The investigator took off running, and as he passed by a large gateway, he spied a courtyard crowded with luxurious sedans, into which some men dressed to the nines were climbing. Sensing trouble, he turned down a narrow lane, where he came across a little girl who repaired shoes. She wore a blank expression, as if deep in thought. As he was standing there, a heavily made-up woman jumped out from under a colored plastic banner above a café door and blocked his way. Come inside for a bite to eat, sir, she said, and something to drink. Twenty percent off everything. She sidled up next to him, her face exuding passion the likes of which he seldom saw. I don’t want anything to eat, Ding Gou’er said, and nothing to drink. But the woman grabbed his arm to drag him inside. You don’t have to eat or drink anything, she said, just come in and take a load off your feet. With rising anger, he sent her sprawling in the dirt. Big Brother, she bawled, come out here, this hooligan hit me! With a fearful jump, Ding Gou’er tried to leap over the prostrate woman, but she wrapped her arms around his legs and wouldn’t let go. He fell on top of her in a heap. Scrambling to his feet, he kicked her savagely. She grabbed her stomach and rolled on the ground in agony. As he looked up, a hulking man with a liquor bottle in his left hand and a meat cleaver in his right ran out of the café. This was big trouble, so he spun around and took off flying, at least that’s how it felt to him, with the form and speed of a track star – no pounding heart, no gasping for breath. When he finally turned to look back, he saw that the man had given up the chase and was taking a piss alongside a concrete utility pole. Now exhaustion crept in; Ding Gou’er’s heart was racing and he was covered by cold, sticky sweat. His legs were too rubbery to take another step.
The ill-fated investigator followed his nose to a three-wheeler, where its owner, a young man, was frying wheatcakes and an old woman, probably his mother, was standing alongside taking money from the customers. He was so hungry, he could feel his stomach reaching up to his throat for something to eat. But he was broke. A green military motorcycle roared up and screeched to a stop alongside the three-wheeler. Panic-stricken, the investigator was about to run for his life when he heard the sergeant in the sidecar say to the peddler: Hey, Boss, fry us up a couple of those wheatcakes. The investigator heaved a sigh of relief.
The investigator studied the two soldiers: the taller of the two had big eyes and bushy brows, the shorter one had more delicate features. They stood around the stall shooting the breeze with the young fellow frying wheatcakes, a comment here, a response there, a bunch of bullshit passing back and forth. The young fellow brushed some hot sauce on top of the steaming wheatcakes. His customers flipped the cakes from one hand to the other as they ate, noisily, tastily, arduously, and in no time, they had wolfed down three apiece. The short soldier reached into his overcoat and took out a bottle of liquor, which he handed to his comrade. Want a drink? he asked. With a giggle, his tall comrade said, Might as well. Ding watched as the soldier stuck the neck of the comely little bottle into his mouth and took a hearty drink. Then he noisily sucked in a mouthful of air and smacked his lips. Good stuff, he said, terrific stuff. His short comrade took the bottle, tipped his head back, and drank. His eyes nearly closed in rapture. A moment later, he said, Goddamned good stuff, this is more than just liquor! The tall soldier went over to the motorcycle and took two thick scallions out of the sidecar. After peeling off the roughage, he handed one to his short comrade. Try this, he said, genuine Shandong scallion. fve got some peppers, the short one said, pulling some bright red peppers out of his pocket. Genuine Hunan chilis, he said proudly. Want some? You’re not a revolutionary if you don’t eat chilis, and if you’re not a revolutionary you must be a counter-revolutionary. True revolutionaries eat scallions, the tall one countered. Their hackles up, they advanced toward each other, one brandishing scallions in the air, the other waving a handful of chilis. The tall one poked his comrade in the head with his scallions, the short one crammed his chilis into his comrade’s mouth. The wheatcake peddler rushed up to keep things from getting out of hand. No fighting, comades. You’re both really revolutionary, as I see it. The soldiers backed off, huffing and puffing with anger, which had the wheatcake peddler in stitches. Ding Gou’er, appreciating the humor of it, started laughing too. The peddler’s mother walked up to him. What are you laughing at? You look like a troublemaker to me. No I’m not, Ding Gou’er was quick to reply, I’m really not. Who but a troublemaker would laugh like that? Like what? Ding Gou’er asked. With a flick of the wrist, the old woman produced a tiny round mirror, as if snatching it out of thin air, and handed it to Ding Gou’er. See for yourself, she said. He was shocked by what he saw. There between his eyes was a bloody bullet hole and, as he could see, a shiny yellow bullet moving around in the convolutions of his brain. With a gasp of alarm, he dropped the mirror as if it were a piece of hot steel; it hit the ground and spun on its edge, projecting a shiny dot of light on the faded red surface of a distant wall. A close examination of the words on the wall showed that it was a ridiculous slogan: Eliminate The Evils Of Alcohol And Sex. Abruptly understanding the implications of the slogan, he walked up to the wall and touched the painted words, which also burned his finger, like red-hot steel When he turned back, the two soldiers were gone, so were the wheatcake peddler and his mother; the motorcycle stood there looking sad and lonely. He walked up and found a bottle of liquor in the sidecar. Picking it up and giving it a shake, he watched a multitude of bubbles, like little pearls, rise to the top. The liquid was green, as if made from mung beans. The bouquet of fine liquor seeped up through and around the cork, which he removed; a sense of comfort washed over him as he inserted the cool neck of the bottle into his overheated mouth. The green contents slid down his throat like a lubricant, drawing whoops of joy from his stomach and intestines, like a schoolchild holding a bouquet of flowers. His spirits revived, as would seedlings watered by cool rain after a long drought, and before he knew it, he had drunk every drop. Wishing there were more, he took one last rueful look at the bottle before tossing it away, mounting the motorcycle, and gripping the handlebars; he stomped down on the starter and felt the motorcycle come restlessly to life, like a proud steed – snorting loudly, pawing the ground, and flicking its tail, ready to run. The second he released the brake, the motorcycle bumped its way up onto the road, then, with a triumphant roar, took off like a shot. It felt as if the motor between his knees knew precisely what he wanted, there was no need for him to drive; all he had to do was