The Republic of Wine

appearance.’ His son took the bamboo home, where he removed the seal and poured the contents into a basin. It was deep blue, like indigo, with a strong, rich bouquet unmatched in the human world. Being very filial, the woodcutter filled a bottle with the liquid and gave it to his father-in-law, who in turn gave the wine to his master, a gentryman named Liu. Mr Liu saw the wine and was greatly surprised. He asked about its origin. The servant told Mr Liu what his son-in-law had told him. Mr Liu reported to the provincial governor, who sent dozens of people to comb the mountain. After several months, they found only overgrown trees and thickets of thorny plants, and returned with nothing to report.
    When I finished reading the story, I felt I had stumbled upon a rare treasure, so I quickly made a copy at the service desk, which I took to my father-in-law’s place to present it to him. It was an evening three years ago. When I arrived, my father-in-law and my mother-in-law were having a quarrel over dinner. A storm raged outside, with thunder and lightning. Blue bolts of lightning, like long, crackling whips, beat on the windows and rattled the glass. I shook the water out of my hair. My nose stung from being pelted by hailstones mixed with rain, and tears welled up in my eyes. My mother-in-law took one look at me and said angrily:
    ‘A married daughter is like spilled water. You solve your own problems. This isn’t civil court.’
    I knew she’d gotten the wrong idea, but before I could explain, I was interrupted by a powerful sneeze. In the midst of my nasal spasm, I heard my mother-in-law grumble:
    ‘Are you one of those men who treat liquor as their wives? Are you…’
    I didn’t understand what she meant at the time, but, of course, I do now. Back then I just saw a grumbling woman whose face was turning reddish purple, her heart apparently filled with loathing. She seemed to be talking to me, but her eyes - stiff, focused, frozen, and cold as snake eyes - were fixed on my father-in-law. I’d never seen a look like that before, and even now, when I recall it, a chill skips across my heart.
    My father-in-law was sitting properly at the dinner table, maintaining the airs of a college professor. Under the warm lamplight, his gray hair looked like the fine threads of a silkworm, but with each bolt of blue lightning outside the window, it was transformed into strands of cold, green soybean noodles. He ignored my mother-in-law and kept drinking alone. It was a bottle of Italian Widow Champagne, a golden liquid like the smooth, warm bosom of a western girl, strings of tiny bubbles sizzling like the sound of her whispers. The fruity bouquet of the wine was elegant, pleasant, and refreshing; the more you smelled it, the longer the aroma stayed with you. It was magnificent beyond imagining. Gazing at this kind of wine was better than staring at the naked body of a western girl; smelling this kind of wine was better than kissing a western girl; drinking this kind of wine…
    He lovingly caressed the smooth, green, jadelike bottle with one hand and fondled a tall-stemmed glass with the other. His long, slender fingers toyed with the glass and the bottle with erotic tenderness. He raised the glass to eye level to let the bright lamplight shine on the softly tinted liquid, and as he admired it, a hint of impatience showed in his eyes. Holding the glass under his nose to sniff it, he held his breath and opened his mouth joyously. Then he took a tiny, an absolutely tiny, sip, barely moistening the tip of his tongue and his lips, as rays of excitement shot from his eyes. Pouring the glassful into his mouth and holding his breath, he kept the liquid in his mouth without swallowing for a moment. Puffed-out cheeks made his face rounder than usual, his chin pointier. I was surprised to note that he had no beard, not a single whisker. Those weren’t the lips and chin of a man. He swished the liquid around in his mouth, which must have brought him great joy. Red spots appeared on his face, like unevenly applied rouge. The way he held the liquor in his mouth so long affected me physically - I heard the sound of rushing water. A bolt of lightning turned the room green. Amid that green spasm, he swallowed the wine, and I watched it travel down his throat. Then he licked his lips, and his eyes moistened, as if he were crying. I'd seen him drink in class before, and there was never anything unusual about it. But at home, he turned