The Republic of Wine

I

Dear Elder Brother Yidou

I received and have read your story and your letter.

After reading Swallows’ Nests.’ a parade of thoughts thronged my mind. When I was a child, my granddad told me that when rich people sit down to eat, their tables are filled with things like camel’s hooves, bear’s paw, monkey brains, swallow’s nest, and things like that. I’ve seen a camel, and I have no reason to doubt that their big, meaty hooves make for good eating, though I’ve never had the good fortune of tasting one. Once, as a child, I ate a horse’s hoof my second brother secretly cut off of a dead horse and brought home from his production brigade. Of course, we didn’t have a famous chef to prepare it, so my mother just boiled it in water with some salt. There wasn’t much meat on it, so I filled up on the broth. Still, it left a lasting impression, one I invariably bring up with my brother when we’re together at New Year’s, as if the delightful flavor still lay on my tongue. That was in i960, at the beginning of the famine, which is probably why the memory has stayed with me so long. As for bear’s paw, a couple of years ago an industrialist invited me to dinner at his home, and when the last dish was carried in, a plate of black lumpy things, he announced with great solemnity, This is bear’s paw, brought specially all the way from Heilongjiang. Excitedly, I picked up a piece with my chopsticks, put it in my mouth, and savored it slowly. It was sticky and mushy, neither particularly fragrant nor particularly foul-tasting, sort of like a pig’s leg tendons. But I raved about it to my host anyway. He picked up a piece, tasted it, and announced, 'It didn’t swell the way it should.' He criticized the chef for not being up to par. I was too embarrassed to ask him what he meant by ‘swell.’ Some time later, I asked a friend who worked in a Beijing restaurant what it meant to ‘swell’ something. He told me I’d eaten dried bear’s paw, which had to swell first. Fresh bear’s paw, on the other hand, doesn’t require it, but it’s still hard to prepare. If you obtain some fresh bear’s paw, he said, you have to dig a hole in the ground, line it with pieces of limestone, then put the bear’s paw inside and cover it with more limestone, which you douse with warm water until it’s hot enough to crack; that’s the only way to loosen the bristly hairs enough to pluck them out. He said that eating bear’s paw requires patience, since the softer it is, the better it tastes. If it’s planned for dinner, you need to begin stewing it at dawn. That’s too much trouble, if you ask me. I recall that my granddad also said that, since bears stop eating in the winter, they lick their paws to quell any hunger pangs, which is why they’re so treasured. But I have my doubts about that. As for monkey brains, I used to think they were just that, the brains of a monkey. But then someone said it was a sort of tree fungus. That’s something I’ve never eaten, although I have taken monkey brain fungus tablets for my stomach problem. Not long ago, I met someone from a pharmaceutical company on the train, and he said there was no way they could gather enough monkey brain fiingus to meet the demand, so they simply lace it with wood-ear fungus or dried mushrooms. That surprised me, since I never dreamed that even medicine was adulterated. If they’ll adulterate medicines, what can we expect to be unadulterated? The last thing I want to talk about are those frightful swallows’ nests. I’ve never seen one and never eaten one. In the novel Dream of the Red Chamber’, every time Lin Daiyu’s consumption acts up, she drinks swallow’s-nest soup, which means it’s good stuff, and far too expensive for most people. But I never thought it was that expensive. Most of us could work half a lifetime and still not earn enough to buy a couple of catties of swallow’s nest. And after reading your story, it’s something I never want to try, partly because of the expense, but also because it involves such cruelty. I’m not one of those hypocritical ‘swallow-ists,’ but it pains me to think of one of those golden swallows making a nest out of its own saliva. My level is about on a par with ‘my wife’ in your story. I doubt that swallow’s nest is as mystical as ‘my mother-in-law’ says. Swallow’s nest is popular in Hong Kong, but if you look at the people walking the streets of Hong Kong, you’ll see that most of them are short and scrawny. In Shandong, where we eat sweet-potato cakes and thick green onions, you’ll have no trouble finding tall people, and even though not every one of our women is a raving beauty, you won’t have any problem finding one. It should be obvious that the nutritional value of those things can’t come close to baked sweet potatoes. Spending that kind of money to eat something that dirty sounds pretty stupid to me. The cruelty of destroying a swallow’s home to get one of the nests moves it beyond stupidity. In recent years, and especially since I’ve been reading your stories, I’ve discovered that the Chinese have indeed racked their brains in the pursuit of new and exotic foods. Needless to say, most of those who have the wherewithal to pamper their palates don’t need to spend their own money to do so, while most people just stuff their bellies with whatever they have at hand. We live in an age of mountains of victuals and oceans of potables, and the petty bureaucrats in your stories are more overweening than Liu Wencai, who dined exclusively on webbed ducks’ feet. This has become commonplace lately. Not many years ago, people still wrote breezy columns or drew political cartoons satirizing this trend, but you don’t even see them anymore.

But back to the issue at hand. In my view, ‘Swallows’ Nests’ is still too political, and if I were you, I’d empty my belly of every vestige of passion and rewrite it. Gathering swallows’ nests, an ancient and endangered profession replete with mystery and legend, could make a wonderful story. For emphasis, focus on the mystery and the legends.

My superior has more or less agreed to let me visit Liquorland. But I can’t leave until I’ve finished the draft of my novel. I’ve committed the date of your first Ape Liquor Festival to memory, and will be finished in time to attend.

I’m returning your manuscript by express special delivery. Please let me know when it arrives.

Wishing you success with your writing,

Mo Yan

II

Dear Mo Yan

Your letter and the express special delivery package with my manuscript arrived. You really didn’t have to spend all that money – first-class registered mail would have been fine. A few extra days wouldn’t have made any difference to me, since I am now writing a story I call ‘Liquor Fairy,’ and any changes to ‘Swallows’ Nests’ will have to wait.

You got so emotional over my ‘Swallows’ Nests,’ even returning to your childhood, when you ate a boiled horse’s hoof, that even if it never finds its way into print, it has already justified its existence – without it, would you ever have written me such a long letter?

As you wrote in your letter, the nutritional value of swallows’ nests has been greatly exaggerated, and I think the best you can say about it is it’s a bird secretion high in protein. It has no magical properties, for if it did, the few people who eat the things, as many as four or five a day, would surely have found the secret of immortality by now. I’ve eaten it once, just the way I wrote in my story. When you come to Liquorland, I’ll arrange for you to sample some. The actual eating isn’t as important as the experience, of course.

I’ll try to control my passion better. Given the current state of affairs, no one can stem the raging tide, and when you think about what society has come to, everyone shares the blame. My job has made it easy for me to sample the finest wines and liquors in the world, most of which are nearly as expensive as swallow’s nest. Common folk have probably never seen, let alone tasted, wines like Gevrey-Chambertin and de la Romanée-Conti from France, or Lay and Doktor from Germany, or the Italian Barbaresco or Lacryma Christi. They’re true treasures, every one of them, unquestioned wines of the gods, pure ambrosia. Please come, and make it soon. I may not be able to boast of much, but it won’t be difficult to see that you drink only the best while you’re here. Better that you and I drink the stuff than those corrupt, greedy officials.

There’s so much I want to tell you, but since you’ll be in Liquorland soon, I’ll save it till we can talk face to face. After we toast each other, we can talk to our hearts’ content.

I’m enclosing my latest story, ‘Ape Liquor,’ and await your criticisms. I was going to make it longer, but I’ve been so tired the past few days, I decided to wrap it up where it was. You don’t need to mail it back after you’ve read it. Just bring it along when you come to Liquorland. I’m going to take a day off, then start another story. After that I’ll make changes to ‘Swallows’ Nests.’

Wishing you the best,

Your disciple

Li Yidou

III

Ape Liquor, by Li Yidou

Ape Liquor is Yuan’s Liquor. Who was its distiller? My father-in-law, Yuan Shuangyu, a professor at the Brewer’s College in Liquor-land. If Liquorland is a glossy pearl in the heart of our glorious motherland, then the Brewer’s College is the pearl of Liquorland, and my father-in-law the pearl of the Brewer’s College – the most lustrous, the most brilliant. It has been the grand opportunity of a lifetime to become the elderly gentleman’s student and then his son-in-law. So many people envy and covet my good fortune. When I was giving this story a title, I pondered for the longest time, unable to decide whether I should call it ‘Ape Liquor’ or ‘Yuan’s Liquor.’ I finally decided to call it ‘Ape Liquor,’ for the time being, even though it might smack somewhat of Fauvism. My father-in-law is an erudite man who possesses an upright character. In his search for Ape Liquor, he was willing to live among the apes on White Ape Mountain, eating the wind and sleeping in the dew, combed by breezes and bathed by the rain, until success was his at last.

In order for my teetotaling readers to gain an understanding of my father-in-law’s erudition, I shall have to copy out a large portion of the handouts he gave us for a class he taught on The Origins of Liquor.

At the time I was a young, know-nothing student; entering the sacred temple of liquor from a poor peasant family, I knew next to nothing about alcoholic spirits. When my father-in-law walked grandly up to the podium, carrying a cane and dressed in a white suit, I was of the opinion that liquor was just spiced-up water. What could this old fellow say about it that was worthwhile? Standing at the podium, he began to laugh before saying a word. Amid his laughter, he took a small flask out of his pocket, removed the stopper, and took a drink from it. Then he smacked his lips and asked, Students, what am I drinking? Someone said, Tap water, someone else said, Boiled water, another said, Clear liquid, and yet another said, Liquor. I knew it was liquor -1 could smell it – but I muttered, Urine. Good! My father-in-law said, slapping the podium with his hand. Whoever said liquor, please stand up. A girl with braided hair rose from her seat. Blushing bright red, she took a look at my father-in-law, then lowered her head and played with the tips of her braids – a common habit among girls with braids, something they learned from the movies. My father-in-law asked, How did you know it was liquor? In an almost imperceptible voice, she said, I could smell it… Why is your sense of smell so keen? my father-in-law asked. The girl’s blush deepened, her face seemed to be burning up. Well? Why? my father-in-law asked. In an even lower voice, she said, 'I… I've had a keen sense of smell these past few days…' My father-in-law slapped his forehead, as if suddenly enlightened, and said, OK, I get it. You can sit down. What did he ‘get’? Do you know? I didn’t, not until much later, when he told me that girls have a particularly keen sense of smell during their periods, and also a more active imagination. That’s why so many important discoveries in human history have been so closely linked with the female menstrual cycle. Now, the student who said urine, please stand up, my father-in-law said gravely. I felt a sudden buzzing in my ears, and saw stars flying in front of my eyes, as if I’d been clubbed. I hadn’t realized an old fart like that could have such good hearing. Stand up. Don’t be shy! he said. My embarrassment attracted the attention of the entire class, including the girl with braids, who was having her period – her name was Jin Manli, a typical name for a female secret agent. I’ll discuss what happened between the two of us in another story. Later on she became one of my father-in-law’s graduate students – Damn, this mouth of mine, which is fouler smelling than dogshit, has got me into trouble again. Li Yidou, Li Yidou, what did your parents say before you left home? Didn’t they tell you to speak less and listen more? You and that mouth of yours, even a medicinal plaster couldn’t keep it shut. Like a gorged woodpecker that dies stuck in a tree, its beak is its undoing -1 stood up in total embarrassment, not daring to raise my head. What’s your name? Li Yidou. No wonder you have such a vivid imagination; you’re the Liquor God Reincarnate. The class broke up laughing. He stilled the laughter with his hands, took a drink of the liquor, smacked his lips, and said, Sit down, Li Yidou. Frankly speaking, I like you very much. You’re different from the others.

I sat down in total confusion, while watching my father-in-law recap his flask, shake it vigorously, and hold it up to the light to enjoy the sight of the bubbles inside. He said in a lilting voice, Dear students, this is a sacred solution, an indispensable liquid in human life. At present, in a time of reforms and liberalization, its functions increase daily. It is no exaggeration to say that without liquor the revitalization of Liquorland would just be empty talk. Liquor is sunshine, it is air, it is blood. Liquor is music, painting, ballet, poetry. A distiller of liquor is a master of many skills. I hope that a master distiller will emerge from among you to gain glory for our country with a gold medal from the World’s Fair in Barcelona. A while ago I heard someone scorn our profession by saying that it had no future. Students, I can tell you that one day, even if the earth is destroyed, the molecular essence of liquor will still be flying around the universe.

Amid rousing applause, my father-in-law raised his flask high, with a solemn, even divine expression on his face, like that look on a hero’s face we so often see in the movies. I was ashamed over having blasphemed such a significant liquid by calling it urine, even though it all becomes urine sooner or later.

The origin of this celestial liquid is still a riddle today, my father-in-law said. Several thousand years of liquor have converged to form the Yellow River and the Yangtze River, but we cannot locate its source. We can only speculate. In their spectrum analysis of the universe, Chinese astronomers have discovered vast quantities of alcohol molecules in outer space. Recently an American astronaut detected the strong aroma of alcohol inside her spacecraft, which brought waves of euphoric sensation, as if she were slightly drunk. I ask you, where did these alcohol molecules come from? Where did the scent detected by the astronaut come from? Another planet? Or might it have been dissipated remnants from right here in Liquorland? Students, spread the wings of your imagination!

My father-in-law continued, Our ancestors attributed the invention of liquor to deities and made up beautiful and moving stories about it. Please look at your handouts.

The ancient Egyptians believed that liquor was discovered by Osiris, guardian of the dead. Liquor was offered as sacrifice to the ancestors, to raise their souls from suffering and give them wings on which to fly away to Paradise. Even those of us who are still alive feel a sensation of flying when we’re drunk. Therefore, the essence of liquor is the spirit of flying. The ancient Mesopotamians made Noah the brewer’s laureate. They said he not only created the human race anew but also gave humans the wonderful gift of liquor in order to avoid disasters. The Mesopotamians even identified the place where Noah made his liquor – Erivan.

The ancient Greeks had their own god of liquor; his name was Dionysus, the specialist in liquor among the Olympian gods and goddesses. He represented wild ecstasy, the unfettering of all shackles, the releasing of a soaring free spirit.

Religions that place great stock in spirituality have different explanations for the origin of liquor. Buddhism and Islam are replete with antipathy toward liquor, declaring it to be the source of all evil. On the other hand, Christianity considers liquor to be Jehovah’s blood, the material embodiment of His dedication to the salvation of the world. Christians believe that drinking wine will help them connect with God, correspond with God. It is profound that the Christian doctrine treats wine as a kind of spirit, even though we all know that liquor is a substance. But let me remind you all that anyone who treats liquor only as a material object will never become a true artist. Liquor is spiritual, a belief whose traces still remain in many languages. For instance, in the English language hard liquor is called ‘spirits.’ while the French language labels liquor with a high alcoholic content ‘spiritueux.’ These terms share a linguistic root with ‘spiritual.’

But we are materialists, after all. We emphasize the fact that liquor is spiritual simply because we want to let our minds spread their wings and fly high. When they are tired from flying, when they settle back to earth, they must still seek the origins of liquor among a pile of ancient written records. This is enormously satisfying work. An alcoholic beverage called ‘Soma’ and another called ‘Baoma’, both used in sacrificial rites, are mentioned in India’s oldest religious text and literary collection, the Veda. The Hebrew Old Testament often mentions ‘sour wine’ and ‘sweet wine’. Our ancient oracle bones record, ‘This liquor D to Dajia D D to Ding,’ meaning an offering of liquor to the dead, Dajia and Ding. There is another word on an oracle bone, change which Ban Gu of the Han Dynasty, in his ‘Interpretation of the White Tiger,’ interpreted this way: Chang is a brew made of the fragrance of all plants. Chang meaning fine liquor, is synonymous with unrestrained, satisfying, enjoyable, unstoppable, unhindered: as in unrestrained access, unrestrained good cheer, unrestrained talking, unrestrained passage, unrestrained imagination, unrestrained drinking… Liquor is the embodiment of this free realm. So far, the earliest known record of liquor found in other parts of the world is a cork excavated from a prehistoric tomb in Egypt. On it we find the seal of Ramses the Third’s brewery (1198-1166 BC).

Let me give you more examples of early written records on liquor. For instance, ‘li’ in Chinese means a kind of sweet liquor; ‘bojah’ in ancient Hindu is a liquor made of grain extracts; in an Ethiopian tribal language, liquor made from barley is called ‘bosa’. ‘Cer visia’ in old Gallic, ‘Pior’ in old German, ‘eolo’ in old Scandinavian, and ‘bere’ in old Anglo-Saxon are all terms for beer in various ancient people’s languages. Fermented mare’s milk was called ‘koumiss’ by ancient nomads on the Mongolian steppe, and ‘masoun’ by the Mesopotamians. Mead was called ‘melikaton’ by the ancient Greeks, ‘aqua musla’ by the ancient Romans and ‘chouchen’ by the Celts. The ancient Scandinavians often gave mead as a wedding gift, which is the origin of ‘honeymoon,’ a term still in use all around the world. Written records such as these can be found everywhere in ancient civilizations, and it is impossible to list them all.

Quoting a big chunk of my father-in-law’s handout has probably annoyed the hell out of you. Sorry. I’m bored out of my skull too, but I have no choice. Please bear with me a little longer, it’ll be over soon, just another minute. Regrettably, we can only go back to circa the tenth century BC to ascertain the origins of liquor through written records. It is perfectly legitimate to speculate that the origins of liquor predate recorded history, since many archeological finds provide sufficient evidence. The history of liquor exceeds ten thousand years, excavated evidence for which includes a clay liquor tripod from Longshan, China, beautifully crafted ‘zun’ and ‘jia’ wine vessels from Da Wen Kou, and the liquor rites on a fresco found in Spain’s Altamira caves.

Students, my father-in-law said, liquor is an organic compound, naturally produced as one of Nature’s ingenious creations. It is made of sugar transformed by enzymes into alcohol, plus some other ingredients. There are so many plants with sugar content that they will never be exhausted. Fruits with high sugar content, like grapes, are easily broken down by enzymes. If a pile of grapes is brought to a low, moist place by the wind, water, birds or animals, the proper amount of water and the right temperature can activate the enzymes on the skins to turn grape juice into sweet, delicious liquor. In China, an old saying goes, ‘Apes make liquor.’ The ancient text ‘Evening Talks in Penglong’ records the following: ‘There are many apes in Mount Huang. In the spring and summer, they pick flowers and fruits, and place them in a low place among rocks, where the mixture ferments into liquor with an aroma that can be detected for several hundred paces.’ An ‘Occasional Note from Western Guang’ in Miscellaneous Jottings records: ‘Apes abound in the mountains of such Western Guang prefectures as Pingle. They are skilled in plucking flowers to make liquor. When woodcutters enter the mountains, those who find their nests can retrieve several pints of liquor. It is fragrant and delicious, and has been named Ape Liquor.’ Now if apes knew how to pick a variety of fruits and put them in a shallow place to brew liquor, how much more likely is it for our human ancestors? Other countries have stories similar to that of apes making liquor. For instance, French brewers generally believe that birds collect fruit in their nests, but unforeseen incidents prevent them from swallowing the fruit. As time passes, birds’ nests become containers for making liquor. Humans must have been inspired by birds and beasts in their pursuit of the secrets of making liquor. The natural appearance of liquor and the emergence of plants with sugar content probably occurred at about the same time. So it is safe to say that, before there were humans, the earth was already permeated with the aroma of liquor.

So when did humans actually start distilling liquor? The answer to this question lies in the discovery by humans of the existence of liquor in Nature. Some of the boldest ones, or those who were dying of thirst, drank the liquor in shallows among the rocks or from the birds’ nests. After tasting this marvelous elixir and experiencing great pleasure, they flocked off to look for more shallows among the rocks and for more birds’ nests. The motivation to make their own liquor naturally occurred after they had drunk all the liquor they could find. Imitation followed motivation; they copied monkeys by throwing fruit into shallows and into birds’ nests. But they didn’t always succeed; sometimes the fruit dried up and sometimes it simply rotted away. Many times humans abandoned their quest to learn from the apes, but the overpowering seductiveness of the elixir enticed them into summoning their courage and starting over again with their experiments. Eventually, their experiments succeeded, and a fruity liquor was created with Nature’s help. Ecstatic, they danced naked in their fire-lit caves. This process of learning how to make liquor occurred simultaneously with a mastery of planting crops and domesticating animals. When grains replaced meat and fish as the people’s main staple, they began experimenting with the fermentation of grains. The motivation for these experiments might have been accidental, or might have come as a revelation from God. But when the first drop of liquor formed from steam accumulating in an earthenware still, human history turned a new, magnificent page. It was the start of the glorious age of civilization.

That ends my lecture, my father-in-law announced.

Now that class was over, my father-in-law gulped down the remaining liquor in his flask and smacked his lips repeatedly. Then he put it in his pocket, stuffed his briefcase under his arm, and, after casting me a mean yet meaningful glance, walked out of the classroom, head held high, chest thrust out.

Four years later, I graduated from college and took an exam to become my father-in-law’s graduate student. The title of my thesis was ‘Latin American “Magic Realist” Novels and the Distilling of Liquor.’ It won high praise from my father-in-law, and I passed the oral defense with ease. It was even sent to the Journal of Brewer’s College, where it was published as the leading essay. My father-in-law accepted me as his Ph.D. student and happily approved my area of research: How are a distiller’s emotions manifested in the physics and chemistry of the distilling process, and how do they affect the overall taste of a liquor? My father-in-law believed that my topic, with its fresh angle, was both highly significant and highly interesting. He suggested that I spend a year in the library, reading all the relevant books and collecting sufficient materials, before sitting down to write.

Following my father-in-law’s instructions, I threw myself, body and soul, into my studies at the Liquorland Municipal Library. One day I found a rare book called Strange Events in Liquorland, which included an article that particularly interested me. I recommended it to my father-in-law. How could I have known that it would affect him so profoundly that he would go off to White Ape Mountain to live with the apes? I’ll quote the entire story here for you; read it if you want to, skip it if you don’t.

In Liquorland there lived an old man surnamed Sun, who had a fondness for drink. Blessed with a great capacity for liquor, he consumed several pints at each sitting. He had once owned ten acres of fertile land and tiled houses with dozens of rooms, but they all went to pay his drinking expenses. His wife, surnamed Liu, took the children and remarried. The old man wandered the streets, with matted hair, a dirty face, and tattered clothes, a common beggar. When he saw someone buying liquor, he begged some by kneeling in front of the person and kowtowing until his forehead bled. It was a pitiful sight. Suddenly one day, a white-haired old man with a young face materialized in front of him and said, ‘A hundred li southeast of here is a tree-lined mountain called White Ape Mountain, where apes have created ponds overflowing with wine. Why not take yourself there to drink? Is it not better than begging here?’ Hearing those words, Sun kowtowed without a word of thanks and left like a whirlwind. Three days later, he reached the foothills of the mountain, and when he looked up, he saw a dense growth of trees but no path. So he climbed by holding on to vines and roots. Gradually he entered thickets where ancient trees reached the sky and blocked out the sun, the forest floor a mass of entangled vines and roots, where birds’ cries came in waves. A giant animal appeared before him. It was the size of an ox, with electrifying eyes and thunderous roars that shook the plants and trees. Terrified, Sun tried to run away, and in his haste, fell into a deep ravine. Hanging upside down from a tree, he thought he would surely die. Then the aroma of wine entered his nostrils, quickly revitalizing him. He climbed down the tree and, following the aroma, came to a place overgrown with shrubs, where strange flowers and rare fruit hung from the treetops. A little white ape was picking a cluster of amber-like purple fruit. When it bounded away, the old man followed it to an open space. He saw a giant rock several feet wide, with a hollow in the middle, at least a yard deep. The little ape threw the fruit into the hollow area with a crackling sound like broken tiles. The smell of wine billowed upward. Moving closer to take a look, he saw that the hollow was filled with vintage wine. A group of apes came up carrying large leaves like rounded fans, folded into the shape of plates, which they used to scoop up the wine. Before long, they were all engaged in laughable behaviors: stumbling around, baring their teeth, and casting flirtatious looks. When the old man approached them, the apes retreated several feet, shouting angrily. But he paid no heed. He rushed up, thrust his neck into the hollow, and began sucking up wine like a whale. He did not rise for a long time, and when he did, his insides had been cleansed, his mouth was filled with a wonderful taste, and he felt like a weightless immortal. He then imitated the apes’ drunken behavior: jumping up and down, shouting and yelling. The apes quickly followed his example, and they all got along very well. From then on, he remained in the area near the rock, sleeping when he was tired and drinking as soon as he woke up, sometimes playing games with the apes. He enjoyed himself so much that he did not want to go back down the mountain. People in his village all thought he was dead, telling tales about him that were known even to children. Decades later, a woodcutter entered the mountains and met up with Sun, whom he mistook for a mountain deity, because Sun had white hair with a young complexion, a healthy body, and high spirits. The woodcutter knelt to kowtow to Sun, who looked him over and asked, ‘Is your name Sanxian?’ The woodcutter replied, ‘Yes.’ Sun said, ‘I am your father.’ As a child, the woodcutter had heard that his father was a drunk who was tricked into going up the mountain, where he died. He was surprised and bewildered to encounter his father on this day. The old man related his adventures and recalled incidents of days past among the family. Finally believing the story, the woodcutter asked the old man to return to the village so he could take care of him. But the old man laughed and said, ‘Is there a wine pond in your house from which I can drink at will?’ He told his son to wait while he went off through the treetops, swinging on vines like a nimble ape. After a short while, he returned with a section of bamboo, the ends of which were stuffed with purple flowers. He handed it to his son, saying, There is ape wine inside the bamboo. It can improve your health and help you maintain a youthful appearance.’ His son took the bamboo home, where he removed the seal and poured the contents into a basin. It was deep blue, like indigo, with a strong, rich bouquet unmatched in the human world. Being very filial, the woodcutter filled a bottle with the liquid and gave it to his father-in-law, who in turn gave the wine to his master, a gentryman named Liu. Mr Liu saw the wine and was greatly surprised. He asked about its origin. The servant told Mr Liu what his son-in-law had told him. Mr Liu reported to the provincial governor, who sent dozens of people to comb the mountain. After several months, they found only overgrown trees and thickets of thorny plants, and returned with nothing to report.

When I finished reading the story, I felt I had stumbled upon a rare treasure, so I quickly made a copy at the service desk, which I took to my father-in-law’s place to present it to him. It was an evening three years ago. When I arrived, my father-in-law and my mother-in-law were having a quarrel over dinner. A storm raged outside, with thunder and lightning. Blue bolts of lightning, like long, crackling whips, beat on the windows and rattled the glass. I shook the water out of my hair. My nose stung from being pelted by hailstones mixed with rain, and tears welled up in my eyes. My mother-in-law took one look at me and said angrily:

‘A married daughter is like spilled water. You solve your own problems. This isn’t civil court.’

I knew she’d gotten the wrong idea, but before I could explain, I was interrupted by a powerful sneeze. In the midst of my nasal spasm, I heard my mother-in-law grumble:

‘Are you one of those men who treat liquor as their wives? Are you…’

I didn’t understand what she meant at the time, but, of course, I do now. Back then I just saw a grumbling woman whose face was turning reddish purple, her heart apparently filled with loathing. She seemed to be talking to me, but her eyes – stiff, focused, frozen, and cold as snake eyes – were fixed on my father-in-law. I’d never seen a look like that before, and even now, when I recall it, a chill skips across my heart.

My father-in-law was sitting properly at the dinner table, maintaining the airs of a college professor. Under the warm lamplight, his gray hair looked like the fine threads of a silkworm, but with each bolt of blue lightning outside the window, it was transformed into strands of cold, green soybean noodles. He ignored my mother-in-law and kept drinking alone. It was a bottle of Italian Widow Champagne, a golden liquid like the smooth, warm bosom of a western girl, strings of tiny bubbles sizzling like the sound of her whispers. The fruity bouquet of the wine was elegant, pleasant, and refreshing; the more you smelled it, the longer the aroma stayed with you. It was magnificent beyond imagining. Gazing at this kind of wine was better than staring at the naked body of a western girl; smelling this kind of wine was better than kissing a western girl; drinking this kind of wine…

He lovingly caressed the smooth, green, jadelike bottle with one hand and fondled a tall-stemmed glass with the other. His long, slender fingers toyed with the glass and the bottle with erotic tenderness. He raised the glass to eye level to let the bright lamplight shine on the softly tinted liquid, and as he admired it, a hint of impatience showed in his eyes. Holding the glass under his nose to sniff it, he held his breath and opened his mouth joyously. Then he took a tiny, an absolutely tiny, sip, barely moistening the tip of his tongue and his lips, as rays of excitement shot from his eyes. Pouring the glassful into his mouth and holding his breath, he kept the liquid in his mouth without swallowing for a moment. Puffed-out cheeks made his face rounder than usual, his chin pointier. I was surprised to note that he had no beard, not a single whisker. Those weren’t the lips and chin of a man. He swished the liquid around in his mouth, which must have brought him great joy. Red spots appeared on his face, like unevenly applied rouge. The way he held the liquor in his mouth so long affected me physically – I heard the sound of rushing water. A bolt of lightning turned the room green. Amid that green spasm, he swallowed the wine, and I watched it travel down his throat. Then he licked his lips, and his eyes moistened, as if he were crying. I'd seen him drink in class before, and there was never anything unusual about it. But at home, he turned sentimental, and that was quite unusual. Watching my father-in-law caress his glass and admire the liquid in it somehow spawned images of a gay man; although I’d never actually seen a gay man, I believed that what gay men did when they were alone must be similar to how my father-in-law treated his bottle, his glass, and his wine.

‘Disgusting!’ My mother-in-law threw down her chopsticks and cursed aimlessly, then stood up, went to her room, and locked the door behind her. I was embarrassed. At the time I had no idea what had disgusted her, but now I know.

His enjoyment ruined, my father-in-law stood up by holding the edge of the table. Staring at the green bedroom door, lost in thought, he didn’t move for the longest time. But the expression on his face kept changing, from disappointment to agony and finally to anger. The look of disappointment was accompanied by a long sigh; he recapped the bottle and sat down on a sofa by the wall, looking like the shell of a man. Suddenly feeling pity for the old man, I wanted to console him, but didn’t know what to say. Then I thought about the strange story tucked in my briefcase, which reminded me of the purpose of my visit. I took the story out and handed it to him. I’d never gotten into the habit of calling him ‘Papa,’ always addressing him as ‘Teacher.’ While this bothered my wife, fortunately he didn’t mind. He said it was easier and more natural for me to call him ‘Teacher,’ and that it was hypocritical, even sort of creepy, for a son-in-law to call his father-in-law ‘Papa.’ I poured him a cup of tea, but the water was lukewarm, and the leaves floated on the surface. I knew that tea didn’t interest him much, so it didn’t really matter whether the water was hot or not. He pressed down on the cover with his palm as a way of thanking me, then asked in a half-hearted manner:

‘Did you have another fight? Well, go on, just keep fighting!’

From that brief comment, I could sense his feelings of helplessness regarding the married lives of two generations of the family. A halo of sadness shrouded the small living room. Handing him the copy of the story, I said:

‘Teacher, I found this in the library today. It’s very interesting. Please take a look’

I could tell he was uninterested in the article and in this son-in-law who stood there in his living room. He probably wanted me to leave, so he could be free to collapse on the sofa and lose himself in the aromatic aftertaste of the Italian Widow Champagne. It was only out of courtesy that he didn’t drive me away, and also out of courtesy that he reached out a languid hand, like a sexually overindulgent man, and took the paper from me.

‘Teacher,’ I said encouragingly, ‘it’s an article about apes making alcoholic beverages. And not just any apes, but the ones on White Ape Mountain near Liquorland.’

Reluctantly, he raised the paper and lazily skimmed it, his eyes like old cicadas squirming on a willow branch. Had he stayed that way, I’d have been sorely disappointed, knowing that I didn’t understand him at all. But I did understand him, and I knew the article would pique his interest and lift his spirits. I wanted to make him happy, not to benefit myself, but because I felt that deep inside the old man’s mind hid an innocent little animal, which was neither a dog nor a cat, one with smooth, shiny fur, a short snout, big ears, a bright red nose, and squat legs. This little animal held my attention, as if it were my own twin brother. Of course, these feelings were absurd, groundless, and incomprehensible. As I figured, his eyes lit up, his languid body stirred, and excitement showed through his reddening ears and trembling fingers. I thought I saw that little animal leap out of his body, jumping and gliding in the air three feet above his head, along tracks like strings of silk. I was truly happy, I was truly delighted, I was truly ecstatic, I was truly elated.

He took another quick look at the sheets of paper, then closed his eyes, his fingers unconsciously tapping the paper in a series of tiny clicks. He opened his eyes and said:

I’m going to do it!’

‘Do what?’

‘After all the years you’ve been with me, you have to ask?’

‘Your student lacks talent and knowledge, and cannot fathom the profundity of your words.’

‘Clichés, all clichés!’ he said unhappily. ‘I’m going up to White Ape Mountain to search for Ape Liquor.’

As excited and uneasy emotions raged through my subconscious, I sensed that a long-anticipated event was about to occur. Tidal waves were about to engulf life as calm as stagnant water. A fascinating story just made for drinking parties would soon spread throughout Liquorland, and would immerse the city, the Brewer’s College, and me in an atmosphere of romance formed by the integration of elite and popular literatures. And all this would come about as a result of my accidental discovery in the Municipal Library. My father-in-law would soon depart for White Ape Mountain in search of Ape Liquor, followed by throngs of the curious. But all I said was:

‘Teacher, you know that stories like this are usually fabrications by idle literati. We should treat them as fantasies, and not take them too seriously.’

He had already risen from the sofa and was pulling himself together, like a soldier setting off for the battlefield. He said:

‘My mind’s made up, so say no more.’

‘Teacher, it’s such a momentous decision, shouldn’t you at least discuss it with my mother-in-law?’

He cast me a cold glance and said,

‘She has nothing to do with me anymore.’

He removed his watch and eyeglasses, walked to the front door as if heading off to bed, opened it with determination, and slammed it shut behind him. The thin layer of wood sent the two of us into two separate worlds. The sounds of wind and rain and thunder and the cold, damp air of a rainy night that entered the house when he opened the door suddenly stopped with the sound of the door slamming shut. Dumbfounded, I stood there listening to the disappearing sounds of his slippered feet scraping against the sand and scraps of paper on the cement stairs. The sound grew weaker and weaker, then died out completely. His departure left a gaping hole in the living room. I was still standing there, big and tall, but felt somehow that I had stopped being human and was less significant than a cement pillar. It had all happened so fast it felt like an illusion; but this was no illusion, for his watch and his eyeglasses, still warm, lay on the tea table, the two sheets of paper I’d handed him were still lying on the sofa where he’d thrown them, and the bottle and the glass he’d been caressing still stood forlornly on the dining table. The filament in the fluorescent lamp was hissing; the old-fashioned clock hanging on the wall continued to mark time – tick-tock tick-toch Even though there was a door between us, I could hear my mother-in-law breathing, as, I assumed, she lay in bed, her head cradled in her arm, like a peasant woman slurping hot porridge.

After considerable thought, I decided to tell her everything. I tested the door first, then knocked loudly. In between the raps, I heard rustling noises that quickly turned into a loud sobbing intermingled with the snorts of nose-blowing. Where, I wondered, did she deposit the stuff from her nose? This highly insignificant thought bounced stubbornly in my head, like a pesky fly that wouldn’t be shooed away. It occurred to me that she must already know what had happened out here, but still I said uneasily:

…he’s gone… said he was going to White Ape Mountain for Ape Liquor…’

She blew her nose again; where did she wipe the snot? The sobbing was replaced by rustling sounds. I had a picture of her getting out of bed and staring at the door or at the wall, where their engagement picture, which I had so admired, hung. Framed in ornate black wood, it looked like a portrait of an ancestor that is passed down from generation to generation. At the moment frozen in the frame, my father-in-law was still a handsome man whose lips curled up at the corners to reveal a humorous, engaging personality. His hair was parted down the middle, a white line like a scar left by a sharp knife that divided his head in two. His neck invaded the space above my mother-in-law’s head, his pointy chin no more than three centimeters from her sleek, neatly combed hair, thus symbolizing both the authority and love of a husband. Under the oppression of the indispensable authority and love of her husband, her face was round, with bushy eyebrows, a silly little nose, and a firm, exuberant mouth. At the time, my mother-in-law looked a bit like a handsome young man dressed in women’s clothes. Her face still showed some of the rash qualities of her nest-gatherer lineage – undeterred by hardships, undaunted by any cliff – contrasting sharply with her present lazy, sensuous, pampered self, akin to the Imperial Consort Yang Guifei. Why had she turned out like this? And how had the two of them produced such an ugly daughter, one who could shame the whole Chinese nation? The mother was carved out of ivory, the daughter molded from mud. I believed that sooner or later I’d find the answer to this question. It had been so long since the glass in the frame had been cleaned that a succession of stealthy spiders had weaved their delicate webs over it. Fine dust was caught in the lattice-work. What was my mother-in-law thinking as she stared at this relic? Was she recalling bygone happy days? But I didn’t know if they’d ever had happy days. It’s my theory that any couple that has stayed married for decades must be calm people who are in complete control of their emotions. At best, the happiness experienced by this type of couple is dusk-like: slow, ambiguous, acrid, and sticky, a bland, murky happiness like sediment at the bottom of a liquor vat. Those who get divorced three days after their wedding are more akin to red-maned stallions; their emotions burn like a prairie fire, enough to light up the world around them and bake it until it oozes grease. The cruel sun at high noon, a tropical storm, a razor-sharp sword, strong liquor, a paint brush dipped in a full palette. These marriages are the spiritual wealth of the human race, while the former become gooey mud, numbing the human ability for enlightenment and slowing down the process of historical development. That is why I had second thoughts about what my mother-in-law was thinking; instead of recalling bygone happy days, it was far more likely that she was recalling my father-in-law’s unsavory behavior, which had disgusted her over the decades. The facts would soon prove that my speculation was correct.

I knocked on the door one more time.

‘What do you think we should do?’ I asked. ‘Bring him back or report to the school authorities?’

There was silence for a minute, absolute silence; even her breathing stopped, making me very uneasy. Suddenly she let out a loud, piercing cry, her voice like a sharpened bamboo stalk, totally incompatible with her age, her identity, and her usual dignity and elegance. The incompatibility created a powerful discrepancy, which terrified me. I was worried she might go so far as to hang her naked self from one of the nails in the room, like a cooked swan. Which nail would that be? The one from which the picture hung? Or the one holding the calendar? Or the one for hats? Two were too flimsy, the other both flimsy and short; since none could sustain my mother-in-law’s budlike body, with its snowy white skin, my fears were superfluous. But her remarkable cry had sent a chill down my spine, and I thought that the only way to still her voice was to keep rapping on her door.

As I continued, I tried to explain things and comfort her. At the moment, she was like a ball of tangled camel hair, and it was essential to console her with patient, rhythmic knocks and smooth talk like Wujia herbal liquor, which has a soothing effect and aids the body’s circulation. What exactly did I say? I guess it was something along the lines of: My father-in-law had embraced a lifelong desire to rush up to White Ape Mountain one night. He was willing to sacrifice his life for liquor. I told her that his departure had nothing to do with her. I said that he would very likely find his Ape Liquor, thereby making a great contribution to mankind, enriching an already splendid liquor culture, turning a new page in mankind’s distilling history, bringing glory to our nation, making a name for the Chinese, and generating revenue for Liquorland. I also said, ‘No one can catch a cub without entering the tiger’s lair.’ How could he obtain Ape Liquor if he didn’t go up the mountain? Besides, I told her, I believed that my father-in-law would return one day, whether he found the ape liquor or not, to live out his years with her.

My mother-in-law screamed:

‘Who cares if he comes back? I don’t want him to come back! I’ll be disgusted if he comes back! I hope he dies up on White Ape Mountain. I hope he turns into a hairy ape!’

Her words made my hair stand on end; cold sweat seeped from every pore of my body. Prior to this moment, I’d only vaguely sensed that they lived in disharmony, and that there were some minor frictions. I’d never dreamed that her hatred for her husband was deeper than that which a poor peasant feels for the landowner, deeper than a worker’s enmity toward a capitalist. The creed that ‘Class hatred is stronger than Mount Tai,’ which had been pounded into me for decades, crumbled. If one person’s hatred for another could reach such proportions, it was an unquestioned form of beauty, a magnificent contribution to humanity. How closely it resembled a purple, poisonous poppy blooming in the swamp of human emotions; as long as you don’t touch or ingest it, it will exist as a form of beauty, possessing an attraction that no kindly, friendly flower could ever have.

Then she began recounting my father-in-law’s misdeeds – every word, every sound, was filled with blood and tears. She said:

‘How can he call himself human? How can he call himself a man? For decades, he has treated his liquor like a woman. It was he who started the evil practice of comparing a beautiful woman to vintage liquor. Drinking has taken the place of sexual intercourse. He has devoted all his sexual appetite to liquor, to his bottles, to his wine glasses…’

‘Dr Li, I’m not really your mother-in-law. I never gave birth -how could I? Your wife was an abandoned infant I picked out of a trash can.’

The truth was out. I let out a deep breath, as if a big load had been lifted from my chest.

‘You’re an intelligent person, Doctor. Sand in the eyes doesn’t throw you off the track. You must have sensed that she wasn’t my biological daughter. That is why I think we can become close friends, and I can tell you everything. Doctor, I’m a woman, not a stone lion outside the Palace Museum, or a weather vane on a rooftop, and surely not a lowly, androgynous worm. I have a woman’s desires, but I am denied any… Who can know the pain I feel?’

I said:

‘Then why haven’t you divorced him?’

I’m weak, I’m afraid of people’s scorn…’

I said:

‘That’s absurd.’

‘Yes, it is. But the absurd days are over now. Doctor, I can tell you why I never divorced him. It was because he distilled a strong herbal liquor especially for me, which he called “Ximen Qing,” after the licentious hero of classical novels. Drinking this liquor creates mind-blowing illusions, some even better than sex…’

I detected a sweet shyness in her voice.

‘But when you showed up, the power of the liquor mysteriously disappeared.’

I didn’t feel like rapping on the door anymore.

‘There’s this woman who, like a bear’s claw drenched in spices, has been stewing over a low heat for decades. Now she has finally ripened. Her fragrance is overpowering. Don’t tell me you can’t smell it, my dear Doctor…’

The door opened wide. The aroma of braised bear’s paw rolled out in waves. I held tightly to the door frame, like a drowning man with a death-grip on a ship’s railing…

IV

After the swarthy dwarf was shot, his body flew upwards, as if he were about to fly away. But the hot lead had destroyed his central nervous system, and his limbs twitched spastically. The spasms made one thing abundantly clear: He could no longer call forth the mystical powers described in Doctor of Liquor Studies’ story ‘Yichi the Hero,’ where he soared into the air and stuck to the ceiling like an oversized lizard. Quite the opposite: after jerking a few centimeters into the air, he slid off the lady trucker’s lap and landed on the floor, where Ding Gou’er watched him struggle to straighten himself out, his thigh muscles stretched as taut as utility wires in a gale. Blood and brain matter oozing from the hole in his head fouled the polished floorboards. Then one of his legs began to jerk in and out like the neck of a rooster as the knife enters; his body, wracked by powerful spasms, spun around in smooth, easy circles. After about a dozen revolutions, his legs quit banging the floor, and what happened next was this: The spasmodic flailing stopped, but he began to quake. At first the trembling involved his whole body, creating a steady twang; but then it became localized, his muscle groups acting like sports fans performing the wave. Starting from the tip of his left foot, it moved up to his left calf then to his left thigh then to his left hip and then to his left shoulder, where it crossed over to his right shoulder and moved down to his right hip then to his right thigh then to his right calf then to the tip of his right foot, and from there changed direction and headed back to the starting point. This movement continued for a long while before the trembling stopped altogether. Ding Gou’er heard a loud release of air from the dwarf’s body just before it went limp and lay spread out on the floor.

Dead as a doornail, he looked like a leathery alligator in a swamp. Not for a second while he was watching the death-throes of the dwarf did Ding lose sight of the lady trucker. At the instant when the dwarf slid to the floor from her glossy, bare knees, she fell over backwards onto the inner-sprung mattress, which was covered by a snow-white bedsheet and a jumble of odd-shaped pillows and cushions. The pillows were down-filled, Ding Gou’er noted as he watched delicate goose feathers ooze from the seam of a large pillow with pink floral borders and soar skyward when the pillow was crushed by her falling head. Her legs spread wide and hung limp over the side of the bed as she lay face-up, a posture that stirred the sediment in Ding Gou’er’s mind. Reminded of the lady trucker’s wild passion, he felt stabs of jealousy, and even as he bit down on his lower lip, wicked thoughts consumed him, sending pains like those of a mortally wounded hunter’s prey tearing through his heart. Agonizing moans slipped through his clenched teeth. He gave the dwarf’s lifeless body an angry kick, then threw himself onto the bed alongside the lady trucker, the smoking gun still in his hand. Her sprawled body reawakened love-hate feelings toward her; he hoped she was dead yet prayed that she had just fainted from fear. Lifting up her head, he saw a faint sparkle of light reflected off barely glimpsed shell-like teeth between soft yet brittle, slightly parted lips. Scenes from that late autumn morning at the Mount Luo Coal Mine flashed before the investigator’s eyes; back then those lips crushing down on his mouth had felt cold, yielding, devoid of elasticity, and altogether weird, like clumps of used cotton wadding… there between her eyes he spotted a dark hole the size of a soy bean, around which tiny metallic filings were arrayed; he knew they had come from a bullet. His body rocked to one side, as once again he felt a sickeningly sweet liquid rise up into his throat. As he threw himself at her feet, a stream of fresh blood spewed from his mouth, painting her flat belly a bright red.

I’ve killed her! he thought, terror-stricken.

He reached out and felt the hole with his forefinger. It was hot to the touch, the splintery skin around it scraped his fingertip. It was a familiar feeling. By jogging his memory, he finally managed to recall the youthful sensation of feeling a new tooth with the tip of his tongue. Then he was reminded of the time he scolded his son for doing the same thing. The little boy, with his moon face and big, round eyes, looking slovenly no matter how new or clean his clothes might be, a book bag strapped to his back, a red bandanna tied haphazardly around his neck, a willow switch in one hand, walked up to him, moving a loose tooth around with his tongue. The investigator patted him on the head, for which he was rewarded by a crack across the leg from the willow switch. Stop that! the boy had demanded unhappily. Who said you could pat the top of my head? Don’t you know that can make a person stupid? He cocked his head and squinted, a no-nonsense look. With a laugh, the investigator said, You stupid little boy, a pat on the head can’t make you stupid! But playing with new teeth with your tongue will make them grow in crooked… powerful nostalgia sent his juices nearly to the boiling point, and as he jerked his hand back, tears spilled from his eyes. Softly intoning his son’s name, he thumped his own forehead and cursed:

You son of a bitch! Ding Gou’er, you son of a bitch. How could you do something like this?

The little boy stared at him disgustedly, then turned and walked off, his chubby little legs pumping. He was quickly swallowed up in the cross-traffic.

Murder’s a tough rap to beat, he thought to himself. But I want to see my son one last time before I die. Then his thoughts drifted to the provincial capital, which seemed at this moment to be on the other side of the world.

He picked up his pistol, which had only one bullet left, and ran out the gate of Yichi Tavern; the two dwarf gatewomen grabbed his clothes as he passed, but he shook them off and darted among the cars on the street, risking life and limb. He heard the jarring sound of screeching brakes to his left and right, and one car probably bumped his hip as he ran; but this only spurred him on, until he reached the safety of the pedestrian lane. He heard a chorus of noises from the Yichi Tavern gate; people were shouting. Following the leaf-strewn pedestrian lane, he ran for all he was worth, sensing vaguely that it was early morning, and that the rain-washed sky was filled with blood-streaked clouds. A cold rain that had fallen all night long made it slippery going; a coat of icy dewdrops beautified the low-hanging branches. In what seemed like no time, he found himself on the familiar cobblestone street. Opaque steam rose from the roadside ditch, on the surface of which floated delicacies like roasted pig’s head, fried meatballs, turtle shell, braised shrimp, spicy pig’s knuckles. Some old-timers in rags were fishing the delicacies out of the water with nets on long poles. Their lips were greasy, their faces flushed, bearing witness, he thought, to the nutritive value of the garbage they salvaged. Some passersby on bicycles reacted with disgust just before, with shrieks of alarm, they careened into the ditch. They and their bicycles shattered the calm surface and sent the heavy smell of distiller’s grains and animal carcasses into the air, nearly making him gag. He hugged the wall as he ran, but lost his footing on the rocky road. Shouts and heavy footsteps behind him. Scrambling to his feet and turning to look, he saw a crowd jumping up and down, and shouting loudly, but not daring to chase after him. He continued on his way, more slowly now, his heart pounding so hard his chest ached. There on the other side of the stone wall was the familiar Martyrs’ Cemetery, over which the white canopies of towering pagoda evergreens lent an aura of purity and sanctity.

Why am I running? he was thinking as he ran. Heaven casts its net wide. I can run but I can’t hide. And still his legs kept churning. He spotted the giant ginkgo tree, and under it the old wonton seller, standing straight as the tree itself; puffs of steam rising from his wonton baskets blotted out his face, like the hideous countenance of the moon fronted by floating clouds. He vaguely recalled the old man standing there holding a copper bullet as payment for the wonton he had consumed. He ought to retrieve that bullet, he thought to himself as the taste of pork-and-scallion wonton rose from his stomach; early winter scallions are the best, and the costliest. Hand in hand, he and she are buying groceries in the provincial capital’s open-air market, where vegetable peddlers from the outskirts hunker down behind their baskets and poles to chew on cold stuffed buns, which leave their teeth spotted with bits of scallion. The old man opened his hand to show off the beautiful bullet that lay in his palm, a supplicating look showing through the mist that was trying to obscure his face. As he strained to figure out what the old man wanted, a dog’s barks shattered his concentration. The big striped canine appeared before him like an apparition, without warning, although its barks seemed to be coming from far, far away, rolling across the tips of grass in a distant meadow and losing most of their timbre by the time they got to this point. He watched as the dog’s heavy head sagged in a strange nod; it opened its great mouth, but no sound emerged, producing a dreamlike, furtive effect. Under the bright red morning sun, faint shadows from the sparse leaves on the ginkgo tree cast a loose net over the dog’s body. He could see that the look in the animal’s eyes was non-threatening; its barks were a friendly hint or a sign for him to get moving again. He mumbled something to the old wonton peddler, but a gust of wind carried the sound off. So when the old-timer asked him what he said, he stammered:

I want to go find my son.

Nodding to the dog and giving it a wide berth, he walked to the back of the ginkgo tree, where he spotted the elderly caretaker of the Martyrs’ Cemetery, leaning against the tree and cradling his shotgun, its muzzle pointing into the tree’s canopy. The same look – a friendly hint or a sign to get moving again – showed in the old man’s eyes. Deeply touched, he bowed respectfully to the old-timer before running over to a block of cold, uninviting, and apparently deserted buildings up ahead. A shot rang out behind him. He hit the ground instinctively, then rolled sideways to take cover behind the chilled leaves in a bed of roses. Then another shot. This time he looked back to see where it had come from, just in time to see the canopy of the ginkgo tree shudder and several yellow leaves flutter earthward in the reddish rays of sunlight. The old cemetery caretaker was still up against the tree, not moving a muscle. Blue smoke curled from both barrels of his shotgun. By then the big yellow dog had shambled over from the other side of the tree and was crouching beside the caretaker, its eyes reflecting the sun’s rays like gold nuggets.

Before entering the block of buildings, he crossed a desolate sidewalk park where some old men were out airing birds in cages and some kids were jumping rope. Tucking his pistol into his waistband and acting as if he hadn’t a care in the world, he sauntered past them and headed for the buildings. But the minute he reached his objective, he discovered he’d made a big mistake, for he’d walked into the middle of an early morning flea market. Crowds of peddlers were hunkering down beside their secondhand goods, which included used clocks and watches, Mao Zedong badges and plaster busts from the Cultural Revolution, and things like old wind-up gramophones. Plenty of sellers, but not a single buyer. The peddlers eyed each infrequent passerby greedily. It felt like a trap to him, a lure for the unwary, and that the peddlers were actually plainclothes cops. And the more closely Ding Gou’er observed them, the more a lifetime of experience told him that’s exactly what they were. Alertly, he retreated to a spot behind a white poplar to observe the goings-on. He saw seven or eight youngsters, boys and girls, sneak out from behind one of the buildings, their expressions and demeanor telling Ding Gou’er that this was a group of kids involved in some unlawful activity. The girl in the center, wearing a knee-length gray coat, a red cap, and a necklace of Qing dynasty brass coins, was their leader. All of a sudden, he noticed the wrinkles in the girl’s neck and detected the acrid smell of foreign tobacco on her breath, so close it was as if she were nearly on top of him. He focused his attention on her, watching the lady trucker’s features slowly take form on the face of this unfamiliar girl, the way a cricket emerges from the thin casing of its cocoon. A trickle of rose-colored blood oozing from a bullet hole between her eyes ran down her nose and dripped from the tip to divide her mouth into two equal halves; from there it slid to her navel, down and down, neatly cleaving her body in two and forcing gurgles out of her internal organs. With a shout of alarm, the investigator turned and ran, but no matter how fast his legs churned, they could not take him out of the flea market. Finally, he hunkered down in front of a peddler selling used handguns and pretended to be a customer, as he examined the rusty old guns laid out in front of him. He sensed that the girl who had been cloven in half was standing behind him wrapping herself in green paper bindings. She worked very fast; at first she was wearing cream-colored rubber gloves as her hands flew through the air, but before long, they were yellow blurs that were quickly swallowed up in wet green paper the color and consistency of seaweed. The green was such a transcending green it exuded a powerful life force. And then the paper bindings began to move on their own, and in a matter of seconds had her wrapped in a tight cocoon. He felt a chill on his back, but tried to act nonchalant, picking up a beautifully crafted revolver and trying to spin its rusty cylinder. It wouldn’t budge. He asked the peddler, Do you have any aged Shanxi vinegar? The peddler said he didn’t. Disappointed, he heaved a sigh. The peddler said, You act like a pro, but you’re actually a rank amateur. I don’t have any aged Shanxi vinegar, but I do have some Korean white vinegar, which is a hundred times better at removing rust than the Shanxi stuff. He watched the peddler reach into his shirt with a pale, delicate hand and feel around as if looking for something. Ding Gou’er caught an occasional glimpse of two little glass bottles tucked into a lacy pink bra. They were green, but frosty, not see-through, the sort of bottle so many famous foreign liquors come in. The frosty green looked especially expensive; even though they were obviously made of glass, somehow they didn’t look it, which was why they were so precious. Capitalizing on the structure and logic of this sentence, he came up with a parallel: Even though it was obviously a real boy on the platter, somehow it didn’t look it, which was why it was so precious. Finally, the hand brought one of the bottles out of its hiding place in the bra. Some squiggly writing was stamped on the bottle. He couldn’t read a word of it, but his vanity forced him to blurt out cockily: That’s either ‘hoo-wis-key’ or ‘ba-lan-dee’, as if he’d never met a foreign language he couldn’t handle. This is the Korean white vinegar you wanted, the peddler replied. Taking the bottle from him, Ding glanced up and saw an expression that was identical to that of his superior when he’d handed him the carton of China cigarettes. A closer look showed that the two men weren’t all that similar, after all. The peddler smiled, flashing a pair of glittering canines that made him look infantile. He opened the bottle, releasing a frothy head. How come this vinegar looks like beer? he asked. Are you trying to say that beer is the only liquid in the world that froths? the peddler replied. Ding pondered that for a minute. Crabs aren’t beer, but they froth at the mouth, he said, so you’re right and I’m wrong. When he poured some of the frothy liquid over the revolver’s cylinder, his nostrils were assailed by the strong smell of alcohol. Bathed in the frothy bubbles, the revolver made clicking sounds, like a big green crab; and when he reached out to touch it, something nipped his finger painfully, like a scorpion sting. Are you aware, he demanded in a loud voice, that dealing in firearms is against the law? With a sneer, the peddler said, Do you honestly think I’m a peddler? Thrusting his hand into his shirt, he pulled out the bra and shook it in the air; the outer layer fell away to reveal a pair of shiny, American-made, stainless steel spring handcuffs. With the investigator looking on, the peddler was transformed into a bushy-browed, big-eyed, hawk-nosed, brown-stubbled, garden-variety police captain, who grabbed Ding Gou’er’s hand and – click click – snapped the cuffs on his and Ding’s wrists. You and I are now joined at the wrist, neither of us can get away. Unless, that is, you’ve got the strength of nine oxen or a couple of tigers, and can carry me over your shoulder. Blessed with strength born of desperation, Ding Gou’er picked up the burly police captain and threw him over his shoulder, as if he were no heavier than a paper cut-out. By then, the froth had evaporated, revealing a silvery revolver, rust-free. With no strain he bent over and picked up the pistol, feeling its heft in his wrist and its warmth in his palm. What a handgun! he heard the police captain say with a sigh from where he lay, across Ding’s back. With a mighty shrug of his shoulder, he flipped the man into the air and smack into an ivy-covered wall The intertwining tendrils, some thick and some thin, created patterns on the wall; red leaves here and there lent it considerable beauty. He watched as the police captain bounced slowly off the wall and landed flat on his back right at his feet. The handcuffs, stretched like a rubber band, were still fastened to both men’s wrists. These are American handcuffs, the police captain said. If you think you can break loose, forget it! As panic began to grip Ding Gou’er, he stuck the muzzle of the revolver up against the virtually transparent metal and pulled the trigger. The recoil jerked his arm upward, and the pistol nearly leaped out of his hand. He looked down. Not a scratch on the handcuffs. He tried again, with the same result. With his free hand, the police captain took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket. The cigarettes were American, the lighter Japanese, both top quality. You Liquorland folks have a pretty high standard of living, don’t you? The police captain sneered. In times like this, he said, gluttony claims the bold and starvation takes the timid. With banknotes flying all over the place, it’s just a matter of whether or not youVe got the guts to reach out and grab them. If that’s true, Ding Gou’er said, it must also be true that you Liquorland people really do cook and eat little boys. Cooking and eating little boys is no big deal! the police captain replied. Have you ever eaten one? Ding Gou’er asked him. Don’t tell me you haven’t, the police captain retorted. What I ate was a fake boy made from a variety of materials, Ding Gou’er replied. How do you know it wasn’t real? the police captain asked. How could the Higher Procuratorate send such a numbskull to us? Good brother, Ding Gou’er said, I won’t lie to you. I’ve fallen under the spell of a woman in recent days. I know, the police captain said. You killed her, that’s a capital offense. I know, Ding Gou’er admitted, and now all I want is to return to the provincial capital to see my son once more before turning myself in. That’s a worthwhile reason, the police captain said. Pity the poor parents. All right, I’ll let you go. Bending down and opening his mouth, he bit through the handcuffs. Unfazed by Ding Gou’er’s bullets, the hard metal parted like a soggy noodle in the man’s mouth. Good brother, the police captain said, you’re wanted in the city, to be captured alive. I’m taking a big chance by letting you go, but I have a son of my own, and I know what you’re feeling, which is why I’m letting you go. Bending low in gratitude, Ding Gou’er said, Good brother, I’ll never forget your kindness, not even if I wind up in the Nine Springs of Hell.

The investigator took off running, and as he passed by a large gateway, he spied a courtyard crowded with luxurious sedans, into which some men dressed to the nines were climbing. Sensing trouble, he turned down a narrow lane, where he came across a little girl who repaired shoes. She wore a blank expression, as if deep in thought. As he was standing there, a heavily made-up woman jumped out from under a colored plastic banner above a café door and blocked his way. Come inside for a bite to eat, sir, she said, and something to drink. Twenty percent off everything. She sidled up next to him, her face exuding passion the likes of which he seldom saw. I don’t want anything to eat, Ding Gou’er said, and nothing to drink. But the woman grabbed his arm to drag him inside. You don’t have to eat or drink anything, she said, just come in and take a load off your feet. With rising anger, he sent her sprawling in the dirt. Big Brother, she bawled, come out here, this hooligan hit me! With a fearful jump, Ding Gou’er tried to leap over the prostrate woman, but she wrapped her arms around his legs and wouldn’t let go. He fell on top of her in a heap. Scrambling to his feet, he kicked her savagely. She grabbed her stomach and rolled on the ground in agony. As he looked up, a hulking man with a liquor bottle in his left hand and a meat cleaver in his right ran out of the café. This was big trouble, so he spun around and took off flying, at least that’s how it felt to him, with the form and speed of a track star – no pounding heart, no gasping for breath. When he finally turned to look back, he saw that the man had given up the chase and was taking a piss alongside a concrete utility pole. Now exhaustion crept in; Ding Gou’er’s heart was racing and he was covered by cold, sticky sweat. His legs were too rubbery to take another step.

The ill-fated investigator followed his nose to a three-wheeler, where its owner, a young man, was frying wheatcakes and an old woman, probably his mother, was standing alongside taking money from the customers. He was so hungry, he could feel his stomach reaching up to his throat for something to eat. But he was broke. A green military motorcycle roared up and screeched to a stop alongside the three-wheeler. Panic-stricken, the investigator was about to run for his life when he heard the sergeant in the sidecar say to the peddler: Hey, Boss, fry us up a couple of those wheatcakes. The investigator heaved a sigh of relief.

The investigator studied the two soldiers: the taller of the two had big eyes and bushy brows, the shorter one had more delicate features. They stood around the stall shooting the breeze with the young fellow frying wheatcakes, a comment here, a response there, a bunch of bullshit passing back and forth. The young fellow brushed some hot sauce on top of the steaming wheatcakes. His customers flipped the cakes from one hand to the other as they ate, noisily, tastily, arduously, and in no time, they had wolfed down three apiece. The short soldier reached into his overcoat and took out a bottle of liquor, which he handed to his comrade. Want a drink? he asked. With a giggle, his tall comrade said, Might as well. Ding watched as the soldier stuck the neck of the comely little bottle into his mouth and took a hearty drink. Then he noisily sucked in a mouthful of air and smacked his lips. Good stuff, he said, terrific stuff. His short comrade took the bottle, tipped his head back, and drank. His eyes nearly closed in rapture. A moment later, he said, Goddamned good stuff, this is more than just liquor! The tall soldier went over to the motorcycle and took two thick scallions out of the sidecar. After peeling off the roughage, he handed one to his short comrade. Try this, he said, genuine Shandong scallion. fve got some peppers, the short one said, pulling some bright red peppers out of his pocket. Genuine Hunan chilis, he said proudly. Want some? You’re not a revolutionary if you don’t eat chilis, and if you’re not a revolutionary you must be a counter-revolutionary. True revolutionaries eat scallions, the tall one countered. Their hackles up, they advanced toward each other, one brandishing scallions in the air, the other waving a handful of chilis. The tall one poked his comrade in the head with his scallions, the short one crammed his chilis into his comrade’s mouth. The wheatcake peddler rushed up to keep things from getting out of hand. No fighting, comades. You’re both really revolutionary, as I see it. The soldiers backed off, huffing and puffing with anger, which had the wheatcake peddler in stitches. Ding Gou’er, appreciating the humor of it, started laughing too. The peddler’s mother walked up to him. What are you laughing at? You look like a troublemaker to me. No I’m not, Ding Gou’er was quick to reply, I’m really not. Who but a troublemaker would laugh like that? Like what? Ding Gou’er asked. With a flick of the wrist, the old woman produced a tiny round mirror, as if snatching it out of thin air, and handed it to Ding Gou’er. See for yourself, she said. He was shocked by what he saw. There between his eyes was a bloody bullet hole and, as he could see, a shiny yellow bullet moving around in the convolutions of his brain. With a gasp of alarm, he dropped the mirror as if it were a piece of hot steel; it hit the ground and spun on its edge, projecting a shiny dot of light on the faded red surface of a distant wall. A close examination of the words on the wall showed that it was a ridiculous slogan: Eliminate The Evils Of Alcohol And Sex. Abruptly understanding the implications of the slogan, he walked up to the wall and touched the painted words, which also burned his finger, like red-hot steel When he turned back, the two soldiers were gone, so were the wheatcake peddler and his mother; the motorcycle stood there looking sad and lonely. He walked up and found a bottle of liquor in the sidecar. Picking it up and giving it a shake, he watched a multitude of bubbles, like little pearls, rise to the top. The liquid was green, as if made from mung beans. The bouquet of fine liquor seeped up through and around the cork, which he removed; a sense of comfort washed over him as he inserted the cool neck of the bottle into his overheated mouth. The green contents slid down his throat like a lubricant, drawing whoops of joy from his stomach and intestines, like a schoolchild holding a bouquet of flowers. His spirits revived, as would seedlings watered by cool rain after a long drought, and before he knew it, he had drunk every drop. Wishing there were more, he took one last rueful look at the bottle before tossing it away, mounting the motorcycle, and gripping the handlebars; he stomped down on the starter and felt the motorcycle come restlessly to life, like a proud steed – snorting loudly, pawing the ground, and flicking its tail, ready to run. The second he released the brake, the motorcycle bumped its way up onto the road, then, with a triumphant roar, took off like a shot. It felt as if the motor between his knees knew precisely what he wanted, there was no need for him to drive; all he had to do was sit tight and hold on to keep from being thrown. The roar of the engine turned into the whinnying of a horse; he felt the warmth of his steed’s belly between his thighs and smelled the intoxicating odor of animal sweat. They left one gleaming vehicle after another in their wake, while those coming in their direction stared in wide-eyed terror before pulling over to the side of the road to get out of the way. An icebreaker cleaving its way through an arctic floe or a steamship knifing through the ocean. He was drunk from exhilaration. Several times he was sure they were going to crash, could, in fact, hear the other vehicles’ screams of terror, but somehow disaster was always headed off in the nick of time; with a margin of error no greater than the thickness of a needle, at the last moment, these objects parted like jelly and moved out of the way of him and his mighty steed. A river appeared up ahead; there was no bridge, naturally. Water roared down the deep ravine, sending icy whitecaps into the air. He pulled back on the handlebars, and the motorcycle rose skyward; suddenly feeling as light as a sheet of paper, he was twisted and crumpled by strong gusts of wind, while enormous glittery stars above him seemed so close he could reach out and touch them. Am I on my way to Heaven? he wondered. If I am, does that mean I’ve become an immortal? He sensed that something he’d always thought would be incredibly difficult to achieve was suddenly and easily within his grasp. He watched as a spinning wheel fell away from the motorcycle. Then another, and another. He shrieked in terror, the sound bouncing off treetops like the passing wind. He hit the ground, the wheel-less motorcycle lodged itself inelegantly in the crotch of a tree, startling a bunch of squirrels that began gnawing at the machinery on which he had sat. Never imagining that squirrels’ teeth were that sharp, so strong they could chew through metal as if it were little more than rotten tree bark, he shook his legs to get the kinks out, and was glad to see he’d come through the crash-landing unscathed. He got to his feet and took a dazed look around. Winding round the trunks of towering trees surrounding him were lush tendrils of climbing vines on which large flowers like purple paper cut-outs bloomed. The vines were home to clusters of grape-like fruit, both purple and green, all plump and juicy, and so perfectly shaped as to have been carved from fine jade. The semi-transparent skins could barely contain the juices inside; you couldn’t ask for better wine grapes. Dimly he recalled that the lady trucker, or maybe some other nameless, pretty girl, had told him that a white-haired old professor was living up in the mountains, where he and the apes were brewing the finest liquor the world had ever seen. Its skin was smoother than that of a Hollywood starlet, its eyes more enchanting than those of an angel, its lips sexier than the painted lips of a ravishing queen. It was more than liquor, it was a creation of the gods, born of divine inspiration. His attention was caught by pillars of bright light amid the branches, where white mist curled, and apes leaped around: some bared their teeth and made hideous faces; others were grooming their companions, picking off lice and ticks. A big, husky male, whose bushy white eyebrows made him an elder, plucked a leaf from a branch, rolled it into a tube, put it up to his lips, and blew through it, producing a shrill whistle. All the apes quickly gathered round, forming three lines in comic imitation of humans, then stood more or less at attention, looking left and right to dress ranks. This is great, the investigator mused. Their military formation was a joke, what with their bowed legs, stooped posture, and heads that were thrust way out in front; but, after all, they were apes, and he couldn’t be too picky. It takes humans at least six months of rigorous training to meet honor-guard standards, which includes tying their legs together, stuffing boards down their pants, and sleeping without a pillow at night. No, he thought, I can’t be too picky. Their raised tails looked like clubs. Many of the fruit-laden branches were propped up with sticks to keep them from snapping off. The same held true for the apes. When people get old, they need canes. In Beijing there’s a Front Cane Lane, which must mean there’s also a Rear Cane Lane; now if lanes need canes, front and rear, what about apes? They have them in the rear only, and when they climb a tree, their bright red bottoms are out there for all to see. Following a pep talk by the old ape, they broke ranks and began climbing the vines, swinging back and forth as they picked the purple and green grapes, each as big as a ping-pong ball. As he licked his lips, bitter saliva gathered in his mouth. He reached out to pick some grapes, but they were just beyond his reach. Meanwhile, the apes, grapes piled on their heads, shinnied down the vines and noisily dumped the grapes into an open well. The bouquet of alcohol, lovely as a beautiful woman, rose from the well in what seemed to be clouds of sticky mist. Craning his neck to peer down into the well, he saw the golden orb of the moon reflected in what looked like a bronze mirror lining the bottom. The apes hung by their arms, a whole line of them, like you read about in stories. It was a beautiful sight, all those cute, cuddly apes, with their weird expressions. If only he had a camera, he was thinking, this picture would rock the world of photojournalism and earn him a big-time international award worth 100,000 US, which would convert into 600,000 of People’s Currency, enough for him to eat and drink in style for the rest of his life and still have plenty left over for his son to go to college and get married. The boy’s teeth had grown in already, two big incisors with a gap between them, which gave him the appearance of a dippy little girl All of a sudden, the apes began dropping into the well, splintering the moon’s watery reflection and sending splashes of gold flying, making rustling noises as they stuck to the sides of the well like dollops of syrup. Moss grew on the stone walls alongside a type of fungus known as supernatural grass, which is golden red. A red-crested heron swept down and carried off one of the supernatural grass stalks, then stuck out its legs, stretched its wings, and flew into the bright moon. No doubt taking it as a gift to Chang’e, the goddess of the moon, a celestial body covered by soft golden sand in which two tracks of human footprints, left there by American astronauts, will last for half a million years. Two astronauts, a pair of spectral wanderers. The sun’s reflection on the moon is too bright for human eyes to endure. He stood beneath the moon, his hair transformed into golden threads, clean-shaven but dressed in rags, his face battered and bruised; he carried an oaken bucket in one hand and a wooden ladle in the other. Scooping liquor from the bucket, he poured it slowly onto the ground, where it formed semi-transparent honey-colored ribbons of liquid that quickly turned gummy, like newly made rubber. It looked so tasty he could hardly wait to sample it. Are you that professor from Liquorland’s Brewer’s College, the one who’s supposed to be not quite right in the head? he wanted to ask. He said, I am China’s King Lear, standing beneath the captivating moon. King Lear stood in a violent rainstorm cursing Heaven and earth, while I stand in the moonlight singing the praises of mankind. Ancient fairy tales sooner or later become reality, liquor is mankind’s greatest discovery. Without it there would be no Bible, there would be no Egyptian pyramids, there would be no Great Wall of China, no music, no fortresses, no scaling ladders to storm others’ fortresses, no nuclear fission, no salmon in the Wusuli River, and no fish or bird migrations. A fetus in its mother’s womb can detect the smell of liquor; the scaly skin of an alligator makes first-rate liquor pouches. Martial-arts novels have advanced the brewer’s art. What was the source of Qu Yuan’s lament? There was no liquor for him to drink. Drug peddling and drug use are rampant in Yunnan. Why? Because the liquor there is inferior. Cao Cao forbade the production of liquor as a grain-conservation measure; a perfect example of a wise man doing something stupid. How can anyone prohibit liquor? Prohibiting the production and consumption of liquor is on a par with prohibiting sexual intercourse while urging an increase in population – it can’t be done. Avoiding the stuff is harder than breaking free of the pull of gravity; the day an apple falls up is the day liquor can be prohibited. The lunar craters look just like liquor cups of unsurpassed excellence, the Roman Coliseum could be converted into a giant fermentation cellar. Sour-Plum Wine, Bamboo-Leaf Green, Imperial-Scholar Red, Out-of-Bottle Redolence, Sunny Spring, Intoxicated Emperor, Almond Village, Lotus-Blossom White… these are all pretty good liquors. But compared to my Ape Liquor, it’s night and day. Someone once said you can enhance liquor with human piss. That’s an imaginative manifestation. In Japan, treating ailments with urine has gained considerable popularity; they say you can ward off a host of diseases by drinking a cup of your own urine every morning. The legendary physician Li Shizhen had a good point when he said that a child’s urine can lower internal fires. True connoisseurs of liquor do not need to snack when they drink, so Diamond Jin and his ilk show what inferior drinkers they are by cooking infants to go with their liquor…