Page 47 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

man looked closely as he finished weighing it, and said, “Oh, this has to be
weighed.” Frowning, Carpenter Wen said, “I’ve been weighing things ever since
the flood started last night. I’m exhausted.” Just then, I saw the two brothers
standing across the street. They seemed to be staring at Carpenter Wen, but I

knew their eyes could look only at each other. “What’s this?” the old man asked
Carpenter Wen as he pointed to the gossamer in the sky. “It’s the thing I
weighed,” Wen said, his eyes shining. He raised the steelyard, grabbed
something from the air, and placed it in the steelyard’s tray. When he finished,
he turned it over and weighed a new one. He was gasping for breath. The old
man watched anxiously, his head following the movements. He prattled on,
“Then we don’t have to be afraid of floods anymore, do we?” As he spoke, he
drooled and his hands shook. He seemed to have one foot in the grave.
Nearsighted, he moved closer and closer, trying to get a good look at the
steelyard. He was getting in the way of Wen’s work. Wen shoved him
indignantly, and he fell to the ground.
Just then, the old woman who had hidden in the wardrobe came out. She sat
at the entrance, smiling—revealing her toothless mouth. She’d been crying just

now. What had made her so happy? “I, I, I . . . ,” she said with her sunken
mouth. Carpenter Wen dropped the steelyard with a thud; his forehead was
covered with sweat. As if waking from a dream, the old man asked him, “What’s
wrong? What’s wrong?” “Even weighing this four or five times in a row, it
weighed nothing at all. Could this mean . . .” He held his head dejectedly as if it
would explode. “This happens often. Often.” The old man did his best to console
him. But he snarled and ran off holding his head. He didn’t even take his
steelyard. The old man picked it up. He wanted to imitate Wen and weigh
mirages plucked from the air. The old woman was exhilarated. But whatever
they did, they couldn’t catch any weight. Time after time, the steelyard swung
down. They worked hard for a long time but had nothing to show for it. They
had to give up. While this was going on, the two brothers kept watching.
The old couple stood watching the sky: the gossamer was thickening, and
soon it congealed into large drops of water dripping down. I retreated to the
house to escape the rain. Why weren’t these two old people afraid of the rain?
Across the street, the brothers shouted, “Flood! Flood . . .” Their voices

gradually faded into the distance. The old woman looked up, as though
swallowing the falling rain. What the old man did was even more
straightforward: he simply lay down on the ground, letting the rainwater splash
silt on his face. He closed his eyes and slept. I looked around a little in their
home, hoping to find a bite to eat. This home was strange: it didn’t have even a
stick of furniture. Had it been dashed away by the flood? Or had there never
been any? If so, did they sleep on the floor? There was a jar on the stove. I