The donkeys were huddled closely together. A rough count revealed twenty-four or twenty-five of the animals, every one of them glossy black, down to the last hair. Drenched by the rain, their bodies glistened. Well fed, with handsome faces, they looked to be quite young. Either to combat the cold or because they detected something frightful in the air of Donkey Avenue, they huddled as closely together as possible. When those in the rear pushed their way deeper into the herd, they invariably forced out some of those in the middle. The sound of their donkey hides scraping together was like prickles jabbing the investigator’s skin. The heads of some of the donkeys, he saw, were low; others held their heads high. But every one of them was twitching its floppy ears. They pressed forward, squeezing in and being squeezed out, their hoofs clip-clopping and sliding on the cobblestone road, raising a sound of applause. The herd was like a mountain in motion as it passed in front of them, followed, he saw, by a black youngster hopping along behind them. He noted a distinct resemblance between the black youngster and the scaly youngster who had stolen his things. But as he opened his mouth to shout, the youngster let loose with a piercing whistle so sharp it sliced through the heavy curtain of night and initiated an eruption of braying in the donkey herd. Experience told the investigator that when donkeys brayed they planted their feet and raised their head to focus their energy into the sound. These donkeys, to his surprise, ran as they brayed. A strange, heart-gripping phenomenon. Letting go of the lady trucker’s hand, he burst forward, unafraid, determined to get his hands on this donkey-herding youngster; but all he managed to do was crash heavily to the ground, cracking the back of his head on the cobblestones. His ears swelled with a strange buzzing as two huge yellow orbs danced before his eyes.
By the time the investigator regained consciousness, the herd of donkeys and the youngster driving them along were nowhere to be seen. All that remained was the lonely, dreary strip of Donkey Avenue stretching ahead of him. The lady trucker gripped his hand tightly.
‘Did you hurt yourself?’ she asked, obviously concerned.
Tm all right.’
1 don’t think so. You took quite a fall.’ she sobbed. ‘You must have a concussion or something.’
Her words brought the realization of a splitting headache. Everything looked like a photographic negative. The lady trucker’s hair, her eyes, and her mouth were pale as quicksilver.
Tm afraid you’re going to die…’
Tm not going to die,’ he said. ‘Why are you trying to jinx me by talking about dying when my investigation is just getting started?’
‘Jinx you?’ she fired back angrily. ‘I said I was afraid you’d die.’
His pounding headache drained any interest he had in keeping up the conversation, and he reached out to touch her face in a conciliatory gesture. Then he rested his arm on her shoulder; like a battlefield nurse, she helped him cross Donkey Avenue. Suddenly, the eyes of a sleek sedan snapped on; stealthily, the car pulled away from the curb, freezing the two of them in its headlights. There was murder in the air – he felt it. He pushed the lady trucker away, but she sprang back and wrapped her arms around him. But there would be no murder, not tonight, because as soon as the sedan moved out into the middle of the street, it sped past, its white exhaust beautiful to behold in the glare of red tail-lights.
They were right in front of the Yichi Tavern, which was brightly lit, as if there were a celebration going on inside.
Standing beside the flower-bedecked front door were two serving girls less than three feet tall. They wore identical red uniforms, sported the same beehive hair style, had nearly identical faces, and wore the same smile. To the investigator, there was something artificial about the twin girls; they looked like mannequins made of plastic or plaster. The flowers between them were so lovely they, too, seemed artificial, their perfection lifeless.
They said:
‘Welcome to our establishment.’
The tea-colored glass door flew open, and there in the center of the room, on a column inlaid with squares of glass, he saw an ugly old man being propped up by a grimy woman. When he realized that it was a reflection of him and the lady trucker, he gave up all hope. He was about to turn and leave when a little boy in red hobbled up with amazing speed and said in a tinny voice:
‘Sir, Madam, are you here for dinner or just some tea? Dancing or karaoke?’
The little fellow’s head barely reached the investigator’s knee, so in order to converse, one had to throw his head back, while the other was forced to bend down low. Two heads – one large, the other small – were face to face, with the investigator occupying the commanding position, which helped to lighten his mood. He was struck by the spine-chilling look of evil in the boy’s face, despite the benign smile that all tavern service people are trained to effect. Evil of that magnitude is not easy to mask. Like ink seeping through cheap toilet paper.
The lady trucker answered:
‘We want to drink, and we want dinner. I’m a friend of your manager, Mr Yu Yichi.’
The little fellow bowed deeply:
‘I recognize you, Madam,’ he said. ‘We have a private room upstairs.’
As the little fellow led the way, the investigator was taken by how much the little creep resembled one of the demons in the classic novel Monkey. He even fantasized that the tail of a fox or a wolf was hidden in the crotch of his baggy pants. The polished marble floor made their muddy shoes look especially grimy, rein-stilling feelings of inferiority in the investigator. Out on the dance floor, beautifully decked-out women were dancing cheek-to-cheek with men whose faces glowed with health and happiness. A dwarf in a tuxedo and white bow tie, perched atop a high stool, was playing the piano.
They followed the little fellow up the winding staircase and into a private room, where two tiny serving girls ran up with menus. The lady trucker said:
‘Please ask Manager Yu to come up. Tell him Number Nine is here.’
While they waited for Yu Yichi, the lady trucker demonstrated a lack of decorum by taking off her slippers and wiping her mud-caked feet on the spongy carpet. Then she sneezed, loudly, from the effects of the stuffy air. When one of her sneezes wouldn’t come, she looked up at the light, squinted, and screwed up her mouth to help it along. The look disgusted the investigator, who was reminded of a donkey in heat when it sniffs the odor of a female donkey’s urine.
In one of the between-sneeze lulls, he asked:
‘Are you a basketball player?’
‘Ah-choo – what?’
‘Why Number Nine?’
‘I was his ninth mistress, ah-choo -’
II
Dear Mo Yan, Sir
Greetings!
I have passed your message to Mr Yu Yichi, who gleefully replied, ‘Now what do you say? I told you he’d write my biography, and that’s what he’s going to do.’ He also said that Yichi Tavern’s doors are always open to you. Not long ago, the municipal government earmarked a large sum of money for repairs to Yichi Tavern. It’s open twenty-four hours a day, and is richly appointed, lavish and sumptuous. With a modicum of modesty, you might say it’s three-and-a-half star quality. Recently they entertained some Japanese, and the little runts went home happy as clams. Their group leader even wrote a piece for The Traveler magazine, in which Yichi Tavern scored very high. So when you come to Liquorland, you can stay at Yichi Tavern and enjoy untold pleasures without spending a cent.
I had a lot of fun with my chronicle-story ‘Yichi the Hero.’ In my last letter I said it was my gift to you, to which you can refer when you write his biography. Still, I’m keeping an open mind about what you said. My failing is that I have too rich an imagination, and sometimes I lose control and digress so much I lose sight of the principles of writing fiction. From now on, I’ll take your critique to heart, and work like the devil to write fiction worthy of the name.