The old revolutionary laid his hard hand on Ding Gou’er’s shoulder. The investigator, having become one with the sun, shivered as he struggled to regain consciousness. His heart was pounding; the tears of a tragic hero welled in his eyes.
‘What goddamned demon possessed you?’ the old revolutionary asked scornfully.
Quickly wiping his eyes with his sleeve, the embarrassed investigator laughed drily.
In the wake of his turbulent fantasy, he felt as if cracks had suddenly appeared in his chest amid the melancholy that lay there, while his exhausted brain felt weighted down, and there was a dull ringing in his ears.
It looks like you’ve got a fucking cold,’ the old revolutionary said, ‘Your face is as red as a monkey’s ass!’
The old revolutionary reached into the fire hole beneath his bed and took out a white bottle of liquor with the brand stamped in red. He waved it in front his guest’s eyes. ‘This’ll do it. The alcohol will kill the virus and get rid of the poison in your body. Alcohol is good medicine, it’ll cure what ails you. Back when I crossed the Red River four times with Mao Zedong, we passed through Maotai township twice. I had to drop out because of a case of malaria, so I hid in a distillery. When the Kuomintang “white bandits” opened fire outside, I was quaking. Drink up, it’ll chase away the fear! So, glug glug, I downed three bowlfuls, one right after the other. Well, it not only calmed me down, but it gave me courage and stopped the shakes. I picked up a board, ran out of the distillery, and clubbed two of the white bandits to death. Then I took one of their rifles, ran off, and caught up with Mao’s troops. Back then, Mao Zedong, Zhu De, Zhou Enlai, and Wang Jiaxiang all drank Maotai. When Mao drank it, his mind was sharp as a tack and full of strategies. If not for that, his small band of soldiers would have been wiped out easily. So Maotai liquor played a key role in the Chinese revolution. You probably think it was chosen as our national liquor by a fluke, right? Hell no, it was to commemorate it! And after a lifetime of making revolution, I ought to be able to drink a little Maotai. That son of a bitch Section Chief Yu wants to cut off my supply and replace it with – what’s it called? – Red-Maned Stallion. Well, he can stick it up his grannie’s you know what!’
The old revolutionary poured some liquor into a chipped ceramic mug, tipped back his head, and drank it down. ‘Now it’s your turn,’ he said. ‘Genuine Maotai, down to the last drop.’ Seeing tears in Ding Gou’er’s eyes, he said scornfully, ‘Scared? Only turncoats and traitors are scared to drink, afraid they’ll get drunk and tell the truth or divulge some secrets. Are you a turncoat? A traitor? No? Then how come you’re scared to drink?’ He downed another mugful, the liquor gurgling as it cascaded down his throat. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to force you! I suppose you think I came about this little bit of Maotai easily! Well, that Trotskyite Section Chief Yu watches me like a hawk. On the ground a phoenix is worse off than a chicken, and a tiger on the open plain is at the mercy of dogs!’
Ding Gou’er found the bouquet of the liquor irresistible; emotional moments are made for drinking good liquor. He snatched the mug out of the old revolutionary’s hand, put it up to his lips, took a deep breath, and sent a flood of liquor straight down to his stomach. A spray of pink lotuses blossomed in front of his eyes, spreading their thought-provoking light in the surrounding haze. It was the light of Maotai, the essence of Maotai. In that split second, he watched the world turn incredibly beautiful, including Heaven and earth and trees and the virgin snow on the Himalayan peaks. With a satisfied laugh, the old revolutionary took back his mug and refilled it; the liquor gurgled as it spilled across the mouth of the bottle, setting his ears ringing and making his mouth water. The old revolutionary’s face was suffused with indescribable benevolence. As Ding reached out, he heard himself say, ‘Give it to me, I want more.’ The old revolutionary was jumping around in front of him, nimble as a young man. I’m not giving you any more, it’s too hard to get.’ ‘I want some,’ he bellowed, I want it. You’re the one who woke the serpent of gluttony in me, so why you won’t you give me any more?’ The old revolutionary slugged down another mugful. Fuming, Ding grabbed the mug, with the man’s finger still firmly in the handle. He heard the sound of teeth against ceramic and felt a wetness on his skin as the cold liquor spilled over his hand. As his anger rose in the struggle over the mug, his knee recalled a trick his buddies had taught it: with the calf bent backwards, you propel yourself into your enemy’s groin. When he heard the old revolutionary cry out, the mug passed into his hand. Impatiently he poured the mugful of liquor down his throat. Wanting still more, he looked around for the bottle, which lay on its side on the floor like a handsome young battle casualty. He was suddenly wracked by inconsolable grief, as if he had somehow killed the young man. Wanting to bend down to pick up the white-skinned bottle with its red sash – to help the handsome young man to his feet -inexplicably, he fell to his knees. And the handsome young man rolled over to a corner of the wall, where he righted himself and began to grow, taller and taller until he stood over three feet tall and stopped growing. He knew that was the liquor’s soul – Maotai liquor’s soul – standing in the corner, smiling at the investigator. Jumping to his feet to grab it, he managed only to bang his head against the wall.
As he was luxuriating in the sensation of the room spinning around him, he sensed a cold hand grab him by the hair. He guessed whose hand it was. He followed the pain in his scalp upward, his body acting like a pile of pig’s guts, slipping and sliding on the floor – cold and slippery and coiled and nauseatingly foul – now being uncoiled and straightened, though he knew that the minute the old revolutionary let go, the mass of pig’s guts would slump back to the floor, dripping wet. The big hand turned, bringing him face to long swarthy face with the old revolutionary, and he saw that the benevolent smile had been replaced by a fossilized scowl The cold-blooded nature of class contradictions and class struggle was driven home. You counter-revolutionary son of a bitch, I give you liquor, and you pay me back by kneeing me in the balls! You’re worse than a dog. If a dog drinks my liquor, it wags its tail to show its gratitude. The old revolutionary sprayed him with saliva, stinging his eyes so badly he cried out in pain; two great paws landed on his shoulders. The dog had his neck in its mouth, its bristly fur was jabbing into his skin; involuntarily he tucked his neck into his shoulders, like a tortoise sensing danger. He felt the heat of the dog’s breath and smelled its sour stink. The feeling that he was a mass of coiled pig’s guts returned abruptly, and a white-hot terror rose in his heart. Dogs gobble up pig’s guts like a child slurps up rice noodles. Terror-stricken, he cried out, just before blackness closed in around him.
How much later he didn’t know, the investigator, believing himself blinded by the dog, opened his eyes to light once again. It spread like the sun breaking through the clouds, and then -bang- all the sights of the Martyrs’ Cemetery gate house pounded into his eyes at once. He saw the old revolutionary sitting under a lamp polishing his double-barreled shotgun, absorbed in his task, working earnestly and meticulously, like a father bathing his one and only daughter. The striped hunting dog was sprawled lazily in front of the stove, its long snout resting on a pile of pine kindling, as it stared at the sweet-smelling golden flames, looking pensive, sort of like a philosophy professor. What was it thinking? The investigator was mesmerized by the dog, which was immersed in deep thought. The dog watched the flames as if in a trance, he watched the dog as if in a trance, as gradually the brilliant tableau inside the dog’s head – one he’d never seen before – began to take shape in his own head, accompanied by peculiar and amazingly moving music – like drifting clouds. He was stirred to the depths of his soul, his nose throbbed as if it had met a fist and come out second best. Two trickles of tears materialized on his cheeks.