I Live in the Slums Read online

  My wife inclined her head, as though flames were shooting from that person’s eyes. She said to me, “This is truly surprising: I saw your mother in her eyes.”

  Nothing happened. She clumsily and slowly descended, and our gaze followed her into the distance. Why did she have to destroy our neighbors’ nest? It had been abandoned long ago. Was she threatening us?

  That night, my wife and I felt terribly lonely: we buried our heads in each other’s wings, and we each sensed a deep cavity in the other’s body. But after just a day passed, both of us felt stronger. We even went so far as to fly to the playground and wait for her to appear, but the school gardener didn’t show up again.

  Okay, let me talk some more about those people. There were more and more people, and they built houses along the little roads in front of and behind the school. Originally, there had been only two thatched cottages here, which seemed to belong to two school janitors. Now there were at least fifty houses with tile roofs. The residents were people whose identities were unclear. They didn’t like to talk, and their faces were expressionless. In the morning, each of them went out carrying a bag; men and women dressed the same. I had stopped over on their eaves and heard the din they made inside. They often came to blows inside the house, sometimes even breaking the windows and frightening me. But as soon as they went out, they turned taciturn and melancholy. I wondered what kind of work they did. Were they under a lot of pressure?

  My intuition told me that these people were hostile to us, and I said to my wife, “You were right to tell me not to provoke those people.”

  It didn’t occur to me that my wife would say, “These people aren’t the same as the people from before. We should get in touch with them.”

  I had always respected my wife; many of the things she said to me were predictions which were realized later. Then how was I to understand what she was saying now?

  I perched on the tile roofs and watched them and eavesdropped on their conversations, and when they flung the bags they were carrying onto the tables at outdoor bars, I went so far as to fly over right away and rummage in their bags. But my cleverness in such trivial matters didn’t do any good: I didn’t discover anything, and I had no idea what I should do to “get in touch with them.”

  I noticed that the way my wife treated these people was neither servile nor overbearing. She often went to the ditches near their homes to grab insects to eat. Sometimes she perched on their doors and watched cockfights.

  “Their passion for life went up a notch today,” she reported excitedly to me.

  But as I saw it, they didn’t have any passion for life. They merely had a kind of unusual pastime: to shut the door and fight (maybe it was a quarrel; I couldn’t get a good look at what was going on inside). What did my wife mean by their passion?

  “You’re really getting old. Didn’t you notice that they’re consuming more and more kerosene in their oil lamps?”

  “What oil lamps?”

  “The ones that light their homes at night.”

  Measuring the level of passion for life by the consumption of oil in the lamps? All at once, I got it. My wife was remarkable! Just think: these glum people were exhausted from working all day in the city. After eating and cleaning up, they lay down and went to sleep: that certainly didn’t count as feeling passionate about life. But now, they lit the oil lamps at home and engaged in all kinds of activities (I don’t know exactly what activities). Sure enough, this was a huge change!

  To verify this, my wife and I furtively flew over to the rooftops and squatted there. We heard explosive sounds ringing out of every house. Sometimes, bullets even flew out of their windows and whizzed in the air. Hearing all this, my wife and I were both frightened and excited. We wanted to fly away, and yet we also wanted to stay here longer . . . oh, what exciting nights those were! Wine bottles dropping and breaking! Oh, the odd cries unlike human sounds!

  After we returned home, my wife said, “We’re really lucky.” I remember that when she said this, we were distinctly aware that a huge monster had climbed our tree, and our nest was shaking violently. This had never happened before. My wife and I were thinking the same thing: this was revenge for our having eavesdropped on their indoor activities. In that moment, we could have flown away, but for some reason we didn’t move. We trembled in the nest, hoping that the thing would descend quickly.

  Later, something happened. We passed out, but we didn’t die. We were shaken out of the nest and fell to the ground. What kind of fierce beast was this?

  “It’s the school gardener,” my wife said.

  “Impossible!” I shouted. “The school gardener is just an old woman. How could she be so heavy? That thing is like an elephant. Look! The old poplar tree has been crushed and three branches were broken!”

  My wife said nothing. She was deep in thought, her expression absentminded.

  Maybe it really was the school gardener. Her hat had fallen under the tree. Maybe she was a shapeshifter.

  I flew several times toward the playground, but didn’t see her. Probably she had really retired.

  Our nest sustained a little damage, but we repaired it. The people living in the tile houses were quiet in the daytime: they went into the city quietly and returned quietly. On weekends, the women washed clothes, and the men dug some holes behind the houses, but we didn’t see them sow any seeds. My wife eventually joined them. Strutting, she landed on their table and on their stove. I shivered for her.

  These people still acted viciously toward me. When I tried to get close to them, they looked as if they were saying there was no need for me to exist in this world. I despaired.

  I began to miss the skinny woman from the pool in the small garden. Where had she gone? How could she have disappeared without a trace? She evidently wasn’t a teacher in the school, and she wasn’t part of this group of people. Could it be that she lived in the city?

  In the middle of the night, the houses caught fire, perhaps because someone had made too much of a disturbance and knocked over an oil lamp, igniting something flammable. This seemed the most likely to me. It was a magnificent sight: my wife and I perched on a poplar twig and took it all in. The conflagration turned half the sky red; even the school classrooms were illuminated. How could the fire be so big? It was as if people had dumped a large quantity of kerosene into the fire. Even harder to understand was that no one escaped. We didn’t see even one person on the road. My wife and I smelled scorched flesh. We were shaking. For some reason, we had an urge to fly into the fire, but we restrained ourselves.

  An hour passed, and then another hour. The fire was still roaring. What was happening? The fire kept changing. At first, it was golden yellow, then red, and at last—three or four hours later—an eerie greenish-blue. I don’t know where the flames came from, soaring so high. I suddenly had an idea: I was so scared that I fell down under the tree, because my whole body was paralyzed.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” my wife said softly beside me. “I’m thinking the same thing. It must be corpses that are burning. What else could it be?”

  I was speechless. I saw the raging flames and unexpectedly felt like crying. Was I really sympathizing with those people? Of course not: they didn’t need sympathy from me. I was nothing but a magpie. I moved alone slowly toward the nest. And so we endured a terrifying night—I staying in the nest, my wife staying outside.

  Not until the sun was high in the sky did my wife and I leave our nest. We flew over to the houses that lay in ruins. The fire had gone out earlier, yet traces of smoke were still visible. We jumped into the houses whose windows and doors had been incinerated, but they were vacant inside: there was no furniture, nor were there any people. My wife let out a loud sigh: “These people were so refreshing!”

  In fact, that’s what I thought, too, but I had never been able to express it as precisely as she did.

  People wouldn’t live here again for a long time. I was depressed.

  When my wife and I flew ove
r to the public toilet, we saw a familiar figure. That’s right: it was the school gardener. She was scooping out the holes the men had dug; these holes covered the entire area of residences on this street. She focused on loosening the mud in the holes with a rake. We furtively flew behind her to have a look. What we saw was inconceivable: inserted into each hole were several white bones—some big, some small. They stood like mushrooms.

  I was stunned. I couldn’t help but screech. The old woman had turned toward me. As soon as she saw me, I calmed down. She looked both startled and admiring. Evidently, my reaction wasn’t as bad as it could have been; she seemed to understand me. And, surprisingly, my wife’s expression was exactly the same as hers!

  Ha-ha—Is the story I’ve told today long enough? I’ll stop here and continue tomorrow.

  THE OLD CICADA

  A heatwave rolled into the city, and reports of elderly heatstroke victims streamed in continually. Sirens wailed, and pet dogs lay panting in the shade.

  It was much better in the suburbs, where tall poplars and willows provided shade. All day long, cicadas sang in the trees. After it rained, toads chimed in with their bass voices. The numerous sparrows and magpies leapt lightheartedly among the branches and in the thickets. All of them affectionately shared their food, with only occasional brief clashes. Magpie couples were living on the crowns of a few old sky-skimming poplars. A little lower was the cicadas’ paradise. Not far away were picturesque multistory buildings. The cicadas sang continuously, never interrupted by the glum people going in and out of these buildings. Their loud singing was proud, intense, and aggressive, filled with the high spirits prompted by the summer heat. It’s true that some people were deeply annoyed by these singers. They glared with hatred at the old poplar tree above the bicycle shed. But what could they do? Year after year, the cicadas had a symbiotic relationship with the poplars and willows. The cicadas could be destroyed only if you cut down all the large trees. And if you did that, the temperature of the residential district would rise many degrees. The cicadas didn’t know this. They sang from an excess of enthusiasm—because of love, because of the urge to procreate. They drank their fill of the sap generously provided by the large trees and found the blazing heat wonderful. Especially when the humidity rose, the thickening layers of clouds hinted at a certain ancient memory, and they burst into song. Their leader was generally the elderly cicada squatting on the highest branch. The other cicadas admired him greatly, and even the magpie couples listened attentively to his song. Before long, the chorus rose like surging waves and occupied the sky above.

  The old cicada, whose body was both dark and bright, had sturdy wings, but seldom used them. He always stayed in the same place—the strong branch a little below the magpies’ nest. He was a loner, immersed in memories. He had stayed underground for a long time—precisely eight years, according to the magpie couple. Everyone knew he was very old. Still, his energy hadn’t diminished. But why was he so solitary? Was he still living in his memories, sensing neither the fellows all around nor the vast blue sky? Cicadas seldom live underground for eight years. That time had completely shaped his character.

  He was an old bachelor who’d never had a love life. After eight years, he had emerged from under the ground, climbed up the tree, and assumed his present form. Everyone felt that he was extraordinary.

  It was an extremely hot and humid day. Even in the suburbs, people were sweltering. Air conditioners buzzed, and people were light-headed. Going outside was like plunging into a huge oven. The corner of the bicycle shed on one side was cooler, but because of the intense sunlight and the still air, the large trees still seemed tense, and the old bachelor just stayed where he was. His thoughts entered a place beyond his colony. He felt a little sentimental and a little distracted. He quietly lifted his right leg, and suddenly heard a jumble of singing all around. The racket surprised him a little, because he had never paid attention to this singing. He lowered his head and thought. And then, faltering and stumbling, he began to sing. He thought that his song was a little different this time. Everyone else stopped singing. His voice seemed strange even to him, yet he went on with even less restraint. As soon as he stopped singing, the chorus between heaven and earth rose. The old bachelor almost fainted. Of course he didn’t feel ill. Quite the opposite: he was extremely moved and joyful.

  This was how he became the cantor. And although he was the cantor, he was still a loner. He didn’t talk with anyone and closed himself off.

  He knew that some of the residents here wanted to get rid of him. Some people lingered at the foot of the tree for a long time, eyeing his branch. And a young kid always aimed a precisely calibrated slingshot at him. The pellets had whizzed by him many times—and each time the old bachelor felt empty inside. He didn’t know how to avoid humans’ hostility, for he had never avoided anything. He was still calm as he led the chorus. It was only when a pellet flew by that he suddenly stopped for a second. Then, once more, he continued. There were so many of his kind, and all of them listened respectfully to him and followed him. How could he slack off? When he thought of the colony, his golden legs and belly emitted dazzling white light, and he would grow very excited. At such times, people would mistake him for a meteor.

  There were so many cicadas in the courtyard in this apartment complex, and people didn’t welcome their singing. But they felt entitled to sing under the beautiful sky. They wouldn’t change for humans. Trees—both large and small—were immersed in their passionate singing. The trees voluntarily provided the cicadas with food; they loved these little living things. Although the old bachelor didn’t interact with his fellows, he felt anxious about their future. From his perch, the highest, he scanned the area and saw their silhouettes in the massed green leaves. He felt that they trusted this secular existence and were content with it. Yet this was precisely his greatest worry, though he had no way to transmit it to the others. Singing was the only way he could communicate with them. From the beginning, he had been strict and cautious, never talking with anyone. He was stately, admired by the younger ones. His branch was his alone. From the time he began leading the chorus, everyone had loved him, but none dared approach him, much less discuss anything with him.

  From that branch, he could see in all directions. He had been aware of the spider for a long time, and this discovery certainly didn’t make him happy. In the corner of the bicycle shed, the spider had spun a large web between the eaves and an old wall. On the other side of the wall was a storage room heaped with blurry indeterminate gray things. Most of the time, the old spider hid behind the storage room’s wooden window frame. When his quarry was caught in the web, he would pounce like lightning and do away with the victim in fewer than thirty seconds. Insect remains were scattered under the gloomy gray web. Inside the victim were flies, ladybugs, grasshoppers, and other insects. Occasionally, there were cicadas, too. The old bachelor had already seen one of his fellows murdered. He would remember that as long as he lived. He was depressed for two days. He even flew to the willow tree next to the shed and looked carefully at the remains on the ground. While he was doing that, he thudded to the ground. Then he stood up and slowly circled the pile of things. It was like mourning, and it was like a search. When he flew away, the air he fanned like a small whirlybird echoed heavily. The spider behind the wooden window frame inclined its head, thinking about this mystery, and reached no conclusion.

  The old toad finally died at the hands of the kid with the slingshot. It was raining a little that day. Beneath its large stone, the toad poured out its memories of love. This disturbed the entire apartment complex for most of the night. At sunrise, the toad was still filled with so much ardor that it actually jumped to the foot of the tree. Three pellets in a row hit and killed it. The youngster cheered and took away its carcass. The cicadas could not comprehend why, though they had heard of people eating toads. Even so, the old bachelor didn’t think the toad’s fate was a sad one. Someone who had been so passionate all night long must h
ave experienced genuine blessings. The cicada’s song became clearer and lighter. The other cicadas were a little surprised, and then they cheered up. After the rain, the chorus was irresistible.

  The spider’s huge web caught two more cicadas, inexperienced young explorers. The old bachelor watched the spider deal with them like lightning. But the victims couldn’t have suffered too much, since the spider’s poison was very strong.

  The old bachelor made strange, broken sounds in the direction of his fellow cicadas. But he remained aloof. His fellows could understand only his singing, so no one responded. A young female cicada fell into the web; the old bachelor heard her brief, distinct moans, and fell into a trance for days: What did her moans really mean? Sometimes, he thought it was suffering; sometimes, he thought it was not only suffering but also a certain kind of extreme excitement. Could the female cicada have sought her own destruction? He felt numb all over. He saw the leering youth approach. He dodged, and the pellet whizzed past him. When he’d encountered this in the past, he’d been calm. But this time he agonized.

  Why was he drawn to the slingshot? Had he felt this temptation in the past or had it come upon him just now? He tried to call out. Once, twice, three times—his voice was stiff and dry. Not one person noticed this. Even the youth with the slingshot was only briefly distracted, and then he walked away indifferently. The old bachelor was ashamed. In order to understand the temptation, he stopped singing for three days and let himself drift. He slept and awakened, awakened and slept, and he always heard the call of the toad that the youth had killed. Its calls were shockingly loud. Each time he opened his eyes, he saw dazzling light flashing between heaven and earth. It made him dizzy, and he had to close his eyes. Ah. How could the toad be so strong? When he closed his eyes, he even saw the old toad approach him, as if it wanted to pass on to him a mysterious affection. Its protruding eyes seemed extremely eager. When he opened his eyes, the toad had vanished.