Page 119 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

I wasn’t a bit hungry, so why did I keep thinking about the broth?
Against the wall, I unconsciously shifted toward the outside once more.
“He is really stubborn,” groaned someone above.
I came rushing out. I figured out where the old house was and closed my eyes
as I rushed over there. The sun was burning this deserted city—it was quiet
everywhere. I was accustomed now to hurrying along with my eyes closed, and
in any case no vehicles were on the road so nothing could run into me. I could
open my eyes a crack every thirty seconds and see a little of the surroundings.
And so, after a short time I reached the old house.
“I’m back again,” I said as I entered.
“But no one here welcomes you.” I heard the cook’s voice. “There’s only one
use for someone like you: to be added to the stew in this large pot. You still have
a tail, don’t you?”

He asked me to approach him so he could look at my tail. I did, but he
changed his mind and said, “I don’t have to look at it. It’s too hard; it hasn’t
ripened yet.” Then he told me, “You’d better lie on your stomach on the floor
and not move. Then no one can see you. If they can’t see you, they won’t be
annoyed.”
Complying with his instructions, I lay down. It was incredibly different this
time. I heard all manner of noises coming up nonstop from cracks in the floor,
from the walls, and from the ceiling: a lot of people were telling stories from
those places. Their voices were bewitching—wonderful in both tone and
expression. I was carried along by those fantastic snippets of sound. The
mysterious voices narrating these stories filled this old house—waves upon
waves, like a big river surging. Although I couldn’t hear the end of any story, I
was so excited my body shook as though I had malaria. I—this shadow with a
tail—began twisting around crazily. I was hurting so much I groaned loudly, but
I couldn’t keep my body from moving. I was going to die! I was going to die!
All of a sudden, a bell rang, and the voices fell silent. Ah, the wind chime! I

was still twisting, immersed in a beautiful story: even if I died, I wouldn’t regret
this. The ringing stopped, then started again. This time it sounded like a warning;
perhaps I was the one who needed a warning. I involuntarily stopped twisting. I
hadn’t fainted even though it had been unbearable. How odd! The wind chime
didn’t ring again after warning me. I looked up and gazed around the room. All
the shadows had disappeared. Where had they gone?
I stood up and walked around. I couldn’t hear my footsteps. I jumped, and
then jumped some more, and still I heard no sound. The only sound in the entire
house was the puh, puh, puh coming from the broth in the big pot on the stove. I
walked over, scooped soup into a bowl, and drank it. The broth smelled good but