‘Comrade Ding, old fellow,’ Diamond Jin said, ‘those three are for you.’
It’s the custom,’ one of the others said. ‘You’ve already sampled them.’
Then they said, ‘We don’t miss it if you drink it, but we do if you spill it, for wastefulness is the greatest sin.’
Ding Gou’er had no choice but to drink down the three cups.
‘Thank you,’ Diamond Jin said, ‘thank you very much. Now it’s my turn.’
He picked up a cup of liquor and drank it down, noiselessly and without spilling a drop; his simple yet elegant style showed that he was no ordinary drinker. His pace quickened with each succeeding cup, but with no effect on accuracy or results – cadenced and rhythmic. He held out the last of the thirty cups and described an arc, like a bow moving across violin strings; the soft, elegant strains of a violin swirled in the air of the dining hall and flowed through Ding Gou’er’s veins. His caution began to crumble, as warm feelings toward Diamond Jin surfaced slowly, like water grasses budding atop a stream during a spring thaw. He watched Diamond Jin bring the last cup of liquor to his lips and saw a look of melancholy flash in the man’s bright black eyes; he was transformed into a good and generous man, one who emanated an aura of sentimentality, lyrical and beautiful. The strains of the violin were long and drawn-out, a light autumn breeze rustled fallen golden leaves, a small white blossom appeared in front of a grave marker; Ding Gou’er’s eyes grew moist, gazing at the cup as if it were a stream of water bubbling up past a rock and emptying into a deep green lake. There was love in his heart for this man.
The Party Secretary and Mine Director clapped and shouted their approval. Ding Gou’er, immersed in richly poetic emotions, kept still. A silence settled over the scene. The four red serving girls stood without moving, like canna indigos, each in a different pose, as if listening intently or deep in thought. A strange sound emerged from the air conditioner in the corner, shattering the stillness. The Party Secretary and Mine Director clamored for Deputy Head Jin to drain thirty more cups of liquor, but he shook his head.
‘No more for me,’ he said. ‘That would be wasteful. But since this is my first meeting with Comrade Ding, I must toast him three cups thrice.’
Ding Gou’er gazed in stupefaction at this man who could down thirty cups of liquor without showing it, and was so intoxicated by the man’s decorum, by his honeyed voice, and by the gentle glitter of his bronze or gold tooth inlay that he lost sight of the mathematical logic that three times three equals nine.
Nine cups were arrayed in front of Ding Gou’er, and nine more in front of Diamond Jin. Ding Gou’er was powerless to resist the man’s appeal; his consciousness and his body were moving in opposite directions. His consciousness screamed: You mustn’t drink! while his hand picked up the cup and emptied the contents into his mouth.
Nine cups of the strong liquor made the trip down to his stomach, and his tear ducts were working overtime. Why the tears were flowing he didn’t know, especially at a banqueting table. No one hit you, no one gave you an earful, so why are you crying? I’m not crying. Just because there are tears doesn’t mean I’m crying. More and more tears flowed, until his face looked like a puddle of rain-soaked lotus leaves.
‘Bring on the rice,’ he heard Diamond Jin say. ‘Let Comrade Ding eat something before he takes a rest.’
‘There’s still one more important dish!’
‘Oh,’ Diamond Jin said thoughtfully. ‘Then bring it in.’
A red serving girl removed the cactus plant in the middle of the table. Then two red serving girls entered carrying a large round gilded platter in which sat a golden, incredibly fragrant little boy.
II
Dear Mo Yan
I received your letter. Thanks for taking the time to write and for recommending my story to Citizens’ Literature. It’s not drunken arrogance – that would never do – when I say that my story opens new creative and artistic horizons and is filled with the spirit of the wine god. If Citizens’ Literature decides not to publish it, the editors must be blind.
I read the novel you recommended, Don’t Treat Me Like a Dog. It infuriated me, if you want the truth. Li Qi, the author, trampled all over the sublime, sacred endeavor we call literature, and if that’s tolerated, nothing is safe. If I ever meet him, I tell you, he’s in for the verbal fight of his life.
You were absolutely right when you said that if I applied myself diligently to the study of the craft I’d have a brilliant future in Liquorland, never having to worry about where my next meal or next suit of clothes came from; I’d have a house, status, money, and a bevy of beautiful women. But I am a young man with ideals, not content to steep in alcohol for the rest of my life. I want to be like the young Lu Xun, who gave up the study of medicine for a writing career; I want to give up alcohol for a writing career, to use literature to transform society, to transform the Chinese sense of nationhood. In pursuit of this lofty goal, I would gladly lose my head or spill my hot blood; and since I’m willing to do that, how could I concern myself with worldly possessions?
Mo Yan, Sir, my heart is set on literature, so firmly that ten mighty horses could not turn me from my goal. My mind is made up, so you needn’t try to change it. And if you do, I’m afraid that my feelings for you will turn to loathing. Literature belongs to the people. Why then should you be permitted to write, and not me? One of the you have to host a meal, go ahead. If a gift is required, you have my blessing. Ill take care of expenses (please remember to get receipts).
‘Meat Boy’ took a lot of effort to complete, so Citizens’ Literature is my first choice. I have my reasons: First, Citizens’ Literature is China’s ‘official’ literary magazine, in the forefront of new literary trends. Publishing a story there is better than publishing two in a provincial or municipal magazine. Second, I want to adopt the tactic of ‘pound away at one spot and forget the rest.’ That’s the only way to break into that mighty fortress, Citizens’ Literature1.
With respectful best wishes,
Your disciple
Li Yidou
PS: A friend of mine is off to Beijing on business, and I’ve asked him to deliver a case of twelve bottles of Liquorland’s finest, Overlapping Green Ants, which I helped develop in the lab. I hope you enjoy it.
Li Yidou
III
Dear Doctor of Liquor Studies
How are you?
Thanks for the Overlapping Green Ants. The color, bouquet, and taste are all first-rate, though I get the feeling there’s a lack of harmony somehow, sort of like a girl with lovely features who lacks that indefinable appeal to make her a true beauty. The liquor from my hometown is known for its high quality, too, though it doesn’t compare with what you make in Liquorland. According to my father, before Liberation [1949], in that little, underpopulated village of ours, there were two distilleries producing sorghum liquor, and both had recognizable names. One was Zongji, the other was Juyuan. They employed dozens of hired hands, not to mention mules and horses and all the noise that went along with it As for making liquor out of millet, well, just about every family in the village did it, and it was pretty much a case of wine-scented air above every house. One of my father’s uncles once gave me a detailed explanation of how the distilleries operated, including the distilling art, the technology, management, things like that. He’d worked at Zongji for over a decade. His descriptions produced a wealth of material for the chapter Sorghum Wine’ in my novel Red Sorghum. The pervasive smell of liquor in and around my hometown was also a constant inspiration.