On and on he talks, until I’m sick of listening to him. But since I’m there to ask a favor, I must be patient and hear him out, forcing myself to appear captivated by what he is saying.
When he finally runs out of things to say, I volunteer, I brought some friends for a meal of donkey.’
Yu Yichi gets up and walks over to the woman. His head barely reaches her knees. She’s a real beauty, and not, it seems, an innocent young maiden. She has the airs of a married woman. Her full lips are lightly coated with a sticky substance, as if she had just dined on escargots. He reaches up and pats her ample hindquarters. ‘You go ahead, my dear,’ he says, ‘and tell Old Shen not to worry. Yu Yichi is a man of his word. If he says he’ll do something, rest assured he’ll do it.’
Not one to shy away from situations like this, the woman bends low, letting her pendulous breasts, which are about to burst out of her dress, drop so heavily on Yu Yichi’s face that he winces as she gently picks him up. Judging only by size and weight, it looks like a mother cradling her son; but, of course, their relationship is much more complicated than that. Almost savagely, she plants a big kiss on his lips, then flings him down basketball-like onto a sofa against the wall. She raises her hand and says seductively, ‘See you later, old-timer.’ Yu Yichi’s body is still bouncing on the springy sofa as the woman, wriggling her bright red backside, disappears around the corner. He shouts at her lovely back, ‘Get lost, you vile fox spirit!’
Yu Yichi and I are now alone in the room. He jumps off the sofa and goes to a large wall mirror to comb his hair and rearrange his tie. He even 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 dog-fart essays.’ I say, gripped by terror. ‘Not worth mentioning. A little extra income for the family.’
‘My dear Doctor,’ he says, let’s you and me do a little business.’
‘What kind of business?’ I ask.
‘You ghost-write my autobiography,’ he says, ‘and I’ll give you twenty-thousand cash.’
I am so excited my heart thumps wildly, but all I say is, ‘I’m afraid my meager talents are inadequate for such an important task.’
Waving off my disclaimer, he says, ‘Don’t give me any of that false modesty. It’s settled. You’ll come here every Tuesday night and I’ll relate my experiences to you.’
‘Revered elder brother, money or not, as your inferior, it would be an honor to memorialize the life of such an extraordinary man. Money or not…’
‘Can the hypocrisy, jerk,’ he sneers. ‘Money makes the devil turn the millstone. There may be people in this world who don’t love money, but I’ve never met any. Which is why I can announce that I’m going to fuck every pretty girl in Liquorland!’
‘Elder brother’s charm has a lot to do with it.’
‘Pah!' he blurts out. ‘Up your old lady’s you-know-what! Chairman Mao said, “It’s critical to recognize one’s own limitations.” I’ve had enough of your bullshit, so get out of my sight.’
He takes a carton of Marlboros out of his desk drawer and tosses it to me. Holding the cigarettes in my hand, I thank him profusely, then get my ass back to the Grape Room, where I join you, friends, ladies and gentlemen, at the table.
Several dwarfs come up to pour tea and alcoholic beverages and to set the table with plates and chopsticks. They whirl around the table as if they were on wheels. The tea is Oolong, the liquor Maotai; no local flavor, but easily state-banquet quality. First to be served are twelve cold delicacies arranged in the shape of a lotus flower: donkey stomach, donkey liver, donkey heart, donkey intestines, donkey lungs, donkey tongue, and donkey lips… all donkey stuff. Friends, sample these delicacies sparingly and leave room for what follows, for experience tells me that the best is yet to come. Take note, friends, here come the hot dishes. You, the lady over there, be careful, don’t burn yourself! A dwarf all in red – painted red lips and rouged cheeks, red shoes and a red cap, red from head to toe, like a red candle – rolls up to the table carrying a steaming platter of food. She opens her mouth, and out spills a flurry of words, falling like pearls: ‘Braised donkey ear. Enjoy!’ ‘Steamed donkey brains, for your dining pleasure!’ ‘Pearled donkey eyes, for your dining pleasure!’ The donkey eyes, in beautifully contrasting black and white, lay pooled on a large platter. Go ahead, friends, dig in. Don’t be afraid. They might appear to be alive, but they are, after all, just food. But, hold on, there are only two eyes but ten of us. How do we divide them up fairly. Will you help us out here, miss? The red candle girl smiles and picks up a steel fork. Two gentle pokes, and the black pearls pop, filling the platter with a gelatinous liquid. Use your spoons, comrades, scoop it up, one spoonful at a time. It may not be a pretty dish, but it tastes wonderful. I know there’s another dish for which Yichi Tavern is famous. It’s called Black Dragon Sporting with Pearls. The main ingredients are a donkey dick and a pair of donkey eyes. Today, however, the chef has used the eyes to make Pearled Donkey Eyes, so it looks like there’ll be no sporting by the donkey dick this time. Who knows, maybe we’re eating a female donkey.