Page 15 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

children’s chorus suddenly rose from that room. It was as if doomsday were
coming. I looked at the butcher again; his beard was quivering. What scary
memory had taken hold of him? I jumped down from the hearth. He didn’t
move. It was as though he hadn’t seen me. When I slipped over to the room in
front, the children had already left. I saw only a girl’s back. I thought, Did the
butcher’s daughter dream every night of hot blood spurting from the sheep’s
neck? Was that why she sang children’s songs? Who was poking me in the

back? Hey, it was the midget again. He had finally unlocked the padlock. He
said, “Look, he’s here, too.” The child who looked like Ayuan slid in. And then
—bang!—the butcher bolted the door! The three of us were locked into the
room. The little boy’s weeping was muffled. The midget covered the boy’s
mouth with his palm and tried to calm him down. I wanted to cry, too, because I
remembered the fiery red tongs. What was the butcher doing in the kitchen?
Finally, the little boy stopped crying, and the midget said, “I’m really happy.”
Maybe he was happy to see that we were done for, whereas he would soon be
saved by the elevator. Now he was holding the boy and sitting on a chair. The
child whimpered a little, his shoulders heaving. All of a sudden, I remembered:
he was the one who gave me a popsicle when I was in the furnace-like area
above. He was really a nice person.

The butcher never did show up. The little boy (the midget called him Drum)
was being held by the midget and talking in his sleep. He said he was the
elevator, and all the people here had to rely on him. Without him, they couldn’t
live. He was bragging in his dreams, and the midget chimed in. The midget said,
“That’s true, that’s true, you cute little boy.” All of a sudden, Drum broke free of
the midget and scratched the midget’s face with something. The midget fell over.
Drum held up the thing, which kept flashing light. I was finally able to see it: it
was a copper key. The midget moaned on the floor and kept saying softly, “Oh,
Drum. Oh, Drum.” How could a key have so much harmful power? I thought of
the man who filed keys. He was a taciturn man with a lined face. His hands were
like an old tree’s roots. I had seen him break quite a large file! Holding up the
key, Drum walked toward me. I considered hiding, but didn’t. I wanted to see
exactly how much harmful power this little thing had. But what happened next
surprised me. Drum handed me the key and motioned to me, indicating that he
wanted me to stab him with the key. The key was large, much like a small knife.
I stood there at a loss. We heard the butcher roaring in the kitchen, as though

enraged. Was he pressuring us?
When I was on the verge of stabbing Drum in the neck with the key, he took
hold of it and thrust the key into his neck himself. Blood spurted out, and he
collapsed weakly on the floor next to the midget. Nauseated, I turned and
vomited. Just then, the butcher opened the kitchen door and entered. He was