The Republic of Wine

poking up like a pink, wriggly silkworm chrysalis. The whole thing was incredibly lifelike. Ding Gou’er’s heart skipped a beat, his hemorrhoids twitched painfully.
    The room was unbearably hot and stuffy from a fire roaring in the stove. The bottom half of the chimney and the surface of the stove had turned bright red from the furious heat. Hot air swirled around the room, making dusty cobwebs in the corners dance. Suddenly he itched all over, his nose ached dreadfully.
    The gatekeeper watched his face with smarmy attentiveness.
    ‘Cold, Director?’
    ‘Freezing!’ he replied indignantly.
    ‘No problem, no problem, I’ll just add some coal…’ Muttering anxiously, the gatekeeper reached under the bed and took out a sharp hatchet with a date-red handle. The investigator’s hand flew instinctively to his hip as he watched the man shamble over to the coal bin, hunker down, and pick up a chunk of shiny black coal the size and shape of a pillow; steadying it with one hand, he raised the hatchet over his head and - crack - the coal broke into two pieces of roughly equal size, shining like quicksilver. Crack crack crack crack crack - the pieces kept getting smaller, forming a little pile. He opened the grate and released white-hot flames at least a foot into the air - whoosh . The investigator was sweating from head to toe, but the gatekeeper kept feeding coal into the stove. And kept apologizing: It’ll warm up any minute. The coal here is too soft, burns too fast, got to keep putting in more.’
    Ding Gou’er undid his collar button and mopped his sweaty brow with his cap. ‘Why do you have a fire in the stove in September?’
    It’s cold, Director, cold …’ The gatekeeper was shivering. ‘Cold … plenty of coal, a whole mountain of the stuff…’
    The gatekeeper had a dried-out face, like an overcooked bun. Deciding he’d frightened the man enough, Ding Gou’er confessed that he was not the new Director, and that the man was free to heat the place up as much as he liked, since Ding Gou’er had work to do. The toddler on the wall was laughing, incredibly lifelike. He squinted to get a better look at the darling little boy. Gripping the hatchet firmly in his hand, the gatekeeper said, ‘You impersonated the Mine Director and assaulted me with your pistol Come along, I’m taking you to the Security Section.’ Ding Gou’er smiled and asked, ‘What would you have done if I had been the new Director?’ The gatekeeper slid the hatchet back under the bed and took out a liquor bottle. After removing the cork with his teeth, he took a hefty swig and handed the bottle to Ding Gou’er. A yellow slice of ginseng hung suspended in the liquid, along with seven black scorpions, fangs bared, claws poised. He shook the bottle, and the scorpions swam in the ginseng-enhanced liquid. A strange odor emanated from the bottle. Ding Gou’er brushed the mouth of the bottle with his lips then handed it back to the gatekeeper.
    The man eyed Ding Gou’er suspiciously.
    ‘You don’t want any?’ he asked.
    Tm not much of a drinker,’ Ding Gou’er replied.
    ‘You’re not from around here, I take it?’ the gatekeeper asked.
    ‘Old-timer, that is one plump, fair-skinned toddler,’ Ding Gou’er said.
    He studied the gatekeeper’s face. It was a look of dejection. The man took another hefty swig and muttered softly, ‘What difference does it make if I burn a little coal? A whole ton of the stuff doesn’t cost more than …’
    By now Ding Gou’er was so hot he could no longer stand it. Though he found it hard to take his eyes off the toddler, he opened the door and walked out into the sunshine, which was cool and comforting.
    Ding Gou’er was born in 1941 and married in 1965. It was a garden variety marriage, with husband and wife getting along well enough, and producing one child, a darling little boy. He had a mistress, who was sometimes adorable and sometimes downright spooky. Sometimes she was like the sun, at other times the moon. Sometimes she was a seductive feline, at other times a mad dog. The idea of divorcing his wife appealed to him, but not enough to actually go through with it. Staying with his mistress was tempting, but not enough to actually do it. Anytime he took sick, he fantasized the onset of cancer, yet was terrified by the thought of the disease; he loved life dearly, and was tired to death of it. He had trouble being decisive. He often stuck the muzzle of his pistol against his