Page 16 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

vomited. Just then, the butcher opened the kitchen door and entered. He was
holding the fiery red tongs. He raised the tongs in front of me, and I hastily
dodged away. And so I once more smelled my scorched hair. “Oh, Rat. Rat, this
is a rare opportunity,” he said. This was so annoying. He was also calling me rat.
He opened the main door, carried the midget out, and threw him out next to the
street, and then returned for Drum. He carried him out, too. Then he bolted the
door again. I thought he intended to come and deal with me, too, but he didn’t.
After a while, those two guys rammed against the door, desperately wanting to
enter. How had they recovered from their injuries so quickly? They were so
strong that they were about to ram the door open. Taking advantage of my being
distracted for a moment, the butcher jabbed me in the chest several times with

the fiery tongs. At first I shook all over, and then I fainted. In my confusion, I
saw myself on a burning mountain. The fire was burning my whole body, but I
didn’t feel any pain. And I actually thought that I’d be fine after the fire burned
out. There was a mountain across from me. It was on fire, too. Children were
singing in the fire. Why did the voices sound familiar? That’s right! They were
the butcher’s daughters—who else could they be? Their singing was so
beautiful! I looked at myself: ah, my legs had been burned off! I couldn’t move
now. Wasn’t this what he had whispered to me? “Oh, Rat. Rat, this is a rare
opportunity.” He had pushed me, too, not letting me fall completely asleep. But I
was afraid. I closed my eyes and fell asleep regardless.
When I woke up, I saw a large gray eye gazing at me. That was the butcher’s
daughter. Her eyes were asymmetrical: one was large, one small. I considered

this large eye indescribably beautiful, so I never thought of her eyes being
asymmetrical. She looked desolate: Was this little girl worried about me? When
I moved, intending to touch her, she moved away a little. I was disappointed.
“You—what are you?” she asked, her tone so desolate that I almost shed tears. I
came to her home frequently: Why did she ask such a question? Was it my
manner that made her feel desolate? Not until then did I take stock of myself. I
was fine. Nothing had changed. Ah, one of my feet had a burn mark, but that
wasn’t remarkable. I had just lost a little hair there, that’s all. What was I? Was
this a decent question? I came to their home year after year. I stayed on the
stove, and the butcher always treated me to delicious animal innards. After
eating, I dozed on the stove. I was always drowsy when I stayed with this family
and so I’d never gotten a good look at these girls. When they worked quietly in
the kitchen, I thought they had never paid any attention to me. Now it seemed I
was wrong: they had not only noticed me: they had also talked about me.
Otherwise, why would she have asked that question just now? It seemed she still
expected something of me. I asked myself again, What was I? But I didn’t know.

How could I dispel this pretty little girl’s inner desolation? I didn’t dare make