I Live in the Slums Read online

  It was raining. Still dazed, the bachelor didn’t hear the thunder, nor was he aware of the heavy rain falling on him. He didn’t know how much time had passed when the southeast wind carried the indistinct sounds of the old toad and his fellow cicadas’ singing. It was strange, he thought, that the two different songs could harmonize. It was even stranger when he considered that it hadn’t stopped raining, so where were they singing? As he listened more attentively, he thought the singing was coming from between deep layers of clouds. When he looked through the curtain of rain, he saw that the old spider on the wooden window frame was also absorbed in looking at the rain. He seemed to see himself in the old spider’s manner.

  The remains under the spiderweb attracted the residents of the complex. The old bachelor’s remains were quite unusual. Although they had already broken into four pieces, if you reassembled the pieces, it was still a complete cicada—and his body was twice the size of ordinary cicadas. But his head had vanished. What sort of fierce fight had taken place?

  The spider had vanished, too. The youth had seen the spider, and he looked for it behind the wooden window frame, but found no trace of it. He thought to himself, Could they have died together? Where had the cicada’s head gone?

  The cicadas’ chorus rose again. The young cantor’s voice was jerky and faltering. He sang hesitantly for a short while and then stopped, and the whole chorus slumped into silence. Then this unusually prolonged silence was broken abruptly by an enthusiastic chorus like the surf. It had never been silent before. Was this silence an awakening? All the cicadas turned their gaze toward that high branch. A grotesque old cicada stood in that familiar place. Everyone saw the gigantic head and the disproportionately small body. It was he: he had struggled to come back. He had grown another body and was concentrating on developing that body. His fellow cicadas knew that if he put his mind to it, he would succeed.

  Then what was the significance of his body breaking apart? Maybe in those split seconds, he was demonstrating this to his opponent, and letting the sense of ultimate emptiness deflate its arrogance? Or the opposite: Was he regarding the spider as his witness, and would he reveal to it the secret of rebirth? Some young cicadas inspected below the spiderweb. They were thinking to themselves that no matter what kind of fight it was, it veiled a frightening suicidal instinct. They thought it was heroic and moving, and they also found it quite stimulating.

  The old cicada didn’t have time to complete growing his new body before the season changed. He squatted unmoving on the branch all day long. He dreamed of tender leaves, of flower petals, of the tadpoles in the ditches and the water lilies in the mountain ponds. Since he had lost his amplifier, he had no way to communicate his ardor to the other cicadas, but in the last days before the chill of autumn, he sensed an unusual happiness every day. He could see whatever he wanted to see. Without even turning his head, he saw the newly arrived pair of magpies cavorting in the small garden. Sometimes, he would also think of the spider, and when he did, his new little legs would exude some poisonous juices, and he would weakly call out. He was murmuring, “Who is the spider? Isn’t it simply me . . . ?”

  He became cemented to that branch.

  The autumn wind destroyed the spiderweb and blew away the old cicada’s remains. At last the sweltering heat subsided. The lonely poplar leaves took on a nostalgic yellow color. Now only the magpies and sparrows were still singing. They sang brokenly, off and on, artlessly, forgettably. What those old poplars remembered was the majestic, splendid chorus. Sometimes when the chilly wind blew in, they couldn’t help humming a little, but—startled by their own voices—they returned to their silence and their daydreaming. The youth with the slingshot passed by under the poplars, his expression complicated by his bizarre thoughts.

  THE SWAMP

  There actually was a swamp right in this big concrete forest of a city. Older people could still remember it. Ayuan wasn’t old, but he knew of the swamp from hearing Uncle Sang talk about it occasionally.

  One night after drinking too much, Uncle Sang was about to fall asleep as he sprawled over a big square table. Ayuan was chatting excitedly with the waiter about going into a small business together, when Uncle Sang sat up straight and started shaking Ayuan’s arm. He yelled, “You have to be broad-minded in order to see the bigger picture! Everything I told you before was true! We mustn’t let superficial things blur our vision . . . You, Liuma: you’re a waiter here, but you’re a schemer; you’re too ambitious, and you aren’t broad-minded. Why are you tugging at me? I have to get it all out; there won’t be another chance!” He flung Ayuan’s hand off.

  In the blink of an eye, Liuma vanished. Waving an arm, Uncle Sang shouted, “He’s gone into hiding! This schemer—he’s gone off to hide in a place you would never think of!”

  It took all of Ayuan’s strength to drag Uncle Sang out of the bar. They turned into a long alley; Uncle Sang’s home was at the end of the alley.

  That evening, all the lights in the alley were out. Ayuan groped his way ahead in the dark. Uncle Sang stopped walking and grabbed hold of a streetlight.

  “Damn you. Where are you taking me?”

  “Your home. It’s just ahead.”

  “I want to go to the swamp. That’s where Liuma is hiding. You’re panicky, aren’t you? You’ve never heard of that place, have you? I’m telling you: the swamp is ahead on the right, under the Grand Theater! Take a look at those two stars: they’ve risen from the swamp.”

  Ayuan looked up: two stars really were stuck to the wall of that high structure. They weren’t neon lights; they were real stars, glittering brightly. How could stars be on the wall? Two tall figures approached—Uncle Sang’s two moody sons. They dragged him home, one supporting him on each side. Their footsteps sounded as if they were trampling through concrete.

  Ayuan counted the days. Twenty-four days had passed since that night. He’d been exploring clues to the swamp all along. One night, he and an old trash collector were squatting in a small shed in a shantytown that would soon be demolished. The shed didn’t even have a chair, much less a kerosene lamp.

  “Listen, they’re coming in!” the old guy said.

  “What?”

  “Piglets. They’re a bunch of spiritual creatures, going from door to door.”

  Ayuan heard the pigs’ breath and stretched out a hand to touch them—and felt their drenched and warm bodies. There were five or six of them. Slimy and sour-smelling, they were presumably very dirty. Coming into physical contact with them made Ayuan happy.

  “They’re from the swamp. They’re the only ones who can go back and forth frequently. If an ordinary person goes there just once, he’ll end up half-dead from exhaustion, but they go back and forth . . .”

  “Can you tell me how to get there? I don’t mind exerting myself.”

  “No one can tell you. Something like this can’t be taught.”

  “Is it under the theater?”

  “Yes. And also under the playgrounds and each and every building. In ancient times, this city of ours was a swamp. Now it’s only these piglets that can locate the road that runs through there. But tonight they’ve come back, so you’d better wait for another opportunity.”

  The old guy had stood up and gone outside. The piglets huddled around Ayuan for warmth. As Ayuan petted them, he felt a deep sense of brotherly affection. Leaning against the wall, he sat on a board and let the piglets wriggle around his legs. He planned to keep his eyes on these piglets and follow them to the place where he longed to go. After a while, he fell asleep. Halfway through

  the night, the piglets made a ruckus when two people entered the room. But the people, who seemed to be beggars, left soon, and the piglets clustered around Ayuan again.

  When he awakened at dawn, the piglets were gone, leaving no trace of their ever having been in the room. Ayuan recalled what the old trash collector had said: “They’re a bunch of spiritual creatures, going from door to door.”

  Another night, when Ayuan wa
s in a brothel, the prostitute named Fragrance whispered to him, “Ayuan, if you die so young, what will people think?”

  “I never said I was planning to die,” Ayuan retorted.

  “Maybe not, but you’re acting like someone who will die tomorrow.”

  “You’re mistaken, Fragrance. I still haven’t gone to the swamp. Why would I want to die?”

  As soon as he mentioned the swamp, Fragrance looked blank. She stole quietly out of the bed and sat to one side.

  She told Ayuan to pay up.

  Handing her some money, Ayuan left her room without a word and walked out of the brothel.

  Much to his surprise, when he looked back, the brothel had retreated into the distance and was separated from him by a vast wasteland. In the wasteland, several birds were making bloodcurdling calls. Was this the swamp? No, it wasn’t. He heard cars starting up, and a car was driving over from the wasteland. And then another car drove past. Ayuan thought, The brothel is in the suburbs. He had never noticed there was such a large wasteland.

  A car stopped beside him, and Uncle Sang’s tall younger son got out.

  “Get in. I’ll give you a lift,” he said.

  The car sped to the city center. It was after midnight. Looking out the window, Ayuan saw that the entire city was dark; even the streetlights were off. He didn’t dare ask where they were going, but inwardly he was secretly hoping.

  “We’re here,” the younger son said softly.

  Ayuan got out, and the car took off at once.

  At the side of the road, he gazed around for a while: he could see the supermarket and the movie theater. As if emerging from the underground, a scalper appeared in front of him. Ayuan was so startled that he shivered.

  “Want a ticket?”

  He paid and walked unsteadily into the movie theater.

  A crocodile took up all the space on the screen. You couldn’t see the background or hear any sound. You could see only close-ups of every part of its body projected over and over again. It was boring. Ayuan sensed that the place was full. An old woman sitting next to him whispered, “Do you want to see Night in the Swamp? I can take you to see it.”

  Crouching, they made their way out, Ayuan following close behind the old woman.

  Before they had walked very far, the old woman sat down on a wall outside the theater. She said, “I’m out of breath. I can’t stand being even a little keyed up. Why are you standing? Sit down. You’re blocking my view.”

  Ayuan sat down and took hold of the bony hand she extended.

  Just then, they heard noise from the theater: a battle seemed to be starting on the screen. Someone shouted hysterically.

  “When we parted beside the hot springs, both of us knew it was forever,” she said abruptly.

  “Who?”

  “My lover and I. Actually, how could anyone think it was a hot spring? It was merely the swamp, that’s all. The sun shone all day, and the sunbaked water was hot. I was actually afraid of leeches—wasn’t that ridiculous? I learned a lot at that place. I think it’s located at—”

  “Located where?”

  “Nowhere. No one place is right.” She forced a smile. “But that’s where I was from. See, I’m missing two fingers on this hand because they were damaged by leeches. When you sat down just now in the theater, I knew what you were looking for. You found the right person.”

  “So can you take me there?”

  “Where? That place no longer exists. It disappeared. It’s gone, just as my fingers are. Only two empty spots remain.”

  “Tell me about ‘the night in the swamp’ that you and your lover experienced.”

  “We did have a night like that, but I can’t remember it. It’s only some specks in my memory.”

  Ayuan stroked her hand, the one missing two fingers; he wanted to ask her some more questions, and yet he would rather let her talk of these things on her own.

  “At this hour of the night, I can see far into the distance. If no one blocks me, I can see as far as the borderland. Although I have those specks in my memory, I don’t care at all. Look, that crocodile is looking up.”

  “Please continue.”

  The old woman’s head drooped to her chest, and she made no sound. Ayuan shook her twice, but she still didn’t move. Ayuan stood up and looked ahead, but nothing lay in that direction. Only the dark night. In the theater, a beast roared, probably a tiger.

  Ayuan left the entrance to the theater and walked aimlessly ahead. He was a little uneasy. He thought that just now, when he was with the old woman at the entrance to the theater, he must have gone to the swamp. He simply couldn’t see it. Tomorrow night, he would go somewhere else and try again to find it.

  He went to the bar again, but didn’t see Liuma there. Liuma was on vacation. A young woman with big eyes was taking his place. She looked agonized.

  She sat down and asked Ayuan to buy her a drink. Her mind was somewhere else while she stared at the wineglass.

  “They put too much pressure on him,” she said.

  “Do you mean Liuma?” Ayuan asked nervously.

  “No, I mean myself. I always refer to myself as ‘he.’ Although this is a little frightening to ‘him,’ it also has an advantage, for ‘he’ can go all out in struggles. Back in my home village, this isn’t unusual. If a person goes all out in struggling with a crocodile, the person is likely to win.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Two o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “It was night when I arrived. Why am I still here?”

  “You’re the one who’s been hanging around. These empty bottles are all yours.”

  “Who are those folks?” he asked, pointing at two sneaky people wearing white straw hats.

  “Lower your voice a little. They’re outsiders who raise turtles. They arrived in the morning and they’ve been waiting for you ever since.”

  Ayuan stood up, excited, and walked over to them.

  Flustered, one of them stuffed something into his bag.

  “Hello! I’m ready to go with you now,” Ayuan said.

  The two of them exchanged glances and smiled. One after the other, they walked out of the bar. Ayuan noticed that they were dark and emaciated. They looked like mountain people. Did they raise turtles on the mountain?

  The young woman accompanied him to the door and whispered, “What they raise isn’t turtles, it’s a kind of scorpion that lives in water.”

  The three of them walked in the old part of the city—in and out of small winding alleys. They walked a long way, and Ayuan became fidgety. He wondered if they were trying to confuse him. Ayuan used to be familiar with the old part of town. But he hadn’t been there for a long time, and the flagstone paths and two-story wooden buildings made him feel like a stranger. At last, they stopped in front of a three-story red brick building with a sign saying, “Wedding Photos.” Ayuan was certain he’d never been here before.

  After entering the photography studio, the mountain people said they had to go to the toilet. They left Ayuan behind.

  The photographer had a mouthful of black teeth, and his gaze was sharp as a knife. Under the light, a girl heavily made up with white powder and wearing a flashy red satin gown sat motionless as she posed.

  “Could you please carry on a conversation with this bride? She doesn’t look animated enough,” the photographer said to Ayuan.

  Just as Ayuan was about to ask the bride something, to his surprise she spoke first.

  “How did you happen to find this place? It’s a secret spot, and if no one brought you here, no way you’d have gotten in! You’re in luck. Maybe you can even see the great escape! Who brought you here?”

  “Two people who raise turtles,” Ayuan said.

  “Oh, I see. The two scumbags!” the new bride said through her teeth.

  The photographer pressed the shutter and shouted, “Perfect!”

  The door creaked, and the two mountain people entered. The bride’s face was instantly devoid of expressio
n. She sat there unmoving, like a puppet.

  Ayuan kept staring at her face. The more he gazed at her, the more familiar she looked. Who was she? She was here alone having her wedding photo taken. Where was the bridegroom? The mountain person with the droopy eyes spoke up.

  “You think she looks familiar, don’t you? All the people who live here seem to look familiar. At first, I wasn’t used to this. I come here often. This young woman lives next to the White Sands Well—in the house with a copper bell on the door.”

  Frowning and waving his hand, the photographer said, “All of you get out of here. Leave, will you? The bride isn’t in a good mood. I can’t photograph her now!”

  The mountain people stuck their tongues out and glided away. Ayuan stood there blankly, still thinking to himself, Who is she? The bride continued sitting like a puppet.

  “Huh? What are you waiting for? If you don’t leave soon, you won’t find the exit!” the photographer urged him.

  As if wandering in a dream, Ayuan walked out of the photography studio. The corridor was so long that he couldn’t see the end of it. For a while, he walked ahead without thinking. Then he turned to the right, hoping to see the exit. He bumped into someone; that wasn’t the exit, but the corner of the staircase. The person he had bumped into was the bride—still in the red satin gown. The ice-cold satin looked inauspicious and frightened Ayuan.

  “Ayuan, don’t go,” she said. Her voice had become thin and feeble.

  “How did you know my name?”

  “Those two people told me. Now you can’t go out. They brought you in and never intended to let you leave. This is a large place; you mustn’t wander around aimlessly. Let’s sit on the stairs and wait for nightfall.”

  “Is it dangerous here?”

  “Yes. Hurry up and sit down.”

  Ayuan smelled the powder on her face.

  “Are you going to be married soon?” he asked.

  “Married?” She began laughing. “No way. I’ll never get married.”

  Ayuan heard footsteps on the stairs and twisted his head to look, but it was like a black hole above.