Page 37 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

his pale face. Every now and then, he put his nose close to the cat’s body as if
sniffing it. There were some kinky people in this world. You thought he was
killing cats for fun, but he looked desperately grief stricken.
It was probably almost midnight when Woody emerged from the cave. When
I saw him, he was bending over in front of me. He stroked my nose, and I
recoiled, for his hand was as cold as an ice cube. He said he had squatted in the
icy cave most of the night. “I was frozen in there like a fish and unable to move.
I have to go in there to freeze from time to time. I’d stink if I stayed outside too
long.” That’s right. I recalled that Woody had never bathed at home. It hadn’t

crossed my mind that it was so cold inside the cave that I would have found it
utterly unbearable. Just now, I’d complained that he hadn’t let me enter. Woody
said, “Nothing on your body can rot. You don’t need to freeze.” He asked me to
go with him. We passed a few houses in the dark and came to a small thatched
hut. Inside, an oil lamp was burning. On the floor a small copper basin was half-
filled with water. Woody took a packet of powder out of his pocket and dumped
it into the basin. It had a pungent aroma. After a while, a group of house mice
showed up. There must have been at least ten or twenty of them. They climbed
up the basin and slipped into it, and then flipped over on their ash-colored
stomachs and floated up. They were in a hurry to get it over with. It didn’t take
them long. I was secretly worried and kept saying to myself, “Damn, damn!”
Woody bent down, dredged up the corpses, and put them in a cardboard box.
Just then, the strong aroma grew so heavy that I became dizzy and nearly threw
up. Woody’s voice seemed to float in the air: “Rat, oh Rat, hurry up and get in!”
Something seemed to push me from behind, and I jumped and fell in. As I sank,
my mind went black. I had only one thought: I’m done for.

I didn’t awaken until the next day. Maybe Woody had placed me on this rock
so I could dry out in the sun. I was in unbearable pain. I opened my eyes and saw
gashes all over my skin. I could see the blood inside. And Woody? Woody
wasn’t there. Next to me, wheelbarrows passed one after the other. Sometimes it
seemed they would crush me. I figured I’d certainly die if I continued lying
there. I tried hard to roll to the side—and almost fainted from the pain. I rolled
over to someone’s threshold. Outside the gate were puddles of urine. I was
soaked in urine, and when it seeped into my wounds, it cut like a knife. Inside
the house, a man and woman were talking. To my surprise, it was my master and
his wife. The master said, “Do we have any of that spice left—the kind that
Woody swiped?” His wife said, “There’s one packet left. He made off with two
packets.” An aged voice spoke up in the house: “What you’re thinking of is
suicidal!” Then all was quiet. I could hear the man and wife speaking softly and

sighing. They must have seen me: Were they discussing what to do with me? I
wished they would pick me up and carry me into the house. I longed for the days