Page 111 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

fallen into this dark place, into a city run by power politics. But the broth wasn’t
bad. There was a cook in this room, though I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t see
anyone. I just heard their voices. Then, all of a sudden, I started drinking some
broth. After finishing it, I threw the bowl up in the air. I wanted to see if
someone would come to retrieve it. No one did. The bowl didn’t fall to the floor,
either; I don’t know where it flew.
Now, with no one blocking me, I got out of bed and groped my way to the
door. I opened it a crack. All of a sudden, light streaming past knocked me onto
the floor. And the door closed automatically. The blow just now was so powerful
that I felt I’d been struck by lightning. There was a little light in the room now,
and I could distinguish about five shadows on the bed. I held my hand out
toward them, but touched only air. This was so scary! I fell to the floor and sat

there feeling anguished. I heard the old codger: “Lei Xiaonan (my name), if
you’re thinking about going out, you’d better not tell anyone.”
He actually knew my name. What did he mean by what he said? I couldn’t
touch this old codger, and yet he could push me down and restrict my
movements.
This house was large. At one end of it, someone was cooking soup. I sat on
the floor, unable to think of any countermeasures. I had arrived at night. Now it
was probably morning.
“Someone who was treated to a good meal was not a bit grateful.”
The voice came from the other side of the room; perhaps it was the cook
talking. Everyone on the big bed laughed out loud. “So you’ve been after
appreciation all along,” they said in unison.
Just then, I smelled meat burning. The whole room was permeated with this
nauseating smell.
I burrowed under the high bed and lay there. It was even darker here and
should be safer. However, someone whispered in my ear, “I’m going to go on

strike today.” It was the cook. This was where he always slept.
“Are you a local?” I asked after a pause.
“Of course. In the past, during wartime, we fought in the streets until we were
covered with blood.”
“And later?”
“Later, the sun became more and more toxic, and we had to move to these
shady places.”
“When the sun sets, can you go out?”
“The setting sun is a thing of the past. Now the sun no longer sets.”
“That’s not true. I know it was night when I arrived here.”
“I’ll tell you what happens. The sun does set briefly every day, but only for a
few seconds—or at the most, two minutes. It was at that moment that you