The Republic of Wine

cats were fighting on people’s roofs, causing the tiles to sing out. The cold dew was like a frost, sending leaves floating to the ground from trees on both sides of the street. Some of my friends, who were half drunk, started to sing revolutionary songs. Broken phrases like donkey lips and horses’ mouths, southern tunes and northern melodies, not much gentler on the ears than the cats’ screeches from the rooftops. I won’t even dignify the rest of their ugly behavior with a comment. While all this was going on, we heard crisp hoofbeats at the eastern end of the street. Suddenly, a little black donkey with wine-glass-shaped hooves and lamplike eyes shot down the street and appeared in front us, like a black arrow. I was stunned, and so, apparently, were the others, since the singers closed their mouths, and so did those who were about to puke. Everyone’s drunken eyes stared at the little black donkey, watching it gallop from the eastern end of the street to the western end, and then from the western end to the eastern end. After three complete trips, it stood quietly in the middle of Donkey Avenue, its body like shimmering ebony, but no sound escaped, as if it were a statue. Our bodies stiffened, we stood frozen to the spot, waiting to see if reality could verify legend. And sure enough, following some loud tile clattering, a black shadow flew down and landed on the back of the donkey. It was indeed a youngster whose bare skin shimmered like scales; he was carrying a bundle on his back and was biting down on a willow-leaf dagger that emitted a cold light.
    V
    Dear Mo Yan
    Greetings!
    I don’t know how to express what I feel at this moment. My dear, most respected mentor, your letter was like a bottle of vintage liquor, like a thunderclap in spring, like a shot of morphine, like a gigantic opium bubble, like a pretty young thing … that brought spring to my life and cheered me body and soul I am not a hypocritically modest gentleman; I know and dare to announce publicly that I am bursting with talent that has been hidden away like the Imperial Concubine of the Tang, like a steed that has been forced to pull carts in a village. Now, at last, Li Shimin, the Tang Emperor, and Bo-le, the true horse breeder, have shown up hand in hand! My talent has been recognized by you and Mr Zhou Bao, one of China’s nine renowned editors. I feel the frenzied joy of the poet Du Fu when he packed his books to return to his war-torn home. How to celebrate? Nothing except liquor would do, so I took out a bottle of genuine Du Kang from the liquor cabinet, uncorked it with my teeth, held the opening with my lips while tipping my head back, and finished the bottle without coming up for air. Happily, drunkenly, as if floating on air, I picked up the pen to write my dear mentor, in pursuit of a grand calligraphic style, inspiration rushing like the tides, fanning out like a peacock’s tail, like a hundred flowers blooming.
    Sir, you took time out of your busy schedule to give my humble work ‘Donkey Avenue’ a serious reading, for which I am moved to tears of gratitude, until my face is wet with tears and snivel. Now, please allow me to respond to each of the issues you raised in your letter, i. The little red demon who raised hell in the country of meat children in my story is a real person in Liquorland. Some of the rotten officials here are so utterly corrupt that they violate the world’s ultimate taboo by eating baby boys. This story was revealed to me by my mother-in-law, former associate professor at the Culinary Academy, and Director of the Culinary Research Center. She said there’s a village in the Liquorland suburbs that specializes in producing meaty little boys, a place where the villagers don’t give a second thought to the whole business. They sell their meaty little boys as if they were disposing of fattened little pigs, never troubled by gut-wrenching pain. I don’t think my mother-in-law would lie about something like that. Since she’d gain neither fame nor profit by lying to me, why lie? No, she absolutely would never lie about it. I know this has severe consequences, and I could get into trouble if I were to write about it. But you have taught me that a writer should always bravely face life, risking death and mutilation in order to dethrone an emperor. So I went ahead with no concern for my own safety. Of course, I also know that literary works ‘should originate from life yet rise above it,’ and