The Republic of Wine

‘Now take me to your leaders.’
    Crewcut looked at his wristwatch.
    It’s a bit early to be going to see them now,’ he said.
    Ding Gou’er whipped out his ID card. I’m here on important business,’ he said truculently, ‘so don’t try to stop me.’
    Crewcut hesitated a moment, then said, ‘Let’s go.’
    Ding followed Crewcut out of the Security Section office and down a corridor lined with doors, beside which wooden name-plaques hung.
    ‘The offices of the Party Secretary and Mine Director aren’t in this building, I take it,’ he said.
    ‘Just come with me,’ Crewcut said. ‘You drank three glasses for me, so you don’t have to worry that I’ll lead you astray. If you hadn’t drunk those three glasses, I’d have taken you to the Party Secretary’s office and simply handed you over to his appointments secretary.’
    As they walked out of the building, he saw his face reflected dimly in the glass door and was shocked by the haggard, unfamiliar expression staring back at him. The hinges creaked when the door was opened, then sprang back and bumped him so hard on his backside that he stumbled forward. Crewcut reached out to steady him. The sunbeams were dizzyingly bright. His legs went wobbly, his hemorrhoids throbbed, his ears buzzed.
    ‘Am I drunk?’ he asked Crewcut.
    ‘You’re not drunk, Boss,’ Crewcut replied. ‘How could a superior individual like you be drunk? People around here who get drunk are the dregs of society, illiterates, uncouth people. Highbrow folks, those of the “spring snow,” cannot get drunk. You’re a highbrow, therefore, you cannot be drunk.’
    This impeccable logic completely won over Ding Gou’er, who tagged along behind the man as they passed through a clearing strewn with wooden logs. A bit bewildering, given the range of sizes. The thick logs were a couple of meters in diameter, the thin ones no more than two inches. Pine, birch, three kinds of oak, and some he couldn’t name. Possessed of scant botanical knowledge, he was happy to have recognized those few. The gouged, scarred logs reeked of alcohol. Weeds that were already beginning to wither had sprouted between and among the logs. A white moth fluttered lazily in the air. Black swallows soared overhead, looking slightly tipsy. He tried to wrap his arms around an old oak log, but it was too thick. When he thumped the dark red growth rings with his fist, liquid oozed out over his hand. He sighed.
    4 What a magnificent tree this was at one time!’ he remarked.
    ‘Last year a self-employed winemaker offered three thousand for it, but we wouldn’t sell,’ Crewcut volunteered.
    ‘What did he want it for?’
    ‘Wine casks,’ Crewcut answered. ‘You must use oak for high quality wine.’
    ‘You should have sold it to him. It isn’t worth anywhere near three thousand.’
    ‘We do not approve of self-employment. We’d let it rot before we’d support an entrepreneurial economy.’
    While Ding Gou’er was secretly applauding the Mount Luo Coal Mine’s keen awareness of the public ownership system, a couple of dogs were chasing each other around the logs, slipping and sliding as if slightly mad, or drunk. The larger one looked a little like the gate-house dog, but not too much. They scampered around one stack of logs, then another, as if trying to enter a primeval forest. Fresh mushrooms grew in profusion in the plentiful shade of the huge fallen oak, layers of oak leaves and peeled bark exuded the captivating smell of fermented acorn sap. On one of the logs, a mottled old giant, grew hundreds of fruits shaped like little babies: pink in color, facial features all in the right places, fair, gently wrinkled skin. And all of them boys, surprisingly, with darling little peckers all red and about the size of peanuts. Ding Gou’er shook his head to clear away the cobwebs; mysterious, spooky, devilish shadows flickered inside his head and spread outward. He reproached himself for wasting so much time at a place where he had no business spending any time at all. But then he had second thoughts. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I started this case, he was thinking, and I’ve already found a path through the maze - that’s damned efficient. His patience restored, he fell in behind the crewcut young man. Let’s see where he plans to take me.
    Passing by a stack of birchwood logs, he saw a forest of sunflowers. All those blossoms gazing up at the sun formed a patch of gold resting atop a