Page 72 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

He was an old bachelor who’d never had a love life. After eight years, he had
emerged from under the ground, climbed up the tree, and assumed his present
form. Everyone felt that he was extraordinary.
It was an extremely hot and humid day. Even in the suburbs, people were
sweltering. Air conditioners buzzed, and people were light-headed. Going
outside was like plunging into a huge oven. The corner of the bicycle shed on
one side was cooler, but because of the intense sunlight and the still air, the large
trees still seemed tense, and the old bachelor just stayed where he was. His
thoughts entered a place beyond his colony. He felt a little sentimental and a
little distracted. He quietly lifted his right leg, and suddenly heard a jumble of
singing all around. The racket surprised him a little, because he had never paid
attention to this singing. He lowered his head and thought. And then, faltering

and stumbling, he began to sing. He thought that his song was a little different
this time. Everyone else stopped singing. His voice seemed strange even to him,
yet he went on with even less restraint. As soon as he stopped singing, the
chorus between heaven and earth rose. The old bachelor almost fainted. Of
course he didn’t feel ill. Quite the opposite: he was extremely moved and joyful.
This was how he became the cantor. And although he was the cantor, he was
still a loner. He didn’t talk with anyone and closed himself off.
He knew that some of the residents here wanted to get rid of him. Some
people lingered at the foot of the tree for a long time, eyeing his branch. And a
young kid always aimed a precisely calibrated slingshot at him. The pellets had
whizzed by him many times—and each time the old bachelor felt empty inside.
He didn’t know how to avoid humans’ hostility, for he had never avoided
anything. He was still calm as he led the chorus. It was only when a pellet flew
by that he suddenly stopped for a second. Then, once more, he continued. There
were so many of his kind, and all of them listened respectfully to him and
followed him. How could he slack off? When he thought of the colony, his

golden legs and belly emitted dazzling white light, and he would grow very
excited. At such times, people would mistake him for a meteor.
There were so many cicadas in the courtyard in this apartment complex, and
people didn’t welcome their singing. But they felt entitled to sing under the
beautiful sky. They wouldn’t change for humans. Trees—both large and small—
were immersed in their passionate singing. The trees voluntarily provided the
cicadas with food; they loved these little living things. Although the old bachelor
didn’t interact with his fellows, he felt anxious about their future. From his
perch, the highest, he scanned the area and saw their silhouettes in the massed
green leaves. He felt that they trusted this secular existence and were content
with it. Yet this was precisely his greatest worry, though he had no way to
transmit it to the others. Singing was the only way he could communicate with