Page 89 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

trace of it remained on the ground. Grass was even growing on that piece of
land. Was this magic?
Pointing at a car in the stream of traffic, Uncle Sang said, “See those two
guides? They’re guiding others. I’m telling you that they could have taken you to
the real swamp. They’re my old drinking buddies. I entrusted you to them.
Ayuan, isn’t this precisely the only significant thing about living in this dry
city?”
“Uncle Sang, what’s up with the photography studio and the theater?” Ayuan
asked, perplexed.

“I told you long ago. That’s the swamp. Why weren’t you patient enough to
inspect them closely? You’re too impatient.”
Uncle Sang’s son drove up to meet him, and Uncle Sang said hastily, “I have
to go. Now I can’t leave there for a moment. I have some land there where I
grow lotus roots. Of course leeches are abundant there. Good-bye!”
The car drove away and soon disappeared. Ayuan thought, Since Uncle Sang
blamed me for being impatient, why not go back to the photography studio in the
old part of the city? I should be able to find that place. Uncle Sang was right: for
people like Uncle Sang and me, the only thing worth pursuing in this dry city is
the real swamp.
He boarded a bus, and half an hour later reached the old section of the city.
He had no idea whether he would succeed in his exploration.
In his two-week absence, the old part of town had changed greatly. But now
and then one could still see the old two-story wooden buildings and even an old-
fashioned public toilet. Remembering that he used to go in and out of these
intestine-shaped alleys like a loach, Ayuan couldn’t help but smile.

How strange it was that now he had no trouble finding the photography studio
where he had stopped last time. It was still the same three-story brick building,
but the sign saying “Wedding Photos” was missing, as was the main entrance.
The building seemed to have been reoriented: the entrance no longer faced the
small street.
Ayuan was leaning against the red-brick wall, his ears pricked up. But he
heard nothing.
A girl eleven or twelve years old walked up.
“Hi there, what are you doing?” she asked.
“Do you know how I can get in?” Ayuan asked in embarrassment.
“Go in? You can’t. This building has no door.”
“Is anyone inside?”
“Of course.”

“What I mean is, Don’t the people inside ever come out? How can they never
come out?”