The Republic of Wine

He sensed an air of poison swelling in his gut. The carp flopped up onto his shoe. His foot flew, and so did the fish, right into the metal banister.

‘You owe me a fish!’

He stomped on the eel as it slithered by.

‘I’ll carry you to the hospital!’ he repeated.

The old woman hung on to his legs for dear life.

‘Don’t even think about it!’

‘Old auntie,’ he said, ‘your hip’s broken, your leg’s broken, your intestines are all torn up, and your kidneys have been damaged. If you don’t go to the hospital, you’ll die right here. Is that what you want?’

If I do, I’ll take you along with me,’ the old woman said resolutely. He felt her grip grow more powerful.

The investigator sighed forlornly. Looking down at the stairs and at the two dying fish, then out at the gloomy gray sky beyond the broken window, he didn’t know what to do. Just then the strong smell of alcohol drifted in through the window, along with the clang-clang of sheet metal being struck. Suddenly chilled to the bone, he longed for a drink.

Grim laughter burst over him and the old woman, then footsteps. The lady trucker was coming downstairs, one baby step at a time, standing up straight and carrying the chair behind her.

He greeted her with an embarrassed laugh. Instead of being alarmed, he was actually happy to see her. Better to be burdened by a young woman than an old one, he was thinking. He smiled. And that smile calmed his mind, as if the sun of hope had just broken through the haze of despair. He noted that she’d already bitten through the handkerchief he’d tied around her mouth, increasing his admiration for the sharpness of her teeth. The chair tied to her body slowed her progress, its rear legs bumping against the stairs with each descending step. He nodded to her, she nodded back. Coming to a stop alongside the old woman, she swung her body like a tiger whipping its tail around, slamming the chair into the woman. He heard her demand ferociously:

‘Let him go!’

The old woman looked up and mumbled what sounded like a curse before letting her arms drop. Freed at last, the investigator stepped back to put some distance between him and the old woman.

She said to the old woman:

‘Do you know who he is?’

The old woman shook her head.

‘He’s the Mayor.’

Clambering to her feet, the old woman grabbed the banister and shuddered.

Moved by her plight, the investigator hurried to say:

‘I’ll take you to the hospital for a checkup, old auntie.’

The lady trucker said:

‘Untie me.’

He did, and the chair fell to the floor. As the lady trucker was flexing her arms, the investigator turned and ran. He heard her footsteps behind him.

As he ran out the front door, he caught his sleeve on a waiting bicycle. Craaash! The bicycle hit the ground. Riiiip. There went his coat. The mishap slowed him down just enough for the lady trucker to lasso him around the neck with her rope. She drew the noose tight and choked the breath right out of him.

She dragged him outside as if he were a dog or some other dumb animal. A steady drizzle falling into his eyes clouded his vision as he reached up to loosen the rope’s choke-hold. Something round flew past, scaring the hell out of him. Then he saw a shaven-headed little boy run past, soaked to the skin and covered with mud, as he chased down his football. He cocked his head and pleaded:

‘Dear little woman, let me go. I’d hate for anybody to see me like this.’

With a flick of the wrist, she drew the noose even tighter.

‘Aren’t you good at running?’ she said.

‘I won’t run, I won’t, not if my life depended on it.’

‘Promise you won’t abandon me, that you’ll take me with you?’

‘I promise, I give you my word.’

She loosened the rope to let the investigator slip his head out of the noose. He was about to give her hell when dulcet sounds emerged from her tender lips:

‘You, you’re like a little boy. Without me to look after you, you’re at the mercy of everyone out there.’

Touched by her words, which sent warm currents swirling through his belly, the investigator welcomed the shower of happiness that settled over him like a spring rain, wetting not only his eyelids, but his eyes as well

The fine drizzle wove a soft, dense net around the buildings, the trees, everything. He felt her reach out and take hold of his arm, heard a crisp click, and watched a pink umbrella snap open in her other hand and rise above them, covering their heads. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he put his arm around her waist and took the umbrella from her, like any considerate husband. He wondered where the umbrella had come from, but his suspicions were quickly driven away by happiness.

The sky was so dark and misty, he couldn’t tell if it was morning or afternoon. A watch would have helped, but his had been stolen by the little demon. The fine rain beat a light tattoo on the umbrella. It was a sweet but melancholy sound, like a fine French wine -sad, sentimental, anxious, worried. He wrapped his arm more tightly around her, until he could feel her cold, clammy skin under her satin pajamas; there was a gentle squirming in her stomach. Huddled closely together, they walked down the Brewer’s College asphalt path between rows of Chinese ilex trees, with their glistening leaves, like the orange nails of pretty girls. Milky white steam carrying the fragrance of burned coal rose from the towering mounds of coal outside the mine. The heavy air pushed back the hideous black smoke trying to force its way out of smokestacks, turning it into black dragons that coiled and writhed in the lowering sky.

They walked together out of the Brewer’s College compound and strolled arm-in-arm in the shade of the willow trees on the bank of a little river from which opaque steam and the fragrance of alcohol rose. From time to time, drooping willow branches scraped the nylon shell of the umbrella, sending large drops of rain skittering down across the ribs. The narrow path was covered by drenched golden-yellow leaves. Abruptly the interrogator lowered the umbrella and stared at the green willow branches.

‘How long have I been in Liquorland?’ he asked.

The lady trucker replied:

‘You’re asking me? Who do you expect me to ask?’

The investigator said:

‘This is no good. I must get to work.’

The corner of her mouth twitched. In a mocking tone, she said:

‘Without me, you'll never get to the bottom of anything.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘What is it with you?’ she said. ‘You’ve slept with me, and you don’t even know my name?’

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I asked, but you wouldn’t tell me.’

‘You never asked me.’

‘I sure did.’

‘No you didn’t.’ She kicked him. ‘You never asked.’

‘OK, OK, I never asked. So I’m asking now.’

‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘You’re Hunter and I’m Mickey. We’re partners. How’s that?’

‘Good old partner,’ he said, patting her on the waist, ‘where do we go now?’

‘What do you want to investigate first?’

‘A gang of rotten criminals, headed by your very own husband, who kill and eat infants.’

‘I’ll take you to see someone who knows everything there is to know here in Liquorland.’

‘Who?’

‘I won’t tell you unless you kiss me.’

He gave her a peck on the cheek.

‘I’ll take you to see the proprietor of Yichi Tavern, Yu Yichi.’

Arm-in-arm they strolled out onto Donkey Avenue under a dark sky; the investigator’s gut feeling told him that