Page 23 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

was close friends with a little girl in the family I stayed with. She took me
swimming in the pond. Before going into the water, she would say very
seriously, “You mustn’t go to the center because you might slide into a vortex.” I
didn’t understand what she was saying. We would linger at the side of the pond,
grabbing willow roots and smacking the water. The girl’s name was Lan. She’d
say, “If you want to escape, I can help you.” I really disliked that kind of talk.
Where would I escape to? I was quite comfortable on the stove in her home. And
I was so afraid of the cold. I would freeze to death in the winter wilderness. Lan
read my mind. She said, “You wouldn’t have to escape to another place. We can

do it right here.” I thought this was nonsense. Remembering this, I sensed that
she had known all along of the underground secrets of the slums. Maybe all the
children in the slums were as precocious as she was. Those children had
purposely fled from the houses to be frozen stiff outside, hadn’t they? What
bizarre ideas entered their minds at midnight? Later on, the girl married someone
from far away and left the slums. I didn’t know if that was considered “fleeing.”
At home, she was a prim little child who was fearful all day long lest disaster
befall her. Her dad often joked that she “had been born in the wrong place.”
Now as I recalled her and her flight, I wondered if I was thought to have fled.
Was this the place she hoped I would reach? It was warm here, and with no
distinction between day and night you could sleep whenever you chose. You
didn’t need to climb up on someone’s stove. You just needed to dig a hole and
squat inside it so that others wouldn’t push you. And it was okay without light
when your eyes adjusted to the dark.
Damn, that man had poured his foot-washing water into my hole. I jumped
out in time, but the flying squirrel was asleep in the slop. He didn’t care; he was

still snoring. “He lives in his dreams,” the man said. I didn’t like to get muddy,
especially with his foot-washing water. It was disgusting. How could the flying
squirrel have been unaware of this? This foot-washing person must have been a
sadist. I felt I’d better move a little way away from him. But when I started to
leave, he chased me, shouting, “Where are you going? Where? Do you want to
get yourself killed?” He spoke so fiercely that—once again—I didn’t dare move.
I stood next to a large rock. The little animals joined forces to push me, causing
me to bump into the rock again and again. Later all my bones were about to
splinter, and I lay motionless on the ground. That was when they stopped
pushing me. I heard the flying squirrel fly again into the air above. The person
said, “Look at him. He’s so calm. Is gracefulness learned? No, it’s innate.” The
light—even farther away now—had blurred. The flying squirrel flew past in the
dark. Maybe he was flying to another place. It must be great to have wings! I had

touched him. His body was much like mine. The wings must have been a
product of evolution. He slept and woke up whenever he wished, and he stayed