The Republic of Wine

light in the surrounding haze. It was the light of Maotai, the essence of Maotai. In that split second, he watched the world turn incredibly beautiful, including Heaven and earth and trees and the virgin snow on the Himalayan peaks. With a satisfied laugh, the old revolutionary took back his mug and refilled it; the liquor gurgled as it spilled across the mouth of the bottle, setting his ears ringing and making his mouth water. The old revolutionary’s face was suffused with indescribable benevolence. As Ding reached out, he heard himself say, ‘Give it to me, I want more.’ The old revolutionary was jumping around in front of him, nimble as a young man. I’m not giving you any more, it’s too hard to get.’ ‘I want some,’ he bellowed, I want it. You’re the one who woke the serpent of gluttony in me, so why you won’t you give me any more?’ The old revolutionary slugged down another mugful. Fuming, Ding grabbed the mug, with the man’s finger still firmly in the handle. He heard the sound of teeth against ceramic and felt a wetness on his skin as the cold liquor spilled over his hand. As his anger rose in the struggle over the mug, his knee recalled a trick his buddies had taught it: with the calf bent backwards, you propel yourself into your enemy’s groin. When he heard the old revolutionary cry out, the mug passed into his hand. Impatiently he poured the mugful of liquor down his throat. Wanting still more, he looked around for the bottle, which lay on its side on the floor like a handsome young battle casualty. He was suddenly wracked by inconsolable grief, as if he had somehow killed the young man. Wanting to bend down to pick up the white-skinned bottle with its red sash - to help the handsome young man to his feet -inexplicably, he fell to his knees. And the handsome young man rolled over to a corner of the wall, where he righted himself and began to grow, taller and taller until he stood over three feet tall and stopped growing. He knew that was the liquor’s soul - Maotai liquor’s soul - standing in the corner, smiling at the investigator. Jumping to his feet to grab it, he managed only to bang his head against the wall.
    As he was luxuriating in the sensation of the room spinning around him, he sensed a cold hand grab him by the hair. He guessed whose hand it was. He followed the pain in his scalp upward, his body acting like a pile of pig’s guts, slipping and sliding on the floor - cold and slippery and coiled and nauseatingly foul - now being uncoiled and straightened, though he knew that the minute the old revolutionary let go, the mass of pig’s guts would slump back to the floor, dripping wet. The big hand turned, bringing him face to long swarthy face with the old revolutionary, and he saw that the benevolent smile had been replaced by a fossilized scowl The cold-blooded nature of class contradictions and class struggle was driven home. You counter-revolutionary son of a bitch, I give you liquor, and you pay me back by kneeing me in the balls! You’re worse than a dog. If a dog drinks my liquor, it wags its tail to show its gratitude. The old revolutionary sprayed him with saliva, stinging his eyes so badly he cried out in pain; two great paws landed on his shoulders. The dog had his neck in its mouth, its bristly fur was jabbing into his skin; involuntarily he tucked his neck into his shoulders, like a tortoise sensing danger. He felt the heat of the dog’s breath and smelled its sour stink. The feeling that he was a mass of coiled pig’s guts returned abruptly, and a white-hot terror rose in his heart. Dogs gobble up pig’s guts like a child slurps up rice noodles. Terror-stricken, he cried out, just before blackness closed in around him.
    How much later he didn’t know, the investigator, believing himself blinded by the dog, opened his eyes to light once again. It spread like the sun breaking through the clouds, and then - bang- all the sights of the Martyrs’ Cemetery gate house pounded into his eyes at once. He saw the old revolutionary sitting under a lamp polishing his double-barreled shotgun, absorbed in his task, working earnestly and meticulously, like a father bathing his one and only daughter. The striped hunting dog was sprawled lazily in front of the stove, its long snout resting on a pile of pine kindling, as it stared at the sweet-smelling golden flames, looking pensive, sort of like a philosophy professor. What was it thinking? The investigator was