The Republic of Wine

hung its head and wagged its tail. The old revolutionary appeared before Ding Gou’er, shotgun slung over his shoulder, the brass buttons on his overcoat emblematic of his commanding authority,
    ‘What the hell are you up to?’ he demanded sternly.
    With a loud sniffle, Ding Gou’er replied tearfully, ‘Gramps, I really am a special investigator for the provincial Higher Procuratorate.’
    ‘What are you here for?’
    ‘To investigate a very serious matter.’
    ‘What serious matter might that be?’
    ‘A gang of cannibalistic dignitaries are cooking and eating infants.’
    Til kill every last one of them!’
    ‘Don’t go off half-cocked, Gramps. Let me in and I’ll tell you the whole story.’
    The old revolutionary swung open a small side gate. ‘Squeeze in through there,’ he said.
    Ding Gou’er hesitated, because he’d spotted some fine yellow hairs stuck in the corner.
    ‘Are you coming in or not?’
    Ding Gou’er bent down and slipped through the gate.
    ‘Stuffed bellies like you can’t hold a candle to my dog.’
    As Ding Gou’er followed the old revolutionary into a gate house, he was reminded of the gate house at the Mount Luo mine and the gateman with the wild mop of bristly hair.
    The gate house was ablaze with light, the walls a snowy white. A fire-heated brick bed occupied half the room’s space; a wall as wide as the bed separated it from a stove on which a wok rested. Pine kindling kept the fire roaring and filled the air with its fragrance.
    The old revolutionary unstrapped his shotgun and hung it on the wall, removed his overcoat and tossed it onto the bed, then rubbed his hands and said:
    ‘Burning firewood and sleeping on a heated bed is my one special privilege.’ He looked at Ding Gou’er and asked, ‘After decades of making revolution, which left me with seven or eight scars the size of ricebowls, don’t you think I deserve it?’
    So mellowed by the pervading warmth that he was about to doze off, Ding Gou’er replied, ‘Yes, of course you do.’
    ‘But that rotten son of a bitch Section Chief Yu wants to have me start burning acacia instead of pine. I’ve made revolution all my adult life, even had the head of my prick shot off by the Jap devils - I’ll never have sons or grandsons to carry on my line - so what’s the big deal in burning a little pine in my old age? I’m already eighty, how many pine trees can I use up in the years left to me, hm? I tell you, if the King of Heaven came to earth, he couldn’t stop me from burning pine!’ Waving his arms and slobbering, the old fellow was getting increasingly agitated.’What was it you said just now? Something about people eating infants? Cannibals? They’re worse than animals! Who are they? Tomorrow I’ll go kill every last one of them! I’ll shoot ‘em first and make my report later. At worst I’ll get a demerit or two. I’ve killed hundreds of people in my lifetime, all of them bad - traitors, counterrevolutionaries, invaders - and now that I’m old, it’s time to kill a few cannibalistic animals!’
    Ding Gou’er itched all over; his clothes reeked of moist, steamy ashes. ‘That’s what I’m here to investigate,’ he said.
    Investigate, my ass!’ the old revolutionary cackled. ‘Take ‘em out and shoot ‘em, I say! Investigate, my ass!’
    ‘Gramps, we’re living under a system of laws these days. You can’t just go around shooting people without hard evidence.’
    ‘Then get on with your investigation. What the hell are you hanging around here for? What happened to your class consciousness? What happened to your work ethic? The enemy’s out there eating infants, and you’re in here getting toasty warm! I’ll bet you’re a Trotskyite! A member of the bourgeoisie! A running dog of imperialism!’
    This flood of invective from the old revolutionary snapped Ding Gou’er out of his dreamy stupor, as if his head had been splattered with dog’s blood, his chest filled with roiling waves of heat. He tore off his clothes, until he was standing there naked, except for his scuffed shoes. Squatting down in front of the stove, he stirred the fire inside and added some oily pine kindling, sending white smoke reeking of pine up his nostrils; he sneezed, and it felt good. Draping his clothing over pieces of kindling, he held it up to the fire to dry; it sizzled like a reeking donkey hide. The fire also heated his bare skin, making it sting and itch. The more he scratched and rubbed himself, the