Free The Republic of Wine by Mo Yan Page A

vinegar, and either the Party Secretary or the Mine Director forced a piece of candied lotus root into his mouth, while the other held a piece of honeyed snow pear under his nose, and a red serving girl wiped his face with a cool towel treated with peppermint oil, and another red serving girl swept up the mess on the floor, and another red serving girl followed behind her, cleaning the last traces of the mess with a mop treated with disinfectant, and another red serving girl removed the dishes and glasses from the table, and another red serving girl laid out new settings.
    Deeply moved by this lightning-quick series of ministrations, Ding Gou’er wished he hadn’t blurted out his accusation as he was retching a moment ago; he was about to apologize for any offense when either the Party Secretary or the Mine Director said:
    ‘Ding, old fellow, what do you think of our serving girls?’
    Embarrassed by the question, Ding Gou’er looked into those tender flower-bud faces and said approvingly:
    ‘Good! Great! Wonderful!’
    Obviously well trained, the red serving girls rushed up to the table like a litter of hungry puppies or a troop of Young Pioneers presenting bouquets to honored guests. Empty glasses all but covered the three levels of the dining table, so the girls picked up the nearest glass, big or small, filled it with red wine, yellow beer, or colorless liquor, and raised it raucously to toast Ding Gou’er.
    Ding Gou’er’s skin was sticky with sweat, his lips seemed frozen, and his tongue had grown stiff - unable to spit out a word, he clenched his teeth and poured the magic elixir down his throat. As they say, even valiant generals wilt before a pretty face.
    At this moment, he wasn’t feeling very good, because the trouble-making little demon in his brain was wriggling around and once again poking its head out through his scalp. Now he knew what was meant when people said the body cannot contain the soul. The agonizing thought of his soul hanging upside down from the rafters scared the wits out of him, and he could barely keep from covering his head with his hands to block the escape route of his consciousness. Aware that that would show a lack of decorum, he was reminded of the beaked cap he had worn when he was making his move on the lady trucker. The cap, in turn, reminded him of his briefcase, and the dark pistol it contained, a thought that opened up the sweat glands under his arms. His darting glances caught the attention of one of the smarter red girls, who fetched his briefcase from somewhere. After taking it from her and assuring himself that his metal friend, that ‘hard’ bargainer, was still inside, he stopped sweating. His beaked cap, however, was not there, and he thought back to the watchdog and the gatekeeper, to the young man in the Security Section, to the wooden logs, and to the sunflower forest; these scenes and the people in them seemed so remote at this moment that he wondered if he’d actually seen them, or if they were all part of a dream. As he carefully placed the briefcase between his knees, the wavering, disorderly spirit, with its mutinous tendencies, created a flashing light before his eyes, alternating between extreme clarity and blurred edges; he saw that his knees were covered by oily stains that appeared to be an illuminated map of China one moment and a darkened map of Java the next, and though they were sometimes a bit out of placement, he worked hard to straighten them out, hoping that the map of China would always be illuminated and that the map of Java would always be dark and blurry.
    A moment before Diamond Jin, Deputy Head of the Liquorland Municipal Party Committee Propaganda Department, walked in the door, Ding Gou’er experienced sharp abdominal pains. A tangle of venomous snakes was writhing and twisting inside his guts: pungent, oh so pungent, sticky, ah so sticky, tangled, entwined, illicit, sneaky, pulling and dragging and hauling and hissing, a real tangle