Page 64 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

me.

I’d also like to tell you how my magpie relatives gradually faded away. It was
really lively back then! First thing in the morning, our singing could be heard

everywhere. Human beings thought that our language was too monotonous, too
ear piercing, too intrusive. Wherever we gathered in large numbers, people
glared. We were too self-absorbed. It was understandable that people reacted this
way. To tell the truth, I didn’t like it when we made too much noise, either, but
as soon as we got together we couldn’t control ourselves: everyone made a
screeching sound. It was really unpleasant. How had we come up with this kind
of language? I thought about this frequently, but I couldn’t understand, no matter
how hard I tried. When I was a child, I asked my father about it. He glared at me
and told me to shut up. He said indignantly, “How dare you doubt your own
species?” After that, I didn’t dare ask anyone.
Our silhouettes were everywhere—in the little garden, on top of the nearby
classrooms, and in the playground. Temperamentally, we were carefree birds.
Why wouldn’t we speak out loud? The weather was so good, there were insects
to eat, more family members were constantly being hatched, there was
entertainment everywhere, we had new games to play every day—we had
millions of reasons to yell and make noise. The kids who chased us with bamboo

brooms unexpectedly turned into our playthings, too. We teased them, and they
held up their brooms and hit at us repeatedly. Their faces flushed as they struck
out at us. They were annoyed. That was truly our golden age, the age of
sunshine!
The school gardener was a woman more than fifty years old. She had small
eyes and a sallow face, and often wore an artificial smile. She loved watching
the children chase us. She raised her long arms and slapped them on her thighs,
unable to contain her mirth. This disgusted me. She spent much of her time
watching us, as if she had nothing better to do. I thought this was quite fishy. But
she treated us well. She dug out the earth next to the shrubs with a hoe, exposing
the insects to attract us.
Later, I noticed that it was because of this school gardener that some of us
began disappearing. No one knew how they vanished; no one ever saw a magpie

being hunted and killed. The plot was carried out quietly. Everyone except my
wife and me thought highly of the school gardener. That assessment reminded
me of what my wife thought of the skinny woman next to the pool. Could it be
that people who were near magpies were all fond of killing? My father said that
this woman “clearly understood the profound mysteries of the natural world.” In
Father’s eyes, she was almost an irresistible spirit. And so Father sacrificed