The Republic of Wine

of six he burned down a production team’s storage shed, at nine he fell under the spell of a teacher named Meng, following her around everywhere she went, to her great annoyance. At eleven he stole and ate some tomatoes, and got a beating when he was caught. At thirteen, for stealing some turnips, he was forced to kneel at Chairman Mao’s statue and beg forgiveness in front of more than two hundred workers on a public project. The little rascal is good at memorizing things, and had a good time entertaining people with his wit, for which his father gave him such a whipping, his ass swelled up something awful. Don’t you dare sully the name of my revered master! I protested loudly. Sully his name? Everything I’ve told you I got from his own writing! he said with a snide laugh. And a rotten scoundrel is just the person to write my life story. It takes an evil genius like him to understand an evil hero like me. Write to him and have him come to Liquorland as soon as possible. He’ll get no shabby treatment from me, he said as he thumped his chest. Energized by the boastful pronouncement and loud thumping, he turned his expensive leather chair into a carousel. One minute I was looking into his face, the next at the back of his head. Face, back of the head, face, back of the head, a crafty, animated face and a nicely rounded gourd in the back, one crammed full of knowledge. As he whirled faster and faster, he began to levitate.
    Mr Yichi, I said, I’ve already written to him, but I haven’t received an answer. I’m worried he might not be willing to work on your life story.
    With a sneer, he said, Don’t you worry about that, he’ll do it. There are four things you need to know about the little rascal: first, he likes women; second, he smokes and drinks; third, he’s always strapped for money; and fourth, he’s a collector of tales of the supernatural and unexplained mysteries that he can incorporate into his own fiction. He’ll come, all right. I doubt there’s another person on this earth who knows him as well as I.
    As he twirled back down to the seat he said caustically, Doctor of Liquor Studies, just what sort of doctor’ are you? Do you have any idea what liquor is? A type of liquid? Bullshit! The blood of Christ? Bullshit! Something that boosts your spirits? Bullshit! Liquor is the mother of dreams, dreams are the daughters of liquor. And there’s something else I find relevant, he said as he ground his teeth and glared at me. Liquor is the lubricant of the state machinery; without it, the machinery cannot run smoothly! Do you understand what I’m saying? One look into that pitted face of yours tells me you don’t. Are you going to collaborate with that little bastard Mo Yan in writing my biography? All right, then, I’ll help you, I’ll coordinate your activities. If you must know, no biographer worth his salt would waste time interviewing individuals, since ninety percent of what’s gleaned through interviews is lies and fabrications. What you need to do is separate the real from the false, arrive at the truth by seeing what lies behind all those lies and fabrications.
    I want you to know something, you rascal - and you can pass this on to that other rascal, Mo Yan - that Yu Yichi is eighty-five years old this year. A respectable age, wouldn’t you say? I wonder where you two little bastards were way back when I was roaming the countryside, living off my wits. Maybe you were somewhere in the ears of corn, or the leaves of cabbage, or in salted turnips, or in pumpkin seeds, places like that. Is that little rascal Mo Yan writing his The Republic of Wine It’s nothing but the ravings of a fool, someone who has no concept of his own limitations. How much liquor did he consume before he felt qualified to write The Republic of Wine? I’ve put away more alcohol than he has water! Do you two know the identity of that scaly boy who rides a galloping steed up and down Donkey Avenue on moonlit nights? It’s me, that’s who, me. Don’t ask where I come from. My hometown is a place lit up by dazzling sunlight. What, you don’t see the resemblance? You don’t believe I’m capable of flying on eaves and walking on walls? Permit me to give a demonstration, to open your eyes, as it were.
    My dear Mo Yan, what happened next is the sort of thing that turns a person bug-eyed and tongue-tied. Rays of light shot out of that terrifying little dwarf’s eyes, like glowing daggers, and with my own eyes I