The Republic of Wine

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