The Republic of Wine

umbrella. It was a sweet but melancholy sound, like a fine French wine -sad, sentimental, anxious, worried. He wrapped his arm more tightly around her, until he could feel her cold, clammy skin under her satin pajamas; there was a gentle squirming in her stomach. Huddled closely together, they walked down the Brewer’s College asphalt path between rows of Chinese ilex trees, with their glistening leaves, like the orange nails of pretty girls. Milky white steam carrying the fragrance of burned coal rose from the towering mounds of coal outside the mine. The heavy air pushed back the hideous black smoke trying to force its way out of smokestacks, turning it into black dragons that coiled and writhed in the lowering sky.
    They walked together out of the Brewer’s College compound and strolled arm-in-arm in the shade of the willow trees on the bank of a little river from which opaque steam and the fragrance of alcohol rose. From time to time, drooping willow branches scraped the nylon shell of the umbrella, sending large drops of rain skittering down across the ribs. The narrow path was covered by drenched golden-yellow leaves. Abruptly the interrogator lowered the umbrella and stared at the green willow branches.
    ‘How long have I been in Liquorland?’ he asked.
    The lady trucker replied:
    ‘You’re asking me? Who do you expect me to ask?’
    The investigator said:
    ‘This is no good. I must get to work.’
    The corner of her mouth twitched. In a mocking tone, she said:
    ‘Without me, you'll never get to the bottom of anything.’
    ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘What is it with you?’ she said. ‘You’ve slept with me, and you don’t even know my name?’
    ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I asked, but you wouldn’t tell me.’
    ‘You never asked me.’
    ‘I sure did.’
    ‘No you didn’t.’ She kicked him. ‘You never asked.’
    ‘OK, OK, I never asked. So I’m asking now.’
    ‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘You’re Hunter and I’m Mickey. We’re partners. How’s that?’
    ‘Good old partner,’ he said, patting her on the waist, ‘where do we go now?’
    ‘What do you want to investigate first?’
    ‘A gang of rotten criminals, headed by your very own husband, who kill and eat infants.’
    ‘I’ll take you to see someone who knows everything there is to know here in Liquorland.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘I won’t tell you unless you kiss me.’
    He gave her a peck on the cheek.
    ‘I’ll take you to see the proprietor of Yichi Tavern, Yu Yichi.’
    Arm-in-arm they strolled out onto Donkey Avenue under a dark sky; the investigator’s gut feeling told him that the sun had already settled behind the mountains - no, it was just then sinking behind them. Drawing upon his imagination, he pictured the fabulous scene: the sun, an enormous red wheel, forced earthward, radiates thousands of brilliant spokes to dress the rooftops, the trees, the faces of pedestrians, and the cobblestones of Donkey Avenue in the tragically valiant colors of a fallen hero. The despot of the Kingdom of Chu, Xiang Yu, stands on the bank of the Wu River, holds his spear in one hand and the reins of his mighty steed in the other as he gazes blankly at the angry waters rushing by. But at this moment there was no sun above Donkey Avenue. Immersed in the enveloping mist, the investigator was mentally engulfed by melancholy and sentimentalism. Suddenly he was struck by the absurdity of his trip to Liquorland - absolutely ridiculous, a ludicrous farce. Floating in the filthy water of a ditch running alongside Donkey Avenue were a rotten head of cabbage, half a clove of garlic, and a hairless donkey tail, silently clumped together and giving off muted rays of green, brown, and blue-gray under the dim streetlights. The investigator mused agonizingly that these three lifeless objects should be taken together as symbols for the flag of a kingdom in decay; even better, they could be carved on his own tombstone. As the sky pressed down, he saw the drizzling rain in the artificial yellow light, like floating threads of silk. The pink umbrella looked like a colorful toadstool. He felt hungry and cold, sensations that erupted into his consciousness after he’d seen the clump of garbage in the roadside ditch. At the same time, he was aware that the seat and cuffs of his trousers were soaked through, his shoes were caked with mud and filling up with water, producing a squishing noise as he walked, like a loach slurping through mud in a riverbed. On