The Republic of Wine

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