Page 96 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

because of—that box!”
“Box? What box?” I knew at once what she meant, but I deliberately feigned
ignorance.
“Don’t think that just because your father died a long time ago you can ignore
this. That’s childish. You’re just like your sneaky father—a sinner. You can’t
cover this up.”
She stood legs apart, hands stuffed into her pants pockets. She looked like the
old maid she was. I recalled that several years ago, even though I knew it was
not very promising, I had introduced her to several men. None had worked out.
It was only because I hated her that I’d made these introductions, but she hadn’t
hated me for doing it. Quite the opposite. She had thanked me for my help, thus
making me really uneasy. Not until later did I understand that nothing I did

could hurt her.
I asked her why she thought so badly of my father. She gave me a probing
look and sneered. She said I must have been all too aware. Otherwise, why
would I have hidden the box in the loft? This was a sin.
“I didn’t hide it. I just happened to put it there, okay? You surely don’t know
what’s in the box, so why do you conclude that I’m guilty?” I didn’t think I
could bear this.
“The contents don’t matter at all. A person has to take responsibility for what
she does. You’d better not say ‘I just happened’ very much. Who knows if you
‘just happened’ to do this? Huh!” She swung her flat rear end emphatically.
I didn’t want to pay any more attention to my cousin. If she wanted to stay
here, okay, but I didn’t have to keep her company. With my briefcase under my
arm, I left for work.
But I was uneasy, worried that something would go wrong at home. And I
remembered that I’d forgotten to lock the drawer which was filled with personal
correspondence.

In the afternoon, I left work early and rushed home. When I got there, I set
my bicycle down and dashed into the house. Sure enough, she was sitting at the
desk reading my letters. On hearing my footsteps, she replaced the letters in the
drawer. She looked embarrassed.
“How dare you read my letters?” I paled.
“I’m just a little curious, that’s all.” She voiced her objection as she stood up.
“Why are you taking this so seriously?”
“If you want to stay here, you mustn’t be so curious!” I shouted.
“Do you think I came here out of curiosity about you? You shouldn’t have
such a high opinion of yourself!” She shouted, too. Standing with arms akimbo,
she looked scary.
Hearing us arguing, my husband ran in to break it up. As soon as he tried, my