Page 42 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

them clutching each other by the chest and squatting on the ground without
moving as if they had congealed. With their four eyes so close together, I
wondered if each brother would now see the other’s eyes. But when I burrowed
between them, I saw that each brother’s eyes were still seeing only his own eyes,
and they were acting as if no one else were present. I didn’t get it. The large
scorpion had walked out and was near the door frame. All of a sudden, the two
brothers let go of each other and stood up. The scorpion swaggered out the door

as if drunk and turned right. I didn’t know where it was going. The younger
brother said in a low voice, “Ricky went to call on someone.” Huh? Were they
calling the scorpion “Ricky”? Was it because the scorpion had eaten things
inside me and thus had changed into something much like me?
Finally, I went back inside. Well, after all, there was no place like home. I
climbed up to the stove to take a nap, for I was exhausted. Just as I was closing
my eyes, I saw a terrifying scene: outside the window that furtive black cat was
eating the red scorpion! This was so scary, so sickening! The scorpion’s back leg
was still struggling outside his mouth. The cat twisted his neck a few times and
swallowed the whole scorpion. This scene was so ugly that I was now fully
awake. All at once, I sensed that my entire body had become eyes, for not only
could I see ahead, but I could also see behind myself, and not only could I see

the exterior, but I could also see the interior. For example, I saw the scorpion
continuing to struggle in the cat’s belly. And looking at myself, in my abdominal
cavity an eye was wrapped in membrane—the very eye that I had swallowed. So
the scorpion hadn’t died, and before long it would make its way out of the cat’s
stomach. I didn’t dare watch any longer. I closed my eyes. But this was even
worse, for I saw so many people and events inside myself. There was the
pasture, and on the turf were countless holes. From each and every one of the
holes, others of my species were sticking out their heads and watching. An eagle
flew past—an eagle so large it covered the sun. An animal—it appeared to be
something between a rat and a crow—was flying and running on the grasslands.
He didn’t fly high: he seemed to stick close to the underbrush and skate there. I
didn’t want to watch, but these scenes wouldn’t go away. I wondered how that
poor little thing had escaped the eagle’s evil clutches. Before long, the eagle
swept downward, and all the scenery disappeared. But the immense blank space
did not disappear: it was a dazzling white. I could faintly hear an infant wailing.
The younger brother said, “Look at how soundly Ricky is sleeping. He must not

be dreaming at all. I’d bet on that.” The older brother asked, “What do you want
to bet?” “Your wheelbarrow. Come on over and you’ll see.”
I wasn’t asleep. Or maybe I was. Anyhow, I kept looking at my insides. I
wasn’t tired. Although everything disappeared later, with only dazzling