Page 100 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

When I went inside he was jittery. He didn’t ask me to take a seat, either. He
was only too anxious for me to leave. But after hearing my question, he seemed
interested and invited me to sit down and have some tea.
“Although he was my teacher, I have to tell you he was a big fraud. I’ve said
this all along. He was always hiding boxes and saying there were huge secrets
inside that he would explain later. But he never did. I have a box of his, too. I
opened it a long time ago, and it was empty. He was still alive then, and I asked
him about it. He said he was joking, and that he hadn’t imagined I would smash
it open. By saying this, I don’t mean to encourage you to smash your box. Just
leave it alone. Maybe there’s a little something inside.”
“Yes, of course there’s something inside. I heard it. It’s also heavy. After all,
he was my father.” I felt a little resentful of Qin Yi. I didn’t know why my father
had trusted this kind of person.
“Maybe, maybe. He was your father. So you believe there is something in it.
But I know nothing about the key.”

Later on, I also visited a cousin, one of my father’s former colleagues, and
one of my mother’s confidants, and still didn’t learn anything.
As the story about my box made the rounds among my acquaintances, some
people found excuses to call on me. They would sit down and glance at the loft.
Whenever I looked at them, they would turn their eyes away and look down and
exchange small talk. Each time, my cousin would stick her hands in her pants
pockets and stride back and forth.
One day, my cousin’s parents—a very boring couple—were among the
visitors. After they sat down, their eyes slid to and fro like a thief’s and they
made impertinent remarks belittling today’s youth. Then my cousin came over
and cursed them. She said they hadn’t been invited. She wanted them to take off.
“Don’t think I don’t know everything about you,” her mother said as she left.

“Some people look all right, but actually they are thoroughly rotten. Just listen to
what people say about you.”
When the visitors were gone, my cousin was still furious and gasping for
breath. All of a sudden, she grabbed my collar and shook it hard. She said, “Was
it you who started talking about the box?”
“I talked with some people—with my father’s relatives and good friends. So
what? This isn’t some terrible secret! Outsiders must have known of it long
ago.”
“You fool!” Utterly exasperated, she let go of me. “What makes you think
outsiders knew about this? With your parents dead, I’m the only one who knew.
Now everyone is interested in your box. Do you think your father can still rest in
peace in the ground? You’re doomed. You sinner!”
I could see I’d made a mistake. Avoiding her eyes, I spoke haltingly, “I’m . . .
just . . . not . . . convinced . . .”