscript to Citizens³ Literature – I’d be wasting my time. I’ll hold on to it for the time being and return it when I visit Liquorland. I will, as you suggested, refer to the material in the story. Thanks for the generous offer.

One more thing: Do you have a copy of Strange Events in Liquorland⁷. If so, please send it to me as soon as possible. You can make a photocopy if you’re afraid it might get lost somewhere along the way. I'll reimburse you for the copying costs.

Wishing you

Peace,

Mo Yan

IV

Yichi the Hero, by Li Yidou

Please have a seat, Doctor of Liquor Studies, so we can have a heart-to-heart talk, he said with slippery intimacy as he sat on his haunches on his leather-covered swivel chair. The look on his face and the tone of his voice were like clouds at sunset, dazzlingly bright and in constant flux. He looked like a fearful demon, one of those patently evil, heretical knights-errant in kung-fu novels; my nerves were frayed as I sat on the sofa opposite him. You little rascal, he mocked, just when did you and that stinking rascal Mo Yan team up together? Cackling like a mother hen feeding her chicks (although I was trying to explain myself, not actually cackling), I said, He is my mentor, ours is a literary relationship. To this day I haven’t met him face-to-face, one of the great regrets of my life. With a sinister heh heh heh, he said, Mo is not the real family name of that rascal Mo Yan, you know. His real family name is Guan, which makes him the seventy-eighth descendant of Guan Zhong, Prime Minister of the state of Qi during the Warring States period, or so he claims. In fact, that’s pure bullshit. A writer, you say? To listen to him, you’d think he was some sort of literary genius. Well, I know everything there is to know about him. Astonished, I blurted out, How could you know everything there is to know about my mentor? To which he replied, Do nothing if you want nothing to be known. That rascal’s been no good since he was a kid. At the age of six he burned down a production team’s storage shed, at nine he fell under the spell of a teacher named Meng, following her around everywhere she went, to her great annoyance. At eleven he stole and ate some tomatoes, and got a beating when he was caught. At thirteen, for stealing some turnips, he was forced to kneel at Chairman Mao’s statue and beg forgiveness in front of more than two hundred workers on a public project. The little rascal is good at memorizing things, and had a good time entertaining people with his wit, for which his father gave him such a whipping, his ass swelled up something awful. Don’t you dare sully the name of my revered master! I protested loudly. Sully his name? Everything I’ve told you I got from his own writing! he said with a snide laugh. And a rotten scoundrel is just the person to write my life story. It takes an evil genius like him to understand an evil hero like me. Write to him and have him come to Liquorland as soon as possible. He’ll get no shabby treatment from me, he said as he thumped his chest. Energized by the boastful pronouncement and loud thumping, he turned his expensive leather chair into a carousel. One minute I was looking into his face, the next at the back of his head. Face, back of the head, face, back of the head, a crafty, animated face and a nicely rounded gourd in the back, one crammed full of knowledge. As he whirled faster and faster, he began to levitate.

Mr Yichi, I said, I’ve already written to him, but I haven’t received an answer. I’m worried he might not be willing to work on your life story.

With a sneer, he said, Don’t you worry about that, he’ll do it. There are four things you need to know about the little rascal: first, he likes women; second, he smokes and drinks; third, he’s always strapped for money; and fourth, he’s a collector of tales of the supernatural and unexplained mysteries that he can incorporate into his own fiction. He’ll come, all right. I doubt there’s another person on this earth who knows him as well as I.

As he twirled back down to the seat he said caustically, Doctor of Liquor Studies, just what sort of doctor’ are you? Do you have any idea what liquor is? A type of liquid? Bullshit! The blood of Christ? Bullshit! Something that boosts your spirits? Bullshit! Liquor is the mother of dreams, dreams are the daughters of liquor. And there’s something else I find relevant, he said as he ground his teeth and glared at me. Liquor is the lubricant of the state machinery; without it, the machinery cannot run smoothly! Do you understand what I’m saying? One look into that pitted face of yours tells me you don’t. Are you going to collaborate with that little bastard Mo Yan in writing my biography? All right, then, I’ll help you, I’ll coordinate your activities. If you must know, no biographer worth his salt would waste time interviewing individuals, since ninety percent of what’s gleaned through interviews is lies and fabrications. What you need to do is separate the real from the false, arrive at the truth by seeing what lies behind all those lies and fabrications.

I want you to know something, you rascal – and you can pass this on to that other rascal, Mo Yan – that Yu Yichi is eighty-five years old this year. A respectable age, wouldn’t you say? I wonder where you two little bastards were way back when I was roaming the countryside, living off my wits. Maybe you were somewhere in the ears of corn, or the leaves of cabbage, or in salted turnips, or in pumpkin seeds, places like that. Is that little rascal Mo Yan writing his The Republic of Wine It’s nothing but the ravings of a fool, someone who has no concept of his own limitations. How much liquor did he consume before he felt qualified to write The Republic of Wine? I’ve put away more alcohol than he has water! Do you two know the identity of that scaly boy who rides a galloping steed up and down Donkey Avenue on moonlit nights? It’s me, that’s who, me. Don’t ask where I come from. My hometown is a place lit up by dazzling sunlight. What, you don’t see the resemblance? You don’t believe I’m capable of flying on eaves and walking on walls? Permit me to give a demonstration, to open your eyes, as it were.

My dear Mo Yan, what happened next is the sort of thing that turns a person bug-eyed and tongue-tied. Rays of light shot out of that terrifying little dwarf’s eyes, like glowing daggers, and with my own eyes I watched him shrink into himself right there on the seat of his leather-covered swivel chair, transforming himself into a shadowy figure that flew into the air, light as a feather. The chair kept spinning, until – thunk – it reached the end of the swivel rod. Our friend, the hero of this narrative, was by then stuck to the ceiling. All four limbs, his whole body, in fact, seemed equipped with suction pads. He looked like an enormous, disgusting lizard crawling across the ceiling, carefree and relaxed as can be. His muffled voice descended from the heights: Did you see that, little rascal? Well, that was nothing. My master could hang from the ceiling all day and all night without twitching. With that he floated down from the ceiling like a dark falling leaf.

Back in his chair again, he asked smugly, What do you say to that? Now do you believe in my skills?

His astonishing, frightful lizard trick had me in a cold sweat; it was as if I’d been given a glimpse of a dream world. It never occurred to me that the heroic young man on the magnificent steed was none other than this dwarf. My mind was thrown into confusion. An idol had been smashed, and my belly swelled with the expanding airs of disappointment. Sir, if you recall the description of the scaly youngster in my story ‘Donkey Avenue’ – the bright moonlight, the magical little black donkey, the clattering of roof tiles, and the willow-leaf dagger clasped majestically between the youngster’s teeth – you’d be disappointed, too.

You don’t believe me, he said, and you can’t stand the idea of me and that scaly youngster being one and the same – I see it in your eyes – but that’s how it is. You probably want to ask where I learned these remarkable skills, but I can’t tell you. To be honest, if you’re willing to treat your own life more lightly than a goose feather, there’s nothing you can’t learn.

He lit a cigarette, but rather than puff on it, he blew a series of smoke rings, then strung them together with a single jet of smoke. The smoke rings held their shape as they hung in the air. His hands and feet never stopped moving. He was like one of those little apes that make their home on White Ape Mountain. Rascal, he said as he swiveled in his chair, let me tell you and Mo Yan a story about alcohol. I didn’t make it up – making up stories is your business.

He said:

Once upon a time the proprietor of a tavern here on Donkey Avenue hired a skinny twelve-year-old as an apprentice. An oversized head topped the boy’s long, skinny neck; he had big black eyes as deep as bottomless pits. He was a hard worker – fetching water, sweeping the floors, cleaning the tables, whatever he was asked to do – and extremely capable, to the immense satisfaction of the proprietor. But there’s another side to the story, a strange side: From the first day the little apprentice entered the tavern, there was a notable discrepancy between the consumption of liquor from the vats and the money that wound up in the till, which greatly puzzled the proprietor and his employees. One night, after the vats had been filled to the brim with fresh liquor from several lined baskets, the proprietor hid near by to see if he could solve the puzzle. Nothing happened during the first half of the night, and the proprietor was about to fall asleep when he heard the tiniest of noises, like the muffled footsteps of a cat. Pricking up his ears and growing alert, he waited to see what would happen. A shadowy figure glided up. After waiting for such a long time, the proprietor’s eyes had gotten used to the dark, so he easily identified the dark figure as that of his apprentice. The youngster’s eyes were an emerald green, like those of a cat. He was panting excitedly as he removed the lid from one of the vats, buried his mouth in the alcohol, and began sucking it up. As the astonished proprietor watched the level go down and down, he held his breath so as not to give himself away. After helping himself to a goodly amount of alcohol in several of the vats, the apprentice tiptoed away. Having solved the riddle, the proprietor got up silently and went to bed. The next morning, when he checked his stock, he saw that twelve inches of alcohol was missing from each of the vats. He had witnessed a capacity for alcohol that defied explanation. As an educated man, he knew that the belly of the apprentice was blessed with a treasure known as a liquor moth, and that if he could get his hands on one and introduce it into his liquor vat, not only would it eternally replenish itself, but the quality of his liquor would increase many times over. So he had the apprentice bound up next to the vats. Giving him nothing to eat or drink, he ordered his employees to stir the liquor in the vat, over and over, filling the air with its aroma and the pitiful shouts of the apprentice, who twisted and turned in agony. That went on for seven days, after which the proprietor released the apprentice, who immediately pounced onto one of the vats, stuck his head into the liquid and drank thirstily. All of a sudden, there was a loud splash, as a red-backed, yellow-bellied toadlike creature fell into the vat.

Know who that young apprentice was? Yu Yichi asked gloomily. Seeing the look of agony on his face, I asked tentatively, Was it you?

Who the fuck do you think it was? Of course it was me! If that proprietor hadn’t stolen the treasure in my belly, I might very well have turned into a god of wine.

You’re not doing so bad as it is, I consoled him. You have wealth and power; you eat and drink whatever you like, and you take your enjoyment where you please. I don’t think even a god of wine has it that good.

Bullshit! After he stole my treasure, my capacity for drink was history. Which is the only reason I succumbed to the tyranny of that rascal Diamond Jin.

Deputy Head Jin must have one of those liquor moths in his belly, I said, since he can walk away sober after a thousand cups of the strong stuff.

Bullshit! Him, a liquor moth? All he’s got is a mass of liquor tapeworms. With a liquor moth you become a god of wine; with liquor tapeworms, the best you can hope for is a wine demon.

Why didn’t you just swallow the liquor moth back and be done with it?

That shows what you know. Ai! That liquor moth was so thirsty it was barely in the vat before it choked to death. Sorrowful memories were turning his eyes red.

Elder brother Yichi, tell me the name of that proprietor, and I’ll trash his tavern.

Yu Yichi burst out laughing, and when he had finished, he said, You poor muddled little rascal, did you really believe all that? I made it up, every word of it. How could there be anything like a liquor moth? That was just a story I heard my tavern proprietor tell. All tavern owners dream of owning a vat that never goes dry. But it’s pure fantasy. I worked in that tavern for years, but I was too little for any heavy work, and the proprietor was always grumbling over how much I ate and how dark my eyes were. He finally sent me on my way. After that I just knocked around, sometimes begging food, and sometimes selling my labor for something to eat.

You’ve tasted the bitter life, but now you’re a man among men.

Bullshit bullshit bullshit… after a string of ‘bullshit’s, he spat out spitefully, Can the clichés! That might work with most people, but not with me. Millions of people all around the world have suffered and been mistreated, but those who become men among men are as rare as phoenix feathers and unicorn horns. It’s all a matter of fate, it’s in your bones. If you’re born with the bones of a beggar, that’s what you’ll spend your life as. Damn it, I don’t want to talk to you about these things anymore, it’s like playing the lute for an ox. You’re not smart enough to understand any of it. The only thing you know is how to turn grain into liquor, and just barely, at that. Like Mo Yan, who knows only how to write fiction, and just barely, at that. The two of you – mentor and disciple – are a couple of stuffed-up assholes, two turtle-spawn bastards. By asking you to write my biography I’m honoring your ragtag wicked thoughts. Clean out your ears and pay attention, you rascal, while your revered ancestor tells you another story.

He said:

Once upon a time, an educated little boy was watching a performance by two acrobats, one of them a beautiful maiden of twenty or so. The other was an elderly deaf-mute, by all appearances the girl’s father. She was the only performer; the elderly deaf-mute just rested on his haunches off to the side to keep watch over her props and costumes, for which there was no obvious need – the old fellow was clearly superfluous. And yet, without him, the troupe was somehow incomplete, so he was anything but expendable. He served as a contrast to the beautiful young maiden.

Her opening routine included producing an egg out of thin air, then a pigeon, then making things appear and disappear – some big, some small – things like that. Energized by the swelling crowd, which formed a dense wall around her, she announced, Ladies and gentlemen, devoted supporters, your servant will now perform a peach-planting. But before I begin, let’s open with a quotation from Chairman Mao: Our literature and art serves the workers, peasants, and soldiers. She picked a peach pit up from the ground, planted it in a patch of rich soil, and spit a mouthful of water over it. Grow! she commanded. Lo and behold, a bright red peach bud rose from the ground, higher and higher, until it became a full-fledged tree. Then the crowd watched as flowers blossomed on the branches and peaches began to grow. In no time they were ripe, an off-white color with tiny red mouths around the stems. The girl picked several of the peaches and handed them to onlookers, none of whom dared try one. Except for the little boy, who took one from her and gobbled it down. When asked how it tasted, he replied it was delicious. The girl invited the onlookers to taste the peaches a second time, but once again they just stood there, eyes popping, not daring to try one. With a sigh and a wave of her hand, she made the tree and the peaches disappear, leaving behind a vacant patch of soil.

The performance over, the girl and the old man gathered up their things to leave, while the boy watched on longingly. She acknowledged his attention with a smile, showing off her red lips and white teeth, just like a peach, so enchanting him she nearly snatched the soul right out of his body. Little brother, she said, you were the only one who ate one of my peaches, which shows that our fates are linked somehow. How’s this? Ill leave you an address, and anytime you find yourself thinking about me, that’s where you can find me.

The girl took out a ball-point pen, found a slip of paper, and scratched out an address, which she handed to the boy. He put it in a safe place, treating it as a cherished treasure. But when the girl and the old man walked off, he followed them, as if in a trance. Several li later, the girl stopped and said, Go home, little brother. We’ll meet again. Tears slipped from his eyes and down his cheeks. With a red satin handkerchief, she dried his tears, then blurted out abruptly, Little brother, your parents are coming for you!

Quickly turning to look, he saw his mother and father hobbling along after him, waving their arms and moving their lips, as if shouting, though he didn’t hear a sound. And when he turned back, the girl and the old man had vanished without a trace. He turned back again, and his parents had also vanished without a trace. Throwing himself to the ground, he cried like a baby. After a long while, exhausted from so much crying, he sat up and stared off blankly. Then, once he’d had enough of that, he lay back down and looked up into a sky as blue as any ocean, where puffy white clouds floated lazily by.

After returning home, the boy was in the grip of lovesickness: he wouldn’t eat and wouldn’t talk, drinking only a single glass of water daily and getting thinner and thinner, until he was skin and bones. Sightless when his eyes were open, when he closed them, he saw the lovely maiden standing beside him, the smell of musk on her breath, passion filling her eyes. Dear elder sister, he would shout, I miss you more than I can bear! Turning to put his arms around her, he’d open his eyes, and there’d be nothing there. Since it was clear to the boy’s anxious parents that he was wasting away, they sent for his uncle, a learned man with keen eyes, shrewd of mind, far-sighted, judicious, and resolute. One look at the boy was all he needed to know the source of his illness. Elder sister, brother-in-law, he sighed, my nephew’s illness cannot be cured by medical potions, and if he keeps deteriorating at this rate, nothing can save him. That’s why I think it’s best to ‘treat the dying horse as if it were alive and well’ Give him his freedom. If he finds the girl, maybe they’ll be joined together. If he doesn’t, he might give up the quest. The boy’s tearful parents, knowing they had no choice, accepted the uncle’s recommendation.

The three grownups went to the boy’s bedside, where the uncle said, Nephew, I’ve convinced your parents to let you go in search of the girl.

Leaping out of bed, the boy prostrated himself at his uncle’s feet and kowtowed over and over. A pink color quickly returned to his cheeks, probably from excitement.

Son, the boy’s parents said, your ambitions are too great for someone so small We underestimated you, and have decided to take your uncle’s suggestion to let you go search out that alluring genie. Our elderly servant, Wang Bao, will accompany you. We hope you find her, but if you don’t, come home and put an end to our worries. We will find a lovely girl from a good family for you. Finding a two-legged toad is impossible, but the world is filled with two-legged girls, so don’t think there’s only one tree to hang from.

The boy, objecting to his parents’ suggestion, told them that the conjuring girl was the only one for him, that not even fairies from the Nine Heavens could take her place.

But his father, a man of considerable experience himself, advised the boy: My son, you’re under the spell of that demon-girl. You cannot tell what’s inside a stuffed dumpling by looking at its folds, and a girl’s qualities are not revealed in her face. Beauty and ugliness vanish as soon as you close your eyes.

Naturally, the boy refused to come to his senses, for he was in the grip of passion, and nothing his parents said had any effect on him. Finding themselves powerless, they fed their little donkey, prepared enough provisions for half a month, and gave Wang Bao, the elderly servant, detailed instructions. Their preparations complete, amid a flood of tears, a host of anxieties, and seemingly endless dawdling, they saw the boy out of the village and onto the road.

Sitting astride his donkey and wobbling from side to side as if mounting the clouds and riding the mist, the boy thought only of the prospects of seeing the girl before long. Elated by this thought, he grew so animated on the donkey that people who saw him said he’d taken leave of his senses.

Many days passed, and the provisions he’d brought were exhausted, as was the money he’d been given. No one along the way could direct him to Apricot Blossom Cave on Westwind Mountain. The old servant urged him to turn around and head home, but to no avail. He kept heading west, his determination never flagging. So Wang Bao sneaked off, begging for food on the way back home. Then the donkey died. But the boy kept going, alone and on foot, as the days waned and his road neared its end. Finally, he sat down on a roadside boulder and wept, though his thoughts of the girl remained as strong as ever. He was startled out of his weeping by a loud noise, just before the earth opened up and the boulder plunged downward, carrying him with it. He opened his eyes to find himself in the welcoming arms of the girl he was looking for. Overwhelmed by rapture, he passed out…

That boy was me! Yu Yichi announced with a sly grin. I spent many days with a performing troupe, where I learned sword-swallowing, tightrope walking, fire-spitting, and more. Traveling performers live wonderful lives, mysterious and romantic. Whoever writes my life story should narrate this period with all the flair and color he can manage.

Mo Yan, sir, this Yu Yichi is a master of imagination, rich in creative powers. I had the feeling I’d run across the story he just told me somewhere or other, maybe during my reading of Tales from the Scholar’s Studio or Tales of the Supernatural Then, not long ago, I was browsing through Strange Events in Liquorland and ran across the following passage, which I have copied out for you:

In the early years of the Republic, a performer came to Wine Fragrance village, a woman whose beauty matched that of the Moon Goddess. Among the villagers crowding around to watch her was a young man surnamed Yu, whose given name was Yichi and whose nickname was Lapdog. Bom to well-to-do parents in their forties, for whom he was a pearl in the palm, he was thirteen at the time, a gifted, intelligent boy, and lovely as fine jade. When the girl bestowed a smile on him, his heart took flight. Then the girl began her performance by summoning the wind and the rain, spitting out clouds and mist, to the raucous delight of her audience. She produced a tiny bottle, the thickness of a single finger, and held it up for all to see, saying: This is the cave-home of genies. Who among you will accompany me on a trip inside? The people gaped at one another, exchanging bewildered glances, wondering how two fully grown humans could possibly enter a bottle no thicker than a human finger. It must be hocus-pocus to trick the audience. But Yichi, captivated by the girl’s beauty, leaped out of the crowd. I’ll enter the bottle with you, he said. The crowd laughed at his foolishness. Young man, the girl said, you have a pure and wonderful disposition, and a strange fragrance emanates from your body. Clearly, you are no ordinary mortal, and entering the bottle with you is proof that our fates have been linked over three lifetimes. With that she raised her hand, forming her fingers into an orchid, from which puffs of smoke emerged. Ripples swept through the onlookers, like moon shadows, splintering and flickering without coming together. Yichi felt his wrist grasped by the girl, whose fingers were like threads, whose skin was satiny, soft and yielding. She whispered into his ear, Follow me, a sound like the gentle chirping of a swallow, her breath heavy with the smell of musk. She tossed the bottle into the sky, streaked with colorful rays of sunset and a host of auspicious auras. The mouth of the twirling bottle began to expand, the bottle grew and grew until it was at least ten feet long and shaped like a moon gate. Yichi drifted slowly inside with the girl. A flower-bedecked path, shaded by green pines, exquisite birds and marvelous animals frolicking all around. Yu was swept into an intoxicated stupor, lust burned in his heart. He grabbed the girl’s hand and pulled her to him, wanting to perform the dance of love. With a giggle, she said, Aren’t you afraid the village elders will laugh at you? She raised her hand and pointed outside the bottle, where he saw the onlookers craning their necks to observe what was going on inside. Momentarily startled, Yu felt his passion flag. But it quickly returned, and while his passions raged, he was too choked up to speak. The girl said, The depth of your emotions moves me. If my lowly origins do not disturb you, or my repulsive appearance, then I ask you to return to Apricot Blossom Cave on Westwind Mountain one year from today, when I will prepare my bed to receive you. Yu’s emotions surged wildly and he was rendered speechless. With another wave of the girl's hand, he found himself once again under a bright sky, the tiny bottle lying in the palm of her hand. He detected a peculiar floral redolence on his clothing.

Back when the girl had first grasped Yu’s wrist, the onlookers watched as his body shrank, then the girl's, until they were a pair of mosquitoes flitting into the bottle, which then floated upwards and began to circle in the air, like magic. They were stunned by what they saw.

The girl planted a gourd seed in the rich soil, spit a mouthful of fragrant saliva on the spot, and commanded, Grow! A bud appeared, turned into a tendril, and sprouted leaves as it stretched dozens of feet into the sky. It grew where it willed itself to grow, twisting and coiling like a column of smoke. With a sack over her shoulder, the girl began to climb the stalk, from one leaf to the next, until she had gone ten feet or more. She stopped, looked down, smiled, and said to Yu, Don’t forget to keep your promise. Then she flew upwards, causing the leaves to quiver as she passed, and was soon out of sight. The stalk that had grown out of the gourd seed turned to dust that fluttered to the ground. The crowd stood there speechless before finally leaving the scene.

Yu returned home, but could not get the girl’s beauty out of his mind. Neither eating nor drinking, he lay stiffly in bed day and night, shouting over and over in his delirium, as if in the presence of ghosts and demons. His frightened parents sought help from a parade of doctors, all of whom were mystified by a tenacious illness that defied medical treatment. Yu continued to deteriorate, body and soul, until he arrived at the brink of death. His parents, reduced to tears, were at their wits’ end, when suddenly they heard the tinkle of a horse-bell at the door, followed by a shout, It’s I, the boy’s uncle! The words still hung in the air when a strapping young man burst through the door. After completing his bows, he said, Brother-in-law, elder sister, have you been well since last we met? Looking into his face, with its high nose, wide mouth, yellow hair, and blue eyes, unlike other Chinese, the mother was too startled to speak. The man strode over to the boy’s bed and announced, My nephew is seriously afflicted with lovesickness. Can potions or medical treatment cure him of that? You doddering oldsters will surely send my nephew to his death! Ill for many days, Yu lay with his eyes closed, barely breathing, as if he were already slipping into death, cut off from the outside world. The visitor bent down to check his condition. He announced with a sigh, Such pallor on a face so young and tender shows that my nephew is sick at heart. Producing three red pellets, he placed them in Yu’s mouth, which immediately brought color to his cheeks and restored his heavy breathing. Then, clapping his hands thrice, the visitor announced, Foolish youngster, the anniversary of your promise, which you have anxiously awaited for so long, has nearly arrived. Do you not want to be there at the appointed hour? Yu’s eyes popped open, bright and radiant, and he leaped out of bed. Thumping himself on the forehead, he exclaimed, If not for your help, uncle, I would have missed my rendezvous with the girl. You must leave, the visitor said, you must leave at once. He turned and strode out the door. Without stopping to change his clothes, comb his hair, or put on his shoes, Yu ran after his uncle. His parents called out tearfully, but he paid them no heed.

The visitor sat on his horse beside the road, waiting for Yu. Reaching down with his long arms, he lifted Yu up onto his mount, as if he were a newborn chick. Then he struck the horse with his riding crop; the animal whinnied once and was off like the wind. Yu sat astride the horse, holding on tightly to its mane, the wind whistling past his ears. Open your eyes, nephew, he suddenly heard his uncle say. When he did, he saw that he was in the Gobi Desert, surrounded by dry, withered grass on the rocky terrain, with nary a soul in sight. Without a word, his uncle smacked his horse and galloped off like a puff of smoke, leaving not a trace.

Yu sat on the rocky ground, alone and in tears. Suddenly he felt the rocks give way and heard a series of thunderous claps. Golden beams of light filled his eyes, so startling him that he swooned dead away. When he next awoke, he felt dainty fingers on his face, spreading their redolence in the air around him. He opened his eyes, and there before him was the girl. Tears of joy fell from his eyes. I have waited for you for such a long time, the girl said.

(Here five hundred words have been excised.)

Strolling hand in hand, they saw a garden with a profusion of unusual trees and rare flowers. One particular tree, large with palm-sized leaves, was covered with fruit shaped exactly like baby boys. At the mid-day meal, a golden-hued baby boy sat in the center of a platter, so perfectly lifelike that Yu dared not touch it with his chopsticks. How can a young man, over five feet tall, be such a coward? the girl said as she picked up her chopsticks and stuck them into the baby’s penis, which, along with the rest of the body, crumbled under the assault. She picked up a piece of arm and ate it, chewing and grinding like a tiger or a wolf. Yu was more frightened than ever. With a sneer, the girl said, This boy is not a boy at all, but a boy-shaped fruit, and I am not pleased by your posturing. Wanting to please her, Yu forced himself to pick up an ear and put it into his mouth, where it melted and flooded his taste buds with indescribably delicious flavors. Emboldened by this discovery, he attacked the food like a hungry wolf or a starving tiger. The girl covered her mouth as she giggled. She said, Before you knew the flavor you were frightened as a lamb, but now you are ravenous as a wolf! Yu was too busy eating to reply; with grease and oil smeared across his face, he was a sight to behold. The girl brought out a flagon of liquor, saturating the air like perfume. She said, This is brewed from fruit gathered by apes and monkeys in the mountains. It is among the most sought-after anywhere…

Mo Yan, sir, you’ve probably read enough for one sitting, and I’ve certainly copied all I can for the moment. But I should remind you that eating infant boys and drinking Ape Liquor, both of which are mentioned in this nonsensical article, constitute two significant current events in Liquorland; you could even say they are the two keys to the mystery of Liquorland. The author of Strange Events in Liquorland is unknown, and I have only recently learned of its existence. For a few years now, it has circulated among the public in a hand-copied version, and I hear that the Propaganda Department of the Municipal Party Committee has ordered it confiscated. So I speculate that the author must be a contemporary, someone who is very much alive, right here in Liquorland. The protagonist of the piece is also called Yu Yichi! So I suspect that he is the author.

Mr Yu, you are confusing me something awful. First you work in a tavern, then you’re a scaly young warrior who comes and goes like a shadow, and then you’re a clown in a performing troupe. Now you’re the prestigious owner of a tavern – your life is a mixture of truth and untruth, filled with countless transformations. How is anyone to write your life story?

He laughed uproariously. Who’d have guessed that such loud, crisp laughter could emerge from the chicken-breast chest of such a tiny dwarf. He tapped on the telephone buttons, making the little computer inside whirl dizzily. Then he tossed a teacup made of fine china from the town of Jingde toward the ceiling, sending it and the tea inside, aided by the pull of gravity, crashing and splashing onto the gorgeous, and expensive, wool carpet. Reaching into a drawer, he withdrew a stack of color photographs and flapped them in the air, making them flutter like a swarm of gaudy butterflies. Do you know these women, he asked smugly. I picked up the photos and studied them greedily, a hypocritical look of shyness on my face. Every one of the women was a beauty, totally naked, and they all looked familiar. He said their names were on the back. There I found the women’s work units, their ages, their names, and the dates they had sex with him. They were all from Liquorland. He was very close to realizing his glorious aspiration.

So, Doctor of Liquor Studies, this crowning success by an ugly little dwarf ought to earn him the right to have his biography written, don’t you think? Have that rascal Mo Yan get his ass over here as soon as possible. Wait too long and I might kill myself.

I, Yu Yichi, age unclear, stand seventy-five centimeters tall. Born into poverty, I wandered from place to place. I hit my stride in my middle years, serving as Chairman of the Metropolitan Entrepreneurs Association, earning distinction as provincial model worker, assuming proprietorship of Yichi Tavern, anointed as a candidate for Party membership, and having sex with twenty-nine of Liquorland’s most beautiful women. I have a mental state beyond the imagination of mortal men, and abilities that surpass the best of them. I also have a rich supply of the sort of experiences that are the stuff of legend. My biography will rank as the world’s most phenomenal book. Tell that rascal Mo Yan to make up his mind at once. Will he write it or won’t he? Shit or get off the pot.