said:
âYou folks wait, Iâll run out there and run right back.â
âBe careful they donât catch you and beat you up,â Seventh Uncle cautioned him.
The little stove repairman was already out the door. A gust of cold wind blew in, nearly snuffing out the lamp.
The stove repairman came rushing back in, gasping for air. A gust of cold wind nearly snuffed out the lamp. He gazed at me with the look of a simpleton, as if heâd seen a ghost. Seventh Aunt asked with a sarcastic grin:
âWhat did you see?â
The stove repairman turned and said:
âFantastic, fantastic, Little Fish is an immortal, he can see everything.â
The stove repairman said that everything was exactly as I had described it. The banquet had taken place at the Branch Secretaryâs house. Heâd climbed the low wall to see.
Seventh Aunt said:
âI donât believe it.â
The little stove repairman went outside to get a frozen sheepâs head, which he held up to show Seventh Aunt. One look stopped Seventh Auntâs hiccups.
That night we busied ourselves with cleaning the sheepâs head before tossing it into the pot. Our thoughts were on liquor as the sheepâs head stewed. Seventh Aunt was the one who came up with the idea: Drink ethyl alcohol
Seventh Uncle, a veterinarian, had a bottle of alcohol he used as a disinfectant. Needless to say, we diluted it with water.
Thus began an arduous tempering process.
People who grow up on industrial alcohol will shy away from no alcoholic drinks.
Sad to say, the little stove repairman and Seventh Uncle went blind.
He raised his arm to look at his wristwatch. Dear students, he said, thatâs the end of todayâs lecture.
Chapter Two
I
The Mine Director and Party Secretary stood facing him; they were holding their left arms bent across their chests, their right arms thrust out, palms straight, like a pair of professional traffic policemen. Their faces were so alarmingly alike they seemed to serve as one anotherâs mirror. Between them lay a path, about a meter wide and covered with a scarlet carpet, which intersected with a floodlit corridor. Ding Gouâerâs heroic mettle vanished in the face of this genuine show of courtesy, and as he cowered near the two dignitaries, he did not know if he should step forward. Their cordial looks were like redolent grease assailing his nostrils, getting thicker by the moment and not lessened or diluted by Ding Gouâerâs hesitancy. The gods never speak - how true that is. But while the men didnât speak, their bearing was more infectious and more powerful than the sweetest, most honeyed words ever spoken, and they left you powerless to resist. Partly because he felt he had to, and partly because he was so grateful, Ding Gouâer stepped in front of the Mine Director and Party Secretary, who immediately fell in behind him, the three men forming a triangle. The corridor seemed endless. This baffled Ding Gouâer, for he clearly recalled the layout of the place: Only a dozen or so rooms occupied the space enclosed by sunflowers, too few to accommodate a corridor this long. Every three paces a pair of red lamps shaped like torches hung on facing walls covered with milky white wallpaper. The brass hands holding the torches were shiny bright and remarkably lifelike, as if protruding through the walls themselves. With growing trepidation he imagined two lines of bronze men standing on the other side; walking down the red-carpeted corridor was like marching between a phalanx of armed guards. Iâve become a prisoner, and the Party Secretary and Mine Director are my military escort. Ding Gouâerâs heart skipped a beat as cracks opened in his brain to let in a few threads of cool reason. He reminded himself of the importance of his mission, his sacred duty. Playing house with a young female hadnât prevented him from carrying out this sacred duty, but drinking might.
âYou folks wait, Iâll run out there and run right back.â
âBe careful they donât catch you and beat you up,â Seventh Uncle cautioned him.
The little stove repairman was already out the door. A gust of cold wind blew in, nearly snuffing out the lamp.
The stove repairman came rushing back in, gasping for air. A gust of cold wind nearly snuffed out the lamp. He gazed at me with the look of a simpleton, as if heâd seen a ghost. Seventh Aunt asked with a sarcastic grin:
âWhat did you see?â
The stove repairman turned and said:
âFantastic, fantastic, Little Fish is an immortal, he can see everything.â
The stove repairman said that everything was exactly as I had described it. The banquet had taken place at the Branch Secretaryâs house. Heâd climbed the low wall to see.
Seventh Aunt said:
âI donât believe it.â
The little stove repairman went outside to get a frozen sheepâs head, which he held up to show Seventh Aunt. One look stopped Seventh Auntâs hiccups.
That night we busied ourselves with cleaning the sheepâs head before tossing it into the pot. Our thoughts were on liquor as the sheepâs head stewed. Seventh Aunt was the one who came up with the idea: Drink ethyl alcohol
Seventh Uncle, a veterinarian, had a bottle of alcohol he used as a disinfectant. Needless to say, we diluted it with water.
Thus began an arduous tempering process.
People who grow up on industrial alcohol will shy away from no alcoholic drinks.
Sad to say, the little stove repairman and Seventh Uncle went blind.
He raised his arm to look at his wristwatch. Dear students, he said, thatâs the end of todayâs lecture.
Chapter Two
I
The Mine Director and Party Secretary stood facing him; they were holding their left arms bent across their chests, their right arms thrust out, palms straight, like a pair of professional traffic policemen. Their faces were so alarmingly alike they seemed to serve as one anotherâs mirror. Between them lay a path, about a meter wide and covered with a scarlet carpet, which intersected with a floodlit corridor. Ding Gouâerâs heroic mettle vanished in the face of this genuine show of courtesy, and as he cowered near the two dignitaries, he did not know if he should step forward. Their cordial looks were like redolent grease assailing his nostrils, getting thicker by the moment and not lessened or diluted by Ding Gouâerâs hesitancy. The gods never speak - how true that is. But while the men didnât speak, their bearing was more infectious and more powerful than the sweetest, most honeyed words ever spoken, and they left you powerless to resist. Partly because he felt he had to, and partly because he was so grateful, Ding Gouâer stepped in front of the Mine Director and Party Secretary, who immediately fell in behind him, the three men forming a triangle. The corridor seemed endless. This baffled Ding Gouâer, for he clearly recalled the layout of the place: Only a dozen or so rooms occupied the space enclosed by sunflowers, too few to accommodate a corridor this long. Every three paces a pair of red lamps shaped like torches hung on facing walls covered with milky white wallpaper. The brass hands holding the torches were shiny bright and remarkably lifelike, as if protruding through the walls themselves. With growing trepidation he imagined two lines of bronze men standing on the other side; walking down the red-carpeted corridor was like marching between a phalanx of armed guards. Iâve become a prisoner, and the Party Secretary and Mine Director are my military escort. Ding Gouâerâs heart skipped a beat as cracks opened in his brain to let in a few threads of cool reason. He reminded himself of the importance of his mission, his sacred duty. Playing house with a young female hadnât prevented him from carrying out this sacred duty, but drinking might.
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