The Republic of Wine

I

Investigator Ding Gou’er opened his eyes. His eyeballs felt dull and heavy, he had a splitting headache, his breath was foul, and his gums, his tongue, the walls of his mouth, and his throat were coated with a sticky substance. In the murky yellow light of a chandelier he couldn’t tell if it was day or night, if it was dawn or dusk. His wristwatch was missing, his biological clock was out of whack, his stomach was growling, and his hemorrhoids were throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeats. Lightbulb filaments that shimmered as hot current passed through them set up a hum that was translated into a ringing in Ding Gou’er’s ears. He heard his heart beating against the background hum. When he struggled to get out of bed, his arms and legs refused to do his bidding. A long night of drinking drifted into his consciousness like a distant dream, when all of a sudden that golden-hued, perfumed little boy seated in a gilded platter smiled at him. A strange cry escaped from the investigator as his consciousness broke from its confinement, sending currents of ideas racing through his brain and burning their way into his bones and muscles. He flew out of bed like a carp leaping out of the water, forming a beautiful arc through the air and changing the room’s spatial makeup and magnetic field, shattering the light into its prismatic components as the investigator struck a pose not unlike that of a dog fighting over shit just before landing headfirst on the synthetic carpet.

Lying there stripped to the waist, he studied with amazement the four +s [tens] on the wall, as a chill ran down his spine. The vivid image of a scaly youngster and the willow-leaf knife he held in his mouth materialized out of the alcohol. He discovered that he was naked from the waist up; his ribs were nearly poking through his skin, his belly protruded slightly, a shock of tangled brown hair lay limply on his chest, and his belly button was filled with lint. After the investigator splashed cold water over his head and looked in the mirror – puffy face, lifeless eyes, and all – he couldn’t shake the feeling that he might as well commit suicide right there in the bathroom. He located his briefcase, took out his pistol, and cocked it. Holding it in his hand, he felt the cold but gentle heft of the handle, and as he stood at the mirror, he was struck by a thought that he was staring into the eyes of an enemy, someone he’d never seen before. He put the muzzle up to his nose, the tip boring its way in, highlighting two rows of parasitic-looking blackheads. He then moved the muzzle up to his temple, causing the skin to quiver joyously. Finally he shoved the muzzle into his mouth and clamped his lips tightly, hermetically, around the cold steel – a needle couldn’t have been wedged in – producing such a funny sight that even he felt like laughing. And when he did, so did the reflection in the mirror. The barrel, smelling and tasting of gunpowder, nearly gagged him. When had it been fired? Pow! The little boy’s head had splattered like a watermelon, sending colorful debris sailing in all directions, the fragrant brain matter staining everything in the area, and he had a picture of someone lapping up the gore like a greedy cat. Pangs of conscience rose in his heart, dark clouds of suspicion descended onto his head. Who could guarantee it wasn’t a hoax? That the arms weren’t actually made of fresh lotus root and melon? Or that the boy’s arms had been prepared in such a way as to look like sections of lotus root and melon?

A knock at the door. Ding Gou’er took the muzzle out of his mouth.

The Mine Director and Party Secretary walked in, all smiles.

Deputy Head Diamond Jin entered behind them, handsome and dignified.

‘Did you sleep well, Comrade Ding Gou’er?’

‘Did you sleep well, Comrade Ding Gou’er?’

‘Did you sleep well, Comrade Ding Gou’er?’

Feeling extremely awkward, Ding Gou’er threw a blanket around his shoulders and said, ‘Somebody stole my clothes.’

Instead of replying, Deputy Head Jin fixed his gaze on the four +s carved into the wall, a grave look frozen on his face. A long silence was finally broken by his muttered comment, ‘Him again.’

‘Him who?’ Ding Gou’er asked anxiously.

‘An expert, a shadowy cat burglar.’ Diamond Jin rapped the bent middle finger of his left hand on the symbols carved into the wall. ‘This is the mark he always leaves after one of his capers.’

Ding Gou’er walked up to get a better look at the carvings. When he did, occupational instincts quickly brought his fuzzy thoughts into focus, and he was feeling pretty good about himself again. Fresh fluids flowed from his aching eyes, his hawklike vision returned in a flash. The four +s had been carved in a straight line, about a third of the way into the wall, the plastic wallpaper curling outward on the edges to reveal the plaster behind it.

Turning to study the expression on Diamond Jin’s face, he discovered that the man’s handsome eyes were fixed on him, as if he were under scrutiny, as if he had run into a cunning adversary, as if he had fallen into an enemy’s trap. But the friendliness that exuded from Diamond Jin’s handsome, smiling eyes chipped away at the wariness in the investigator’s mind. ‘Comrade Ding Gou’er,’ he said in the intoxicating voice of fine liquor, ‘you’re the expert in this area. What do these four tens mean to you?’

The words wouldn’t come, for the butterfly of consciousness that had been washed out of his head by alcohol hadn’t yet returned in all its gracefulness. And so he could only stare in terror at Diamond Jin’s mouth and the light glinting off his gold or bronze tooth.

‘I think,’ Diamond Jin said, ‘that it’s a gang symbol, a gang with forty members, or four times ten, in other words, forty thieves, which means an Ali Baba could show up at any time. Maybe you, Comrade Ding Gou’er, will assume the role of Ali Baba without knowing it. That would be a blessing to the two million citizens of Liquorland.’ He saluted Ding Gou’er with his hands clasped in front, making Ding feel more awkward than ever.

Ding Gou’er said, ‘My papers, my wallet, my cigarettes, lighter, electric shaver, toy pistol, and telephone book were all stolen by those forty thieves.’

‘How dare they touch a single hair on the head of the mighty Jupiter!’ Diamond Jin said with a raucous laugh.

‘Lucky for me they didn’t take my real pal here!’ Ding Gou’er said as he flashed his pistol.

‘Old Ding, I've come to say good-bye. I was going to ask you to join me in a farewell drink, but in consideration of how wrapped up in your official duties you are, I won’t disturb you. Come see me at the Municipal Party Committee office if there’s anything I can do for you.’ Diamond Jin stuck out his hand.

Still in a daze, Ding Gou’er took the other man’s hand and, still in a daze, released it; then, still in a daze, he watched Diamond Jin vanish from the room under the escort of the Party Secretary and Mine Director. A dry heave came charging up from his stomach, creating shooting pains in his chest on the way. His hangover hung on. The situation was anything but clear. After sticking his head under the faucet and running cold water over it for a good ten minutes, he drank the glass of cold tea. He took several deep breaths and closed his eyes, settling his diaphragm and clearing his mind of all selfish ideas and personal considerations; then his eyes snapped open, and his thoughts were acute and focused again, like an ax sharpened to a razor’s edge, ready to hack away at the vines and grasses covering his eyes and clouding his vision; a new thought came to him at that moment, as if splashed brightly on the picture screen of his mind: Liquorland is home to a gang of cannibalistic monsters, and everything that happened at the banquet was part of an elaborate hoax!

After drying his head and face, putting on his shoes and socks, and fastening his belt, he put away his pistol, clapped his hat on his head, wrapped his blue checked shirt around his shoulders -the one the scaly youngster had tossed onto the carpet, where it had soaked up his vomit – and strode boldly to the door; jerking open the dark-brown door, he strode down the corridor in search of an elevator or flight of stairs. A friendly, cream-colored attendant at the service desk told him how to find his way out of the maze.

Outside he was greeted by mixed weather conditions: rolling rain clouds in a sun-splashed sky. It was past noon already, and gigantic cloud-shadows skittered across the ground, as golden sunlight shimmered on yellow leaves. Ding Gou’er’s nose began to itch, and seven sneezes followed in rapid succession; he was bent over like a dried shrimp, tears welled up in his eyes. After straightening up, through the misty veil covering his eyes, he saw the enormous black drum atop the dark red windlass at the entrance to the mine, which was still pulling silver gray cable up and down. Everything was just as it had been when he entered: golden sunflowers covered the ground; stacks of lumber gave off a delicate fragrance, spreading the aura of a primeval forest. A rail car carrying lumps of coal shuttled back and forth on narrow tracks between towering mounds of coal. The car was equipped with a small motor attached to a long rubber-wrapped cord. It was manned by a coal-black girl with rows of white teeth that sparkled like pearls. She stood on a ledge at the rear of the car, her bearing proud and majestic as a warrior in full combat readiness. Each time the car reached the end of the line, she slammed on the brake to bring it to a halt, then tipped it to send glistening coal over the side like a waterfall with a loud whoosh What appeared to be the old wolfhound from the gate house came bounding toward Ding Gou’er and barked frantically for a moment, as if pouring out its deep hatred for him.

The dog ran off, leaving Ding Gou’er standing there in disappointment. If I thought things out objectively, he was thinking, I’d have to say f m a pretty sorry case. Where did I come from? I came from the county seat. What did I come to do? Investigate a major case. On a tiny speck of dust somewhere in the vast universe, amid a vast sea of people stands an investigator named Ding Gou’er; his mind is a welter of confusion, he lacks the desire for self-improvement, his morale is low, he is disheartened and lonely, and he has lost sight of his goal. Bereft of that, with nothing to gain and nothing to lose, he headed toward the noisy vehicles at the coal-loading area.

Without coincidence there can be no novel – a crisp shout rent the air: Ding Gou’er! Ding Gou’er! You son of a gun, what are you doing hanging around here?

Ding Gou’er turned to see where the shouts were coming from. A shock of black, bristly hair greeted his eyes, and beneath that a lively, animated face.

She was standing next to her truck holding a pair of grimy white gloves, looking like a little donkey in the bright sunlight. ‘Get over here, you son of a gun!’ She waved her gloves in the air as if they were a magic soul-snatching wand, drawing the investigator toward her, drawing Ding Gou’er, who was mired in a ‘depression syndrome,’ inexorably toward her.

‘So, it’s you, Miss Alkaline!’ Ding Gou’er said, like a common hooligan. As he stood there facing her, he experienced the uplifting feeling of a ship that has finally reached port or of a child when it sees its mother.

‘Mr Fertilizer!’ she said with a wide grin. ‘You’re still here, I see, you son of a gun!’

‘I was just thinking of leaving.’

‘Want to hitch another ride in my truck?’

‘Sure.’

‘Well, it’s not that easy.’

‘A carton of Marlboros.’

‘Two cartons.’

‘Okay, two cartons.’

‘Wait here.’

The truck in front drove off with a spurt of black smoke, its tires sending a shower of coal dust into the air. ‘Stand aside,’ she shouted as she jumped into the cab, grabbed the steering wheel and jerked it this way and that until she stopped directly beneath the spot where the trolley tracks ended. ‘Hey, girl, you’re really something!’ sang out a young man in dark shades in heartfelt praise. ‘You can’t make a cow big with a genital blow, you can’t push a train and make it go, you can’t build Mount Tai with just rocks and some snow.’ She hopped out of the cab. Ding Gou’er was grinning from ear to ear. ‘What are you laughing at?’ she demanded.

The trolley rumbled and began to float forward like a big black turtle. From time to time, sparks flew as iron wheels scraped along the iron tracks. The black rubber cord coiled and stretched in the trolley’s wake, lively as a snake. Steely determination filled the eyes of the girl on the back of the trolley and her jaw was set, instilling in the observer a sense of respect bordering on fear. The trolley rushed headlong, like a wild tiger coming down the mountain. Ding Gou’er was afraid it would crash into the truck and turn it into a pile of twisted metal. But events proved his fears groundless, for the girl’s powers of assessment were infallible, her reactions lightning quick, her mental functions as unerring as a computer. At the very last second, she threw on the brakes, tipping the loaded trolley over and, with a whoosh, sending shiny black coal cascading into the bed of the truck – no spillage, none left behind in the trolley. With the smell of coal rising to fill his nostrils, Ding Gou’er’s mood lightened even more.

‘Got a smoke, pal?’ He reached his hand out to Miss Alkaline. ‘How about bestowing one on me?’

She handed him a cigarette and stuck one into her own mouth.

Through the misty veil of smoke, she asked, ‘What happened to you? Get mugged?’

He was too busy watching a pair of mules to answer.

Both of them watched as a wagon drawn by the mules came their way on the mine road, which was strewn with waste rock, coal dust, broken stone slabs, and rotting lumber; as it drew near, they watched the driver, in an arrogant display of power, grip the reins in his left hand and drive the mules forward with a flick of the whip he held in his right. They were beautiful black mules. The larger of the two, seemingly blind, was strapped to the shafts; the smaller mule, not only sighted, but in possession of a pair of fiery eyes the size of bronze bells, pulled at the harness. Ao-ao-ao – wu-la-la – pull pull pull – The snaking whip snapped and crackled in the air, forcing the doughty little black mule to lurch ahead. And as the creaky wagon bounded forward, disaster struck: The little black mule lost its footing and crashed to the weedy, seedy, unforgiving ground, like a collapsed greasy black wall. The tip of the driver’s whip landed on the animal’s rump; it struggled mightily to its feet, shaking uncontrollably and rocking from side to side, piteous brays tearing at the heart of all within earshot. The driver, momentarily petrified with fear, threw down his whip, jumped off the wagon, and fell to his knees in front of the mule. He reached down and lifted out a discolored hoof – green and red and white and black all mixed together – that was wedged between two stone slabs. Ding Gou’er grabbed the female trucker’s hand and took several steps toward the scene.

Cradling the mule’s hoof in his hands, the sallow-faced driver was wailing loudly.

In the traces the older mule hung its head in silence, like a participant in a wake.

The little black mule stood on three legs; its fourth, the maimed rear leg, was thumping against a piece of rotten wood on the ground, like a mallet beating a drum, but with the difference that dark flowing blood stained the wood and the ground around it red.

Ding Gou’er, whose heart was beating wildly, turned to walk away, but Miss Alkaline had a vicelike grip on his wrist; he wasn’t going anywhere.

Everyone in the vicinity had an opinion: Some felt sorry for the little mule, others felt sorry for the driver; some blamed the driver, others blamed the rough, pitted road. A flock of quarreling ravens.

‘Make way, make way!’

Stunned by the interruption, the bemused crowd parted to let two tiny, skinny people tumble in among them out of nowhere. A close look revealed that it was two women with ghostly white faces like winter cabbages. They wore spotless white uniforms and matching caps. One carried a waxed bamboo hamper, the other a wicker basket. A pair of angels, it seemed.

‘The veterinarians are here!’

The veterinarians are here, the vets are here, stop crying, little friend, the vets are here. Hand them the mule’s hoof, hurry. They’ll reattach it for you.

The women in white hastened to explain: ‘We’re not veterinarians! We’re chefs at the guest house.’

‘Municipal officials are coming to tour the mine tomorrow, and the Mine Director has ordered us to treat them like royalty. Chicken and fish, nothing special there. And just as we were worrying ourselves sick, we heard that a mule had lost one of its hooves.’

‘Braised mule’s hoof, mule’s hoof in chicken broth.’

‘Driver, go on, sell them the mule’s hoof.’

‘No, I can’t sell it…’ The driver hugged the hoof tightly, a look of affectionate longing on his face, as if he were embracing the severed hand of his beloved.

‘Have you taken leave of your senses, you moron?’ one of the women in white demanded angrily. ‘Do you plan to reattach that somehow? Where are you going to get the money? I doubt if anyone could manage that on a person these days, let alone a beast of burden.’

‘We’ll pay top dollar.’

‘You won’t find a shop like this in the next village.’

‘How, urn, how much will you give me?’

‘Thirty yuan apiece. A good price, wouldn’t you say?’

‘You only want the hooves?’

‘Only the hooves. You can keep the rest.’

‘All four of them?’

‘All four.’

‘He’s still alive, you know.’

‘What good is he with one missing hoof?’

‘But he’s still alive…’

‘Talk talk talk. Do we have a deal or don’t we?’

‘Yes…’

‘Here’s the money! Count it.’

‘Take him out of the traces, quickly!’

Holding the money for the four hooves in his hand, the driver handed the severed hoof to one of the women in white, trembling perceptibly. She placed it gingerly in her bamboo hamper. The other woman took a knife, hatchet, and bone saw out of her wicker basket, jumped to her feet, and, in a loud voice, pressed the young driver to free the little black mule from the traces. He squatted down bow-legged, bent over at the waist, and, with trembling fingers, freed the little black mule from the harness. Slow as it sounds in the retelling, in real life what happened next was over in a flash. The woman in white raised her hatchet, took aim on the mule’s broad forehead, and swung with all her might, burying the ax blade so deeply in its head, she couldn’t pull it out, no matter how she tried. And while she was trying to remove her ax, the little black mule’s front legs buckled, carrying the rest of the animal slowly to the ground, where it spread out flat on the bumpy, pitted roadway.

Ding Gou’er breathed a long sigh.

There was still a bit of life in the little mule, as the shallow, raspy sounds of breathing proved; weak trickles of blood slid down its forehead on either side of the buried hatchet, soaking its eyelashes, nose, and lips.

Once again it was the woman who had buried the hatchet in the mule’s forehead who picked up a blue-handled knife, leaped onto the mule’s body, grabbed a hoof – a jet-black hoof in a lily-white hand – and described a brisk circle right in the curve where the hoof joined the leg; then another circle, and with a little pressure from the lily-white hand, the mule hoof and mule leg moved away from one another, attached only by a single white tendon. A final flick of the knife, and the hoof and leg parted company once and for all The lily-white hand rose into the air, and the mule hoof flew into the hand of the other woman in white.

It took only a moment to amputate the three hooves, during which time the onlookers were mesmerized by the woman’s incredible skill; no one spoke, no one coughed, no one farted. Who’d have dared take such liberties in the presence of this woman warrior?

Ding Gou’er’s palms were sweating. All he could think of was the Taoist tale of the marvelous skills of the ox-butcher Chef Ding.

The woman in white worked the hatchet until she was finally able to remove it from the forehead of the little black mule, which finally breathed its last: belly up, its legs sticking up stiffly in four directions, like machine-gun barrels.

The truck had left the winding, bumpy road of the coal mine behind; the towering mounds of waste rock and the spectral mine machinery had all but disappeared in the heavy mist behind them; the barking of the watchdog, the rumbling of trolleys, and the thumping of underground explosions could no longer be heard. But the four machine-gun legs of the mule kept floating before Ding Gou’er’s eyes, keeping him on edge. The lady trucker’s mood was also affected by the image of the little black mule, for she greeted every mile of bumpy road with crude curses; then, once she was on the highway to town, she threw the truck into high gear, opened the ventilation window, and put the pedal to the metal, keeping it there as the engine groaned under the strain. Like a Fascist bullet. Roadside trees bent in their wake as if felled by a giant ax; the ground was a whirling chess board, as the arrow on the speedometer pointed to eighty kilometers. Wind whistled, wheels spun dizzily. Every few minutes, the exhaust pipe belched out a cloud of smoke. Ding Gou’er watched her out of the corner of his eye with such admiration he gradually forgot the mule legs stretching skyward.

Not long before they reached the city, steam from the overheated radiator fogged up the windshield. Miss Alkaline had turned the radiator into a boiler. With an outburst of foul curses, she pulled to the side of the road. Ding Gou’er followed her out of the cab and, with a momentary sense of ‘I told you so,’ watched as she raised the hood to let the engine cool off in the breezes. The heat nearly bowled him over; what water remained in the radiator hissed and gurgled. As she unscrewed the radiator cap using her glove, he noticed that her face was radiant as a sunset.

She removed a tin bucket from under the truck. ‘Go!’ she commanded angrily. ‘Get me some water!’

Neither daring nor willing to disobey, Ding Gou’er took the bucket and, playing the fool, said, ‘You won’t drive off while Fm out getting water, will you? When rescuing someone, go all the way. When taking someone home, see him to the door.’

‘Do you understand science?’ she demanded angrily. If I could drive off, why stop? Besides, you’ve got my bucket.’

Ding Gou’er made a face, knowing that this little bit of humor might make a little girl giggle, but had no effect on this shrew. Yet he made the face, anyway, in spite of himself.

‘Don’t make a fool of yourself,’ she growled, ‘wrinkling your nose and giving me the evil eye like that. Now go get some water.’

‘Out here in the middle of nowhere? Where am I supposed to find it?’

‘If I knew, would I be sending you?’

Reluctantly, Ding Gou’er picked up the bucket, parted the yielding roadside shrubbery, stepped across the shallow, bone-dry roadside ditch, and found himself standing in the middle of a harvested field. It was not one of those fields to which he was accustomed, where you can see for miles in every direction, like a vast wilderness. Having made it to the outskirts of the urban center, he could see signs of where the city’s arms, or at least its fingers, had reached: here a lonely little multi-storied building, there a smokestack belching smoke, dissecting the field in crazy quilt fashion. Ding Gou’er stood there feeling unavoidably, if not overwhelmingly, sad. After a reflective moment, he looked up into the setting sun and its layers of red clouds on the western horizon, which effectively drove away his melancholy; he turned and strode in the direction of the nearest, and strangest-looking, building he saw.

‘Head for the mountains, and kill the horse.’ No statement was ever truer. Bathed in the blood red sunset, the building seemed so very near, but for the man on foot it was so very far. Cropland kept popping up between him and the building as if falling from the sky, keeping him from walking toward where his happiness lay. A major surprise awaited him in a harvested cornfield where only dry stalks remained.

By then dusk had nearly fallen, turning the sky the color of red wine. Cornstalks stood like silent sentries. Even though Ding Gou’er turned sideways to walk down a plowed row, he unavoidably brushed against silken corn tassels, making rustling sounds. All of a sudden, a hulking shadow appeared in his path, as if it had sprung up out of the ground, throwing such a fright into the investigator, a man of renowned courage, that he shivered from head to toe and his hair stood on end; instinctively brandishing the tin bucket, he was ready to strike. But the monster stepped back and said in a muffled voice:

‘What’s the big idea, trying to hit me?’

Once he had regained his composure, the investigator discovered that it was a very tall and very old man standing in his way. Starlight shining through the deepening dusk fell on the man’s bristly chin and rats’ nest of hair; two deep green eyes were circled by the hazy outline of a face. He sensed that the big-boned man, dressed in rags, was probably a hard-working, simple-living, diligent and courageous, decent man. His raspy breath came in thick, short bursts, mingled with metallic coughs.

‘What are you doing here?’ Ding Gou’er asked.

‘Cricket snatching,’ the old man replied, lifting a clay pot as proof.

‘Cricket catching?’

‘Cricket watching,’ the old man said.

Crickets were leaping around in his pot, banging loudly into the clay walls – pi-pi pa-pa – as the old man stood there quietly, his shifty green eyes looking like a pair of exhausted fireflies.

‘Cricket catching?’ Ding Gou’er asked. ‘Do folks around here enjoy cricket fighting?’

‘No. Folks around here enjoy cricket snacking,’ the old man drawled, as he turned, took a couple of steps, and knelt on the ground. Cornstalk leaves rustled, then settled on his head and shoulders, transforming him into a grave mound. Starlight kept getting brighter and brighter, cool breezes wafted this way and that, leaving no trace either way and creating an air of deep mystery. Ding Gou’er’s shoulders stiffened as a chill coursed through his heart. Fireflies glided through the air like optical illusions. And then the dreary calls of crickets erupted all around him; everywhere, it seemed, nothing but crickets. Ding Gou’er looked on as the old man turned on a tiny flashlight, sending a ray of golden light to the base of a cornstalk, where it wrapped itself around a nice fat cricket: bright red body, square head with protruding eyes, thick legs and a bulging abdomen, breathing heavily and poised to leap away at any second. The old man reached out and caught it in a little net. From there, into the clay pot. And, before long, from there into a pot full of hot oil; and, finally from there into a human stomach.

The investigator was vaguely reminded of an article he’d read in Haute Cuisine listing the nutritive value of crickets and the many ways they can be prepared.

The old man crawled forward. Ding Gou’er threaded his way through the cornfield and headed quickly for the light ahead.

It was an extraordinarily appealing, wholesome, lively night in which exploration and discovery went hand in hand, study and work stood shoulder to shoulder, love and revolution were united, starlight above and lamplight below echoed one another from afar to illuminate dark corners. Light from a mercury-vapor lamp lit up a rectangular sign until it dazzled the eyes. With his tin bucket in hand, Ding Gou’er squinted to read the large black characters on the white signboard, fashioned in the Song Dynasty calligraphic style:

SPECIAL FOODS CULTIVATION INSTITUTE

It was a relatively small institute. As a welter of thoughts raced through his mind, Ding Gou’er sized up the handsome little buildings and the large, brightly lit tents. A gateman in a brown uniform and wide-brimmed hat, with a holster on his hip, appeared from behind the gate and shouted breathlessly: ‘What do you want? Just what do you think you’re doing, poking around like that? You wouldn’t have a little thievery in mind, would you?’

Noting the tear-gas pistol in the man’s holster and the electric prod he was waving haughtily, Ding Gou’er’s anger took hold. ‘Mind your tongue, young man,’ he said.

‘What? What did you say?’ the young gateman bellowed as he moved up closer.

‘I told you to mind your tongue!’ Ding Gou’er was a favorite of the public security and judicial system, and used to getting his way. Being yelled at by a gateman made his palms itch, got his dander up, soured his mood. ‘Watchdog!’ he hissed.

The ‘watchdog’ let out a yelp, leaped a good twenty centimeters into the air, and roared, ‘You little bastard, who the hell do you think you’re talking to? You’re dead meat!’ He drew his tear-gas pistol and aimed it at Ding Gou’er.

With a deprecatory laugh, Ding said, ‘Careful you don’t shoot yourself with that. If you’re going to subdue someone with tear gas, you’d better be standing upwind.’

‘Well, who’d have guessed a little bastard like you could be such an expert?’

‘I use tear-gas guns like that to wipe my ass!’ Ding Gou’er said.

‘Bullshit!’

‘Here come your bosses!’ Ding Gou’er said, pursing his lips and pointing to a spot behind the gateman.

When the gateman turned to look, Ding Gou’er casually swung his tin bucket and knocked the tear-gas pistol out of the man’s hand. Then, with a swift kick, he unburdened him of his electric prod, which also flew out of his hand.

The gateman thought about bending over to pick up his gun, but Ding raised his bucket and said, Do that and you'll be flat on the ground like a dog fighting over shit.’

Knowing he’d met his match, the gateman backed off, then turned and ran for the little building. Ding Gou’er strode through the gate with a smile.

A gang of men dressed exactly like the gateman came running out of the building. One of them had a metal whistle in his mouth: Brrrt – brrt – brrt, he blew with all his might. That’s the guy -beat the shit out of that son of a bitch – a dozen or so electric prods waved in the air. Like a pack of mad dogs, they surrounded Ding Gou’er.

He reached into his waistband. Oops, his pistol was in his briefcase, which was in the truck back on the road.

One of the men, a red armband around his bicep – probably a minor commander or something – pointed at Ding Gou’er with his electric prod and asked truculently:

‘What the hell do you want?’

Tm a truck driver,’ Ding Gou’er answered, raising his tin bucket as proof.

‘A driver?’ the commander asked suspiciously. Then what are you doing here?’

‘Looking for water. My radiator overheated.’

The tension lessened considerably; several brandished electric prods were lowered.

‘He’s no driver,’ the humiliated gateman shouted. ‘This guy knows how to use his fists and feet.’

‘All that proves is what a loser you are,’ Ding Gou’er said.

‘Who do you drive for?’ the commander continued the interrogation.

Ding Gou’er recalled the sign on the door of the truck. ‘Brewer’s College,’ he answered without missing a beat.

‘Where were you headed?’

‘The mine.’

‘Your papers?’

‘In my jacket pocket.’

‘Where’s your jacket?’

‘In the truck.’

‘Where’s the truck?’

‘On the highway.’

‘Who else is in the truck?’

‘A good-looking girl’

The commander giggled. ‘You Brewer’s College drivers are horny asses.’

‘Horny asses, you said it!’

‘Well, get a move on!’ the commander said. ‘We’ve got water inside, so what’re you hanging around out here for?’

As Ding Gou’er followed them into the building, from behind he heard the commander chewing out the gateman: ‘You incompetent moron, can’t you even handle a run-of-the-mill truck driver? If the forty thieves ever showed up, they’d probably trick you out of your balls.’

The blinding lights inside the building made Ding Gou’er dizzy. His feet sank into the soft folds of a scarlet lamb’s-wool carpet; hanging on the walls were colorful photographs, all farm products: corn, rice, millet, sorghum, plus some others he’d never seen before. Ding Gou’er surmised that these were hybrid grains that the institute’s agri-scientists had taken pains to develop. The commander, warming up to Ding Gou’er a bit, pointed the way to the toilet, where, he said, he could fill his bucket with water from a tap used for rinsing out rags. Ding Gou’er thanked him, then watched him and his troops file into a little room, from which thick, acrid smoke escaped when the door was opened. Probably playing poker or mahjong, he concluded, although they could just as easily be studying the latest Central Government directive. He smiled, but only for a moment, before picking up his bucket and proceeding cautiously to the toilet, noticing the wooden signs on doors as he passed them: Technical Section, Production Section, Accounting Section, Financial Section, Dossier Room, Reference Room, Laboratory, Video Room. The door to the Video Room was ajar; people were working inside.

Bucket in hand, he peeked inside, where a man and a woman were watching a videotape. The images on the big-screen TV shocked him, for there on the screen, in ancient official script, were the following words:

A Rare Delicacy – Chicken Head Rice.

The soundtrack was of the tantalizing Cantonese tune ‘Bright Clouds Chasing the Moon.’ At first he wasn’t interested in the video, but it quickly exerted a powerful pull on him. The cinematic images were breathtakingly beautiful A chicken-killing production line. Chicken heads methodically lopped off, one after another, as the music swelled. The announcer says, ‘The broad masses of cadres at the Special Foods Cultivation Institute, under the encouragement of… have pooled their efforts and the wisdom of the masses, and, in the spirit of “when attacking a stronghold, show no fear,” struggling without letup, day and night…’ A group of emaciated, large-headed individuals in white uniforms were doing something with an array of test tubes. Another group of individuals – lovely young women with their hair tucked under their caps and wearing white full-sized aprons – were picking up kernels of raw rice with tweezers and stuffing them into the decapitated chicken heads. Another group of women, dressed exactly like the previous group, and just as beautiful, buried the rice-stuffed chicken heads in fiery red flower pots. Then the scene changed, and rice sprouts had emerged from the pots. Dozens of sprinklers kept the rice sprouts watered. Another scene change, and the sprouts now have tassels. One final scene change, and they are several bowls of steaming, blood-red, shiny and moist pearl drops of rice laid out on a flower-bedecked banqueting table. Several dignitaries – some handsome, some buxom, some big and tall – sit around the table savoring this rare delicacy, smiles of satisfaction on their faces. With a sigh, Ding Gou’er realized how impoverished his knowledge was, like the proverbial frog at the bottom of a well. The man and woman in the room began talking even before the video ended, and Ding Gou’er, wanting to avoid a scene, picked up his bucket and walked off. A moment later, on his way out the gate, he fell under the withering glare of the gateman; he could feel the man’s eyes boring into his back. As he threaded his way back through the cornfield, the dry leaves brushed against his eyes and made them water. The old man catching crickets was nowhere in sight. He was still a long way from the truck when he heard the lady trucker bellow:

‘Where in the goddamned hell did you go to get that water, the Yellow River or the Yangtze?’

He set the bucket of water down and flexed his poor, numbed muscles.

‘I got it in your mama’s goddamned Yarlung Zangbou River.’

‘Goddamn it to hell, I thought you fell into the river and drowned.’

‘I not only didn’t drown, I watched one of your mama’s goddamned videos.’

‘One of those goddamn-it-to-hell kung-fu films or a porn job?’

It wasn’t one of your mama’s goddamn kung-fu films and it wasn’t a porn job. It was about that rare delicacy, chicken-head rice.’

‘What’s so rare about chicken-head rice and what the goddamn hell’s the idea of your mama’s goddamn this and your mama’s goddamn that?’

If not for those your mama’s goddamn this and goddamn thats I’d have to find some other way to shut your mama’s goddamn mouth.’

Ding Gou’er grabbed the lady trucker around the waist, wrapped his arms tightly around her, and crushed his multi-flavored mouth onto hers.

II

Dear Mo Yan

Your letter arrived safely.

Still no word from Citizens’ Literature. I’m getting anxious, and I wish you’d nudge the editors, Zhou Bao and Li Xiaobao, one more time, urging them to get in touch with me.

Last night I wrote another story, which I call ‘Donkey Avenue.’ For this story I adopted creative techniques from the martial-arts genre, and I ask you to read it with your customary discerning eye. You have my permission to forward it to the magazine of your choice.

I’m sending the research material on liquor you requested. As for the thirty bottles of fine liquor, I'll send them with the next bus to Beijing. For a master to drink his disciple’s liquor is in perfect accord with the nature of things. You’ll recall how Confucius asked for ten strings of dried meat from each of his disciples as ‘tuition’ for the instruction he dispensed.

The continued silence from Citizens’ Literature has sent me into a funk, as if my soul had taken flight. As someone who has had the same experience, you must understand how I feel

Respectfully wishing you

Happy writing!

Your disciple

Li Yidou

III

My Brother Yidou

I received your letter and the manuscript. The research material on liquor hasn’t arrived yet, but printed matter usually takes longer.

I do indeed understand how you feel, since I've been there myself. To be honest, I've done or considered doing just about anything I could think of to see one of my manuscripts get into print. As soon as I received your letter, I placed a phone call to Zhou Bao, who told me he’s read all three of your stories, several times each. He said he still can’t make up his mind, that he simply doesn’t know what to say. He wanted me to tell you he’s agonizing over it. He’s sent all three to Li Xiaobao, asking him to give them a quick read and let him know what he thinks. The last thing he said was that even though there are parts of all three stories he has some problems with, the author’s talent is unquestioned. That should make you feel better. For a writer, talent is everything. Lots of people make a career out of writing, producing many works and knowing exactly what it takes to become a great writer. But they never break into the big time, because they lack one thing: talent, or a sufficient amount of it.

I’ve already read ‘Donkey Avenue’ three times, and my overall opinion is that it is unrestrained, bold. It reminds me a bit of a wild donkey rolling on the ground and kicking its legs in the air. In a word: wild. You didn’t happen to write it after drinking some Red-Maned Stallion, did you?

There were a few spots where I didn’t understand what you were getting at, so here are some hastily formed opinions:

i. Is that scaly boy who rides the little black donkey in the story, the one who can fly on eaves and walk on walls as if his feet were on solid ground, a chivalric hero or a thief? He has already made appearances in ‘Meat Boy’ and ‘Child Prodigy’ (he is the same person, isn’t he?), and always as a mere mortal, it seems. Now in this story he has become a sort of superman, half genie and half goblin, which may be a bit much, don’t you think? Of course, you never said that these stories comprised a series. But there’s also the question of his unclear relationship to the little goblin in red. In ‘Child Prodigy,’ if I’m not mistaken, you said that the little goblin was in fact that little scaly creature, right?

I’ve never dared to disparage kung-fu novels. Their ability to attract so many readers is enough to make them respectable. I read a stack of them last year over the summer break, and I was so absorbed in them, I nearly forgot to eat and sleep. But when I was finished, even I was baffled. Why, knowing full well there wasn’t a truthful word in any of them, was I so mesmerized? Some say kung-fii novels are fairy tales for adults, a theory I find convincing. Of course, after reading dozens of them, I’ve discovered that they’re heavily formulaic and that it wouldn’t be hard to cook up one of my own. But it would be no easy feat to reach the artistic level of a Jin Yong or a Gu Long. You attempted some ‘cross breeding’ in your novel, which is an intriguing idea, whether it succeeds or not. There is, as a matter of fact, a decidedly avant-garde woman writer named Big Sister Hua, whose experimentation with ‘cross breeding’ has been remarkably successful You might want to read some of her works. I hear she lives in Seven Stars county (where the county head is famous for selling rat poison), not far from Liquorland. When you find some free time, you should go see this ‘ladybug’ writer.

2. I once heard Big Mouth Zhao, a student at the Lu Xun Academy of Literature, say that Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together is a classic Cantonese dish. Its ingredients are poisonous snakes and wild chickens (needless to say, in this age of cutting corners, there’s a very good chance that river eels and domestic chickens have taken their place). For your Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together, however, you use the external genitalia of male and female donkeys. Who would dare dip his chopsticks into that? I’m concerned that this dish, given its blatant bourgeois liberalization potential, might not be accepted by literary critics. Currently, some popular ‘heroes’ in the literary field are intent upon finding ‘smut’ in literary works, with their dog-keen noses, eagle-sharp eyes, and a magnifying glass. It’s hard to escape them, just as a cracked egg can’t be safe from a fly looking for a place to deposit its maggots. Ever since writing ‘Ecstasy’ and ‘Red Locusts,’ I’ve been coated with the stinking saliva they spit on me. Adopting a battle strategy from Gang of Four days, they scrutinize my works by taking them out of context, attacking a single point without taking the whole text into consideration, ignoring the functions of those ‘unsavory details’ and their particular settings. Instead of focusing on a text’s literary value, they employ biological and moral viewpoints to wage a violent assault, and deny me the opportunity to defend myself. Therefore, based on personal experience, I urge you to choose a different dish.

3. Now about Yu Yichi. I’m deeply interested in this character, although you didn’t devote much space to describing him. The portrayal of dwarfs is not uncommon in literary works, either in China or abroad, but few could be considered typical. I hope you’ll utilize your talent to memorialize this dwarf. Didn’t he ask ‘you’ to write his life story? I believe this would be a fascinating ‘biography.’ He’s a dwarf who, born into a literary family, has read all the classics and is well versed in statecraft, yet has endured decades of humiliation. Then, through some magic intervention, he enjoys a meteoric rise, obtaining wealth, fame, and position; now he vows to for all the beautiful women in Liquorland.’ But what sort of psychology motivates this grandiose boasting? What sort of psychological transformation occurs in the process of acting upon this grandiose boast? What sort of mental state is he in after carrying out this grandiose boast? Behind all these questions lie numerous brilliant stories; why not try your hand at one or more of them?

4. As to the opening of your story, please forgive my directness, but it reads like meaningless grandiloquent gibberish. The story would be tighter if you deleted it altogether.

5. In the story, you characterize the father of the twin sister dwarfs as a leader in the Central Government; if you intend this to be viewed positively, the higher his position, the better. But your works frequently reveal derogatory criticism toward those in power, and that’s a no-no: society is shaped like a pagoda, getting progressively smaller toward the top; that makes it easier to link the characters in your story with real-life people. If someone from the top of the pagoda were to set his sights on you, it would be a lot worse than a head cold. So I suggest that you give the twin dwarfs a less illustrious background and their father a somewhat diminished official position.

These are just some random jottings, filled with contradictions. Disregard what I’ve written after you read it, and don’t be too conscientious. In this world, one should never be too conscientious about anything; it’s a sure path to bad luck.

I think it’s best to send your masterpiece ‘Donkey Avenue’ to Citizens’ Literature; if they turn it down, I can always recommend another magazine.

I’ve written several chapters of my long novel The Republic of Wine (tentative title). Originally I thought I’d have no trouble writing about liquor, since I’ve been drunk a time or two. But once I started, I encountered all sorts of difficulties and complications. The relationship between man and liquor embodies virtually all the contradictions involved in the process of human existence and development. Someone with extraordinary talent could write an impressive work on this topic; unfortunately, with my meager talents, I reveal my shortcomings at every turn. I hope you’ll expound more on liquor in future letters. That might serve as an inspiration to me.

Wishing you

Good Luck!

Mo Yan

IV

Donkey Avenue, by Li Yidou

Dear friends, not long ago you read my stories ‘Alcohol,’ ‘Meat Boy,’ and ‘Child Prodigy.’ Now please accept my next offering, ‘Donkey Avenue.’ I ask your indulgence and consideration. The irrelevant comments you have just read, in the view of literary critics, must not be inserted into a fictional work, for they destroy the integrity and unity of the work. But, since I am a doctoral candidate in liquor studies, one who daily views liquor, smells liquor, drinks liquor, who embraces liquor kisses liquor rubs elbows with liquor, for whom every breath of air is an act of fermentation, I embody the character and the temperament of liquor. What does nurture mean? This is what it means. Liquor infatuates me until I am incapable of following rules and regulations. Liquor’s character is wild and unrestrained; its temperament is to talk without thinking.

Dear friends, come with me as I pass through the elaborate arched gate on my way out of Liquorland’s Brewer’s College, leaving the liquor-bottle-shaped classroom building behind, and leaving the liquor-glass-shaped laboratory building behind, and leaving the intoxicating aroma of smoke billowing from the smokestack of the college-run winery behind. ‘Put down your bundle and travel light,’ as you walk along with me, sharp-eyed and clearheaded, always knowing where we are and where we’re going; we cross the beautifully carved China fir footbridge over Sweet Wine stream, putting the gurgling water, the water lilies floating on the water, the butterflies resting on the water lilies, the white ducks playing in the water, the fish swimming in the water, the fishes’ feelings, the white ducks’ moods, the floating duckweed’s ideas, the flowing water’s somniloquy… all that behind us. Please note: The main gate of the Culinary Academy entices us by sending exquisite aromas toward us! That is where my aging mother-in-law works. Not long ago she went mad and has been at home ever since, hiding day and night behind black curtains, where she does nothing but write letters of exposé and denunciation. So we leave her for the moment and ignore the fragrant aromas drifting over from the Culinary Academy. There is compelling and eternal truth in the saying, ‘Birds die in pursuit of food, man dies chasing wealth.’ In times of chaos and corruption, men are just like birds, to all appearances free as the wind, but in fact, in constant peril from traps, nets, arrows, and firearms. OK, your noses have been contaminated by the smell, so quickly cover them with your hands and leave the Culinary Academy behind, following me on the slant down to the narrow Deer Avenue, where you can hear the cries of deer, as if they were grazing on wild duckweed. Shops on both sides of the street have hung deer antlers above their doors, their crisscrossing points creating a forest of spears or a grove of swords. We walk on the ancient path paved with slippery, moss-covered flagstones, between which green grass pokes out. Watch your step, don’t trip and fall. Carefully, cautiously, we weave in and out, until we turn into Donkey Avenue, where the street beneath our feet is also paved with flagstones that have been worn smooth over time by blowing wind and pouring rain and rolling wheels and galloping hooves, rounding the edges and making them smooth as bronze mirrors. Donkey Avenue is slightly wider than Deer Avenue; its stone slabs are covered with filthy, bloody water and blackened donkey hides. It is also more slippery than Deer Avenue. Ebony crows caw-caw as they limp along the street. This is a treacherous spot, so be careful, everybody, and walk only where you’re supposed to. Keep your bodies straight and plant your feet firmly. Don’t let your eyes wander, like some farmboy on his first trip to the city. If you do, youll likely fall and make a spectacle of yourself. There’s nothing worse than falling. Getting your clothes dirty will be the least of your worries if you wind up breaking a hip. Like I said, there’s nothing worse than falling. Why don’t we give our readers a break by resting before we walk any farther?

Here in Liquorland we have exceptional individuals who can drink without getting drunk, we have drunkards who steal their wives’ savings to buy their next drink, and we have no-account hooligans who resort to thievery, mugging, and every imaginable form of trickery to the same end. I am reminded of the legendary Green Grass Snake Li Four, who was beaten to a pulp by the licentious monk, and Freaky Villain Niu Two, who was stabbed by the Black-Faced Monster. People like that are always hanging around Donkey Avenue – you can’t miss them. See that fellow leaning against the doorway, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and that one over there, liquor bottle in one hand as he gnaws on a donkey dick, called ‘money meat’ because it looks like old-fashioned coins, or that fellow with the birdcage, the one who’s whistling? They’re the ones I’m talking about. I tell you, friends, take care not to provoke them. Decent folk ignore bums on the street, just as new shoes avoid stepping on dogshit. Donkey Avenue is Liquorland’s great shame as well as its great glory. You might as well not come to Liquorland if you never stroll down Donkey Avenue. This street boasts the shops of twenty-four donkey butchers. Ever since the Ming dynasty, owners of these shops have butchered their way through the entirety of the Manchu dynasty, plus all the years of the Chinese Republic. When the Communists came to power, donkeys were labeled a means of production, and slaughtering them became a crime. Donkey Avenue fell on hard times. But in recent years, the policy of ‘rejuvenate internally, open to the outside’ has sparked a rise in the people’s standard of living and an increase in meat consumption to improve the quality of the race. Donkey Avenue has sprung back to life. ‘What dragon meat is to heaven, donkey meat is to the human world.’ Donkey meat is aromatic; donkey meat is delicious; donkey meat is a true delicacy. Dear readers, honored guests, friends, ladies, and gentlemen, ‘Sank you belly much,’ ‘Mistuh and Miss,’ the saying ‘Cantonese cuisine is tops’ is nothing but a rumor someone down there cooked up to mislead the masses. Listen to what I have to say. Say about what? About dishes for which Liquorland is justifiably famous. When listing one item, ten thousand could be omitted, so please be forgiving. When you stand on Donkey Avenue, you see delicacies that cover Liquorland like clouds, more than the eyes can take in: Donkeys are slaughtered on Donkey Avenue, deer are butchered on Deer Avenue, oxen are dispatched on Oxen Street, sheep are killed on Sheep Alley, hogs meet their end in pig abattoirs, horses are felled in Horse Lane, dogs and cats are put to the knife in dog and cat markets… in mind-boggling numbers, so many the heart is disturbed, the mind thrown into turmoil, the lips chapped, the tongue parched. In a word, anything that can be eaten in this world of ours – mountain delicacies and dainties from the sea, birds and beasts and fish and insects – you’ll find right here in Liquorland. Things available elsewhere are available here; things unavailable elsewhere are also available here. And not only available, but what is central, what is most significant, what is truly magnificent is that all these things are special, stylistic, historical, traditional, ideological, cultural, and moral. While that may sound boastful, in fact, it’s anything but. In the nationwide craze over getting rich, our Liquorland leaders had a unique vision, a pioneering inspiration, a singular plan to put us on the road to wealth. My friends, ladies and gentlemen, nothing in this world, I think you’ll agree, matches food and drink in importance. Why else would man have a mouth, if not to eat and drink? So people who come to Liquorland will eat and drink well. Let them eat for variety, eat for pleasure, eat for addiction. Let them drink for variety, drink for pleasure, drink for addiction. Let them realize that there’s more to food and drink than the mere sustaining of life, that through food and drink they can learn the true meaning of life, can gain awareness of the philosophy of human existence. Let them understand that food and drink play an important role not only in the physiological process, but in the processes of spiritual molding and aesthetic appreciation.

Walk slowly, enjoy the sights. Donkey Avenue is a mile long, with butcher shops on both sides. There are ninety restaurants and inns, and all of them use the carcasses of donkeys in their fare. The menus are always changing, as new dishes vie for attention. The epitome of donkey gourmandism is reached in this place. Anyone who has sampled the fare of all ninety establishments need never again eat donkey. And only those people who have eaten their way up one side of the street and down the other can thump their chests proudly and announce: I have eaten donkey!

Donkey Avenue is like a big dictionary, filled with so much that even if my mouth were hard enough to drive nails through metal, I could never exhaust, finish, reach the end of the subject. If I don’t tell my story well, it is because I babble nonsense or garbage. Please forgive and bear with me, please allow me to down a glass of Red-Maned Stallion to pull myself together. For hundreds of years, countless numbers of donkeys have been slaughtered here on Donkey Avenue. You can just about say that swarms of donkey ghosts roam Donkey Avenue day and night, or that every stone on Donkey Avenue is soaked in the blood of donkeys, or that every plant on Donkey Avenue is watered with donkey spirits, or that donkey souls flourish in every toilet on Donkey Avenue, or that anyone who has been to Donkey Avenue is more or less endowed with donkey qualities. My friends, donkey affairs are like smoke that shrouds the sky of Donkey Avenue and weakens the radiance of the sun. If we close our eyes we see hordes of donkeys of all shapes and shades running around and braying to the heavens.

According to local legend, late at night, when it is really quiet, when all is still, an extremely nimble, extremely handsome little black donkey (sex unknown) races from one end of the flagstoned avenue to the other, from east to west, then from west to east. Its handsome, delicate hooves, shaped like wine glasses carved out of black agate, pound the smooth flagstones, filling the air with a crisp, clear tattoo. This late-night sound is like music from Heaven, terrifying, mysterious, and tender all at the same time. Anyone hearing it is moved to tears, entranced, intoxicated, given to long, emotional sighs. And if there is a full moon…

That night, Yu Yichi, proprietor and manager of Yichi Tavern, his drumlike belly warmed by a few extra glasses of strong liquor, carried a bamboo chair outside to cool off under an old pomegranate tree. Waves of moonlight turned the flagstones into shiny mirrors. A chill breeze on that mid-autumn night sent the other people back into their houses, and if not for the effects of the alcohol, Yu Yichi would not have come outside either. Streets on which people had swarmed like ants were now transformed into scenes of tranquillity, invaded only by insect chirps, like razor-sharp darts that could pierce brass walls and iron barriers. The cool breeze blew across Yu’s protruding belly, bringing him a sense of bliss. Gazing up at sweet pomegranates, big and small, and shaped like flower petals, he was about to fall asleep when suddenly he felt his scalp tighten and goose bumps erupt all over his body. His sleepiness disappeared in a flash and his body froze in paralysis – as if a kung-fii master had punched him in the solar plexus; of course, his mind remained clear and his eyes took in everything. A black donkey appeared on the street as if it had fallen from Heaven. It was a pudgy little animal whose body emitted light, as if it were made of wax. It rolled around on the street a time or two, then stood up and shook its body, as if trying to rid itself of non-existent dust. Then it jumped into the air, its tail raised, and started to run. It galloped from the eastern end of the street to the western end, and back, three round trips in all, so fast it was like a puff of black smoke. The crisp sound of its hooves drowned out the chirping of autumn insects. When it stopped and stood still in the middle of the street, the chirping recommenced. That is when Yu Yichi heard the barking of dogs in the dog market, the lowing of calves on Oxen Street, the bleating of lambs in Sheep Alley, the whinnying of ponies in Horse Lane, and the screeches of chickens from far and near: gaawk – gaawk – gaawk. The donkey stood waiting in the middle of the street, its black eyes glowing like lanterns. Yu Yichi had heard stories about this little black donkey, but seeing it now with his own eyes shocked him nearly out of his skin, as he realized that legends are not simply made up out of thin air. Holding his breath and making himself as small as possible, he looked like a dead log, except for his staring eyes, as he waited to see how the story of this little black donkey would unfold.

Hours passed, until Yu Yichi’s eyes were sore and weary, but the little donkey stood stock-still in the middle of the street, like a statue. Then, without warning, all the dogs in Liquorland erupted in a frenzy of barking – off in the distance, of course – snapping Yu Yichi out of his trancelike state, just in time for him to hear approaching footsteps on roof tiles and to see, almost immediately after that, a dark figure floating down over the street from a nearby rooftop; it settled onto the waiting back of the black donkey, which sprang to life and galloped off like the wind. Now, as a dwarf, Yu Yichi had not been given a chance to attend school, but as someone born into an educated family – his father had been a professor, his grandfather an imperial licentiate, and in generations past there were scholars who had passed the imperial examinations and were members of the Hanlin Academy – he had committed thousands of Chinese characters to memory and had read widely and eclectically. The scene he had just witnessed reminded him of a Tang dynasty tale about a shadowy knight-errant; from there his thoughts turned more philosophical: Even with the rapid developments in science, there exist countless phenomena that defy explanation. He tested his body: In spite of lingering stiffness here and there, he could still move. He felt his belly – it was wet, the effects of a cold sweat. Back when the dark figure was floating earthward, aided by the light of the moon, Yu Yichi had perceived that it was a young man, quite small in stature, his body covered in scaly skin that glinted in the moonlight. He held a willow-leaf dagger in his teeth, and had a bundle strapped to his back…

Dear readers, I can almost hear you grumbling: Why don’t you stop running off at the mouth and take us to a tavern somewhere instead of having us circle Donkey Avenue over and over! Your grumblings are excellent, right on target, hit the nail right on the head. So let’s pick up the pace, step lively; forgive me if I don’t point out all the shops here on Donkey Avenue, even though there’s a story behind them all, and even though each one of them has its unique calling. I’ll shut up, no matter how much it pains me to do so. And so, let us ignore all those donkeys staring at us from both sides of the street and set our sights on our objectives. There are two types of objectives: major and minor. Our major objective is to march toward communism, where the ruling ideology is ‘from each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs.’ But if we march toward the end of Donkey Avenue, to an old pomegranate tree, we will reach our minor objective: the Yichi Tavern. Why, you ask, is it called Yichi Tavern? Listen up, and I’ll tell you.

The tavern’s proprietor, Yu Yichi (Twelve-inch Yu), is actually seventeen inches tall; like all dwarfs, he has never revealed his age to anyone, and trying to guess it would be folly. Within the memory of Donkey Avenue, this agreeable, amiable little dwarf has not changed his appearance or attitude in decades. He always returns looks of shock and amazement with sweet smiles. They are such charming, disarming smiles they tug at your heart and spawn feelings of sympathy you never knew you had. Yu Yichi makes a good living almost exclusively on the charm of these smiles. Coming from an intellectual family, he is very learned, with an array of knowledge on which he draws to entertain people on Donkey Avenue with his witty remarks. How unthinkably lonely and boring Donkey Avenue would be without Yu Yichi, who could actually lead a life of leisure with his natural talent alone. But being ambitious, he refused to settle for handouts, and took advantage of the winds of reform and liberalization to apply for a business license. He then produced a wad of money he’d been saving since who knew when and hired someone to remodel his old house for Yichi Tavern, which has become famous all over Liquorland. Yu Yichi’s many ingenious ideas may well have been inspired by the classical novel Flowers in the Mirror, or could have originated in a book called Overseas Wonders. After the tavern opened, he placed a want ad in the Liquorland Daily News, looking for attendants who were under three feet tall. The ad, a highly publicized event at the time, initiated heated debates. Some people believed that a dwarf running a tavern was an insult to the socialist system and a smear on the bright five-star red flag. Following the increase of tourists in Liquorland, Yichi Tavern could easily become our city’s greatest shame, one that would bring humiliation to the great Chinese nation. Others argued that the existence of a dwarf was a universal, objective phenomenon. But dwarfs in other countries relied on panhandling to survive, while ours supported themselves through their own labor, which is not a shame but a sign of glory. Yichi Tavern could help make our international friends understand the unsurpassable superiority of our socialist system. While the two sides were engaged in heated, unending debates, Yu Yichi tunneled his way into the City Hall compound through its sewers (the guards were too intimidating for him to enter through the main gate). Then he sneaked into City Hall, and into the office of the Mayor, with whom he had a long conversation, the contents of which must remain unknown to us. The Mayor sent him back to Donkey Avenue in her own luxurious Crown limo, after which the debates in the newspaper died down. My friends, ladies and gentlemen, we have reached Yichi Tavern, our objective. The drinks are on me today. Old Mr Yu is a friend of mine; we often get together to drink and to recite poetry. We have composed strange yet beautiful music for this colorful, dazzling world we live in. As a true brother who values friendship more than money, he will give us a twenty percent discount.

My honored friends, we are now standing outside Yichi Tavern. Please glance up at the gilded characters on the black signboard, each bursting with energy, like spirited dragons and lively tigers. This is the work of Liu Banping – Half-Bottle Liu – a famous calligrapher whose name tells of a true master who can’t write without drinking half a bottle of good, strong liquor. Two pocket-sized waitresses, less than two feet tall, stand beside the door, one on each side, embroidered sashes across their chests and smiles on their faces. They are twins, who, after reading Yu Yichi’s ad in the Liquorland Daily News, flew here from Shanghai on a Trident jet. They were born into a high-ranking cadre family, with a father so famous you’d be dazzled if I told you. So I won’t. They could have counted on their father’s power and position to live a life of leisure, wearing fancy clothes and eating delicacies. But they refused to do so, choosing instead to join the hustle and bustle here in Liquorland. The arrival of this pair of fairies came as such a surprise that the city’s ranking Party members made a special trip in the pouring rain to greet them at Peach Spring Airport, some forty-five miles out of town. Accompanying the two fairies on their trip was their mother, that is, the wife of their heroic sire, plus a retinue of secretaries. It took the airport guest house two frantic weeks to prepare for the reception. But, my friends, please don’t think that Liquorland did not get its money’s worth, for that would be the near-sighted view, a mouse’s vision of the world. Even though Liquorland went to considerable expense to welcome the fairies and their mother, our city has now established connections with the high-ranking official, who, merely by picking up his pen and drawing a few check marks, can bring us plenty of business and plenty of income. Do you know what we received when he casually wielded his pen on a visit last year? A low-interest loan of a hundred million, during a period of financial storms and tight credit. Imagine that, my friends, a hundred million, which we put to use promoting our Ape Liquor, building a magnificent China Brewery Museum, and organizing a celebration for the First International Ape Liquor Festival in October. If not for these two fairies, do you think he’d have stayed in Liquorland three whole days? So, my friends, it’s no exaggeration to credit Mr Yu Yichi as a hero of Liquorland. I hear that the Municipal Party Committee is gathering material for permission to honor him as a model worker with a Labor Day decoration.

The two fairies of noble blood bow to us and smile radiantly. They have lovely faces and well-proportioned figures; except for being small, they are virtually flawless. We return their smiles out of respect for their noble birth. Welcome, welcome. Thank you, thank you.

Yichi Tavern, also known as Dwarf Tavern, is luxuriously appointed. When you step on the five-inch-thick wool carpet, your feet sink softly up to the ankles. Scrolls by famous painters and calligraphers hang on walls covered with birch panels from the Changbai mountains. Palm-sized goldfish swim lazily in an enormous aquarium. Pots of rare flowers bloom like a raging fire. In the middle of the room stands a lifelike little black donkey, which, upon closer observation, turns out to be a sculpture. Naturally it was only after the arrival of the two fairies that Yichi Tavern reached this level of popularity and prosperity. The leaders of Liquorland are not fools, and would never allow the darling daughters of a high-ranking dignitary to work in a shabby tavern run by some private entrepreneur. You know how things are these days, so I needn’t waste time recounting the dramatic changes in Yichi Tavern over the past year. But you’ll forgive me if I backtrack for a moment. Liquorland authorities built a small villa near Water Park in the downtown area for the two fairies before their mother returned to Shanghai. Each was also provided with a tiny Fiat. Did you happen to notice the Fiats parked beneath the old pomegranate tree as we came through the gate?

The maitre d’hötel, in red uniform and cap, comes up to greet us. He has the body of a two-year-old child, with facial features to match. He sways a bit when he walks on the thick carpet, his hips gliding from side to side, like a duckling wading through mud. He leads us along like a furry little puppy guiding the blind.

Climbing a staircase of red-lacquered pine, we reach the top landing, where the little red boy pushes open a door and steps aside, like one of the police uncles who direct traffic, his left arm held across his chest, his right arm hanging at his side. Both hands are stiff and straight, the left palm facing inward, the right palm outward, and both point in the same direction: the Grape Room.

Please come in, dear friends, don’t be shy. We are honored guests for whom the elegant Grape Room is the salon of choice. While you are staring at clusters of grapes hanging from the ceiling, I happen to glance over at the little fellow who showed us in. His smiling, clouded eyes send poisonous rays our way. Like arrowheads soaked in poison, they will rot anything they touch. I feel a sharp pain in my eyes and suddenly seem to have gone blind.

During that brief moment of darkness, I cannot help but feel my heart palpitating. The little demon wrapped in a red flag that I created in my stories ‘Meat Boy’ and ‘Child Prodigy’ has suddenly appeared in front of me and is watching me with sinister eyes. That’s him, that’s him all right. Slender eyes, big, thick ears, kinky hair, and a two-foot body. In ‘Child Prodigy’ I described in detail the riot he instigated in the Special Purchasing Section of the Culinary Academy. In that story, I portrayed him as a little conspirator, a genius of strategy. I stopped after finishing the part about him and the children hiding in different parts of the campus after beating the guard – the ‘featherless hawk’ – to death. Originally, I planned for all the children to be caught and sent to my mother-in-law’s Culinary Research Center, where they were to be boiled, steamed, or braised. Only the little demon escaped, by way of the sewer, but he fell into the hands of beggars scrounging scraps from the sewer, after which he began his legendary life anew. But instead of following my dictates, he rebelled and escaped from my story to join Yu Yichi’s team of dwarfs. Wearing a scarlet wool uniform with a spotless white bow tie, a scarlet fore-and-aft cap, and black patent-leather shoes, he has materialized in front of me.

I mustn’t neglect my guests, regardless of any unforeseen events that may occur, so I suppress the waves of turmoil raging in the depths of my heart and force a smile on my face as I sit down with you. The plush chair cushions, the snowy white tablecloth, the dazzling flowers, and the soft music take possession of our senses. Here I must insert a comment: The tables and chairs in Dwarf Tavern are very low, to ensure maximum comfort. An attendant hardly bigger than a bird walks up with a platter of disinfected hand towels. She is so fragile, so tiny that just carrying the platter takes all her strength; she elicits feelings of tender sympathy. By this time the little demon is nowhere to be seen, for, once he has carried out his duty, he must go back to greet the next batch of diners. Common sense, perhaps, but I can’t help sensing some sinister, diabolical purpose to his disappearance.

My friends, in order to cash in on our twenty percent’ discount, sit here for a moment while I go look up my old friend, Yu Yichi. Feel free to smoke or drink tea or listen to the music or gaze out the spotless windows at the landscaped back yard.

Gentle readers, at first I was going to join you in this sumptuous banquet, but the tavern is too small for this many people, and there are already nine of you here in the Grape Room. I’m deeply sorry. But openness in everything is absolutely essential to avoid the perception that I have ulterior motives. I know this tavern like a light carriage on a familiar road, and finding Yu Yichi is easy. But when I open the door to his office, I know I’ve come at the wrong time – my old friend Yu Yichi is standing atop his desk kissing a full-figured, buxom young woman. ‘Oops, excuse me,’ I blurt out, ‘I forgot my manners, should have knocked.’

Yu Yichi jumps down off his desk, quick and nimble as a wildcat. When he sees my look of embarrassment, his comical little face creases into a smile. ‘Doctor of Liquor Studies.’ he says in a high-pitched voice, ‘I should have known it was you. How’s your research on Ape Liquor coming along? You don’t want to miss the Ape Liquor Festival, do you? And your father-in-law is a fool to go up on White Ape Mountain and live with the apes.’

On and on he talks, until I’m sick of listening to him. But since I’m there to ask a favor, I must be patient and hear him out, forcing myself to appear captivated by what he is saying.

When he finally runs out of things to say, I volunteer, I brought some friends for a meal of donkey.’

Yu Yichi gets up and walks over to the woman. His head barely reaches her knees. She’s a real beauty, and not, it seems, an innocent young maiden. She has the airs of a married woman. Her full lips are lightly coated with a sticky substance, as if she had just dined on escargots. He reaches up and pats her ample hindquarters. ‘You go ahead, my dear,’ he says, ‘and tell Old Shen not to worry. Yu Yichi is a man of his word. If he says he’ll do something, rest assured he’ll do it.’

Not one to shy away from situations like this, the woman bends low, letting her pendulous breasts, which are about to burst out of her dress, drop so heavily on Yu Yichi’s face that he winces as she gently picks him up. Judging only by size and weight, it looks like a mother cradling her son; but, of course, their relationship is much more complicated than that. Almost savagely, she plants a big kiss on his lips, then flings him down basketball-like onto a sofa against the wall. She raises her hand and says seductively, ‘See you later, old-timer.’ Yu Yichi’s body is still bouncing on the springy sofa as the woman, wriggling her bright red backside, disappears around the corner. He shouts at her lovely back, ‘Get lost, you vile fox spirit!’

Yu Yichi and I are now alone in the room. He jumps off the sofa and goes to a large wall mirror to comb his hair and rearrange his tie. He even rubs his cheeks with his little claws, then spins around to face me, looking very dapper, like a man of great importance. If not for what had happened a moment earlier, I'd be too intimidated to joke with him. But: ‘Hey, old pal, you do OK with the women. A case of the weasel screwing the camel, always going for the big ones,’ I say, grinning cheekily.

He laughs a sinister laugh, his face swelling up in greens and purples, his eyes emitting a green light, his arms spread like the wings of an aging falcon ready to fly off. He looks absolutely terrifying. In all the time I’ve know him, I’ve never seen him like this. Maybe I hurt his feelings with my bantering a moment ago, and suddenly I feel remorseful

‘You little jerk.’ He presses forward, grinding his teeth. ‘How dare you mock me!’

I back away, fixing my gaze on his sharp claws, which tremble slightly from his towering rage, sensing that my throat is in peril. Yes, he could leap onto my neck at any moment, like a thunderbolt, and tear open my throat. Tm sorry, old man, really sorry.’ My back presses up against the fabric-covered wall, and still I try to back up. Then I have a brainstorm. I reach up and give my own face a dozen savage slaps – pa pa pa – the sound hanging in the air; my cheeks burn, my ears ring, and I see stars. 'I'm sorry, old man. I don’t deserve to live. I’m a lowly animal, I’m an asshole, f m a black donkey prick.’

After my ugly performance, his face turns from greenish purple to pale yellow; his raised arms slowly fall to his sides; and I collapse in a heap.

He retreats to his black leather swivel throne, but instead of sitting, he squats on it. Removing an expensive cigarette from its case, he lights it with a lighter that spews a bright hissing flame, takes a long drag, and slowly blows out the smoke. He stares at the patterns on the wall, lost in thought, a deep, mysterious look in eyes that look like black-water pools. I huddle beside the door, terrified by my thoughts: How did this buffoon, a dwarf who had been the butt of everyone’s joke, turn into the swaggering tyrant facing me now? And why am I, a dignified doctoral candidate, cringing before a hideous creature a foot and a half tall and weighing no more than fifteen kilograms? The answer emerges like a shot out of the barrel of a gun, and there’s no need to go into it.

I’m going to fuck every pretty girl in Liquorland!’ He rises out of his squatting position and stands on the swivel chair, raising his fist to proclaim solemnly, 'I'm going to fuck every pretty girl in Liquorland!'

Bursting with excitement, and grinning from ear to ear, he keeps his arm in the air for a long, long time. I can tell that the oars in his head are churning the waters of his mind, and that the ship of consciousness is being tossed about on the white-capped waves of his spirit. I hold my breath, for fear that I might shatter his reveries.

Finally he relaxes, tosses me a cigarette and asks genially, ‘Know her?’

‘Who?’ I reply.

‘The woman who just left.’

‘No… although there was something familiar about her…’

‘The TV hostess.’

‘Oh, her.’ I smack myself on the forehead, now that it’s come to me. She stands there, microphone in hand, a sweet smile on her face, talking to us but saying little.

‘This is the third!’ he spits out savagely. ‘The third…’ Suddenly his voice turns husky and the light goes out of his eyes. In an instant, wrinkles cover a face that, up till then, had been babied until it was soft and lustrous as precious jade, and a body that was tiny to begin with shrinks even smaller. He sags into his throne-like chair.

In agony, I smoke my cigarette and watch this odd friend of mine, momentarily stumped for anything to say.

‘I want to show all you…’ His murmurs break the oppressive silence. He raises his head. ‘Did you want to see me about something?’ he asks.

‘I brought some friends along, in the Grape Room…’ I’m somewhat flustered. ‘A bunch of poor scholars…’

He picks up the telephone and jabbers something. After hanging up, he turns back and says, ‘Since we’re old friends, I’ve arranged for an all-donkey banquet.’

Friends, talk about gourmet luck! An all-donkey banquet! Moved to the depths of my soul, I bow deeply. Perking up a bit, he goes from sitting to squatting, and the light comes back into his eyes. ‘So you’re a writer now, is that right?’ he asks.

‘Just some dog-fart essays.’ I say, gripped by terror. ‘Not worth mentioning. A little extra income for the family.’

‘My dear Doctor,’ he says, let’s you and me do a little business.’

‘What kind of business?’ I ask.

‘You ghost-write my autobiography,’ he says, ‘and I’ll give you twenty-thousand cash.’

I am so excited my heart thumps wildly, but all I say is, ‘I’m afraid my meager talents are inadequate for such an important task.’

Waving off my disclaimer, he says, ‘Don’t give me any of that false modesty. It’s settled. You’ll come here every Tuesday night and I’ll relate my experiences to you.’

‘Revered elder brother, money or not, as your inferior, it would be an honor to memorialize the life of such an extraordinary man. Money or not…’

‘Can the hypocrisy, jerk,’ he sneers. ‘Money makes the devil turn the millstone. There may be people in this world who don’t love money, but I’ve never met any. Which is why I can announce that I’m going to fuck every pretty girl in Liquorland!’

‘Elder brother’s charm has a lot to do with it.’

‘Pah!' he blurts out. ‘Up your old lady’s you-know-what! Chairman Mao said, “It’s critical to recognize one’s own limitations.” I’ve had enough of your bullshit, so get out of my sight.’

He takes a carton of Marlboros out of his desk drawer and tosses it to me. Holding the cigarettes in my hand, I thank him profusely, then get my ass back to the Grape Room, where I join you, friends, ladies and gentlemen, at the table.

Several dwarfs come up to pour tea and alcoholic beverages and to set the table with plates and chopsticks. They whirl around the table as if they were on wheels. The tea is Oolong, the liquor Maotai; no local flavor, but easily state-banquet quality. First to be served are twelve cold delicacies arranged in the shape of a lotus flower: donkey stomach, donkey liver, donkey heart, donkey intestines, donkey lungs, donkey tongue, and donkey lips… all donkey stuff. Friends, sample these delicacies sparingly and leave room for what follows, for experience tells me that the best is yet to come. Take note, friends, here come the hot dishes. You, the lady over there, be careful, don’t burn yourself! A dwarf all in red – painted red lips and rouged cheeks, red shoes and a red cap, red from head to toe, like a red candle – rolls up to the table carrying a steaming platter of food. She opens her mouth, and out spills a flurry of words, falling like pearls: ‘Braised donkey ear. Enjoy!’ ‘Steamed donkey brains, for your dining pleasure!’ ‘Pearled donkey eyes, for your dining pleasure!’ The donkey eyes, in beautifully contrasting black and white, lay pooled on a large platter. Go ahead, friends, dig in. Don’t be afraid. They might appear to be alive, but they are, after all, just food. But, hold on, there are only two eyes but ten of us. How do we divide them up fairly. Will you help us out here, miss? The red candle girl smiles and picks up a steel fork. Two gentle pokes, and the black pearls pop, filling the platter with a gelatinous liquid. Use your spoons, comrades, scoop it up, one spoonful at a time. It may not be a pretty dish, but it tastes wonderful. I know there’s another dish for which Yichi Tavern is famous. It’s called Black Dragon Sporting with Pearls. The main ingredients are a donkey dick and a pair of donkey eyes. Today, however, the chef has used the eyes to make Pearled Donkey Eyes, so it looks like there’ll be no sporting by the donkey dick this time. Who knows, maybe we’re eating a female donkey.

Don’t be shy, brothers and sisters. Loosen your belts, let your bellies hang out, eat till you burst. There’ll be no toasting, since we’re all family. Just drink to your hearts’ content. And don’t worry about the bill. Today you can bleed me. ‘Donkey ribs in wine, for your dining pleasure.’ ‘Donkey tongue in brine, for your dining pleasure.’ ‘Braised donkey tendons, for your dining pleasure.’ ‘Pear and lotus root donkey throat, for your dining pleasure.’ ‘Golden whip donkey tail, for your dining pleasure.’ ‘Steamed and fried donkey intestines, for your dining pleasure.’ ‘Stewed donkey hooves with sea cucumbers, for your dining pleasure.’

‘Five-spice donkey liver, for your dining pleasure.’… and so on…

A medley of donkey dishes flows onto our table, filling stomachs that are now stretched taut as drums, and drawing rumbling belches out of the diners. Our faces are covered with a film of donkey grease, through which weariness shows, like donkeys worn out from turning a millstone. Comrades, you must be exhausted by now. I stop an attendant and ask, ‘How many more dishes are there?’

‘Twenty or so, I guess,’ she replies. 'I'm not exactly sure. I just bring out what they give me.’

I point to the friends around the table. ‘They’re nearly full. Can’t we skip some of the dishes?’

With a show of reluctance, she says, ‘You ordered a whole donkey, and you’ve barely made a dent in it.’

‘But we’re stuffed,’ I plead. ‘Dear young lady, won’t you please ask the kitchen to just bring out the best and forget the rest.’

The lady says, ‘You disappoint me, but, OK, I’ll talk to them.’

She is successful. Out comes the final dish.

‘Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together, for your dining pleasure. Enjoy!’

She wants us to enjoy the sight of the dish before beginning our dining pleasure.

One of our group, a sourpuss of a woman – and not very smart, either – asks the attendant, ‘Which part of the donkey is this made of?’

Without hesitation, she answers, ‘It’s the donkey’s sex organ.’

The woman blushes, but, unable to control her curiosity, asks, ‘We only ordered one donkey, so how could there be…’ She puckers up her lips to point at the ‘dragon’ and ‘phoenix’ on the plate.

‘The chef felt terrible that you missed over a dozen dishes,’ the waitress replies, ‘so he added a set of female donkey’s genitalia to create this dish.’

Please dig in, ladies and gentlemen, dear friends, don’t be shy. These are the donkeys’ jewels, as delicious as they are ugly. If you don’t eat, it’s your loss. If you do, it’s still your loss, sooner or later, if you know what I mean. Come on, dig in, give it a try, eat eat eat Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together.

As everyone wavers, their chopsticks raised, my old friend Yu Yichi saunters into the dining room. I jump to my feet to introduce him to you:

This is the famous Mr Yu Yichi, manager of Yichi Tavern, standing member of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference, standing member of the Board of Governors of the Metropolitan Entrepreneurs Association, provincial model worker, and candidate for national model worker. He is hosting today’s banquet.’

All smiles, he walks around the table shaking hands and passing out perfumed business cards cramped with printing in Chinese and some foreign language. I can see that everyone warms to him at once.

He glances at the Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together and says, ‘So, you’ve even been given this dish. Now you can truly say you’ve eaten donkey.’

Expressions of gratitude emerge from around the table, my brothers and sisters, and every one of you has a smarmy grin on your face.

‘Don’t thank me, thank him,’ he points to me, ‘Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together is not an easy dish to prepare. It’s considered immoral. Last year, several renowned people made it known they wanted to try it, but were unsuccessful because they weren’t up to par. So I can say, you have true gourmet luck’

He downs three glasses of Black Pearl (a famous Liquorland drink that relieves indigestion) with each of us. A strong liquor, Black Pearl is sort of like a meat grinder, which produces rumbling noises in our stomachs.

‘Don’t worry about the rumblings down there. Doctor of Liquor Studies is here.’ Yu Yichi points to me. ‘Go on, have some, try it. Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together loses its flavor when it’s cold.’ He picks up the dragon head with his chopsticks and places it in front of the lady who has expressed such an interest in donkey sex organs. Showing no modesty, she gobbles up the head in big mouthfuls, while everyone else attacks the dish with their chopsticks, finishing it off in no time, like a strong wind sweeping clouds from the sky.

He says, with a sinister smile, ‘You won’t be able to sleep tonight.’

Do you all understand what he meant by that?

My friends, ladies and gentlemen, this story has more or less reached its end, but you’re such good friends that I want to chew the fat with you a bit longer.

That night, when the donkey banquet was finally over, we stumbled out of Yichi Tavern and into the late night air. Stars filled the sky and night dew covered the ground; a bluish, moist light was reflected off Donkey Avenue. Some drunken cats were fighting on people’s roofs, causing the tiles to sing out. The cold dew was like a frost, sending leaves floating to the ground from trees on both sides of the street. Some of my friends, who were half drunk, started to sing revolutionary songs. Broken phrases like donkey lips and horses’ mouths, southern tunes and northern melodies, not much gentler on the ears than the cats’ screeches from the rooftops. I won’t even dignify the rest of their ugly behavior with a comment. While all this was going on, we heard crisp hoofbeats at the eastern end of the street. Suddenly, a little black donkey with wine-glass-shaped hooves and lamplike eyes shot down the street and appeared in front us, like a black arrow. I was stunned, and so, apparently, were the others, since the singers closed their mouths, and so did those who were about to puke. Everyone’s drunken eyes stared at the little black donkey, watching it gallop from the eastern end of the street to the western end, and then from the western end to the eastern end. After three complete trips, it stood quietly in the middle of Donkey Avenue, its body like shimmering ebony, but no sound escaped, as if it were a statue. Our bodies stiffened, we stood frozen to the spot, waiting to see if reality could verify legend. And sure enough, following some loud tile clattering, a black shadow flew down and landed on the back of the donkey. It was indeed a youngster whose bare skin shimmered like scales; he was carrying a bundle on his back and was biting down on a willow-leaf dagger that emitted a cold light.

V

Dear Mo Yan

Greetings!

I don’t know how to express what I feel at this moment. My dear, most respected mentor, your letter was like a bottle of vintage liquor, like a thunderclap in spring, like a shot of morphine, like a gigantic opium bubble, like a pretty young thing… that brought spring to my life and cheered me body and soul I am not a hypocritically modest gentleman; I know and dare to announce publicly that I am bursting with talent that has been hidden away like the Imperial Concubine of the Tang, like a steed that has been forced to pull carts in a village. Now, at last, Li Shimin, the Tang Emperor, and Bo-le, the true horse breeder, have shown up hand in hand! My talent has been recognized by you and Mr Zhou Bao, one of China’s nine renowned editors. I feel the frenzied joy of the poet Du Fu when he packed his books to return to his war-torn home. How to celebrate? Nothing except liquor would do, so I took out a bottle of genuine Du Kang from the liquor cabinet, uncorked it with my teeth, held the opening with my lips while tipping my head back, and finished the bottle without coming up for air. Happily, drunkenly, as if floating on air, I picked up the pen to write my dear mentor, in pursuit of a grand calligraphic style, inspiration rushing like the tides, fanning out like a peacock’s tail, like a hundred flowers blooming.

Sir, you took time out of your busy schedule to give my humble work ‘Donkey Avenue’ a serious reading, for which I am moved to tears of gratitude, until my face is wet with tears and snivel. Now, please allow me to respond to each of the issues you raised in your letter, i. The little red demon who raised hell in the country of meat children in my story is a real person in Liquorland. Some of the rotten officials here are so utterly corrupt that they violate the world’s ultimate taboo by eating baby boys. This story was revealed to me by my mother-in-law, former associate professor at the Culinary Academy, and Director of the Culinary Research Center. She said there’s a village in the Liquorland suburbs that specializes in producing meaty little boys, a place where the villagers don’t give a second thought to the whole business. They sell their meaty little boys as if they were disposing of fattened little pigs, never troubled by gut-wrenching pain. I don’t think my mother-in-law would lie about something like that. Since she’d gain neither fame nor profit by lying to me, why lie? No, she absolutely would never lie about it. I know this has severe consequences, and I could get into trouble if I were to write about it. But you have taught me that a writer should always bravely face life, risking death and mutilation in order to dethrone an emperor. So I went ahead with no concern for my own safety. Of course, I also know that literary works ‘should originate from life yet rise above it,’ and should create ‘typical characters in typical circumstances,’ so I made the image of the little red demon more colorful by adding some oil here, a little vinegar there, and a bit of gourmet powder here and there. The scaly boy was a little hero who, moving through Liquorland like a shadow, performed many good deeds, eliminating evil and eradicating the bad, stealing from the rich to give to the poor. He has come to the aid of all the rascals on Donkey Avenue, who treat him like a god. I haven’t yet had a chance to behold his majestic countenance, but that doesn’t prove he doesn’t exist. Many people on Donkey Avenue have seen him, and everyone in Liquorland knows about him. Anything he does at night and where he did it is known all over town the next day. Whenever his name is mentioned, cadres grind their teeth, common citizens are beside themselves with joy, and the head of Public Security’s legs cramp up. Sir, the existence of this young hero is a natural consequence of social development; his gallant behavior has actually achieved the goal of calming the people and venting their anger, which has led to an increase in social stability and solidarity. His existence helps redress imperfect laws that cater to those in power. Why do you think the people haven’t risen up against Liquorland’s corrupt cadres? The scaly boy, that’s why. Everyone has been waiting to see him punish those corrupt officials. Being punished by him means being punished by justice, which means being punished by the people. The scaly boy has become the embodiment of justice, the enforcer of the people’s will, the pressure valve of law and order. If not for him, Liquorland would be mired in chaos. He may not be able to stop the officials’ corrupt behavior, but he can reduce the people’s anger. In point of fact, he has been an invaluable aid to Liquorland’s municipal government, but, ironically, some muddle-headed officials have called for his arrest.

Are the scaly boy and the little red demon the same person? Please forgive my presumptuousness, but I think your question is terribly naive. What does it matter if they’re the same person or not? If they are, so what? And if they aren’t, so what? The fundamental principle of literature is to create something out of nothing and to make up stories. My creation has not been altogether fashioned out of nothing, and is not entirely made up. To be honest, the scaly boy and the little red demon are identical and disparate at the same time. Sometimes one divides into two and sometimes two combine into one. Long separation ends in unification, long unification leads to separation. Heaven operates this way, so why not humans?

In your letter, you also claimed that the scaly boy’s skills were portrayed with such grand exaggeration that they lost their veracity, a criticism I find hard to accept. In this day and age, when scientific breakthroughs occur daily, and humans can plant beans on the moon, what’s the big deal about flying on eaves and walking on walls? Twenty years ago, our village showed a movie called The White-Haired Girl Ballet, in which the heroine walked on the tips of her toes. We took that as a challenge: If you can walk on your toes, why can’t we? Practice! If we can’t master the skill in one day, we’ll take two; if two days won’t do, then three; if three days still aren’t enough, then how about four days or five? Why can’t we learn it in six days or seven? Eight days later, except for the really dumb Dog Two Li, a whole bunch of us kids had learned to walk on our toes. From then on, our mothers were forced to add thicker padding to the tips of our shoes. Now, if a group of no-talents kids like us could accomplish that, how about a genius like the scaly boy, who, additionally, bore a deep-seated hatred toward these people. He practiced his skills for vengeance; half the effort produced double the results.

You prattled on and on about kung-fu novels, but I haven’t read a single one, and have no idea who Jin Yong or Gu Long are. I work only on serious literature in the style of Gorki and Lu Xun; strictly following the one and only true method of ‘combining revolutionary realism with revolutionary romanticism,’ I have not taken a single wayward step, not once. I would never do anything that required me to sacrifice principle in order to please a few readers. On the other hand, since even a serious novelist like yourself has fallen under the spell of kung-fu novels, your disciple – that’s me – will definitely read a few; maybe I’ll benefit from them. As for Ms Ladybug, I think I came across her name in a public toilet somewhere. Apparently, she likes to write scenes with a ‘bloody flesh pillar growing out of the ground,’ with strong sexual overtones. I haven’t read anything by her. When I find time, I’ll get one or two of her stories for bathroom reading. Ivan Michurin ran a brothel in God’s botanical garden. Would Big Sister Hua, who wears the writer’s laurel on her head, dare to open a brothel in the fiction garden of socialism?

2. You’re concerned that my famous Donkey Avenue dish Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together would attract flies. Please forgive my arrogance, but I think Mo Yan doth protest too much. What’s filthy about a dish that even famed critics and renowned musicians from Beijing shovel down their throats as fast as they can? What we are pursuing is beauty, nothing but beauty. It’s not true beauty if we didn’t create it. Creating beauty with beauty is not true beauty either; real beauty is achieved by transforming the ugly into the beautiful This has two levels of significance. Let me explain. First, there’s no beauty in sticking a donkey dick inside a donkey pussy and putting them on a plate, because they are dark as pitch, incredibly filthy, and they stink like hell No one would eat them, that’s for sure. But the head chef in Yichi Tavern soaks them in fresh water three times, bathes them in bloody water three times, and boils them three times in soda water. Then he strips the penis of its sinewy parts and plucks the pubic hair before frying them both in oil, simmering them in an earthen pot, and steaming them in a pressure cooker, after which he carves different patterns with his refined skills, adds rare seasoning, decorates the dish with bright-colored cabbage hearts, and, voila, the male donkey organ is transformed into a black dragon and the female organ into a black phoenix. A dragon and a phoenix kissing and copulating, coiling around an array of reds and purples, filling the air with fragrance and looking so alive, a treat for the mind and the eye. Isn’t that transforming the ugly into the beautiful? Second, donkey dick and donkey pussy are vulgar terms that assail one’s sense of propriety and cause the imagination of the weak-willed to run wild. Now we change the former’s name into dragon and the latter into phoenix, for the dragon and the phoenix are solemn totems of the Chinese race, lofty, sacred, and beautiful symbols that signify meanings too numerous to mention. Can’t you see that this too is transforming the ugly into the beautiful? Sir, suddenly I sense how similar the process of producing Donkey Avenue’s most famous culinary dish is to the creative process in literature and the arts. Both originate from life yet transcend life. Both transform nature to benefit the human world. Both elevate the vulgar to the level of nobility, convert sensual desire into art, convert grain into alcohol, and turn grief into power.

Sir, I will never replace this dish, regardless of the scare tactics you choose to persuade me.

I believe that ‘Ecstasy’ and ‘Red Locusts’ are two of your best works. Those people who criticize you do so because they have eaten so many placentas and so many babies that the inner heat has risen and fried their brains. Why worry about what they say? The head of Liquorland’s Writers Association is one of those who can’t go without his placenta for even a day. He drinks a soupy mix of placenta and duck eggs, a whole bowlful, which is why his essays are heavy with ‘human taste.’

3. Sir, Yu Yichi is so mysterious, I’m afraid of him. He wants me to write his biography and promises me a big payday, so I’m conflicted. But since you encouraged me to write, I’ll embolden myself by gulping down the soup of courage. But now I want even more for the two of us to collaborate. You’re famous enough that if you helped on the writing, Yu Yichi would be so overjoyed his ass would swing like a pendulum. You don’t know how adorable he is when his ass swings, but just imagine a little Peke frolicking in the snow. He has deep pockets and is never stingy with his money, so you’ll be amply rewarded for your troubles. Besides, you must come visit our Liquorland, take a tour to broaden your views. I think that would benefit your writing, just as a baby banquet is beneficial to one’s health. No matter how you look at it, it’s your loss if you don’t visit Liquorland, if for no other reason than you won’t otherwise get to sample Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together.

4. As for the beginning section of ‘Donkey Avenue,’ since you praised its grandiloquence, what’s wrong with a little ‘nonsense’? There are so many publications full of tongue-twisting rubbish these days, why should I ‘delete altogether’ my ‘grandiloquent nonsense’? I’m unwilling and unable to accept your recommendation.

5. The father of the twin dwarf sisters is indeed a leader in the Central Government, so why ask me to downgrade him? Besides, even if I wanted to demote him to the head of a remote mountain village, would he do it? He’d likely fight me to the death over it. On the other hand, since literature and art are, after all, fabrications, if people want to identify the characters with real-life people, let them. That’s not my problem. And if I have to pay with my life if his heart explodes from anger? Well, a life for a life, so be it. ‘A true soldier fears not death, so do not attempt to frighten him with it.’ decapitation feels like the wind blowing off a hat.’ ‘Twenty years from now I’ll be a hero again.’

Sir, please send my regards to Zhou Bao and Li Xiaobao, and ask the two gentlemen if they need any good liquor. Also, in October, Liquorland will host its first Ape Liquor Festival, a rare occasion not only in Liquorland but throughout Greater China. Vintage liquors from all over the world will be available to valiant individuals from all corners to drink to their hearts’ content. All the delicacies in this world will await you – Mo Yan, my mentor – and you can wolf them all down. Your family is also invited. My father-in-law, Yuan Shuangyu, is the Vice-Director of the Technical Advisory Committee for this first annual Ape Liquor Festival, so you will want for nothing.

Wishing you good health,

I am Your disciple

Li Yidou

written in drunkenness