The Republic of Wine

had a bit of a general’s paunch. They wore gray tunics with razor-sharp seams. Their smiles were kindly, magnanimous, like most men of high rank. And they could have been twins. Grasping Ding Gou’er’s hand, they shook it with gusto. They were practiced hand-shakers: not too loose, not too tight; not too soft, not too hard. Ding Gou’er felt a warm current surge through his body with each handshake, as if his hands had closed around nice pulpy yams straight from the oven. His briefcase fell to the floor. A gunshot tore from within.
    Pow-!
    The briefcase was smoking; a brick in the wall crumbled. Ding Gou’er’s shock manifested itself in hemorrhoidal spasms. He actually saw the bullet shatter a glass mosaic painting on the wall; the theme was Natha Raises Havoc at Sea. The artist had fashioned the heavenly Natha as a plump, tender little baby boy, and the investigator’s accidental firing had mangled Natha’s little pecker.
    “A crack shot if I ever saw one!’
    ‘The bird that sticks out its head gets shot!’
    Ding Gou’er was mortified. Scooping up his briefcase, he took out the pistol, and flipped on the safety.
    ‘I could have sworn the safety was on,’ he said.
    ‘Even a thoroughbred stumbles sometimes.’
    ‘Guns go off all the time.’
    The magnanimity and consoling words from the Mine Director and Party Secretary only increased his embarrassment; the high spirits with which he had stormed through the door vanished like misty clouds. Cringing and bowing low, he fumbled with his ID card and letter of introduction.
    ‘You must be Comrade Ding Gou’er!’
    ‘We’re delighted you’ve come to assess our work!’
    Too embarrassed to ask how they knew he was coming. Ding Gou’er merely rubbed his nose.
    ‘Comrade Director,’ he said, ‘and Comrade Party Secretary, I've come on the orders of a certain high-ranking comrade to investigate reports that infants are being braised and eaten at your esteemed mine. This case has far-reaching implications, and strictest secrecy must be maintained.’
    The Mine Director and Party Secretary exchanged a long look - ten seconds at least - before clapping their hands and laughing uproariously.
    Ding Gou’er frowned and said reproachfully:
    ‘I must ask you to take this seriously. Liquorland’s Deputy Head of Propaganda, Diamond Jin, who is a prime suspect, comes from your esteemed mine.’
    One of them, either the Mine Director or the Party Secretary, said:
    ‘That’s right, Deputy Head Jin was a teacher at the elementary school attached to the mine. But he’s a talented and principled comrade, one in a million.’
    ‘I’d like you to fill me in.’
    ‘We can talk while we enjoy some food and drink.’
    Before he could open his mouth to protest, he was bundled into the dining room.
    II
    My Dear, Esteemed Mo Yan
    Greetings!
    I am a Ph.D. candidate in liquor studies at the Brewer’s College here in Liquorland. My name is Li, Li Yidou -One-Pint Li - but of course that’s only a nom de plume. You’ll forgive me for not revealing my real name. You are a world famous writer (that’s not flattery), so you’ll have no trouble figuring out why I chose that particular pseudonym. My body may be in Liquorland, but my heart is in literature, splashing away in the sea of literature. Which is why my academic adviser, who is my wife’s father, the husband of my mother-in-law, thus my father-in-law - in elitist terms, lord of the castle, more commonly, ‘the man’ - Yuan Shuangyu, Professor Yuan, is always criticizing me for ignoring my true career, and why he has even tried to goad his daughter into divorcing me. But I shall not be deterred. For the sake of literature, I would willingly climb a mountain of knives or rush into a sea of flames. ‘For thou I shalt waste away, happy that the clothes hang loose on my body.’ My retort to him is always the same: What exactly is ignoring one’s true career? Tolstoy was a military man, Gorki a baker and a dishwasher, Guo Moruo a medical student, and Wang Meng the Deputy Party Secretary of the Beijing branch of the Youth League in China’s new democracy. They all changed careers and became writers, didn’t they? When my father-in-law tried to counter my arguments, I just glared at him, like the legendary eccentric, Ruan Ji, except that I lacked the power of my illustrious predecessor and was unable to mask completely the white-hot anger in my black eyes. Lu Xun couldn’t do it either, right? But you know