Page 177 - I Live in the Slums: Stories (The Margellos World Republic of Letters)

stop? Because he thought I didn’t need water and could still go on living (this

was probably true). After being in the rose garden so long, I felt the future had
become increasingly ambiguous. The shadows were thick behind the fence: in
the dry transparent air, even more transparent monsters were roaming around. I
didn’t need to become a wandering tree; I only needed to stay here and wait for a
certain change to occur. Change truly did begin.
At nightfall, a bunch of my roots awakened: I thought they had penetrated to
a deep and unfamiliar region. That is, they had grown because of being watered
by the spicy hot rain. Now there was still no water in this deep layer of soil
where my roots were, but the solid earth unexpectedly imparted a sense of
something similar to water. I felt itchy at the ends of my roots: this was an omen
of growth. It was also an omen that something unexpected was about to occur. I
estimated that my roots had penetrated more than one meter in just a few short
days. This could be called “flying.” It was a miracle. No rain had fallen for days,
and yet they were still growing. Was I accessing another kind of nourishment to
substitute for water? Was the “water of life” that was often spoken of no longer
applicable to me?

Late at night, I heard the gardener’s muffled voice. After his voice faded
away, a tiny cracking disturbance echoed from within my body. The dusty old
leaves on my head and face gave off some green fluorescence. This disturbance
awakened the acacias next to me: they gasped in admiration. They nearly spoke
in unison: “The gardener bestowed such a great favor on the willow tree!” They
had no sooner said this than the entire garden erupted in excitement. Everyone
was talking at once, but their words were indistinct. Only after listening
attentively for a long time could I distinguish a word: fireworks. They were
saying I was setting off fireworks. But all I had done was to emit a little light.
Why were they making such a fuss?
The disturbance inside me quickly calmed down, and I felt hollow. In fact, I
shouldn’t have: Wasn’t I growing, and even emitting light? Wasn’t the gardener
secretly supporting me? But I was still hollow. Perhaps I was looking forward to

emitting light again the next time? Or because I didn’t understand what was
going on? Oh, gardener, gardener, be sure not to give me water. I racked my
brains: I wanted to know what that invisible nutrition was. The gardener must
know. They all envied me: I was the only plant that emitted light at night; I had
gained the gardener’s greatest support.
At daybreak, I was exceptionally hollow. At night, my leaves had nearly all
withered. The trunk was even redder, the crack even deeper. I asked myself, Will
I die today? Aside from thinking, I couldn’t sense any living movement in
myself. I couldn’t even sense my roots. The fence was illuminated by the first
rays of light, and the garden’s silhouette gradually came into focus. In the air in
front of me, a voice was repeatedly saying, “Who was that? Who was that? . . .”