Page 11 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

his eyes shining. He apparently had been born especially for this glass house. I
recalled how he had gnawed the old man’s heel, and I didn’t dare cross swords
with him. Pretending nothing was wrong, I walked away. But how could I feel
that nothing was wrong? All of my skin was going to fall off. Many echoes

resounded in this hallway. I was dizzy from the vibrations. I mustered my last bit
of courage to look up. Ah—I saw . . . I saw that dream—the dream that was
behind all other dreams at night. I began crying. But my two little eyes were dry.
I had no tears. Would I die soon? People walked back and forth constantly in the
hall: they were transparent. Sometimes, they brushed past me, and I smelled
their dry, clear fragrance and sensed that these people’s bodies contained no
fluids. And so they didn’t have to worry about drying out. I was very smelly.
Though I was going to die soon, the stench from my body kept assailing my
nose. Just then, I heard the door: it was the house mouse opening it. I stumbled
out as fast as I could. The house mouse looked scornful. How had such a short,
tiny mouse managed to open the door?
It was much better outside. Although I was being sun-dried, the temperature
was much lower. A midget gave me a popsicle. I finished it in a few bites. Along
the blacktop and cement roads, there were only glass houses like furnaces. I had
no place to hide. Passersby wearing black clothing walked past in a hurry. They
looked composed, and no one was perspiring. You could almost say that a chill

passed through their gazes. I also remembered those people in the glass houses.
Were they a different species or did they become transparent when they entered
these houses? An old saying came to mind: “Rich and poor live in different
worlds.” I had to go down the steps. I had no way to stay up here.
Walking with my head down, I ran into a passerby. That person stumbled
over me and slowly fell. Rolling his eyes toward the sun, he said, “It’s cold, so
cold.” He didn’t want to get up. What was he thinking about? I couldn’t keep
watching him, for I had to hurry along. Otherwise, I’d fall as he had. Behind me,
that person shouted, “You’re so ugly!” Was I ugly? I didn’t know. It was a novel
thought.
Ah, I was home! Good. First I went to the old man’s slop basin and dunked
myself, moistening my skin. It was really comfortable and relaxing! But why
were the two pigs howling incessantly? Had something urgent occurred again? I

walked into the old man’s room; he was bandaging his foot. His grandson was
sitting next to him making a fuss, asking to see the old man’s wound. That thin
little boy was furtive, and I had never had a good impression of him. As soon as
the old man started bandaging his foot, the boy ripped the bandage off and rolled
around on the floor. He said if he wasn’t allowed to look at it, he’d kill himself.
Finally, the old man finished bandaging the wound and stood up. He went to
feed the pigs. The boy sat in a dark spot, his eyes wide open. What was he