Page 57 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

will be blocked soon. As for the little mouse, I’ll leave him with you. I’m sorry
to give you so much trouble.” “Has the plague arrived yet?” “Yesterday. Two
died. I was afraid the little mouse would get sick, he’s so dirty.” I was alarmed
by this talk.
Once more, the man took a large plate of black balls out of the kitchen
cupboard and put it on the floor. This kind of ball was much smaller—only a
little larger than a house mouse’s poop. My kin crowded around and ate in a
hurry, making creaking sounds. I wanted to eat, too, but I was afraid they would
scald me. The man said, “You little snake-mouse, it isn’t time for you to eat yet.
They’re eating pieces of coal. Can you swallow that?” Naturally, I wasn’t
interested in letting coal burn my stomach. I didn’t think I needed to be

disinfected that way. Just then, he carried out a bowl of black liquid, saying I
should “wash my innards” with it. Noticing the bubbles on the dirty black water,
I hesitated. He bellowed, “Hurry up, or you’ll die!” And so I started drinking.
After drinking it, I felt dizzy and my heart swelled with longing for my
hometown. That pasture, that sky. Snowflakes swirled in the sky, and my kin hid
in the caves. Would they all die soon? No, they were fine. They had diarrhea:
they would get rid of all the dirty things they’d eaten in the summer! Their
insides would be clean! Ha. I was the one with diarrhea. I’d gotten rid of a huge
amount. The man focused all his attention on me. “Are your insides clean?” he
asked. I twitched my tail to indicate I was finished. The man spread around some
ashes and swept my poop under the stove. He seemed to think poop wasn’t dirty.
So why was it necessary to wash my intestines? It was impossible to guess their

thoughts. “Auntie Shrimp left you to me to deal with,” the old man went on.
“Stand up. Let me look at you.” I went weak in the knees; I couldn’t stand up. I
lay on my stomach on the ground and couldn’t move. I thought I was going to
die. “Can’t you stand up? Forget it then. You’re all like this. Your grandfather
came calling one year and ate every last bit of my roasted pork. But when I told
him to jump up to the stove, he couldn’t do it!” The old man chattered on and on
and lay down on the bed. Then my kin who had eaten their fill left the plate one
by one, lined up against the wall, and fell asleep.
It was getting hot in the house again, and meanwhile, strength was returning
to my legs. I tried a few times and finally stood up. It was so hot! Really hot!
The coal briquettes must be burning in the man’s and my kin’s stomachs. They
were all sleeping, as if the high temperature had left them very content. All of a
sudden, the three roosters started fighting in the middle of the room. The two big
ones attacked the little one, ripping his crest apart. The little rooster’s face was a
mass of blood. He squatted on the floor and tried hard to hide his head amid the
feathers on his chest. The other two still didn’t let go of him: they continued

attacking and pecked him all over until his feathers fell off. Blood gushed out