The Republic of Wine

sentimental, and that was quite unusual. Watching my father-in-law caress his glass and admire the liquid in it somehow spawned images of a gay man; although I’d never actually seen a gay man, I believed that what gay men did when they were alone must be similar to how my father-in-law treated his bottle, his glass, and his wine.
    ‘Disgusting!’ My mother-in-law threw down her chopsticks and cursed aimlessly, then stood up, went to her room, and locked the door behind her. I was embarrassed. At the time I had no idea what had disgusted her, but now I know.
    His enjoyment ruined, my father-in-law stood up by holding the edge of the table. Staring at the green bedroom door, lost in thought, he didn’t move for the longest time. But the expression on his face kept changing, from disappointment to agony and finally to anger. The look of disappointment was accompanied by a long sigh; he recapped the bottle and sat down on a sofa by the wall, looking like the shell of a man. Suddenly feeling pity for the old man, I wanted to console him, but didn’t know what to say. Then I thought about the strange story tucked in my briefcase, which reminded me of the purpose of my visit. I took the story out and handed it to him. I’d never gotten into the habit of calling him ‘Papa,’ always addressing him as ‘Teacher.’ While this bothered my wife, fortunately he didn’t mind. He said it was easier and more natural for me to call him ‘Teacher,’ and that it was hypocritical, even sort of creepy, for a son-in-law to call his father-in-law ‘Papa.’ I poured him a cup of tea, but the water was lukewarm, and the leaves floated on the surface. I knew that tea didn’t interest him much, so it didn’t really matter whether the water was hot or not. He pressed down on the cover with his palm as a way of thanking me, then asked in a half-hearted manner:
    ‘Did you have another fight? Well, go on, just keep fighting!’
    From that brief comment, I could sense his feelings of helplessness regarding the married lives of two generations of the family. A halo of sadness shrouded the small living room. Handing him the copy of the story, I said:
    ‘Teacher, I found this in the library today. It’s very interesting. Please take a look’
    I could tell he was uninterested in the article and in this son-in-law who stood there in his living room. He probably wanted me to leave, so he could be free to collapse on the sofa and lose himself in the aromatic aftertaste of the Italian Widow Champagne. It was only out of courtesy that he didn’t drive me away, and also out of courtesy that he reached out a languid hand, like a sexually overindulgent man, and took the paper from me.
    ‘Teacher,’ I said encouragingly, ‘it’s an article about apes making alcoholic beverages. And not just any apes, but the ones on White Ape Mountain near Liquorland.’
    Reluctantly, he raised the paper and lazily skimmed it, his eyes like old cicadas squirming on a willow branch. Had he stayed that way, I’d have been sorely disappointed, knowing that I didn’t understand him at all. But I did understand him, and I knew the article would pique his interest and lift his spirits. I wanted to make him happy, not to benefit myself, but because I felt that deep inside the old man’s mind hid an innocent little animal, which was neither a dog nor a cat, one with smooth, shiny fur, a short snout, big ears, a bright red nose, and squat legs. This little animal held my attention, as if it were my own twin brother. Of course, these feelings were absurd, groundless, and incomprehensible. As I figured, his eyes lit up, his languid body stirred, and excitement showed through his reddening ears and trembling fingers. I thought I saw that little animal leap out of his body, jumping and gliding in the air three feet above his head, along tracks like strings of silk. I was truly happy, I was truly delighted, I was truly ecstatic, I was truly elated.
    He took another quick look at the sheets of paper, then closed his eyes, his fingers unconsciously tapping the paper in a series of tiny clicks. He opened his eyes and said:
    I’m going to do it!’
    ‘Do what?’
    ‘After all the years you’ve been with me, you have to ask?’
    ‘Your student lacks talent and knowledge, and cannot fathom the profundity of your words.’
    ‘Clichés, all clichés!’ he said unhappily. ‘I’m going up to White Ape Mountain to search for Ape Liquor.’
    As excited and uneasy