Page 174 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

watering those who were grateful to him (they all worshipped him), while my
leaves turned pale because of my terror. Without water, I had only death ahead
of me. Of course I was scared.
While waiting for death, I fell unconscious. One morning, an old sparrow
awakened me.
I was incredibly surprised that I was still alive. Hardly any water was left in
my roots, and most of my leaves had dropped off. The leaves that hadn’t fallen
were yellowing in rapid succession. When dizziness surged up like waves, I felt
that once I passed out I wouldn’t wake up again. But I was wrong. Not only did I

awaken, but I was particularly clear-headed. My perceptions were much sharper
than before. On a fresh summer morning like this, a sparrow on my branch kept
shouting to her lost child: What could be more moving? I don’t know how she
lost her child, but that monotonous sound of complaint that was unique to
sparrows struck me as the world’s most sorrowful dirge! What I thought was,
Ah, I’m still alive! Only living things can experience this kind of emotion. As I
was thinking this, I nearly turned into a sparrow. Each time she called out, my
branch vibrated in concert with her, and I saw the image of a small sparrow in
her mind.
The gardener noticed this drama between the sparrow and me. He strolled
around in my vicinity for a while and then walked away. Judging by his actions,
he wasn’t indifferent to me. So what was he waiting for? Was something going
to happen to me? I felt an obscure hope arise, although I didn’t yet know what it

was. I secretly cheered the sparrow on, and the sparrow became aware of my
existence. She kept shouting nonstop until she had poured out all her sorrow, and
finally she realized that she needed to control herself. She jumped back and forth
on my branches, and then suddenly spread her wings and flew to the sky.
She flew away, leaving emptiness with me. I saw the gardener sneer slyly.
A long crack ruptured my trunk. This crack penetrated to my very center. I
would soon lose all my moisture, and death was not far away. Sometimes I
awakened early in the morning and felt that I was floating lightly in the mist. “I”
had already vanished, leaving behind only a small handful of leaves that were
neither yellow nor green. Without the water that was essential to my thinking, all
that was left were some inexplicable scraps and clues. Under the blazing sun, I
was muddle-headedly reciting, “Go left, go right, go into the grotto.” Whenever I
recited this, I sensed that the gardener was hiding somewhere and gesturing to
me, but I didn’t know whether he was inciting me or impeding me.
In the years of suffering and the frightening depravity, the rose garden was no
better than hell to me—because the gardener abandoned me.

2.