The Republic of Wine

your hands up, you monsters!’
    The three men sat there stunned, but the red girls shrieked and huddled together, like a flock of startled chicks. Pistol in hand, Ding Gou’er pushed back from the table and retreated a couple of steps, until he was standing with his back to the window. If they had any battle experience, he thought, they’d have little trouble wresting the pistol out of my hand. But they didn’t, and now all three were staring down the barrel of his gun. They’d better not move, if they knew what was good for them. His briefcase had fallen to the floor when he stood up. The skin between his thumb and index finger felt the cold steel of the pistol resting against it; he tested the gentle give of the trigger. He had released the safety when he pulled the pistol from his briefcase, so the bullet and firing pin were ready for the next move; one twitch is all it would take.
    ‘You bastards.’ he said coldly. ‘You lousy Fascists! Get your hands up, I said!’
    Diamond Jin raised his hands slowly; the Party Secretary and Mine Director followed suit.
    ‘Comrade Ding, old fellow, aren’t you carrying this joke a little too far?’ Diamond Jin asked with a smile.
    ‘Joke?’ Ding Gou’er gnashed his teeth in anger. ‘Who do you think is joking? You child-eating monsters!’
    Diamond Jin threw his head back and roared with laughter. The Party Secretary and Mine Director laughed too, but foolishly.
    ‘Old Ding, good old Ding, you’re a fine comrade with a strong humanistic bent, for which I respect you,’ Diamond Jin said. ‘But you’re wrong. You’ve made a subjective error. Look closely. Is that a little boy?’
    His words had the desired effect on Ding Gou’er, who turned to look at the boy on the platter. He was still smiling, his lips parted slightly, as if he were about to speak.
    ‘He’s incredibly lifelike!’ Ding Gou’er said loudly.
    ‘Right, lifelike, Diamond Jin repeated. ‘And why is this fake child so lifelike? Because the chefs here in Liquorland are extraordinarily talented, uncanny masters.’
    The Party Secretary and Mine Director echoed his praise:
    ‘And this isn’t the best we have to offer! A professor at the Culinary Academy can make them so that even the eyelashes flutter. No one dares let his chopsticks touch one of hers.’
    ‘Comrade Ding, old fellow, put down your gun and pick up your chopsticks. Join us in sampling this unique taste-treat!’ Diamond Jin lowered his hands and made a welcoming gesture to Ding Gou’er.
    ‘No!’ Ding Gou’er replied sternly. ‘I hereby proclaim that I will not participate in this feast of yours!’
    A look of irritation appeared on Diamond Jin’s face as he said in measured tones:
    ‘You sure are stubborn, Comrade Ding, old fellow. We are all men who raised their fists and took an oath before the Party flag. The people’s pursuit of happiness may be your responsibility, but it is also mine. Don’t delude yourself into thinking that you’re the only decent person in the world. People who have partaken of Liquorland’s child feast include senior leaders in the Party and the government, highly respected friends from the five great continents, plus renowned artists and celebrities from China and the rest of the world. They have praised us effusively. You alone, Investigator Ding Gou’er, have responded to our lavish treatment by drawing a weapon on us!’
    The Party Secretary or Mine Director echoed the sentiment: ‘Comrade Ding Gou’er, what evil wind has clouded your vision? Are you aware that your pistol is aimed not at class enemies, but at your very own class brothers?’
    Ding Gou’er’s wrist faltered, the barrel of his gun sagged. His eyes blurred and the lovely butterfly that had returned to its cocoon began to squirm again. Feelings of dread pressed down on him like a boulder, weighing heavily on his shoulders until he felt that his position was untenable, and that his skeleton could crumble at any moment. He was face-to-face with a bottomless, foul-smelling cesspool that would pull him down into its obliterating muck and keep him there forever. But that cunning little fellow, the boy gushing perfume, a tiny son joining ranks with his mother, sitting amid a fairy mist the shape and color of a lotus flower, raised his hand, actually raised his hand toward me! His fingers were stubby, pudgy, meaty and so very lovely. Wrinkles on his fingers, three circular seams; the back of his hand sporting four