The Republic of Wine

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