Page 145 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

which old person would paint like this. As she kept looking, she went into a sort
of trance. In her trance, she felt faintly excited. She heard a tiny disturbance on
the ceiling; it came in fits and starts—sometimes vehement, sometimes quieting
down. What kind of animal was making this noise? Ms. Wen climbed up on the
table, intending to find out what it was. She had no sooner stood on the table
than someone opened the door. Zhong Zhidong, a retired electrician, stood at the
door. Embarrassed, Ms. Wen got down from the table.
“I came to have a look because the lights were still on,” Zhong Zhidong
explained.
“Apparently I’m not the only one concerned about the senior citizens center,”
Ms. Wen said.
“Naturally. We’re always concerned about this center,” Zhong Zhidong said
firmly.
Zhong Zhidong left soon. Ms. Wen sat down at the table again. The noise
coming from the ceiling had stopped. Ms. Wen looked again at the drawing. This

time, she saw that it was a drawing of a building. The method of drawing was
quite distinctive: looked at from various angles, the structure of the building was
quite different from the number of its stories. At first, she thought it was a
drawing of the senior citizens center, and then she thought it was a drawing of
the building where she had taught. Finally, she saw that the structure drawn on
this piece of paper had thirty-three stories; it was much like an office building in
the city center. Her interest aroused, Ms. Wen didn’t want to leave anytime soon.
Inside herself, she began feeling almost as energetic as she had when she was
young. She wanted to engage in activities in this building. Of course, just then
she had no idea exactly what activity she would engage in. For a while she went
upstairs, and then came downstairs, then went up again, then down again. While
she was walking up and down stairs, she found that the entire building was

pressed to her heart, making it exquisitely private. It was as though someone
were asking her amiably, “Turn left or right? How about going to the room on
the south side of the eighth floor . . .” She certainly heard the voice of the person
making the inquiry, and she responded casually. She felt comfortable both
physically and mentally. Then came the metamorphosis. How many exciting
scenes had she experienced? Ms. Wen asked this inner question out loud.
Late at night, Ms. Wen walked out of the senior citizens recreation center
with great satisfaction. On a night like this, the transformation of the starry sky
and the city depended upon her will and her passion. She stopped next to a
newspaper kiosk, gazed at a dark shadow approaching slowly, and said
distinctly, “Once more.”