The Rent Collector

by Wright, Camron

  To make it through the long hours, many will rest in the early afternoon while they eat lunch beneath makeshift lean-tos. The shelters are temporary and consist of a cardboard floor (cardboard is plentiful at the dump), bamboo poles or tree branches tied together to form a skeletal shell, and a cloth or canvas canopy stretched across the top to provide shade.

  Though most of the shelters are rudimentary and crude, some are elaborate, even works of art. And a shelter that has required effort to build sometimes becomes more than just a temporary place to rest; it becomes an oasis in the filth, a gathering place.

  I have noticed this phenomenon especially among the female pickers. Perhaps it’s a subconscious nesting competition. Jorani Kahn will use a floral sheet instead of dirty canvas. Dara Neak will layer many pieces of cardboard on the ground to offer a softer place to sit. Sida Son will carry in a larger pot of water for those she invites to join her. Even at Stung Meanchey—perhaps especially at Stung Meanchey—people still long for social acceptance.

  In spite of these efforts, attempts at permanence are fleeting.

  The drivers of the monster bulldozers that push the trash into piles at night will sometimes work around the shelters, leaving them intact for several days. Other times, a beautiful shelter, painstakingly crafted during the better part of a morning, may be nothing but a mix of flattened hope and moldering trash a day later. It’s a lesson that is learned early at Stung Meanchey—and yet, it’s a lesson not of discouragement but rather of persistence. Just as ants do when their nest is disturbed, we return, survey the damage, and then without hesitation immediately get to work rebuilding.

  Though many of the shelters are inviting, even charming, no clear-thinking person would ever dare to stay the night—unless waking up beneath a mountain of smoldering, stinking, smothering trash sounds like a fun way to die. Ki says his friend’s cousin’s brother was killed in this manner, but I think he’s just teasing me, trying to scare me into being extra careful as I travel the dump’s paths. Whenever I ask him to point out the friend or the cousin, he promises he will, but he never does.

  *****

  As I arrive with my child at the area where the shelters have been built, on a plateau of trash above the dumping trucks, I try to spot Ki. It’s just after noon, too early for most of the pickers to have taken their first break, so the trucks are still swarmed. Though I recognize some of the pickers, there are many I don’t know. Faces at the dump constantly change.

  I have packed Ki’s rice into his lunch tin, except for a little I mashed up to feed Nisay, and when I finally see my husband, I wave the pail in the air with my free hand to get his attention. He motions that he’ll come momentarily. With Nisay’s weight putting my left hip to sleep, and my right hip about to follow suit, we look for a place to sit.

  “Hey, Sang Ly! Over here!”

  It’s Lucky Fat. When the boy sees us, he hollers for us to join him. He’s built a rather crude shelter, but I humbly accept his offer and lay Nisay on the cardboard in the shade beneath the canopy. My baby fusses when I put him down, but I let him be, hoping the heat of the day will soon coax him back to sleep.

  “Are you bringin’ Ki lunch?” Lucky asks, with more animation than any human being living in a dump should be able to display.

  “Surely. Do you have lunch yourself?”

  He nods, looking pleased that I would ask.

  I don’t know Lucky’s real name, but I have no doubt that he popped out of the womb both plump and happy. Unfortunately, since he’s an abandoned child, no parents are around to ask. He’s called Lucky because he has an uncanny knack for finding money lost amongst the garbage. He’s called Fat because . . . well, he’s fat. Many say that Lucky looks just like a grinning Chinese Buddha (not the Cambodian Buddha, who is quite skinny). Lucky takes the comparison kindly and, for the past year, has been collecting Buddha statues he finds amongst the trash. Now, a dozen months later, his hut is so brimming with broken Buddhas that a newcomer might conclude the child is religious, obsessive, or desirous to become a monk.

  In spite of his nickname, Lucky’s life has not been easy. He was left at the dump at just seven years of age, shortly after we arrived. Although I could never imagine abandoning my own child, I have seen enough desperation in my life to understand the mind-set of those who do. However, what is unfathomable to me is that with an array of choices available for leaving a child—orphanages, monasteries, foreign medical clinics—how could any mother choose to leave her child at the dump, a place where useless things are thrown away?

  Still, Lucky has survived admirably.

  He was taught how to sort trash by Prak Sim, another boy orphan four years older. Even with the difference in their ages, the two became fast friends, working together, living as brothers. Eight months ago, however, Prak Sim was run over and killed by a garbage truck. If it were me and I had lost my family in such a tragic manner, in a place so desperate and bleak, I would have chased after the truck and thrown myself beneath the massive and heartless tires as well. Not Lucky. To this day, he remains cheerful.

  As Ki approaches, struggling to carry his bag, Lucky’s grin is wider than normal.

  “Either my husband has resorted to gathering rocks, or it’s been a very good day,” I say to Lucky, as I wait for Ki to fill in with his explanation. He wastes no time.

  “It was the second truck this morning. It carried a load of bent pipe connectors. We could all hear them clanking against the sides as they came out, and the pile was swarmed; I was right there and gathered up a good number of them.”

  Lucky is nodding ferociously, as if he’s known all along, and it’s only then I realize he is also sitting against a bag full of metal.

  “Do you know what this means?” Ki asks.

  “We get to eat tonight?” I say wryly.

  “We will actually have enough to pay the Cow. She’s going to bust an udder.”

  Lucky laughs like a jackal, and it catches us so off guard we can’t help but follow suit—and then Nisay stirs.

  “Oh, and I almost forgot,” Ki adds as he reaches for his bag. He searches in the sack and removes a book. “It’s old, but I think Nisay will like it.”

  He hands it over, and I thumb its dirty pages. The edges are worn and the back cover is water stained, but the illustrations inside remain vibrant, crisp, and colorful. Though I can’t read the words, I can see that it is certainly a book for children—and a perfect gift.

  “Did you buy this?” I ask.

  “No. I found it just before the pipe truck arrived. Meng reached for it at the same time, actually grabbed it first, but when I reminded him that Nisay’s been sick, he handed it over.”

  “That was nice,” I say.

  “Now, take what money I have,” he continues, “and go buy pork and papaya for dinner, and some of the good rice. I’ll be home later to celebrate. Who knows what else I’ll find?”

  As I make my way down the trail of trampled garbage, Grandfather’s words ring in my head.

  “It’s going to be a very lucky day.”

  *****

  In spite of the sun’s glare, I raise my chin and step confidently across the matted path of flattened trash.

  “I can hardly wait to see the look on Sopeap’s face,” I tell Nisay, who only grunts at my rambling as I carry him home. “I will say nothing at first, as she demands her money, but will instead bow my head to the ground and linger patiently for her fury to build. It will be like when we watch the storm clouds thicken, churn, and complain as they rumble over the dump in their tantrums of thunder.”

  I stop for Nisay to acknowledge me and agree that his mother is crafting a brilliant plan. Though he says nothing, I won’t let his lack of enthusiasm silence me. “It will be all I can do not to grin,” I tell him. “I’m going to stand there until she calls me foolish at least a half dozen times. Then I will lift my chin and ask her if she is finished. She will be so taken aback by my manner and confidence that she will pause with utter shock. Then,
after she exhales a long, stale breath, and just at the moment she is about to lash out again, I will roll open my fingers and present her with the rest of this month’s rent and most of next month’s. If she doesn’t snatch it up right away, I’ll press the money into her hand and then wave her toward the door as I declare, ‘Sopeap, our business is finished!’ ”

  I’ve painted such a vivid description, I want to clap. Of course, that’s difficult with a child in one arm and my child’s book in the other.

  “Your mother, Nisay,” I say instead, “will have stood up with pride to the Rent Collector of Stung Meanchey.”

  Only then do I finally hear my son gurgle and laugh.

  *****

  Nisay is sitting up on the floor between my straddled legs. He is feeling better, so we take the opportunity to inspect his gift—his first book. I point to a picture and then wait for him to notice, as if his mother reads to him every night before bed. Instead, he reaches for the pages with an effort that says, If I can just get hold of that, it’s going straight into my mouth.

  I keep the book distant, but he remains undeterred.

  “Nisay,” I announce, “I’m going to read you a story,” as if my explanation will change his mind about chewing on the edges of the delicious pages.

  An illustration of a majestic grove of trees adorns the opening spread. Beneath the trees stands a young Cambodian mother cradling her son. The wind must be blowing because the leaves swirl around them both as they watch in awed wonder. I have no clue what the words beneath the image say, so I point instead to the characters and make up a story of my own.

  “This mother cares very much for her son, just like I care for you.”

  In spite of its being true, it’s a ridiculous way for any story to begin, and I’m certain that Nisay understands his mother is a fraud. I turn the page to see that the same woman and her son have climbed a great mountain. I skip to the next and notice they stand by a deep blue ocean. How, I wonder, do this mother and child get around so quickly? If I were writing this story, I would surely do things differently.

  I am about to try again, devising a reasonable plot in my head, when I hear Ki approach. He will be surprised to see us reading. When he doesn’t step in right away and I hear the sound of slurred words, I realize it is Sopeap, still drunk and returning for the rent.

  “Coming,” I announce, not wanting the woman to enter my house without permission. I leave Nisay on the floor but set his book out of reach, at least temporarily, while I go and tend to Sopeap.

  The sun is just setting, and when I pull back the tarp, it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust properly. My heart drops. It is not Sopeap. It is Ki. He has fallen to the ground and is crawling toward the house. His shirt is stained crimson from blood oozing from behind his right ear. He tries to speak but can only spit red.

  I don’t understand his words, but I know exactly what has happened. There are gangs that roam the dump—Ki has been robbed.

  *****

  There are no more dreams, no visits from Grandfather, no more luck. Instead, by early morning, dark circles on the mat beneath Ki’s head form what look like halos in various shades of red and brown. He has slept through the night with a rag held to his wound. But in spite of the hours that have passed, when he sits up, fresh ruby droplets spider down the back of his neck, racing each other across his patchy, jaundiced skin.

  “Ki, you’re still bleeding,” I say, in a hushed tone that I hope won’t wake the baby. I reach out and press the rag against his matted hair. “We must get you to a doctor.”

  His reply seeps with disappointment. “We have no money.”

  “I have a little left from yesterday,” I say, “and we can borrow more from Mother.”

  “Sang Ly, she’s barely making it herself.”

  He is right. “Then take what little we have,” I tell him. “At least try. We will go with you.” As I reach for Nisay, Ki Lim waves me away.

  “Stay with the baby!” His voice is instantly stern and hard, now lacking yesterday’s confidence.

  “You can’t go alone,” I tell him. “Not like this.”

  “Sang Ly!” he answers, in a tone that demands I listen. “I said I’ll be fine!”

  I argue no further, but press the last of our money into his hand and then tie a clean rag around his wound. He pushes on his sandals.

  I want to follow him out of the dump to at least make sure he gets to the paved streets, but then Nisay’s whimper reminds me that the child still needs to be cleaned. Instead I watch from the curtain as Ki stumbles away from the house and toward the path that connects to the city.

  I loved my grandfather and I remember him fondly. After all, he virtually raised me. Still, I gaze heavenward and finish our conversation. I imagine I’ve grasped grandfather’s cheeks once again in my hands to look him in the eyes. Mine are no longer little girl hands, but those of a grown woman—and my declaration is simple.

  “Good luck, Grandfather. We needed good luck!”

  *****

  By late afternoon, I have scrubbed away the blood from our floor and I’m fussing about, repeating mundane tasks while trying to amuse Nisay.

  Ki has not returned.

  Then a voice calls out. “Sang Ly?”

  I recognize the tone, and it is not my husband. Sopeap has returned. I freeze, but she calls out again more loudly.

  “Sang Ly!”

  I consider staying quiet, but in a one-room home there is nowhere to hide. All she’d need to do is pull back the curtain to find us. Then Nisay whimpers, giving us away. “Traitor,” I mutter.

  I step to the tarp and reach for the corner. Even before throwing it open, I smell liquor mixed with disdain. There is no greeting between us.

  “Do you have the rest of my money?”

  My head hangs as planned, but I am not pretending.

  I shouldn’t have schemed such a cruel plan to berate her, imagining I could present our rent so arrogantly. It was my pride that brought this evil upon our family. The ancestors are punishing me for sure. My heart wants to explain but my head knows it is useless.

  “No. I am sorry.”

  Sopeap has always been an ugly barking dog, an animal that annoys but doesn’t bite. Today she shows teeth. Her snarl is deep and growling. Her stare is grey and cold. “Be gone by tomorrow!”

  At first I step back. Then I plead forgiveness. “Please, no! Ki was robbed last night, his head was cut open, everything was taken.”

  She grunts her disbelief. “Always an excuse. Be gone by morning or I will send the police!”

  Nisay must sense my desperation because his whimper turns into a cry. As Sopeap glances at the child, she spies his book spread open on the floor.

  And then, Sopeap freezes. Her shoulders slump, her breathing halts, her gaze drops. The ferocious storm of anger and lightning that encircled us only moments before dissipates. She takes a step forward, inside of our home, as if she can hardly believe what she is seeing. She takes a second step and her lips open, then quiver, but no words escape. For what feels like several minutes, but is probably only moments, she says nothing.

  I try to read her eyes through the silence. I struggle to grasp what is happening, but, like the child in my grandfather’s dream, I lack understanding. She shuffles another step closer to my son. I’m so confused that my instincts take over and I rush in front and snatch Nisay from the floor.

  Sopeap pays no attention.

  The sound starts low at first. As it mixes with Nisay’s fussing, I’m not sure where it is coming from. It could be the muted howl of a wounded dog, but it’s far away—and then I realize it’s coming from Sopeap.

  It grows louder—a painful, sorrowing lament, as if all the earth’s darkness were conspiring to snuff out her existence. As she moans, she stoops down, almost sitting, but with no chair. It’s as if she is afraid to touch the book at first. Then, after her fingers brush its surface, she lets them wrap about the cover to pull it close, handling it as though it were
a king’s treasure.

  It’s a beautiful book, but it’s still old and tattered. With her stained hands, she opens the cover and turns a single page, hesitates, and then turns another. Her eyes lock onto each new picture, as if every colorful drawing confirms to her brain what her eyes see and her fingers touch: It’s real. It’s not a dream.

  Her groaning grows, and I understand that the woman—a person I believed to be beyond feeling—is so awash in anguish and torment that I don’t know what to do. I reach out and touch her shoulder, thinking it will help, but she doesn’t respond. Instead, still crouched, she begins to rock ever so gently, forward and back, forward and back. I step away, sensing that though I stand in my own home, I don’t belong, even as a spectator, to so much personal grief and suffering.

  I find myself wishing, hoping, praying that Ki Lim will arrive and rescue me, help me to know what to do, how to help. But he doesn’t, and for what feels like an eternity, Sopeap doesn’t move from her crouched spot on the floor. And then gradually, with each exhaled breath, the moaning subsides, the heaving softens, the rocking slows. Without speaking a word, Sopeap rises, then stumbles across the room, around our drape of a door, and out to the front of my house.

  I follow.

  She is three steps away when, for the first time, she realizes that I am watching. She glances first at the book in her hand, then back toward me and Nisay. When she focuses on the book for a second time, I sense what she is thinking, and I both nod with my head and gesture with my hands, as if to say, “Please, keep the book.”

  She doesn’t acknowledge but she must understand because she turns away and flees, soon swallowed by the dump’s concealing smoke and haze.

  I return Nisay to the mat inside, unable to process what I have witnessed. I continue my duties—fuss with Nisay, clean up his mess, straighten our bed mat—but I also replay the scene of Sopeap and the book over and over in my head. It’s like watching a movie in the city that you’ve seen a hundred times, knowing how it always ends—but then one day, it ends differently.