The Republic of Wine

rubs his cheeks with his little claws, then spins around to face me, looking very dapper, like a man of great importance. If not for what had happened a moment earlier, I'd be too intimidated to joke with him. But: ‘Hey, old pal, you do OK with the women. A case of the weasel screwing the camel, always going for the big ones,’ I say, grinning cheekily.
    He laughs a sinister laugh, his face swelling up in greens and purples, his eyes emitting a green light, his arms spread like the wings of an aging falcon ready to fly off. He looks absolutely terrifying. In all the time I’ve know him, I’ve never seen him like this. Maybe I hurt his feelings with my bantering a moment ago, and suddenly I feel remorseful
    ‘You little jerk.’ He presses forward, grinding his teeth. ‘How dare you mock me!’
    I back away, fixing my gaze on his sharp claws, which tremble slightly from his towering rage, sensing that my throat is in peril. Yes, he could leap onto my neck at any moment, like a thunderbolt, and tear open my throat. Tm sorry, old man, really sorry.’ My back presses up against the fabric-covered wall, and still I try to back up. Then I have a brainstorm. I reach up and give my own face a dozen savage slaps - pa pa pa - the sound hanging in the air; my cheeks burn, my ears ring, and I see stars. 'I'm sorry, old man. I don’t deserve to live. I’m a lowly animal, I’m an asshole, f m a black donkey prick.’
    After my ugly performance, his face turns from greenish purple to pale yellow; his raised arms slowly fall to his sides; and I collapse in a heap.
    He retreats to his black leather swivel throne, but instead of sitting, he squats on it. Removing an expensive cigarette from its case, he lights it with a lighter that spews a bright hissing flame, takes a long drag, and slowly blows out the smoke. He stares at the patterns on the wall, lost in thought, a deep, mysterious look in eyes that look like black-water pools. I huddle beside the door, terrified by my thoughts: How did this buffoon, a dwarf who had been the butt of everyone’s joke, turn into the swaggering tyrant facing me now? And why am I, a dignified doctoral candidate, cringing before a hideous creature a foot and a half tall and weighing no more than fifteen kilograms? The answer emerges like a shot out of the barrel of a gun, and there’s no need to go into it.
    I’m going to fuck every pretty girl in Liquorland!’ He rises out of his squatting position and stands on the swivel chair, raising his fist to proclaim solemnly, 'I'm going to fuck every pretty girl in Liquorland!'
    Bursting with excitement, and grinning from ear to ear, he keeps his arm in the air for a long, long time. I can tell that the oars in his head are churning the waters of his mind, and that the ship of consciousness is being tossed about on the white-capped waves of his spirit. I hold my breath, for fear that I might shatter his reveries.
    Finally he relaxes, tosses me a cigarette and asks genially, ‘Know her?’
    ‘Who?’ I reply.
    ‘The woman who just left.’
    ‘No … although there was something familiar about her…’
    ‘The TV hostess.’
    ‘Oh, her.’ I smack myself on the forehead, now that it’s come to me. She stands there, microphone in hand, a sweet smile on her face, talking to us but saying little.
    ‘This is the third!’ he spits out savagely. ‘The third …’ Suddenly his voice turns husky and the light goes out of his eyes. In an instant, wrinkles cover a face that, up till then, had been babied until it was soft and lustrous as precious jade, and a body that was tiny to begin with shrinks even smaller. He sags into his throne-like chair.
    In agony, I smoke my cigarette and watch this odd friend of mine, momentarily stumped for anything to say.
    ‘I want to show all you …’ His murmurs break the oppressive silence. He raises his head. ‘Did you want to see me about something?’ he asks.
    ‘I brought some friends along, in the Grape Room…’ I’m somewhat flustered. ‘A bunch of poor scholars …’
    He picks up the telephone and jabbers something. After hanging up, he turns back and says, ‘Since we’re old friends, I’ve arranged for an all-donkey banquet.’
    Friends, talk about gourmet luck! An all-donkey banquet! Moved to the depths of my soul, I bow deeply. Perking up a bit, he goes from sitting to squatting, and the light comes back into his eyes. ‘So you’re a writer now, is that right?’ he asks.
    ‘Just some