Page 103 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

I heard the sound of withered leaves, or perhaps they were letters or
photographs. It was possible, too, that they were bones or wood chips. At this
moment, my curiosity kept mounting. My anger was mounting along with it. I
put the box in a bag and hurried outside.
When I returned, my husband was waiting at the door. His face was somber.
My son was with him. As soon as my son caught sight of me, he ran off.
“Did you throw that thing into the river?” my husband asked, his hands
starting to twitch.
“So what if I did? It’s mine. I can do whatever I want with it.”

“Sure. You have the right.” His gaze was wandering, and his hands stopped
spasming. “Rumei, tell me the truth. Aren’t you afraid? Especially when you
wake up in the middle of the night?”
“Why should I be afraid? Can being afraid solve the problem? Who can avoid
it? Your plight isn’t any better, either.”
“Oh, yes! Now I get it. What a fool I’ve been! Thanks to your awakening, I
now understand everything. We don’t have to be such sticklers for form, do we?
You and I want the same thing. We just deal with it differently. Your father was
really an old fox. He was always disguised well. I wasn’t at all suspicious of
him. Don’t worry. Those people won’t be back. They all have their own
troubles. You could just as well have opened it and taken a look before throwing
it away, you know?”
“No!” I said with finality.
After that, my husband and son drew away from me, though we were still
talking and laughing together. They acted as if nothing had happened, but I
could see it all written on their faces. They often glanced absentmindedly at the

loft, as if to remind me of the sin. This went on for days.
Actually, I was often startled awake in the middle of the night. At times like
that, I seriously thought of making an identical box for my son, and putting
withered leaves or several newspapers or a few wood chips or a few slices of
something else inside it. I even discussed it with my husband. My husband
concluded that I wanted to shift the responsibility.
When I had nearly forgotten her, my cousin reappeared. Her face was tanned
and her hair was scorched brown. She still looked very much the way an old
maid looks, with her hands stuffed into her pants pocket.
“Are you here to investigate the case?” I ridiculed her, while doing my best to
look relaxed.
“Who has time for that? I’ve been traveling on business all along. When I was
in the Gobi Desert, I considered staying there. Then I thought, Isn’t everywhere

the same? The same evil, the same deception, so I decided I might as well come
back here. How are all of you? Did time heal the wound?” Looking up, she