Page 123 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

Where was I? Was that what Qinglian meant when she said there would be an
accident? Oh my God, I must be about to enter hell. I eventually slid to a halt.
When I stood up, I was free to walk around. But I didn’t dare just walk wherever

I wanted, because I was afraid.
“Have you come here to play games, child?” It was an old man’s voice.
It was probably Qinglian’s uncle. And since her uncle was here, this couldn’t
be hell.
“No, I’ve come, I’ve come . . .” I didn’t know how to answer.
“There’s something here that’s even more fun. Can you see me?”
“No.”
“Try harder.”
“Oh, I think I can see a shadow. Are you on my right?”
“No, I’m on your left.”
“Then I was mistaken. I can’t see you, Grandpa. Are you her uncle?”
He didn’t answer, and he didn’t say anything else. Perhaps he had gone.
He had asked me if I’d come here to play games, so maybe all the people who

came here did so in order to play games? Once I thought carefully about it, I
broke into a cold sweat. What a terrifying game this was. I sat down on the floor
and thought back on my years of friendship with Qinglian.
She lived with her widowed mother on the fifth floor. Our family lived on the
first floor. She was like a tulip—not a rose or a narcissus. A tulip. And I? I was
just a plain old daisy. Qinglian wouldn’t have admitted that we were close
friends. She liked being a loner. Sometimes she called me “Little Daisy” to show
that she looked down on me. But I still liked it when she called me that, even
though she was only a year older than I, because I thought it made us sound
close.
She didn’t play with me very often. When the two of us were together, we
just played simple card games. When I asked her what she played at home, she
replied listlessly, “I have to work. There’s no time to play.” She had never
invited me to her home. I had heard that she and her mother did embroidery. One
day, I ran into her on the street and tore the linen cover off the bamboo basket
she was carrying. I was stunned when I saw her work. She took it out so that I

could look at it more closely. It was a piece of double-sided embroidery. One
side was a scene of the ocean; the other was a waterfall. I was speechless. I
gripped her hand—the one holding the embroidery. She angrily dropped it back
into the basket and pulled her hand away.
She wouldn’t let me ask any questions about the embroidery. She looked
glum. She said I wouldn’t understand, and of course I didn’t. I couldn’t imagine
what it must be like when she and her mother embroidered together. I had no
idea. Qinglian’s mother looked like an old monkey. She always crept when she