The Republic of Wine (12 page)

The Party Secretary and Mine Director echoed his praise:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diamond Jin raised his chopsticks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The two mine dignitaries held out their glasses.

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

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

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

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

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