The Republic of Wine

aware of it, he emerged from the small cobblestone lane, and was greeted by the hiss of a gas lamp up ahead. He headed straight for it, like a moth drawn to the light.
    A portable stand selling wonton was framed in the halo of lamplight; flashes of gold leaped from an oven where kindling crackled and popped, and sent burning cinders into the air; he detected the odor of charred beans and heard the gurgling of wonton boiling in a pot. Its fragrance tugged at his soul He couldn’t begin to calculate how long it had been since he’d last eaten, but his coiling intestines complained loudly, and his legs were too rubbery to support him any longer. He shuddered, cold sweat dotted his forehead, and he collapsed face-down in front of the wonton stand.
    As the old wonton peddler was picking him up by the arms, he said:
    ‘Gramps, I need some wonton.’
    The old fellow sat him down on a campstool and handed him a bowl of wonton. Grabbing the bowl and the spoon, and not caring whether it was hot or cold, he wolfed it down. But with one bowlful nestling in his stomach, his sense of hunger was stronger than ever. Even four bowlfuls failed to satisfy his hunger, but when he looked down, some of the wonton cut loose from his stomach and made the return trip.
    ‘More?’ the old fellow asked.
    ‘No more. What do I owe you?’
    ‘No need to ask,’ the old fellow answered with a sympathetic look in his eyes. ‘If it’s convenient, you can give me four cents. If not, just count it as my treat.’
    Stung by the patronizing reply, the investigator fantasized that he had a crisp new hundred-dollar bill in his pocket, its edges sharp as a razor, which he would flick with his finger to make it snap, then fling it at the old man, before flashing him a superior look, turning on his heels, and walking off whistling, the sound slicing through the vast night like a dagger, teaching the old man a lesson he’d never forget. Unhappily, the investigator was broke. When he wolfed down the wonton, he simultaneously wolfed down his embarrassment and awkwardness. One piece after another, the wonton rose from the investigator’s stomach, only to be chewed up and sent back down. Now, finally, he could taste them. With a sense of deep sadness, he thought, I’ve turned into an animal that chews its cud. Anger welled up as he recalled the scaly little demon who had stolen his wallet, wristwatch, cigarette lighter, papers, and electric shaver; recalled the oily Diamond Jin; recalled the bizarre lady trucker; recalled the celebrated Yu Yichi. And as he recalled Yu Yichi, he envisioned the lady trucker’s firm, voluptuous body, and the green flames of jealousy burned anew. Hurriedly he extracted himself from these dangerous recollections and returned to the awkward scenario of having eaten a vendor’s wonton without being able to pay for it. For a measly four cents, I’ve descended to the level of a beggar. A hero brought low by a few coins. He turned his pockets inside-out - no money, not a cent. His shorts and T-shirt were both hanging from the chandelier in the lady trucker’s place, which he’d fled like a rat running from danger. The cold night air chilled him to the bone. With nowhere to turn, he took out his pistol and laid it gently in a white ceramic bowl with blue flowers. Light glinted off the blue steel barrel. He said:
    ‘Gramps, I’m an investigator sent down by the province. I ran into some bad people who stole everything I had, all except for this pistol. This ought to prove I’m not someone who goes around eating food without paying for it.’
    The old fellow, slightly flustered, picked up the bowl with both hands.
    ‘A man of action,’ he said eagerly, ‘a real man of action. It’s my good fortune that you’ve chosen my wonton. Now please take this thing back, it scares me.’
    After retrieving his pistol, Ding Gou’er said:
    ‘Old fellow, since you only wanted four cents, you must have known I was penniless. Supplying me with all the wonton I could eat, even though you knew I was penniless, can only mean that you took me for a bad person who could put you out of business if he felt like it. You didn’t serve me that wonton because you wanted to, and I can’t let this misunderstanding go unchecked. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll leave my name and address, and if you ever find yourself in a pickle, look me up. Do you have a pen?’
    I’m an illiterate old wonton peddler. Why would I have a pen?’ the fellow