The Republic of Wine

I

Ding Gou’er sensed the gold-trimmed Gate of Hell open with a loud rumble. To his astonishment he discovered that Hell wasn’t the dark, shadowy place mythology had made it out to be. No, it was dazzling, drenched simultaneously in rays from the red sun and the blue moon. Schools of beautifully striped, armored sea creatures, with soft, lithe limbs circled his body as it floated aimlessly. He sensed that a pointy-mouthed, multi-hued fish was nibbling at his anus, gently removing his hemorrhoids with the surgical skill of a trained proctologist. The butterfly of his consciousness returned to the body from which it had separated itself for so long, bringing a coolness to his brain. The special investigator, intoxicated for so long, opened his eyes: Sitting beside him was the lady trucker, naked as the day she was born, rubbing down her body with a sour-smelling liquid on a sponge she used to wash her truck. He, too, was stark naked, as he quickly discovered, lying on a sparkling teakwood floor. Images of the recent past seeped into his mind. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. The lady trucker was carefully rubbing down her breasts, absorbed in her task, as if alone, like a mother about to suckle a baby. As if in slow motion, glistening tears welled up in her eyes, formed two threads, slithered down her cheeks, and fell directly onto her purplish nipples. A divine emotion rose in the investigator’s heart. He was about to say something, when the lady trucker threw herself on him and sealed his lips with hers. Then, for the second time, he sensed that fish were schooling in the air around him -he could smell them. He sensed the essence of alcohol that had flourished in his body saturate hers. He awoke. With an eerie scream, she collapsed in a heap on the floor.

The investigator stood up on rubbery legs; still light-headed, he supported himself with his hand on the wall to keep from falling down again. Never had he been so drained of energy – feeling a void inside, he had become skin and no bones. Opaque steam rose from the lady trucker’s body, like a freshly steamed fish. The steam vanished and was replaced by chilled sweat that oozed from her pores and puddled on the hardwood floor. What a pitiful sight she was as she lay there in a swoon; pity grows in the heart like poisonous weeds. Still, the investigator wasn’t about to forget the woman’s sinister and vicious side. Ding Gou’er felt like emptying his bladder all over her, like an animal in the wild, but he quickly drove that perverse thought out of his mind. Reminded of Diamond Jin and of his own sacred mission, he clenched his teeth with steely determination. Get out of here! My taking your wife to bed was a moral lapse, but cooking and eating children is a truly heinous crime. Gazing back at the lady trucker, he saw her as a target of flesh belonging to Diamond Jin. I hit the bull’s-eye of that target, and the bullet of righteousness still flies through the air. He opened the dresser, selected an olive green wool suit, and put it on. It fit perfectly, as if it had been custom-made for him, I’ve slept with your woman, he was thinking, now I’m wearing your clothes, and when it’s all over, I’ll have your life. He retrieved his pistol from his own dirty clothes and pocketed it. Then he ate a raw cucumber straight from the refrigerator and took a big swig from a bottle of Zhangyu wine. It was soft and silky as a lovely woman’s skin. As he turned to leave, the lady trucker rolled over and balanced herself on all fours, like a frog or a crawling infant. The look of wretched helplessness in her eyes reminded him of his own son, which filled his heart with paternal love. He walked over to pat her on the head.

‘You poor thing,’ he said, ‘you poor little darling.’

She wrapped her arms around his legs and gazed up at him tenderly.

‘I’m leaving,’ he said. I’ll not allow your husband to get away with his crimes.’

‘Take me with you,’ she said. ‘I hate him. I’ll help you. They eat infants.’

She stood up, dressed quickly, and took a bottle from the cabinet. In it was some ocher-colored powder.

‘Know what this is?’ she asked.

The investigator shook his head.

It’s infant powder.’ she said. ‘They use it as a tonic.’

‘How’s it made?’ the investigator asked.

It’s produced by the hospital’s Special Nutrition Unit,’ she replied.

‘From live babies?’

‘Yes, live ones. You can hear them crying.’

‘Come on, we’re off to the hospital’

She took a cleaver out of the cabinet and handed it to him.

With a laugh, he tossed it onto the table.

That drew a crisp cackle out of the lady trucker, sort of like a laying hen, or a wooden wheel rolling over cobblestones. Then with a smile like that of a bat, she threw herself at him again, wrapped her arms tenderly around his neck, and, with the same tenderness, wrapped her legs around his knees. With a struggle, he managed to pry her off, but she was right back at him, like a bad dream that won’t go away. The investigator hopped all over the place, monkey-style, trying to keep away from her.

‘Jump on me one more time,’ he panted, ‘and I’ll put a bullet in you!’

Stunned for a moment, she cried out hysterically, ‘Go ahead, put a bullet in me! Do it, you ingrate, put a bullet in me!’

She ripped open her blouse, sending a purple Plexiglass button to the floor, where it hit with a crisp ping and began rolling around like a tiny animal, first one way, then the other. Whatever force moved it seemed undeterred by the pull of gravity or the friction of the hardwood floor. Stomping on it angrily, the investigator felt it slip around under his foot, tickling him through his sock and thick-soled shoe.

‘What kind of person are you? Did Diamond Jin instruct you to do this?’ The sentimental attachment the investigator felt for the woman after sex was already dissipating; as his heart began to harden, it turned the color of cold steel. ‘If so, then you’re a co-conspirator,’ he said with a sneer, ‘and have eaten infants along with them. Diamond Jin must have ordered you to block my investigation.’

‘What an ill-fated woman I am…’ She began to sob, then cried openly, her face awash with tears, her shoulders heaving. ‘Five times I've been pregnant, and each time he’s sent me to the hospital in my fifth month for an abortion… he ate every one of the aborted fetuses…’

Overcome by the grief of despair, she wobbled and was about to topple, when the investigator reached out to steady her; she reacted by falling into his arms and nibbling at his neck. Then she bit him – hard. With a screech of pain, the investigator drove his fist into her belly. She croaked like a frog and crashed to the floor, face up. Her teeth were sharp, as Ding Gou’er knew from experience. He touched his wounded neck and drew back two bloody fingers, while she lay on the floor, eyes open. But as the investigator turned to leave, she rolled over to block his way. ‘Dear elder brother!’ she wailed. ‘Don’t leave me, let me kiss you…’ That gave him an idea: fetching a length of nylon rope from the balcony, he bound her to the chair. Struggling mightily to get free, she screamed:

‘Goddamned gigolo, I’ll bite the life out of you, you goddamned gigolo!’

The investigator took out a handkerchief, gagged her with it, then ran out as if his life depended on it, slamming the door behind him. Dimly he could hear the chair legs banging against the hardwood floor, and was afraid that the tenacious lady bandit might come after him, chair and all. His flying feet slapped against the concrete stairs, raising a deafening noise. In spite of the fact that the lady trucker lived in a low building, the staircase kept winding and winding, as if leading him down to the depths of Hell. As he was negotiating a bend in the stairs, he ran headlong into an elderly woman coming up the stairs. Her protruding belly felt like a leather sack filled with some sort of liquor; instead of yielding to the pressure, the liquid merely shifted. He then watched as she fell backwards on the steps, frantically waving her stubby arms. Her face was very large and very pale, like a head of cabbage tucked away for the winter. Inwardly cursing his bad luck, the investigator felt a clump of toadstools suddenly sprout in his brain. Hopping down onto the landing, he reached out to help the woman to her feet. She was moaning, her eyes closed, the sound müd yet bleak. Feeling guilty, the investigator bent down and put his arms around her waist to help her up. Not only was she heavy, she wouldn’t stop rolling around, and the effort to lift her up swelled the blood vessels in the investigator’s head to bursting point. A stabbing pain shot through the spot on his neck where the lady trucker had bitten him. Finally, the old woman cooperated by wrapping her arms around his neck, and together they managed to get her to her feet. But her greasy fingers on his wounded neck caused such excruciating pain that he broke out in a cold sweat. Her breath smelled like rotten fruit, so unbearably foul that he loosened his grip, sending her sprawling back onto the stairs, where she jiggled like a burlap sack filled with mung-bean noodles; she was holding on to his trousers for dear life. Noticing that the backs of her hands glistened with fish scales, suddenly he watched as two fish – one a carp, the other an eel – wriggled out of a plastic bag she’d been carrying. The carp flopped crazily on the stairs, while the eel – yellow face, green eyes, two erect, wiry whiskers -wriggled along stealthily, sluggishly. The water in the sack spilled slowly onto the stairs, soaking one step, then the next. He heard himself ask dryly:

‘Are you OK, old lady?’

1 broke my hip,’ she replied, ‘and tore up my intestines.’

Hearing her describe her injuries in such detail, the investigator knew that a whole lot of trouble was about to come crashing down on his unlucky head once again. He was in a bigger pickle than even that hapless carp; naturally, the carefree eel was infinitely better off than he. His first thought was to get away from this old woman, but instead he bent over and said:

I’ll carry you to the hospital, old auntie.’

The old woman replied:

‘My leg’s broken, and my kidneys have been damaged.’

He sensed an air of poison swelling in his gut. The carp flopped up onto his shoe. His foot flew, and so did the fish, right into the metal banister.

‘You owe me a fish!’

He stomped on the eel as it slithered by.

‘I’ll carry you to the hospital!’ he repeated.

The old woman hung on to his legs for dear life.

‘Don’t even think about it!’

‘Old auntie,’ he said, ‘your hip’s broken, your leg’s broken, your intestines are all torn up, and your kidneys have been damaged. If you don’t go to the hospital, you’ll die right here. Is that what you want?’

If I do, I’ll take you along with me,’ the old woman said resolutely. He felt her grip grow more powerful.

The investigator sighed forlornly. Looking down at the stairs and at the two dying fish, then out at the gloomy gray sky beyond the broken window, he didn’t know what to do. Just then the strong smell of alcohol drifted in through the window, along with the clang-clang of sheet metal being struck. Suddenly chilled to the bone, he longed for a drink.

Grim laughter burst over him and the old woman, then footsteps. The lady trucker was coming downstairs, one baby step at a time, standing up straight and carrying the chair behind her.

He greeted her with an embarrassed laugh. Instead of being alarmed, he was actually happy to see her. Better to be burdened by a young woman than an old one, he was thinking. He smiled. And that smile calmed his mind, as if the sun of hope had just broken through the haze of despair. He noted that she’d already bitten through the handkerchief he’d tied around her mouth, increasing his admiration for the sharpness of her teeth. The chair tied to her body slowed her progress, its rear legs bumping against the stairs with each descending step. He nodded to her, she nodded back. Coming to a stop alongside the old woman, she swung her body like a tiger whipping its tail around, slamming the chair into the woman. He heard her demand ferociously:

‘Let him go!’

The old woman looked up and mumbled what sounded like a curse before letting her arms drop. Freed at last, the investigator stepped back to put some distance between him and the old woman.

She said to the old woman:

‘Do you know who he is?’

The old woman shook her head.

‘He’s the Mayor.’

Clambering to her feet, the old woman grabbed the banister and shuddered.

Moved by her plight, the investigator hurried to say:

‘I’ll take you to the hospital for a checkup, old auntie.’

The lady trucker said:

‘Untie me.’

He did, and the chair fell to the floor. As the lady trucker was flexing her arms, the investigator turned and ran. He heard her footsteps behind him.

As he ran out the front door, he caught his sleeve on a waiting bicycle. Craaash! The bicycle hit the ground. Riiiip. There went his coat. The mishap slowed him down just enough for the lady trucker to lasso him around the neck with her rope. She drew the noose tight and choked the breath right out of him.

She dragged him outside as if he were a dog or some other dumb animal. A steady drizzle falling into his eyes clouded his vision as he reached up to loosen the rope’s choke-hold. Something round flew past, scaring the hell out of him. Then he saw a shaven-headed little boy run past, soaked to the skin and covered with mud, as he chased down his football. He cocked his head and pleaded:

‘Dear little woman, let me go. I’d hate for anybody to see me like this.’

With a flick of the wrist, she drew the noose even tighter.

‘Aren’t you good at running?’ she said.

‘I won’t run, I won’t, not if my life depended on it.’

‘Promise you won’t abandon me, that you’ll take me with you?’

‘I promise, I give you my word.’

She loosened the rope to let the investigator slip his head out of the noose. He was about to give her hell when dulcet sounds emerged from her tender lips:

‘You, you’re like a little boy. Without me to look after you, you’re at the mercy of everyone out there.’

Touched by her words, which sent warm currents swirling through his belly, the investigator welcomed the shower of happiness that settled over him like a spring rain, wetting not only his eyelids, but his eyes as well

The fine drizzle wove a soft, dense net around the buildings, the trees, everything. He felt her reach out and take hold of his arm, heard a crisp click, and watched a pink umbrella snap open in her other hand and rise above them, covering their heads. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he put his arm around her waist and took the umbrella from her, like any considerate husband. He wondered where the umbrella had come from, but his suspicions were quickly driven away by happiness.

The sky was so dark and misty, he couldn’t tell if it was morning or afternoon. A watch would have helped, but his had been stolen by the little demon. The fine rain beat a light tattoo on the umbrella. It was a sweet but melancholy sound, like a fine French wine -sad, sentimental, anxious, worried. He wrapped his arm more tightly around her, until he could feel her cold, clammy skin under her satin pajamas; there was a gentle squirming in her stomach. Huddled closely together, they walked down the Brewer’s College asphalt path between rows of Chinese ilex trees, with their glistening leaves, like the orange nails of pretty girls. Milky white steam carrying the fragrance of burned coal rose from the towering mounds of coal outside the mine. The heavy air pushed back the hideous black smoke trying to force its way out of smokestacks, turning it into black dragons that coiled and writhed in the lowering sky.

They walked together out of the Brewer’s College compound and strolled arm-in-arm in the shade of the willow trees on the bank of a little river from which opaque steam and the fragrance of alcohol rose. From time to time, drooping willow branches scraped the nylon shell of the umbrella, sending large drops of rain skittering down across the ribs. The narrow path was covered by drenched golden-yellow leaves. Abruptly the interrogator lowered the umbrella and stared at the green willow branches.

‘How long have I been in Liquorland?’ he asked.

The lady trucker replied:

‘You’re asking me? Who do you expect me to ask?’

The investigator said:

‘This is no good. I must get to work.’

The corner of her mouth twitched. In a mocking tone, she said:

‘Without me, you'll never get to the bottom of anything.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘What is it with you?’ she said. ‘You’ve slept with me, and you don’t even know my name?’

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I asked, but you wouldn’t tell me.’

‘You never asked me.’

‘I sure did.’

‘No you didn’t.’ She kicked him. ‘You never asked.’

‘OK, OK, I never asked. So I’m asking now.’

‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘You’re Hunter and I’m Mickey. We’re partners. How’s that?’

‘Good old partner,’ he said, patting her on the waist, ‘where do we go now?’

‘What do you want to investigate first?’

‘A gang of rotten criminals, headed by your very own husband, who kill and eat infants.’

‘I’ll take you to see someone who knows everything there is to know here in Liquorland.’

‘Who?’

‘I won’t tell you unless you kiss me.’

He gave her a peck on the cheek.

‘I’ll take you to see the proprietor of Yichi Tavern, Yu Yichi.’

Arm-in-arm they strolled out onto Donkey Avenue under a dark sky; the investigator’s gut feeling told him that the sun had already settled behind the mountains – no, it was just then sinking behind them. Drawing upon his imagination, he pictured the fabulous scene: the sun, an enormous red wheel, forced earthward, radiates thousands of brilliant spokes to dress the rooftops, the trees, the faces of pedestrians, and the cobblestones of Donkey Avenue in the tragically valiant colors of a fallen hero. The despot of the Kingdom of Chu, Xiang Yu, stands on the bank of the Wu River, holds his spear in one hand and the reins of his mighty steed in the other as he gazes blankly at the angry waters rushing by. But at this moment there was no sun above Donkey Avenue. Immersed in the enveloping mist, the investigator was mentally engulfed by melancholy and sentimentalism. Suddenly he was struck by the absurdity of his trip to Liquorland – absolutely ridiculous, a ludicrous farce. Floating in the filthy water of a ditch running alongside Donkey Avenue were a rotten head of cabbage, half a clove of garlic, and a hairless donkey tail, silently clumped together and giving off muted rays of green, brown, and blue-gray under the dim streetlights. The investigator mused agonizingly that these three lifeless objects should be taken together as symbols for the flag of a kingdom in decay; even better, they could be carved on his own tombstone. As the sky pressed down, he saw the drizzling rain in the artificial yellow light, like floating threads of silk. The pink umbrella looked like a colorful toadstool. He felt hungry and cold, sensations that erupted into his consciousness after he’d seen the clump of garbage in the roadside ditch. At the same time, he was aware that the seat and cuffs of his trousers were soaked through, his shoes were caked with mud and filling up with water, producing a squishing noise as he walked, like a loach slurping through mud in a riverbed. On the heels of these strange sensations, his arm was frozen numb by the icy coldness of her body, except for his hand, with which he attempted to touch her belly, the source of the sorry rumblings. She was wearing only pink pajamas and a pair of fuzzy bedroom slippers. As she shuffled along, the appearance was not so much of walking as of being carried along by a pair of mangy cats. The long history of men and women, he thought to himself, was actually very much like the history of class struggle: sometimes the men are victorious, sometimes the women, but in the end the victor is also the vanquished. His relationship with this lady trucker, his thoughts continued, was sometimes a game of cat and mouse, while at other times it was a case of two wolves, one with short forelegs, the other with short hind legs, working together. They made love, but they also fought like mortal enemies, the weights of tenderness and ferocity striking a perfect balance. His little thing must be frozen solid, he thought; he also imagined that she was frozen solid. Reaching up to touch one of her breasts, he discovered that something that had once been nice and springy had turned into something as cold and hard as the metal weight on a hand scale, like an unripe banana or an apple stored in an icebox.

Cold?’ His question was patent nonsense, but he forged ahead: ‘Why not go to your place. I can carry out my investigation after the weather warms up.’

Her teeth were chattering, but she said stiffly:

‘No!’

'I'm concerned that the cold might be too much for you.’

'I said no!'

Holding the hand of his close comrade in arms, Mickey, the crack detective Hunter walked silently down Donkey Avenue on a cold, drizzly autumn night… These were the thoughts running through the head of the investigator, like lyrics flashing across the screen in a karaoke bar. He was mighty, Herculean; she was stubborn and intractable, but could be affectionate and passionate when she wanted to be. Donkey Avenue was virtually deserted. Potholes filled with water like frosted glass gave off a dull glimmer. Just how long he’d been in Liquorland he couldn’t say, but he’d spent all that time on the periphery of the city; the city itself was a mystery, one that finally beckoned to him on this late night. For the investigator, Donkey Avenue, with its long history, brought to mind the sacred conduit between the legs of the lady trucker. He quickly criticized himself for this objectionable association. He was like a pale adolescent suffering from compulsive behavior, incapable of restraining the shocking metaphor spinning in his head. Wonderful memories fluttered toward him. He was vaguely conscious of the likelihood that the lady trucker was destined to be his true lover, and that his body and hers were already linked by a heavy metal chain. He sensed that he had already foolishly developed feelings for her, which ran the gamut from hate to pity and to fear; this was love.

There were few lights on the street, now that most of the shops were closed. But there were plenty of lights in the compounds behind the shops. Loud, dull noises emerged from one compound after another, and the investigator wondered what the people were doing there. The lady trucker supplied the answer:

‘They butcher the donkeys at night.’

In what seemed like a split second, the roadway turned treacherous; the lady trucker slipped and fell hard on her backside. He fell alongside her when he tried to help her up. Together they broke the umbrella, snapped the ribs; she flung it into the ditch, as the drizzle turned into a hailstorm, the air around them suddenly cold and clammy. Chilled air bored through the spaces between his teeth. He pressed her to move on. Donkey Avenue, narrow and gloomy, had become a place of horror, a lair of criminal activity. Hand in hand with his lover, the investigator entered the tiger’s lair. He saw the words with extraordinary clarity. A herd of glossy donkeys came down the street toward them, blocking their way at the very moment they spied the large signboard – Yichi Tavern – beneath a red light.

The donkeys were huddled closely together. A rough count revealed twenty-four or twenty-five of the animals, every one of them glossy black, down to the last hair. Drenched by the rain, their bodies glistened. Well fed, with handsome faces, they looked to be quite young. Either to combat the cold or because they detected something frightful in the air of Donkey Avenue, they huddled as closely together as possible. When those in the rear pushed their way deeper into the herd, they invariably forced out some of those in the middle. The sound of their donkey hides scraping together was like prickles jabbing the investigator’s skin. The heads of some of the donkeys, he saw, were low; others held their heads high. But every one of them was twitching its floppy ears. They pressed forward, squeezing in and being squeezed out, their hoofs clip-clopping and sliding on the cobblestone road, raising a sound of applause. The herd was like a mountain in motion as it passed in front of them, followed, he saw, by a black youngster hopping along behind them. He noted a distinct resemblance between the black youngster and the scaly youngster who had stolen his things. But as he opened his mouth to shout, the youngster let loose with a piercing whistle so sharp it sliced through the heavy curtain of night and initiated an eruption of braying in the donkey herd. Experience told the investigator that when donkeys brayed they planted their feet and raised their head to focus their energy into the sound. These donkeys, to his surprise, ran as they brayed. A strange, heart-gripping phenomenon. Letting go of the lady trucker’s hand, he burst forward, unafraid, determined to get his hands on this donkey-herding youngster; but all he managed to do was crash heavily to the ground, cracking the back of his head on the cobblestones. His ears swelled with a strange buzzing as two huge yellow orbs danced before his eyes.

By the time the investigator regained consciousness, the herd of donkeys and the youngster driving them along were nowhere to be seen. All that remained was the lonely, dreary strip of Donkey Avenue stretching ahead of him. The lady trucker gripped his hand tightly.

‘Did you hurt yourself?’ she asked, obviously concerned.

Tm all right.’

1 don’t think so. You took quite a fall.’ she sobbed. ‘You must have a concussion or something.’

Her words brought the realization of a splitting headache. Everything looked like a photographic negative. The lady trucker’s hair, her eyes, and her mouth were pale as quicksilver.

Tm afraid you’re going to die…’

Tm not going to die,’ he said. ‘Why are you trying to jinx me by talking about dying when my investigation is just getting started?’

‘Jinx you?’ she fired back angrily. ‘I said I was afraid you’d die.’

His pounding headache drained any interest he had in keeping up the conversation, and he reached out to touch her face in a conciliatory gesture. Then he rested his arm on her shoulder; like a battlefield nurse, she helped him cross Donkey Avenue. Suddenly, the eyes of a sleek sedan snapped on; stealthily, the car pulled away from the curb, freezing the two of them in its headlights. There was murder in the air – he felt it. He pushed the lady trucker away, but she sprang back and wrapped her arms around him. But there would be no murder, not tonight, because as soon as the sedan moved out into the middle of the street, it sped past, its white exhaust beautiful to behold in the glare of red tail-lights.

They were right in front of the Yichi Tavern, which was brightly lit, as if there were a celebration going on inside.

Standing beside the flower-bedecked front door were two serving girls less than three feet tall. They wore identical red uniforms, sported the same beehive hair style, had nearly identical faces, and wore the same smile. To the investigator, there was something artificial about the twin girls; they looked like mannequins made of plastic or plaster. The flowers between them were so lovely they, too, seemed artificial, their perfection lifeless.

They said:

‘Welcome to our establishment.’

The tea-colored glass door flew open, and there in the center of the room, on a column inlaid with squares of glass, he saw an ugly old man being propped up by a grimy woman. When he realized that it was a reflection of him and the lady trucker, he gave up all hope. He was about to turn and leave when a little boy in red hobbled up with amazing speed and said in a tinny voice:

‘Sir, Madam, are you here for dinner or just some tea? Dancing or karaoke?’

The little fellow’s head barely reached the investigator’s knee, so in order to converse, one had to throw his head back, while the other was forced to bend down low. Two heads – one large, the other small – were face to face, with the investigator occupying the commanding position, which helped to lighten his mood. He was struck by the spine-chilling look of evil in the boy’s face, despite the benign smile that all tavern service people are trained to effect. Evil of that magnitude is not easy to mask. Like ink seeping through cheap toilet paper.

The lady trucker answered:

‘We want to drink, and we want dinner. I’m a friend of your manager, Mr Yu Yichi.’

The little fellow bowed deeply:

‘I recognize you, Madam,’ he said. ‘We have a private room upstairs.’

As the little fellow led the way, the investigator was taken by how much the little creep resembled one of the demons in the classic novel Monkey. He even fantasized that the tail of a fox or a wolf was hidden in the crotch of his baggy pants. The polished marble floor made their muddy shoes look especially grimy, rein-stilling feelings of inferiority in the investigator. Out on the dance floor, beautifully decked-out women were dancing cheek-to-cheek with men whose faces glowed with health and happiness. A dwarf in a tuxedo and white bow tie, perched atop a high stool, was playing the piano.

They followed the little fellow up the winding staircase and into a private room, where two tiny serving girls ran up with menus. The lady trucker said:

‘Please ask Manager Yu to come up. Tell him Number Nine is here.’

While they waited for Yu Yichi, the lady trucker demonstrated a lack of decorum by taking off her slippers and wiping her mud-caked feet on the spongy carpet. Then she sneezed, loudly, from the effects of the stuffy air. When one of her sneezes wouldn’t come, she looked up at the light, squinted, and screwed up her mouth to help it along. The look disgusted the investigator, who was reminded of a donkey in heat when it sniffs the odor of a female donkey’s urine.

In one of the between-sneeze lulls, he asked:

‘Are you a basketball player?’

‘Ah-choo – what?’

‘Why Number Nine?’

‘I was his ninth mistress, ah-choo -’

II

Dear Mo Yan, Sir

Greetings!

I have passed your message to Mr Yu Yichi, who gleefully replied, ‘Now what do you say? I told you he’d write my biography, and that’s what he’s going to do.’ He also said that Yichi Tavern’s doors are always open to you. Not long ago, the municipal government earmarked a large sum of money for repairs to Yichi Tavern. It’s open twenty-four hours a day, and is richly appointed, lavish and sumptuous. With a modicum of modesty, you might say it’s three-and-a-half star quality. Recently they entertained some Japanese, and the little runts went home happy as clams. Their group leader even wrote a piece for The Traveler magazine, in which Yichi Tavern scored very high. So when you come to Liquorland, you can stay at Yichi Tavern and enjoy untold pleasures without spending a cent.

I had a lot of fun with my chronicle-story ‘Yichi the Hero.’ In my last letter I said it was my gift to you, to which you can refer when you write his biography. Still, I’m keeping an open mind about what you said. My failing is that I have too rich an imagination, and sometimes I lose control and digress so much I lose sight of the principles of writing fiction. From now on, I’ll take your critique to heart, and work like the devil to write fiction worthy of the name.

Sir, I hope with all my heart that you will pack your things soon and come to Liquorland. Anyone who passes up the opportunity to visit Liquorland has wasted his time on this earth. In October well hold the first-ever Ape Liquor Festival. It will be a lavish, unprecedented spectacle, with something exciting planned every day for a month. It’s not something youll want to miss. Of course, the second annual festival will be held next year, but it won’t be nearly as stirring as the first, or as epochal My father-in-law has been up in White Ape Mountain, south of the city, living with the apes for three years just so he can learn the secrets of Ape Liquor, and has nearly gone native up there. But that’s the only way he’ll ever find out how to prepare the stuff, just as there’s only one way to write a good novel.

Some years back I came across a copy of that book you want, Strange Events in Liquorland, at my father-in-law’s place, but I haven’t seen it since. I phoned a friend at the Municipal Party Committee’s Propaganda Department, and asked him to find a copy for you, no matter what it takes. The little booklet is filled with vicious innuendo, which is all the proof I need that it was written by a modern contemporary. Whether that person is Yu Yichi is open to question. As you said, Yu is half genius, half demon. Here in Liquorland he is both vilified and praised, but because he’s a dwarf, few people are willing to engage him in a real ‘knives and spears’ struggle. That’s why nothing seems to bother him, and why he can get away with murder. He’s probably taken good and evil about as far as either of them will go. Now, I'm a man of meager talents and limited knowledge, not nearly up to grasping this individual’s inner world. There’s gold here, just waiting for you to come claim it.

It’s been a long time since those stories of mine were submitted to Citizens’ Literature, and I’d be grateful if you’d give the editors another nudge. At the same time, you’re free to invite them to our first annual Ape Liquor Festival. I’ll do my best to arrange for their room and board. I’m confident that the generous citizens of Liquorland will make them feel right at home.

Last, but not least, I’m sending you my latest story, ‘Cooking Lesson.’ Before writing it, Sir, I read virtually everything written by the popular ‘neo-realist’ novelists, absorbing the essence of their work and adapting it to my own style. I hope you’ll send this story to the editors of Citizens’ Literature, since I firmly believe that by continuing to submit my work to them, sooner or later I’ll touch the hearts of this pantheon of gods who spend their days in jade palaces gazing up at the sky to watch the Moon Goddess brush her hair.

Wishing you continued success with your writing, I am

Your disciple

Li Yidou

III

Cooking Lesson, by Li Yidou

Before she went crazy, my mother-in-law was a graceful beauty -even though she was in her middle years. There was a time when I felt she was younger, prettier, and sexier than her daughter, who was my wife. At the time, my wife worked on the special column desk of the Liquorland Daily News, where she published some exclusive interviews that drew strong reactions. She was dark and skinny, her hair was yellow and brittle, her face was a rusty brown, and her mouth reeked like stinking fish. By contrast, my mother-in-law was plump, her skin was white and soft, her hair was so black it seemed to ooze oil, and her mouth emitted the fragrance of barbecue the day long. The striking difference between my wife and my mother-in-law, when put side by side, naturally reminded one of the struggle between classes. My mother-in-law was like the well-kept concubine of a big landowner, whereas my wife was like the eldest daughter of an old, dirt-poor peasant. No wonder the hatred between them was so deep seated they didn’t speak to each other for three years. My wife would rather sleep out in the newspaper yard than go home. Every time I went to see my mother-in-law, my wife would become hysterical, cursing me with languge unfit to print, as if I were visiting a prostitute, not her own mother.

To tell the truth, in those days, I did indeed harbor vague fantasies over my mother-in-law’s beauty, but these evil thoughts, bound up by a thousand steel chains, had absolutely no chance to develop and grow. But then my wife’s curses were like a raging fire burning through those chains. So I confronted her:

If one day I sleep with your mother, you will bear full responsibility.’

‘What?’ she asked, enraged.

If you hadn’t called my attention to it, I’d have never considered the possibility of someone making love with his own mother-in-law,’ I said venomously. ‘The only real difference between your mother and me is our ages. We’re not related by blood. Besides, recently your own newspaper ran an interesting story about a young man in New York named Jack who divorced his wife and married his mother-in-law.’

My wife let out a scream, her eyes rolled back, and she fainted dead away. I hurriedly splashed a bucket of cool water over her and pricked the area between her nose and upper lip and the spot between her thumb and index finger with a rusty nail. Finally, after half an hour, she came to sluggishly. With staring eyes, she lay in the mud like a stiff, dry log. The shattered lights of despair in her eyes sent chills down my spine. Tears welled up in her eyes and flowed toward her ears. At this moment, I thought, the only thing to do was apologize with all my heart.

Calling her name affectionately, while holding back my disgust, I kissed her nauseatingly stinky mouth, at the same time conjuring up thoughts of her mother’s mouth, which always smelled like barbecue. No taste-treat could compare with taking a sip of brandy and kissing her mother’s mouth; it would be like washing down fine barbecue with good brandy. Strangely enough, age had not eroded the attraction of youth in that mouth, which was moist and red even without lipstick, and was filled with sweet mountain grape juice. Her daughter’s lips, on the other hand, weren’t even on a par with the skins of those grapes. In a drawn-out, thin voice, she said:

‘You can’t fool me. I know you love my mother, not me. You married me only because you fell in love with her. I’m just a stand-in. When you kiss me, you’re thinking about my mother’s lips. When you’re making love with me, you’re thinking about my mother’s body.’

Her sharp words were like a paring knife that was flaying my skin. In anger I said – I patted her face softly, pulled a long face – and said:

I’ll slap you if you keep spouting that nonsense. You’re letting your imagination run wild, you’re hallucinating. People would laugh if they saw you. And your mother would explode with anger if she knew what you were saying. I am a Doctor of Liquor Studies; a dignified, imposing man among men. No matter how shameless I might be, I’d never dream of doing something even an animal wouldn’t stoop to do.’

She said:

‘Yes, you’ve never done it, but you want to. Maybe you’ll never do it as long as you live, but you’ll be thinking about it the whole time. If you don’t want to do it during the day, you’ll want to do it at night. If you don’t want to do it when you’re awake, you’ll want to do it in your dreams. You won’t want to do it while you’re alive, but you’ll want to do it after you’re dead.’

I stood up and said:

‘That’s an insult to me, to your mother, even to yourself.’

She said:

‘Don’t you dare get angry. Even if you had a hundred mouths, and even if those hundred mouths all spat out sweet words at the same time, you’d never succeed in deceiving me. Ai, What’s the point in going on? Just to be an obstacle, to be despised by others, to suffer? Why not just die? That would solve everything…

‘When I die you two can do whatever you want.’ With her stumpy little fists, which looked like donkey hooves, she pounded her own breasts. Yes, when she was lying on her back, all that showed on her concave chest were two nipples in the shape of black dates. On the other hand, my mother-in-law’s breasts were as full as those of a young woman, showing no signs of withering or sagging. Even when she wore a thick, double-knit sweater, they arched like doughty mountains. The reversal of figure between a mother-in-law and a wife had pushed the son-in-law to the edge of the abyss of evil. How could they blame me? Losing control of myself, I started to scream. I don’t blame you, I blame myself. She uncurled her fists and tore at her clothes with a pair of talons; the buttons popped off, exposing her bra. My god! Like a footless person wearing shoes, she was actually wearing a bra! The sight of her scrawny chest forced me to turn away. I said:

‘That’s enough! Stop this madness. Even if you were to die, there’s still your father to worry about.’

She pushed herself up into a sitting position, as terrifying lights shot from her eyes.

‘My father is only a front for people like you,’ she said. ‘He cares about nothing but liquor, liquor liquor liquor! Liquor is his woman. If my father were normal, why would I need to worry so much?’

‘I’ve never seen a daughter like you,’ I said, feeling powerless.

‘That’s why I’m begging you to kill me.’ Kneeling on all fours, she banged her bone-hard head on the cement floor and said, ‘I’m on my knees begging you, I’m banging my head to implore you. Please kill me, Doctor of Liquor Studies. There’s a brand-new stainless-steel knife in the kitchen. It’s sharp as the wind. Bring it over and kill me. Please, I beg you, kill me.’

She raised her head and arched her neck, which was long and thin, like that of a plucked chicken; greenish purple, the rough skin was marked by three black moles, and the swollen veins throbbed. Her eyes were rolled halfway up, her lips hung slack, her forehead was covered with dirt through which small drops of blood seeped, and her hair was as matted as a magpie’s nest. How could this thing be called a woman? But she was my wife, and to tell the truth, her behavior horrified me. After horror came disgust. Comrades, what could I do? She sneered, her mouth like a tire tread, and I was afraid she was losing her mind. ‘My dear wife.’ I said, ‘the saying goes: “Once a couple, the feelings between two people are deeper than the ocean.” We’ve been husband and wife for many years, so how could I have the heart to kill you? f d be better off killing a chicken, since then, at least, we could make a pot of soup. But if I killed you, I’d have to eat a bullet, fm not that stupid.’

With a hand on her own neck, she said softly:

‘Are you really not going to kill me?’

‘No, I’m not.’

'I think you ought to,’ she said, drawing her finger across her throat, as if she were holding the knife that was sharp as the wind. ‘Ssst – one light touch, the veins of my neck would open up, and bright, fresh blood would spurt like a fountain. After half an hour, I’d be nothing but a transparent layer of skin. And then,’ she continued, a sinister smile on her face, ‘you could sleep with that old demon who eats infants.’

‘Bull – fucking – shit!’ I cursed savagely. Comrades, it wasn’t easy for an elegant, refined scholar like me to utter such filth. She drove me to it. I was so ashamed. ‘Shit on your mother!’ I cursed. ‘Why should I kill you? Why would I kill you. You never let me in on anything good, and now you come to me with something like this. Anyone can kill you, I don’t care, as long as it’s not me.’

Angrily, I stepped aside. I may not be able to deal with you, I was thinking, but at least I can get away. I picked up a bottle of Red-Maned Stallion and – glugglug – poured it down my throat. But I didn’t forget to watch her movements out of the corner of my eye. I saw her get up lazily, a smile on her face, and walk toward the kitchen. My heart skipped a beat. Hearing the water running noisily from the tap, I tiptoed over and saw her holding her head under the gushing water. She was gripping the edges of the greasy sink, her body bent at a ninety-degree angle, her upturned backside skinny and lifeless. My wife’s backside looks like two slices of dried meat that have been curing for thirty years, f d never compare those two slices of dried meat with the two orbs of my mother-in-law’s derriere. But with those orbs jiggling in my mind, I finally realized that my wife’s jealousy was not completely groundless. Snowy white, and obviously cold, the water poured down the back of her head, then crashed loudly like foamy waves. Her hair was transformed into shreds of palm bark coated with opaque bubbles. She was sobbing under the water, sounding like an old hen choking on its food. I was worried she might catch cold. For a brief moment, my heart was filled with sympathy for her. I felt I’d committed a grave crime by tormenting a weak, scrawny woman like that. I went up and touched her back; it was very cold. That’s enough,’ I said. ‘Don’t torture yourself like this. It doesn’t make sense to do things that anger our friends and please our enemies.’ She straightened up in a hurry and glared at me with fire in her eyes. She didn’t say a word for a good three seconds, frightening me so much I backed off. I saw her snatch the gleaming knife, just bought at a hardware store, from the rack, make a half circle across her chest, aim the point at her neck, and push down.

Without a thought for myself, I rushed up, grabbed her wrist, and wrested the knife out of her hand. I was disgusted by her behavior. ‘Damn you, you’re ruining my life.’ I flung the knife heavily onto the cutting board, burying it at least two fingers deep into the wood; pulling it out would have taken tremendous strength. Then I smashed my fist into the wall, which shook from the force. A neighbor yelled, ‘What’s going on in there?’ I was as enraged as a golden-striped leopard prowling its cage. ‘I can’t take it any more,’ I said. I can’t fucking go on living like this.’ I paced the floor, dozens of times, and concluded that I had no choice but to stay with her. Getting a divorce would be like checking myself in at the crematorium.

‘Let’s clear things up right now,’ I said. ‘We’ll have your father and mother settle this once and for all. While we’re at it, you can ask your mother if anything ever happened between her and me.’

She wiped her face with a towel and said:

‘Let’s go, then. If you people who have committed incest aren’t afraid, I certainly have nothing to fear.’

‘Anyone who refuses to go is a goddamned turtle spawn,’ I said.

She said:

‘Right. Anyone who refuses to go is a goddamned turtle spawn.’

Dragging and tugging at each other, we walked toward the Brewer’s College. On the way, we ran into a government motorcade welcoming foreign guests. On motorcycles leading the way sat two policemen in brand new uniforms, shiny black sunglasses, and snowy white gloves. We stopped quarreling for a minute and stood like a couple of trees alongside a locust beside the road. The powerful, reeking stench of rotting animals drifted over from the ditch. Her clammy hand was gripping my arm tightly, timidly. I sneered at the foreign guest’s motorcade while feeling disgust over her clammy claw. I could see her incredibly long thumb, with green dirt packed under the hard nail. But I didn’t have the heart to shrug off her hand, for it was seeking protection, like a drowning person clutching at a straw. Son of a bitch! I cursed. A bald old woman in the crowd moving out of the way of the motorcade turned to look at me. She was wearing a baggy sweater with a row of large white plastic buttons down the front. I experienced gut-wrenching disgust over those large white plastic buttons, feelings that went back to my childhood, when I had a case of the mumps. A smelly nosed doctor whose chest was embellished with large white plastic buttons had touched my cheeks with slimy fingers like octopus tentacles, making me throw up. The woman’s big fat head rested heavily on her shoulders, her face was all puffy, her teeth yellow as brass. When she cocked her head to look at me, I shuddered. I was turning to leave when she rushed up to us in short, mincing steps. It turned out she was a friend of my wife. She grabbed my wife’s hands affectionately and shook them hard, pressing her heavy torso upward until the two of them seemed about to start hugging and kissing. She was like my wife’s mother. So, naturally, I thought about my mother-in-law and about the terrible joke of her having given birth to such a daughter. I walked alone toward Liquorland’s Brewer’s College; I wanted to ask my mother-in-law if her daughter was an abandoned child she had gotten from an orphanage or if she was switched at birth by nurses at the maternity hospital And what would I do if that really were the case?

My wife caught up with me. She was giggling as if she’d completely forgotten that she’d tried to cut her own throat only moments before. She said:

‘Hey, Doctor, do you know who that old woman was?’

I said I didn’t.

‘She’s the mother-in-law of Section Chief Hu of the Municipal Party Organization Department.’

I snorted.

‘What are you snorting about?’ she said. ‘Stop looking down on people, and considering yourself to be the smartest person in the world. I want you to know that I’m going to be the head of the newspaper’s Culture and Life section.’

‘Congratulations,’ I said, ‘new Chief of the Culture and Life section. I hope you’ll write an article describing your personal experience in throwing a tantrum.’

She stopped, shocked by my comment. 7 threw a tantrum? I’m as good as any woman who ever lived. If anyone else knew her husband was playing hanky-panky with her own mother, she’d have already poked a hole in the sky!’

I said, ‘Let’s hurry up and go ask your father and mother to settle this.’

‘I’m such a fool,’ she said, standing there as if she’d just awakened from a dream. ‘Why should I go with you? Why should I go to see you and that old flirt make eyes at each other? The two of you may be shameless, but not me. There are as many men in this world as there are hairs on a cow’s hide, so why should I give a damn about you? You can sleep with whomever you want. I don’t care any more.’

She turned and walked away nonchalantly. An autumn wind shook the treetops, sending golden leaves floating silently to the ground. My wife was walking among the poetry of autumn, her dark back making an uncanny connection with the notion of delicacy. Surprisingly, her nonchalance provoked a slight sense of loss in me. My wife’s name was Beauty Yuan. Beauty Yuan and the falling leaves of autumn formed a melancholic lyrical poem, producing a bouquet like the General Lei liquor from Yantai’s Zhangyu Distillery. I stared at her, but she didn’t turn around, a case of pursuing justice without looking back.’ In truth, I may have been hoping she would look back, but the chief-to-be of the Culture and Life section of the Liquorland Daily News never did. She was going off to her new position. Chief Beauty Yuan. Chief Yuan. Chief.

The chief’s back disappeared among the red-walled, white-tiled buildings of Seafood Alley, from which a cluster of spotted doves fluttered into the blue sky, where three large yellow balloons floated, dragging bright red ribbons embroidered with big white letters. A man stood there in a daze. It was me, Doctor of Liquor Studies, Li Yidou. Li Yidou, you’re not going to jump into the roiling, liquor-laced Liquan River, are you? No, why should I? My nerves were as tough as a cowhide that’s been tanned with caustic soda and Glauber’s salt, neither to be worn down nor torn to shreds. Li Yidou, Li Yidou, striding forward with his head held high, his chest thrown out, in an instant he had walked into the Brewer’s College and was standing in front of his mother-in-law’s door.

I really needed to get to the bottom of things. Maybe I’d have a fling with my mother-in-law – which, in fact, she might not be. It would be an ocean-draining upheaval in my personal life, no doubt about that. A note was posted on the door:

‘This morning’s cooking lesson will be held in the lab at the Gourmet Section.’

I had long heard that my mother-in-law, with her superior cooking skills, was the shining star of the Culinary Academy, but I’d never seen her in class. Li Yidou decided to attend his mother-in-law’s class, to witness his mother-in-law’s awe-inspiring stature.

I walked through the small rear gate of the Brewer’s College and entered the campus of the Culinary Academy. The fragrance of liquor still lingered, the aroma of meat now permeated the air. In the courtyard, many strange and exotic flowers and trees, with their eyelike leaves, squinted at me, Doctor of Liquor Studies, an ignoramus where plants are concerned. A dozen or so campus cops in blue uniforms moved about lazily in the yard, but when they saw me, their spirits were invigorated, like hounds spotting their quarry. Their ears, like thin pancakes, stood straight up, heavy snorts escaped from their nostrils. But I wasn’t afraid of them, for I knew they’d return to their lazy former selves as soon as I spoke my mother-in-law’s name. The structure of the campus was very intricate, similar to Suzhou’s Rustic Statesman Garden. A gigantic rock the color of pig’s liver stood in the middle of the path for no obvious reason, with an inscription in yellow that read, ‘Graceful Rock Points to the Sky.’ After receiving permission from the campus cops, I strolled around until I found the Gourmet Section, then walked past row after row of iron railings, passing the exquisite building for raising meat boys, passing artificial hills and a fountain, passing the training room for exotic birds and strange animals, and finally entering a dark cave that led to a luminous spot. It was a restricted area. A young lady handed me some work clothes. She said, ‘Your people are videotaping the associate professor,’ mistaking me for a reporter from the local TV station. As I was putting on the cone-shaped hat, I detected the fresh smell of soap. Just then, the woman recognized me. ‘Your wife, Beauty Yuan, and I were high-school classmates. Back then my grades were much better than hers, but now she’s a famous reporter, while I’m a lowly doorkeeper,’ she said, dejectedly, looking at me with resentment in her eyes, as if I were the one who had cut short her promising future. I nodded apologetically, but her sad face immediately turned proud. ‘I have two sons,’ she boasted, ‘both smart as whips.’ I replied viciously, ‘Don’t you plan to send them to the Gourmet Section?’ Her face turned purple, and since the last thing I wanted was to look at another purple-faced woman, I headed over toward the lab. I could hear her grind her teeth as she cursed, ‘One of these days, someone will give you cannibalistic beasts exactly what you deserve.’

The doorkeeper’s comment sent shock waves through my heart. Who were those cannibalistic beasts? Was I one of them? I thought back to what the Liquorland dignitaries had said when the famous dish was being served: What we’re eating is not human, but a gourmet dish prepared with special techniques. The creator of this gourmet dish was my beautiful mother-in-law, who was now lecturing to her students in a spacious, well-lit lecture hall. She was standing at the podium, framed by bright lamplight. I could see her large, round, moonlike face, which was as smooth and brilliant as a china vase.

Reporters were indeed videotaping her lecture. One of them, surnamed Qian, a fellow with a pointy mouth and monkey cheeks, was director of the special newspaper column. I’d drunk at the same table as him once. With a video camera on his shoulder, he was sauntering back and forth in the lecture hall. His assistant, a short, pale, fat fellow carrying lights and dragging black cords, followed Qian’s orders to aim the white-hot lights, sometimes on my mother-in-law’s face, sometimes on the chopping board in front of her, and sometimes on the students who were concentrating on her lecture. I found a vacant seat and sat down, feeling the tender, loving rays from her big grayish-brown eyes stop on my face for a couple of seconds. Slightly embarrassed, I lowered my head.

Five words carved deeply into the desk leaped into my eyes, ‘I WANT TO FUCK YOU.' Like five rocks dropped into my mind, they created surging waves. I felt my body go numb; like a frog given electric shocks, my limbs trembled, whereas a certain spot in the center began to stir… My mother-in-law’s well-paced, pleasant talk, like tidal waves, rushed up closer and closer, wrapping my body in a giant warm current and sending spasms of excitation surging up and down my spine, faster and faster…

… Dear students, has it ever occurred to you that, owing to the rapid development following the four modernizations and the constant upping of people’s living standards, eating is no longer simply something to fill one’s stomach, but an esthetic appreciation? Hence, cooking is not simply a skill, but is also a profound art. A master chef these days needs hands more dextrous than a surgeon, a sense of color keener than a painter, a nose sharper than a police dog, and a tongue more sensitive than a snake. A chef embodies a blending of all the arts. Concomitant with this, the standards of gourmet diners are rising. Diners have expensive tastes, they like new things and despise old stuff, wanting one thing in the morning and changing their minds in the evening. It is extremely hard to please their taste buds. But we must study hard to produce new dishes that satisfy their needs. This is closely tied to the prosperity of Liquorland and, of course, to the bright future of every one of you here. Before we begin today’s lecture, I want to recommend a special, rare dish to you -

Picking up an electronic pen, she wrote two words on the magnetic board with a flourish: STEAMED PLATYPUS. She turned sideways to face the students as she wrote, polite and charming. Then she threw down the pen and pushed a button under the podium, causing a cloth screen to pull back slowly, the way a general pushes a button to reveal a battle map. Behind the screen was a large water tank in which several small platypuses with glossy fur and webbed feet swam nervously. She said, Now I’m going to give you the ingredients and the actual cooking procedures, so please take notes. This ugly little animal embarrassed the learned and erudite Engels, our great proletarian leader, for it was an aberrant phenomenon in evolution, the only known mammal that lays eggs. The platypus is the one truly exotic animal. So we must take exceptional care during cooking, in order not to waste such a rare animal with a procedural mistake. Therefore, I suggest that, before we make platypus, we should practice on turtles. Now, let me give you the actual cooking method:

Take a platypus, kill it and hang it upside down for about an hour to drain the blood. Please note that you should use a silver knife and cut from under its mouth to make sure the point of entry is as small as possible. After draining the blood, put the platypus in water heated to 75 degrees Celsius to strip the hide. Then carefully remove the innards, the liver, the heart, and the eggs (if there are any). Use special care when removing the liver, making sure you don’t puncture the gallbladder. Otherwise the platypus will become inedible and useless. Take out the intestines and turn them inside out to clean thoroughly with salt water. Then wash the mouth and feet with boiling water, rub off the rough shell over the beak and the rough skin between the toes. Make sure to keep the webbing between toes intact. After cleaning, lightly cook the innards in hot oil and stuff them inside the platypus. For sauce, add salt, garlic, shredded ginger, chili pepper, sesame oil – remember not to use any MSG – and slowly cook over a low fire until it turns dark red and gives off a peculiar odor. If the situation permits, sauté the eggs and innards together, then stuff them back inside the platypus. If there are larger, better-formed eggs, you can make them into a separate gourmet dish by following the recipe for braised turtle eggs.

After introducing the recipe for platypus, she brushed back her hair, like one of the nation’s top leaders preparing to make an important announcement, and stared at the students, who, in turn, felt her warm gaze touch their faces. I sensed that my mother-in-law had touched my soul With great seriousness, she said, Now we move on to the cooking methods for braised baby. I felt as if a rusted awl had been driven through my heart, and currents of cold liquid poured into my chest, where they congealed and pressed against my organs, putting me on tenterhooks, while sticky, cold sweat seeped into the palms of my hands. Every one of her students’ faces turned red, excitement accelerating the beating of their hearts. Like a group of medical-school students performing their first dissection of human genitalia, they feigned nonchalance, but their efforts were wasted – excitement was revealed by twitching muscles on their cheeks and nervous coughs. My mother-in-law said, This is the Culinary Academy’s pride and joy. We cannot give everyone an opportunity for hands-on practice, because the ingredient is so difficult to come by and so incredibly expensive. I’ll show you the procedure in detail, and you must watch attentively. At home you can use a monkey or piglet as a substitute.

She first stressed that a chef’s heart is made of steel and that a chef should never waste emotions. Rather than being human, the babies we are about to slaughter and cook are small animals in human form that are, based upon strict, mutual agreement, produced to meet the special needs of Liquorland’s developing economy and prosperity. In essence, they are no different than the platypuses swimming in the tank waiting to be slaughtered. Please put your minds at ease, and do not let your imagination run wild. You must recite to yourselves a thousand times, ten thousand times: They are not human. They are little animals in human form. Gracefully she picked up a switch and banged it several times against the tank: In essence they are no different than platypuses.

She picked up the phone on the wall and barked a command into the receiver. Then she put down the phone and said to the students: This, of course, is a famous dish that one day will shock the world, so we cannot tolerate the slightest carelessness in the creative process. Generally speaking, the emotional pressure an animal experiences before being slaughtered affects the amount of glycogen in the meat, which in turn decreases the quality of the finished product. Therefore, an experienced butcher always prefers ending the animal’s life with lightning speed, in order to improve the quality of the meat. In comparison with average domesticated animals, meat boys are more intelligent, so we must try everything possible to maintain their happy spirit, thus preserving the quality of the main ingredient of this famous dish. The traditional method of slaughtering was to brain them with a club, but this method bruises the soft tissues and can even smash the skull, thereby affecting the appearance of the finished product. It has gradually been replaced by anesthetization with ethanol. The Brewer’s College has just distilled a new liquor that is sweet and not too strong, but has an unusually high alcoholic content, which is perfect for our purposes. Experience has shown that anesthetizing the meat boys with alcohol before slaughtering reduces the milk odor that used to be the most troublesome aspect of the cooking process, and lab tests have shown that the nutritional value of anesthetized meat boys increases dramatically. Once again she reached for the receiver on the wall, and said:

Send it in.

That’s all my mother-in-law said, and without fanfare; five minutes later, two young women in snowy white hospital gowns and square caps carried a naked meat boy into the lecture hall in a specially designed gurney. The women would have been considered good looking, but their pale faces made me squirm. They set the gurney on the chopping block, then stepped aside, their arms hanging down stiffly. My mother-in-law bent over to inspect the pink meat boy, poked him in the chest with a soft, dainty index finger, and nodded with satisfaction. Then she stood up to remind the students one more time, with great solemnity: You must never ever forget that this is just a little animal in human form. She’d barely gotten the words out when the little animal in human form on the gurney rolled over. The students let out a suppressed gasp. Everyone, myself included, thought the little guy opening on his foot. In a strangely beautiful manner, a string of bright red drops of blood like gemstones hung down to merge with a glass jar under his foot. The lecture hall was unusually quiet. All the students – male and female – their eyes bulging, were staring at the meat boy’s foot and the string of blood that hung from it. The camera from the local TV station was also trained on the foot and the blood beneath it, which sparkled in the bright lights. Gradually I heard the students’ heavy breathing, deep like the swelling tide, and the clear, crisp, ear-pleasing sounds of blood dripping into the jar, like a creek flowing through deep ravines. My mother-in-law said, The meat boy’s blood will be completely drained in about an hour and a half. The second step is to remove the innards while keeping them intact. The third step is to loosen the hair with water heated to 70 degrees… I really don’t feel like describing my mother-in-law’s actual cooking lesson, which was boring and nauseating at the same time. Since night was falling, Doctor of Liquor Studies’ brain, which was full of wonderful ideas, and stimulated by alcohol, had to concentrate on creating a story entitled ‘Swallows’ Nests’ instead of wasting his talent on a banquet for cannibals.