I Live in the Slums Page 6

  The brothers lowered their voices. They weren’t fighting, but seemed to be settling accounts. I was feeling awful. Was I the one who was going to die after all? My mouth and throat began swelling. My tongue changed into a large immovable stone. “Three times five is fifteen,” the younger brother said. “Yes, subtract fifteen,” the older brother answered. He went on, “How many days do you think he has lived in our home?” The younger brother mumbled as he calculated. Were they calculating my age or when I would die? All of a sudden, I realized that I couldn’t roll my eyes. My gaze was fixed on the wall in front of me. A red scorpion on that wall crawled slowly toward me. Was he an assassin? I had no idea, because my vision was blurring. The scorpion grew bigger and bigger, and more and more frightening. Next, something stung my nose, and I blacked out.

  After I came to, the first thing I heard them say was: “Ricky has thirty days left.” My heart sank, and everything went black before my eyes, but I relaxed again right away. I felt comfortable from head to foot, and the swelling had subsided. I looked again. The one who had died wasn’t I, but the red scorpion—it had flattened out and was stuck to the ground. Life had faded from its body. The older brother picked it up with tongs and threw it into the garbage.

  They went out. The house was quiet, and I squatted there remembering the eye and the long thing that I had just swallowed down. All of a sudden, without turning my head, I saw a house mouse behind me. How strange this was: I was seeing with my back. There was an eye in my back! Was it that eye? It must be! On alert, the house mouse had emerged from the hole. After making sure no people were at home, he climbed up to the stove and ate all my food. The house mouse simply ignored me and swaggered back to the hole. Luckily, I didn’t feel hungry. I still felt quite nauseous. They had said I still had “thirty days.” What did that mean? I had heard the saying that one day was equal to a year. So did thirty days mean thirty years? I had no idea. I was frantic: Was a fatal event about to occur? I looked into the garbage can and was stunned! The scorpion not only hadn’t died, its body was inflating: it was four or five times as big as it used to be. It stood up and clawed its way up the edge of the can. It was going to come out! I immediately dashed across, opened the door, and ran outside. I certainly didn’t intend to be stung by him a second time!

  I had hardly turned into the street when I ran into the two brothers. The older one grabbed me by the ear and said, “Ricky has come out, and so he has one fewer day.” They ordered me to go home. I walked in front. Behind me, they were slapping each other. When I reached the door, I turned around and saw them clutching each other by the chest and squatting on the ground without moving as if they had congealed. With their four eyes so close together, I wondered if each brother would now see the other’s eyes. But when I burrowed between them, I saw that each brother’s eyes were still seeing only his own eyes, and they were acting as if no one else were present. I didn’t get it. The large scorpion had walked out and was near the door frame. All of a sudden, the two brothers let go of each other and stood up. The scorpion swaggered out the door as if drunk and turned right. I didn’t know where it was going. The younger brother said in a low voice, “Ricky went to call on someone.” Huh? Were they calling the scorpion “Ricky”? Was it because the scorpion had eaten things inside me and thus had changed into something much like me?

  Finally, I went back inside. Well, after all, there was no place like home. I climbed up to the stove to take a nap, for I was exhausted. Just as I was closing my eyes, I saw a terrifying scene: outside the window that furtive black cat was eating the red scorpion! This was so scary, so sickening! The scorpion’s back leg was still struggling outside his mouth. The cat twisted his neck a few times and swallowed the whole scorpion. This scene was so ugly that I was now fully awake. All at once, I sensed that my entire body had become eyes, for not only could I see ahead, but I could also see behind myself, and not only could I see the exterior, but I could also see the interior. For example, I saw the scorpion continuing to struggle in the cat’s belly. And looking at myself, in my abdominal cavity an eye was wrapped in membrane—the very eye that I had swallowed. So the scorpion hadn’t died, and before long it would make its way out of the cat’s stomach. I didn’t dare watch any longer. I closed my eyes. But this was even worse, for I saw so many people and events inside myself. There was the pasture, and on the turf were countless holes. From each and every one of the holes, others of my species were sticking out their heads and watching. An eagle flew past—an eagle so large it covered the sun. An animal—it appeared to be something between a rat and a crow—was flying and running on the grasslands. He didn’t fly high: he seemed to stick close to the underbrush and skate there. I didn’t want to watch, but these scenes wouldn’t go away. I wondered how that poor little thing had escaped the eagle’s evil clutches. Before long, the eagle swept downward, and all the scenery disappeared. But the immense blank space did not disappear: it was a dazzling white. I could faintly hear an infant wailing. The younger brother said, “Look at how soundly Ricky is sleeping. He must not be dreaming at all. I’d bet on that.” The older brother asked, “What do you want to bet?” “Your wheelbarrow. Come on over and you’ll see.”

  I wasn’t asleep. Or maybe I was. Anyhow, I kept looking at my insides. I wasn’t tired. Although everything disappeared later, with only dazzling whiteness in front of me, I smelled the wind on the grasslands and a hint of animal skins. When that house mouse woke me up, I was throwing myself into the embrace of what I thought was Grandpa’s shadow. The house mouse bit me in the butt, almost drawing blood. His eyes shone: his objective was clear. His eyes differed from those of our clan. Why had he come here? To eat my food, that’s why. When he saw no food on the stove, he bit me. This house mouse was unusual. He actually thought I was his food and that he could take a bite whenever he wanted to. I glared at him, and he glared at me. He wasn’t one bit afraid of me. When he saw that I was awake, he knew he couldn’t eat me, and so—enraged—he jumped down to the floor. Though he patrolled once more around the house, he still found nothing to eat. Then he retreated unwillingly into his hole. I started thinking about this house mouse. He had been living in this house from the very beginning. Was he a mutation of my species? Of course he was. I could tell that just by looking at the shape of his eyes, though his expression was different. Probably he had shrunk to such a small size because of the changed circumstances. My clan and my ancestors had never eaten our compatriots, yet he didn’t observe this taboo. He considered me his food. Sure, I guess he didn’t consider me his compatriot, but I was several times bigger than he was. Why wasn’t he even a little afraid of me? See? He was popping his head out of that hole again. I was alarmed at the way he looked, because he clearly thought of me as lunch. I’d have to be more careful from now on when I slept. I still didn’t understand one thing: In all these years, why hadn’t he ever attacked me? Was this change related to the present attack on the red scorpion? Was he acting unscrupulously because the master had said I had only thirty days left?

  In order to evade the house mouse’s gaze, I came down from the stove and went outside. Why was it so quiet outside? Had all the people left? I looked back: the house mouse had followed me out. Why did he have to follow me? Where had the two brothers gone? I mustn’t doze off, because this guy was right behind me. I went to the home across the street, pressed my ear against the door, and listened. I heard someone’s ragged breathing inside. The door wasn’t locked. I pushed it open and saw a fat woman with asthma on the bed. Since I had opened the door, the house mouse scurried in, too. He climbed up on the big, carved bed and crawled over to the woman. He bit an artery on her neck and sucked the blood. The woman gradually began breathing more easily, and, looking comfortable, she closed her eyes. The house mouse’s stomach was swelling, and when he slid down from the bed, he could hardly walk. He swaggered slowly over to the wall, where there was a hole much smaller than he was. He struggled hard to squeeze in and finally succeeded. He shrieked be
cause he was being pressed from both sides. This was good for me—finally, I broke away from him. I turned around and went back to my home, intending to get a good nap. But the door was latched from the inside. Who had done that? I had to squat outside and wait. The brothers soon returned. When they realized the door was latched, they climbed up to the window, but something attacked them from inside. Covering their eyes, the two fell to the ground. Before long, the door opened, and an old white-haired woman came out carrying a paper bag. She unwrapped it in the doorway, and I saw inside it. It was arsenic. I recognized it, because when I was young, people in that family often added a small amount of arsenic to my bowl. She left to go to another house.

  When I entered the home, I noticed the house mouse lying, bloodstained, on the floor, its head separated from its body, and a kitchen knife next to it. Had the old woman done this? How could the house mouse have died here? Hadn’t he just now gone across the street? Oh, right, it was the tunnel. He had dug out a very long tunnel. He had come through the tunnel and died here. His stomach—filled with the blood he had drunk—was still distended. What had happened in this room? Let’s imagine: 1) The old woman had set down a certain kind of bait, and the house mouse had been lured out of the hole. The old woman had caught him and cut his head off. 2) Or the house mouse, acting on his natural instincts, had bitten the old woman in the leg, and she had chopped off his head. 3) Or, after eating the bait the old woman had put down, he had decided to commit suicide, and the old woman had held out the knife for him to bump into, he had collided forcefully with the knife blade, and his head had been separated from his body. We don’t have to go on imagining: there are many possibilities, but for now it’s impossible to know exactly how it happened. Why was there such a bizarre stench in the house? I found the source of the odor, and it was indeed that house mouse. How could he have rotted so soon after dying? But it was true. Yellow pus oozed from his stomach. Tiny gray insects squirmed in the wound on his neck. Maybe even before he died, his body had been rotten, yet I hadn’t noticed. I picked him up with tongs, intending to throw him out, but the moment the tongs made contact with him, his flesh fell off and his bones shattered. So scary! I was scared out of my wits! He turned into a pool of slush; only his gray hair hadn’t vaporized. I freaked out, threw the tongs down, and hid on the stove. I was frantic. I glanced subconsciously at the window: ah, both the brothers’ faces were there, and each face had only one eye—that kind of eye with two pupils! The two pupils were still watching nothing but each other. Suddenly, I realized that these weren’t the two brothers. Who were they then? Had they come to catch me? I slid down the stove and hid in the firewood. I supposed they couldn’t see me now, and I fell asleep peacefully.

  Indeed, they were not the two brothers, but they bore a slight resemblance to them. These two one-eyed young people now lived in this home in place of the two brothers. I remembered once when I’d seen the older brother change into one eye. Were these two people variants of the first two? Probably not. I was sleeping in a cardboard box under the bed, when, at midnight, the two on the bed shouted in unison, “A flood’s on the way! Flood!” Then they ran out, barefoot. As soon as they left, I climbed via the stove to the thatched roof. Gazing into the distance, I saw black clouds rolling in overhead. Lights went on in all the houses in the slums. Yet no one emerged. Were they waiting? I waited, too, but nothing happened. Finally I felt bored and was about to go down. Even if there was a flood, where could I escape to? I couldn’t go into the city: I could lose my life in a day in the inescapable city heat. I couldn’t go far away, either, for I could die of terror on the way. Never mind, I would just go back to the cardboard box and sleep. Oh! What was that? The two one-eyed people! They carried two corpses out of a house. They were taking advantage of the chaos to rob and kill! But no one saw them. Was it possible that they were making no noise? No! Ha, here was another one! Had those people died for some other reason, and they were simply dealing with the corpses? It wasn’t raining, yet black clouds descended. Now I couldn’t see anything well. Even the lights in the houses had dimmed. Was a flood really on the way? Then I’d better sleep on the roof. If disaster struck, I might get lucky and survive. I had heard people talk about floods. When a house was totally sealed up by surging floodwaters, no one inside could survive. I heard that in such circumstances, it didn’t matter how quick-witted you were or how strong, you would never locate the doors and windows. Everyone in the slums knew this, and so why didn’t they do as I did and climb up to the roof? Just now, the two people were running all over the streets shouting “Flood!” Everyone must have heard them. They had heard, they must have heard!

  The water rose higher and higher. It didn’t block the doors immediately. I heard the flooding water rush down from the stairs over there. I guessed—a depth of fifteen centimeters, half a meter, a meter . . . and still I heard no one fleeing. If anyone was fleeing, their wading would be audible. It was alarmingly quiet all around. How high had the water risen? I couldn’t see. Something tickled my feet. Snails. They wanted to climb up my body. I dangled my rear feet below the roof to probe. Sure enough, my feet touched water. No doubt the entire slum was inundated. But the water didn’t seem to be rising continually. And the people? Where were the people? Had water blocked all the doors? Were the people all dead? I started crying soundlessly. Above me, the sky had brightened. I listened again: the sound of running water had stopped. Someone was calling me—“Ricky, Ricky.” Wasn’t it the two brothers? No one else called me by this name. I glanced out: the mist had broken up. Even though the houses were submerged, the lights were still on. I could see people’s shadows wavering on the windows. What kind of flood was this? Someone came outside and brushed his teeth in front of the house. The swaying ripples distorted his shadow. “Ricky! Ricky!” The sound came from underwater. Soon it would be light. What time was it?

  “Ricky, come down! Come down! Now!” The voice underwater grew impatient. I leaned over and slid down, landing at the neighbors’ doorway. How strange: I had gotten a good look at it just now and I’d felt the water, yet now it turned out to be a huge transparent membrane covering the entire slum. It was light now, and the sun was out. But the sunlight couldn’t penetrate the membrane. The neighbors’ door was open, and I ran inside. Lying on the floor were the old man and his wife, rolling their eyes and spitting up water. Had it really flooded? Where had the water gone? The old couple used to raise large, gray edible pigeons out in back. The pigeons were very ugly, but their voices were dreamlike. When dozens of them cooed at once, even pedestrians became drowsy. When the old couple walked by the door, they seemed to be dreaming. Generally the old man held his wife’s hand and walked a little in front of her. He felt his way along blindly with the other hand. Dragged ahead by him, the old woman grumbled, “Can’t you walk a little slower? Can’t you?” The floor of the house was dry, with no trace of a flood. I just sensed a kind of fine gossamer floating in front of me. I accidentally inhaled it and sneezed a lot. I approached the old woman and nuzzled her cheek with my nose. She woke up and shouted, “Honey! We aren’t dead! We didn’t die!” At first she sat up, and then—tottering—she stood and walked over to open the wardrobe and shut herself inside. I heard her crying inside. The old man also sat up and shouted loudly, “Why didn’t we die? Why? Were you talking nonsense? Huh?” When he couldn’t find his wife in the room, he went out. Shading his eyes with his hand, he looked into the distance. He kept watching, as if waiting for something to happen. I slid over to the door, too, and looked out: I saw the transparent gossamer that I’d noticed earlier. In the distance, it turned into waves. Was this a flood? No. I didn’t sense that I was in water. Then why had these old people blacked out on the ground? They had also been spitting up water just now, as though their stomachs were full of water.