The Republic of Wine

still my body lay there helpless, snoring away, oblivious to the knowledge that the Grim Reaper hovered mere inches away. I found myself wishing he’d take the knife from his mouth and plunge it into my body’s throat to bring an end to my suffering there in my ceiling perch. But he didn’t. Now that he’d had his fill of pinching my throat, his claw moved down to touch my clothing and go through my pockets. He removed a Hero-brand gold fountain pen, took off the cap, and drew some lines on the back of his hand. There were scales there too. After drawing a line, he pulled his hand back, and his lips parted in what might have been a grin and might have been a pained look. I guess the nib made his skin itch, a sensation that either brought him pleasure or rekindled a fond memory. Over and over he drew lines; over and over his lips parted. Each line produced a scratchy sound, and I knew that my top-of-the-line Hero 800 gold fountain pen was a goner. It had been awarded to me as a model worker. This idiotic game went on for half an hour at least, until finally he laid the pen on the floor and recommenced his search of my pockets. He removed a handkerchief, a pack of cigarettes, an electronic cigarette lighter, my ID card, a remarkably lifelike toy pistol, my wallet, and a couple of coins. By the looks of it, this treasure trove had a dizzying effect on him. Like a greedy little boy, he laid it all out on the floor between his legs and began playing with each item as if he were the only person in the world. The fountain pen, of course, no longer interested him. Naturally, instinctively, he picked up the toy pistol and held it in front of him. The chrome barrel glinted in the artificial light. It was a perfectly crafted imitation of the real thing, the kind American military officers wear on their hips. It was beautiful. I knew there were still some caps in the chamber, ready to explode as soon as the trigger was pulled. Joy and excitement made his eyes sparkle enticingly. I was worried he’d give himself away if he pulled the trigger. How much difference was there between the boy’s arm and the fresh lotus root? Was my body being tricked? But it was too late to do anything. Pow! He pulled the trigger. I saw blue smoke and heard the explosion in the same instant. I held my breath, waiting for the sound of hurried footsteps outside the door and for the cream-colored girls and their guards to come bursting into the room. What could a gunshot in the middle of the night mean but murder or suicide? I began to worry about the plight of my scaly visitor, not wanting him to be caught. I must be honest -1 was intrigued by the little fellow, but not because of his scales. There are plenty of scaly creatures - fish, snakes, anteaters - and all but the anteaters, those clumsy, somewhat affected, animals, give me the creeps; I don’t care for cold, smelly fish, and dreary serpents disgust me. But my conjectures proved groundless. The gunshot changed nothing: no one came barging into the room, nothing. My visitor fired another round; in truth, this second explosion was unspectacular, commonplace, at least in that soundproof room, with its thick carpet, protected ceiling, and papered walls. He sat there undisturbed - no fear, no shock; either he was deaf or was a seasoned veteran, unfazed by such things. Having tired of the pistol, he tossed it aside and picked up my wallet, removing its contents - money, grain rations, cafeteria coupons, and expenditure receipts I hadn’t yet turned in for reimbursement. He fiddled with the cigarette lighter, from which a bright tongue of flame erupted. He smoked a cigarette. He coughed. He flicked the cigarette onto the carpet. My god! The carpet caught fire, and the stench of burning material rose in the air. Then it hit me: If my body was reduced to ashes, I’d be nothing but a puff of smoke. Its extinguishing would herald mine as well. Wake up, my body!
    I hate you, you scaly demon!
    No, I don’t hate you, I want only to laugh. But I can’t, as a matter of fact. He noticed the fire on the carpet and stood up slowly. Lifting one leg of his shorts, he reached in with two fingers, grabbed hold of his water hose, which was pretty big for his size, hard but not erect, and as scaly as the rest of his body, and took aim at the burning carpet. A loud spray of water produced an equally loud sizzle. It was a gusher, powerful enough to put out two such fires. I relaxed as I breathed in the mixed