Page 70 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

I was speechless. I saw the raging flames and unexpectedly felt like crying.
Was I really sympathizing with those people? Of course not: they didn’t need
sympathy from me. I was nothing but a magpie. I moved alone slowly toward
the nest. And so we endured a terrifying night—I staying in the nest, my wife
staying outside.
Not until the sun was high in the sky did my wife and I leave our nest. We
flew over to the houses that lay in ruins. The fire had gone out earlier, yet traces
of smoke were still visible. We jumped into the houses whose windows and
doors had been incinerated, but they were vacant inside: there was no furniture,
nor were there any people. My wife let out a loud sigh: “These people were so
refreshing!”

In fact, that’s what I thought, too, but I had never been able to express it as
precisely as she did.
People wouldn’t live here again for a long time. I was depressed.
When my wife and I flew over to the public toilet, we saw a familiar figure.
That’s right: it was the school gardener. She was scooping out the holes the men
had dug; these holes covered the entire area of residences on this street. She
focused on loosening the mud in the holes with a rake. We furtively flew behind
her to have a look. What we saw was inconceivable: inserted into each hole were
several white bones—some big, some small. They stood like mushrooms.
I was stunned. I couldn’t help but screech. The old woman had turned toward
me. As soon as she saw me, I calmed down. She looked both startled and
admiring. Evidently, my reaction wasn’t as bad as it could have been; she

seemed to understand me. And, surprisingly, my wife’s expression was exactly
the same as hers!
Ha-ha—Is the story I’ve told today long enough? I’ll stop here and continue
tomorrow.