Ding Gou’er was enormously relieved that his tongue hadn’t been bitten off. But he’d paid an annoyingly steep price for that kiss. He had to teach her a lesson, but how?
She was standing only a few feet away, looking straight at him, so close he could hear her labored breathing. He felt her body warmth through his thin shirt. She was staring at him, head held high, and now she was brandishing a monkey wrench. In the brightening starlight he took note of the angry expression on her animated face. Sort of like a naughty little girl. With a wry laugh, he grumbled:
You’ve got sharp teeth.’
She was breathing heavily. I held back,’ she said. ‘I can bite through ten-gauge wire.’
This brief bit of dialogue brightened the special investigator’s mood. The pain in his tongue turned to a dull ache. He reached out to pat her on the shoulder, but she jumped back in self-defense, raised the wrench over her head, and shouted. ‘How dare you! Touch me and I’ll split your skull open!’
I’m not going to hit you, my pet,’ he said, quickly drawing his hand back. I wouldn’t dare. Let’s talk this out peaceably, what do you say?’
‘Pour the water into the radiator!’ she commanded breathlessly.
As the night air grew heavy, Ding Gou’er felt a chill. Picking up his bucket and filling the radiator, as he was told, he was suddenly enveloped in a cloud of steam from the engine. That warmed him up. Water gurgling as it entered the radiator reminded him of a thirsty ox lapping up much-needed water. A shooting star tore through the Milky Way, insects were chirping all around, and the sound of waves beating against a distant shore came on the wind.
After they were back in the cab, he looked out at the bright lights of Liquorland, and was struck by feelings of loneliness, like a lamb that’s strayed from the flock.
As he rested on the padded cushions of the lady trucker’s sofa, Ding Gou’er was thoroughly intoxicated, he was enchanted. His sweat-soaked, alcohol-drenched clothing had been tossed out onto the balcony to continue sending their odors into the vast expanse of sky. His body was encased in a loose-fitting, downy-soft, warm and toasty bathrobe. That fine little pistol of his, along with several dozen bullets neatly stacked in their clips, rested on a tea table, the muzzle glinting a soft blue, the cartridges sparkling like gold. He was reclining on the sofa, his eyes narrowed to mere slits as he listened to the sounds of splashing coming from the bathroom and tried to picture hot shower water slipping down the lady trucker’s shoulders and breasts. Everything that had occurred after his tongue was bitten was like a dream. He hadn’t said another word after climbing into the truck, nor had she; instead he’d conscientiously and rather mechanically focused his attention on the roar of the engine and the sound of the tires on the road. The truck flew down the highway, Liquorland approaching very fast. Red lights, green lights, left turns, right turns. They entered the Brewer’s College through a side gate and pulled into the parking lot. She got out of the cab; he followed her. When she walked, so did he; when she stopped, he did too. Although everything had a bizarre quality, somehow it seemed completely natural He might as well have been her husband or her boyfriend, the way they sauntered into her apartment. Now, as he contentedly digested the wonderful meal she had prepared, he lay back on the sofa and sipped a glass of wine, enjoying the sights of her well-furnished living room and waiting expectantly for her to emerge from her shower.
From time to time a sharp pain in his tongue rekindled his vigilance. Maybe she was setting an even more insidious trap, maybe some ferocious man would suddenly appear, since this room had obviously been home to a male occupant. So what! I’m not leaving, even if two ferocious men appeared! He finished the glass of sweet wine and let himself sink into sweet reveries.
She emerged from the bathroom in a cream-colored bathrobe and bright red shower slippers. This was a woman who knew how to walk, the seductive sway of an exotic dancer. The wooden floor creaked beneath her feet. She was bathed in golden lamplight. Wet hair clung to her scalp, which was nice and round, like a perfectly shaped gourd that shone as it floated above her bathrobe in the halo of light. ‘Grab prosperity with one hand, sweep away indecency with the other.’ Curiously, this popular slogan popped into his head. She stood in front of him with crossed feet, her bathrobe loosely tied. A birthmark on her snowy white thigh looked like a watchful eye. The two mounds of flesh swelling up from her chest were also white. Ding Gou’er lay there, his eyelids drooping, enjoying the scenery and not moving a muscle. All he had to do was reach out and tug the belt around her waist for the lady trucker to be fully revealed to him. She was acting more like a lady of noble birth than a lady trucker. Having examined the house and its furnishings, the investigator was pretty sure that her husband was no lightweight. He lit another cigarette, a sly fox studying the bait in a trap,
‘All looks and no action.’ the lady trucker commented with annoyance. ‘What kind of Communist Party member are you?'
‘This is how undercover communists deal with female agents.’
‘Really?’
‘In the movies.’
‘Are you an actor?’
‘Studying to be one.’
Slowly she untied the belt of her robe, which fell around her feet when she shrugged her shoulders. Slim and graceful was the phrase that came to his mind.
Cupping her breasts with her hands, she asked, ‘What do you think?’
The investigator replied, ‘Not bad.’
‘What now?’
‘Continue to observe.’
She picked up his pistol, loaded it with a practiced hand, then stepped back to put some distance between them. The lamplight softened, encasing her body in gold. Not the whole body, of course; the rings around her nipples were dark red, her nipples like two bright red dates. Slowly she raised the gun, until it was aimed at the investigator’s head.
He shuddered a bit, his eyes fixed on the blue steel of the muzzle and the black hole at the end. He was used to pointing guns at other people’s heads, always the cat watching the mouse squirm under its sharp claws. Most of those mice, facing death, trembled with fear and peed their pants. Only a few could feign calmness, though a shaking fingertip or a twitch at the corner of the mouth usually exposed their fear. Now the cat had become the mouse; the judge had become the judged. He studied his own pistol as if it were the first time he’d seen it. The luster, like blue glazed tile, was as enchanting as the bouquet of vintage liquor, its smooth outlines displayed a kind of evil beauty. At this moment, it was God it was fate it was the Grim Reaper. Her large pale hand squeezed the carved handle, her long, slender index finger rested against the trigger, just a twitch away from driving the firing pin into the cartridge. Experience told him that a pistol in this state is no longer a piece of cold iron, but a living object with thoughts feelings culture morality. There is an enriched soul within – it is the soul of the gun holder. Without realizing it, this reverie relaxed him, until he was no longer focused on the muzzle, from which the bullet would emerge. It was just part of the gun. He took a leisurely drag on his cigarette.
An autumn wind blew in from the yard, gently billowing the silk drapes. Drops of cold condensation on the steamy bathroom ceiling fell noisily into the tub. He watched the lady trucker like a man appreciating a museum painting. To his surprise he discovered that a naked young woman holding a gun she was prepared to use could be incredibly sexy. At that moment, the pistol was no longer a simple handgun, but an organ of sexual conquest, a throbbing weapon. Ding Gou’er had never been one of those communists who can close their eyes in the presence of a woman. As we have already seen, he had a sex-crazed mistress. Now, to add some detail to the picture, he’d also had his share of one-night stands. In days past, he’d have easily held this little lamb in his grasp, like a ferocious tiger that had come charging down off the mountain. What gave him pause this time was: First, ever since arriving in Liquorland, he’d felt trapped in a labyrinth, confused and paranoid. Second, the tip of his tongue still ached. Facing this demonic butterfly, with her twisted personality, he dared not make a careless move, particularly since his head was in the sights of the business end of a pistol. Was there any guarantee this demon wouldn’t pull the trigger? It’s so much easier than biting someone – besides, it’s civilized, modern, and filled with romance. The contrast between the roomy, well-appointed quarters the woman lived in and the grinding job she performed perplexed him. I nearly lost my tongue over a little kiss. What if I… who could guarantee the safety of the family jewels? Suppressing his ‘bourgeois promiscuous inclinations’ and rekindling his ‘awesome proletarian righteousness,’ he sat there, solid as Mount Tai, facing a bare-assed woman and the black muzzle of a pistol, so decorous and composed, a look of utter serenity on his face, that he could surely lay claim to the mantle of tragic hero the likes of which the world has seldom seen. Calmly he watched the scene change.