dozen or so electric prods waved in the air. Like a pack of mad dogs, they surrounded Ding Gou’er.
He reached into his waistband. Oops, his pistol was in his briefcase, which was in the truck back on the road.
One of the men, a red armband around his bicep – probably a minor commander or something – pointed at Ding Gou’er with his electric prod and asked truculently:
‘What the hell do you want?’
Tm a truck driver,’ Ding Gou’er answered, raising his tin bucket as proof.
‘A driver?’ the commander asked suspiciously. Then what are you doing here?’
‘Looking for water. My radiator overheated.’
The tension lessened considerably; several brandished electric prods were lowered.
‘He’s no driver,’ the humiliated gateman shouted. ‘This guy knows how to use his fists and feet.’
‘All that proves is what a loser you are,’ Ding Gou’er said.
‘Who do you drive for?’ the commander continued the interrogation.
Ding Gou’er recalled the sign on the door of the truck. ‘Brewer’s College,’ he answered without missing a beat.
‘Where were you headed?’
‘The mine.’
‘Your papers?’
‘In my jacket pocket.’
‘Where’s your jacket?’
‘In the truck.’
‘Where’s the truck?’
‘On the highway.’
‘Who else is in the truck?’
‘A good-looking girl’
The commander giggled. ‘You Brewer’s College drivers are horny asses.’
‘Horny asses, you said it!’
‘Well, get a move on!’ the commander said. ‘We’ve got water inside, so what’re you hanging around out here for?’
As Ding Gou’er followed them into the building, from behind he heard the commander chewing out the gateman: ‘You incompetent moron, can’t you even handle a run-of-the-mill truck driver? If the forty thieves ever showed up, they’d probably trick you out of your balls.’
The blinding lights inside the building made Ding Gou’er dizzy. His feet sank into the soft folds of a scarlet lamb’s-wool carpet; hanging on the walls were colorful photographs, all farm products: corn, rice, millet, sorghum, plus some others he’d never seen before. Ding Gou’er surmised that these were hybrid grains that the institute’s agri-scientists had taken pains to develop. The commander, warming up to Ding Gou’er a bit, pointed the way to the toilet, where, he said, he could fill his bucket with water from a tap used for rinsing out rags. Ding Gou’er thanked him, then watched him and his troops file into a little room, from which thick, acrid smoke escaped when the door was opened. Probably playing poker or mahjong, he concluded, although they could just as easily be studying the latest Central Government directive. He smiled, but only for a moment, before picking up his bucket and proceeding cautiously to the toilet, noticing the wooden signs on doors as he passed them: Technical Section, Production Section, Accounting Section, Financial Section, Dossier Room, Reference Room, Laboratory, Video Room. The door to the Video Room was ajar; people were working inside.
Bucket in hand, he peeked inside, where a man and a woman were watching a videotape. The images on the big-screen TV shocked him, for there on the screen, in ancient official script, were the following words:
A Rare Delicacy – Chicken Head Rice.
The soundtrack was of the tantalizing Cantonese tune ‘Bright Clouds Chasing the Moon.’ At first he wasn’t interested in the video, but it quickly exerted a powerful pull on him. The cinematic images were breathtakingly beautiful A chicken-killing production line. Chicken heads methodically lopped off, one after another, as the music swelled. The announcer says, ‘The broad masses of cadres at the Special Foods Cultivation Institute, under the encouragement of… have pooled their efforts and the wisdom of the masses, and, in the spirit of “when attacking a stronghold, show no fear,” struggling without letup, day and night…’ A group of emaciated, large-headed individuals in white uniforms were doing something with an array of test tubes. Another group of individuals – lovely young women with their hair tucked under their caps and wearing white full-sized aprons – were picking up kernels of raw rice with tweezers and stuffing them into the decapitated chicken heads. Another group of women, dressed exactly like the previous group, and just as beautiful, buried the rice-stuffed chicken heads in fiery red flower pots. Then the scene changed, and rice sprouts had emerged from the pots. Dozens of sprinklers kept the rice sprouts watered. Another scene change, and the sprouts now have tassels. One final scene change, and they are several bowls of steaming, blood-red, shiny and moist pearl drops of rice laid out on a flower-bedecked banqueting table. Several dignitaries – some handsome, some buxom, some big and tall – sit around the table savoring this rare delicacy, smiles of satisfaction on their faces. With a sigh, Ding Gou’er realized how impoverished his knowledge was, like the proverbial frog at the bottom of a well. The man and woman in the room began talking even before the video ended, and Ding Gou’er, wanting to avoid a scene, picked up his bucket and walked off. A moment later, on his way out the gate, he fell under the withering glare of the gateman; he could feel the man’s eyes boring into his back. As he threaded his way back through the cornfield, the dry leaves brushed against his eyes and made them water. The old man catching crickets was nowhere in sight. He was still a long way from the truck when he heard the lady trucker bellow:
‘Where in the goddamned hell did you go to get that water, the Yellow River or the Yangtze?’
He set the bucket of water down and flexed his poor, numbed muscles.
‘I got it in your mama’s goddamned Yarlung Zangbou River.’
‘Goddamn it to hell, I thought you fell into the river and drowned.’
‘I not only didn’t drown, I watched one of your mama’s goddamned videos.’
‘One of those goddamn-it-to-hell kung-fu films or a porn job?’
It wasn’t one of your mama’s goddamn kung-fu films and it wasn’t a porn job. It was about that rare delicacy, chicken-head rice.’
‘What’s so rare about chicken-head rice and what the goddamn hell’s the idea of your mama’s goddamn this and your mama’s goddamn that?’
If not for those your mama’s goddamn this and goddamn thats I’d have to find some other way to shut your mama’s goddamn mouth.’
Ding Gou’er grabbed the lady trucker around the waist, wrapped his arms tightly around her, and crushed his multi-flavored mouth onto hers.
II
Dear Mo Yan
Your letter arrived safely.
Still no word from
Last night I wrote another story, which I call ‘Donkey Avenue.’ For this story I adopted creative techniques from the martial-arts genre, and I ask you to read it with your customary discerning eye. You have my permission to forward it to the magazine of your choice.
I’m sending the research material on liquor you requested. As for the thirty bottles of fine liquor, I'll send them with the next bus to Beijing. For a master to drink his disciple’s liquor is in perfect accord with the nature of things. You’ll recall how Confucius asked for ten strings of dried meat from each of his disciples as ‘tuition’ for the instruction he dispensed.
The continued silence from
