Page 52 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

down with the plague. With this, she threw out the jar that I slept in. Broken-
hearted, I was going to jump down from the stove, and then I glimpsed the
murderous intent on her face. Oh—was she going to kill me? Her face was
flushed; she held a kitchen knife in her hand. I thought that the moment I jumped

down from the stove, she would chop me into pieces. And so I hesitated and
retreated to a corner of the stove, making room for her to clean the stove. But she
didn’t do that. She kept saying, “Aren’t you coming down? You aren’t coming
down?” As she spoke, she brandished the knife and pressed the back of the knife
against me. I had to risk my life and jump down. She twirled the knife and
chopped. Luckily, I dodged out of the way in time, and she chopped the muddy
floor. The door was open, so I rushed out. Behind me, she shouted abuse, saying
that if she saw any trace of me, she would kill me. How had my relationship with
her evolved to this point? At first, when I drifted to her home, she had been so
genial! She not only fed me well, she also arranged for me to sleep in a jar,
saying this would keep the flames from lapping at my hair. But before long I
experienced her mysophobia. At the time, I didn’t think it was a serious problem.
One day, she suggested cutting off my claws (because they were filthy). That’s
when I began to be on guard. What kind of woman was she? I started avoiding
her. Luckily, it was all talk and no action. And so I kept my claws.
She cleaned the house so thoroughly that it created endless trouble for her.

For example, she had to brush the soles of her shoes whenever she entered the
house. She covered the windows and doors with heavy cloth. The inside of the
house became as dark as a basement. She used much more water than other
people did to clean vegetables, wash dishes, and take baths. She was forever
going to the well to fetch water. She was always busy. I didn’t know how she
made a living. Perhaps her parents had left her some money. She wasn’t much
interested in men. She merely stood in the doorway, idiotically watching a
particular man’s silhouette, but she never brought a man home. She was
probably afraid outsiders would make her house dirty. But then how had she
taken a liking to me in the first place, and even let me in? I was even dirtier than
those men, wasn’t I? And I rarely bathed with water. When I first arrived, she
combed my hair with an old comb. After combing my messy hair, she threw the
comb into the garbage. With some satisfaction, she pronounced me “very clean.”

Now, remembering this, I thought she was sort of deceiving herself. But she
persisted in thinking that she could do anything. She was a conceited woman.
From that day on, she brushed me every day. It hurt a lot. But at least I was
much cleaner than before. I used to get along well with her, even though I
despised her constant cleaning. Still, as long as I stayed inside the jar on top of
the stove, there was no big problem. Who could have guessed that her
mysophobia would worsen?