The Rent Collector

by Wright, Camron

  How can a woman so empty and beyond feeling become so overcome with emotion that she can’t speak? But there is more to the picture. In my mind, as I watch her study again each page of Nisay’s book, it finally hits me.

  “That’s it!” I exclaim aloud.

  I pause to let my head absorb, process, and ponder my discovery.

  It was Sopeap’s eyes, the way they darted at every picture, the timing of each turn of the page, the soft movement of her lips. Is it possible? Yes, I’m certain of it. Sopeap Sin, the woman we call the Cow—she can read!

  *****

  It is late when Ki returns. I light a lamp so that the flame’s glow will let him see to get into bed. He is grinning. The white tape and sterile gauze that wrap his bandaged head contrast with his bronze skin, which has finally returned to a healthy color.

  “Thank goodness you’re back. I’ve been so worried.”

  “I’m fine,” he replies casually—too casually.

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “Parlez-vous Français?”

  “What?”

  “I have no idea either. She was speaking French. She stitched me up, gave me a shot, and right now—I feel really good.”

  The anger in his face is gone. Instead his pupils are unusually wide and his speech curiously slow.

  “Do we owe them money?” I ask, hating to broach the subject. Oddly, it doesn’t bother him.

  “It was free. I went to the charity clinic, near the Russian hospital, off Khemarak Boulevard. You know, the clinic the French run.”

  I wrinkle my brow. “But they only treat pregnant women—and babies.” I know this because I took Nisay there just a few weeks earlier.

  Ki’s dilated eyes twinkle. “Yeah, but I passed out on their waiting room floor. What could they do? I was bleeding all over their tile.”

  When he giggles, I can’t help but join him, laughing more at his intoxication than his story. “What did they give you, anyway?”

  “I’m not sure, but it really helps!”

  “Then you still have the money?”

  Despite the relaxing effects of the drugs, he turns serious for the first time since his return. He shakes his head back and forth as his fists tighten—not in an angry manner, just matter-of-fact.

  “Sang Ly, you have no more worry about the gangs robbing us.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  Ki sucks in a heavy breath and then pulls up one leg of his pants. In the flickering light of our single oil lamp, I can see, strapped to his ankle, the unmistakable outline of a long, silver, razor knife.

  *****

  In the morning I remove Ki’s bandage and inspect his wound. In spite of his wincing, the stitching is admirable, the bleeding has stopped, and I can tell that Ki is going to live for at least another day. I break the news. “Doctor, I think the patient will survive!”

  He’s not half as amused as I. After I replace his bandage, he rolls back down to the floor. The happy drugs are now a distant memory.

  Without offering an explanation, I pull on my pants, long socks, and boots, and then reach for my gloves and straw hat. “I’ll be in the garden,” I announce, trying to be cheerful.

  Considering that we are out of rice, I see no other option. Since Ki is in no shape to pick, I will go today instead. He cracks open a stare, certain that I’ve lost my mind. When he doesn’t utter a word, I try again. “I’m leaving the cave to hunt. I’ll be back with food.”

  Perhaps drugs dull one’s senses. Perhaps I’m just not that funny. Either way, I decide directness is now my only option. “Watch the baby, Ki. I’m going to pick.”

  I grab an empty canvas sack, wave my good-bye, and then trek out to greet a new day at the dump. As I do, there’s one thought on my mind: Stay away, Grandfather. I don’t have the time or patience for any more of your luck.

  *****

  I have been told that there is a specialized college degree that studies civilizations by sifting through the layers of their trash. If this is true, if there really is a degree called Somran Vichea, or garbology, as Dara Neak claims, I should be the teacher. It also brings up another fascinating question: If people realized someone would be sorting through their trash, would they be more careful in what they throw away?

  One of the first things I’ve learned, as a student of the dump, is that people hoping to make a decent living here are delusional. If they still insist on trying, it’s important to explain three widely used picking techniques from which to choose.

  The most risky is a method that Ki seldom tries, its danger still evidenced by a scar he bears on his left ankle. There are times at night when the mountainous garbage burns so intently and is so fully consumed that even the bulldozers won’t try to squelch the flames. By morning, anything combustible or toxic has burned away, leaving behind a layer of purified ash that pillows pieces of red-hot scrap metal ripe for plucking. This method of gathering is treacherous because if you march through the ash too soon, hidden scrap will burn through your rubber boots in seconds. Some resort to braving the ash at night, reasoning that the metal’s glow lets them see where not to step. While it’s true that a few of the very skilled (or stupid) make a reasonable living this way, many ultimately burn and scar their bodies so badly that they end up crippled and begging for food on the streets of Phnom Penh—a life worse than picking garbage in Stung Meanchey.

  A better alternative, and the most popular picking method (the one Ki prefers), is working alongside the trucks as they purge their loads. Of course, working around trucks, whose drivers appear eager to run you over just for sport, means you must always be alert and watchful. This method is also competitive and furious. People crowd together, everyone flinging their sticks fashioned with a sharp metal hook at the end, ready to tear open the tumbling bags of garbage. They pick, prod, and pry at the sacks of trash, searching for any scrap of discarded metal, glass, or plastic worth selling to the buyers.

  The last picking method, and the one I prefer, is working away from the trucks, in open areas that have been stirred up by passing bulldozers. It’s a method that is less hectic, less dangerous, and unfortunately also the least fruitful. It’s a method that requires not quick thinking but rather methodical diligence. If you are persistent and patient, it can still prove worthwhile. This method is followed mostly by the elderly, the children, and anyone recovering from injury. I prefer it because it lets my eyes and hands disengage from my brain, working like a robotic machine, thus giving me time to think. As I see it, with no money, no rice, a sick child, and a husband with a line of fresh stitches still throbbing in his head, I have a considerable amount to think about.

  I always tell Ki that it’s a dangerous thing sending me to work the dump, not because I’ll get run over by a truck, burn my legs and feet, or fall into a pool of toxic sludge—though all those are possibilities. It’s dangerous because my thoughts get away from themselves. Mixed with emotion, they pile up like the garbage that surrounds me. They stack layer upon layer, deeper and deeper, month after month—crushing, festering, smoldering. One day something is certain to combust.

  Where did Sopeap learn to read? What would cause a woman so hard and brutal to break down into a well of tears? Does Ki really think his knife will protect him from the gangs of thugs? What if the unspeakable happens? Could Nisay and I survive alone at Stung Meanchey?

  It’s late in the day when I finish. I have filled a canvas bag half full of discarded plastic and metal cans that I balance on my shoulders. I carry it to the buyers, where it is sorted and weighed. They offer less than I expect, but I am too tired to barter. I take my money, then go to the home of the rice vendor, where I purchase two kilos of rice and some vegetables. She tells me that I seem quiet today, not my normal self. I shrug politely, take my food, and head for home, hoping that all has been well.

  I have been quiet today because fear in my heart has been fighting with frustration in my brain, leaving little energy for my mouth. Halfway through the day, my brain
declared itself the winner and started to work out a plan. Grandfather loved luck, but I am tired and can no longer wait around for its arrival. I haven’t spoken to Grandfather all day because I know he’ll be angry when I tell him that his luck is . . . well . . . lacking. It won’t stop by, it doesn’t call, and I must conclude that we’ve been abandoned. It’s like the friend who gets a job in the city, begins to earn decent money, and then no longer visits. Luck has also moved on to better times, and it’s not coming back.

  Seriously, what does one do when the ancestors no longer listen? To my dismay, Grandfather’s words echo in my ears. Crafting a plan is easy. Taking action will always prove to be the more difficult path.

  And the question remains, will my plan work? Will everyone, including Ki Lim, think I’ve banged my head against a garbage truck? While he will undoubtedly be surprised, it won’t be my husband who is the most astonished. The person most likely to think the toxic smell of the dump has finally rotted away my brain will be a woman whom I still struggle to understand—Sopeap Sin.

  Chapter Three

  “Hello?”

  The voice outside the flap is so hoarse that at first I don’t recognize it. When I pull back the canvas, Sopeap waits. She does not look well.

  “May I speak with you?” she asks.

  Now I am worried. Not because of her ragged appearance but because she never asks for permission to speak. “Absolutely,” I say.

  “Is your husband . . . Ki Lim . . . is Ki okay? I heard he was . . . injured.” She stumbles around her words, as if they are drunk with her.

  I am not certain what she is asking. Sopeap has never cared about Ki—or anyone—bleeding or not. Before I can answer, she mumbles the real reason for the visit.

  “May I buy this book?”

  She is holding Nisay’s book, raising it toward me, as if I may have forgotten what happened on the night she stumbled away with it clutched in her hand.

  “The book is yours. I told you that when you were . . . ” I don’t know how to finish without offending. Her interruption saves my awkwardness.

  “How much?”

  “No. Sopeap, I gave you the book.”

  It’s as though I am speaking a strange language and she can’t comprehend my meaning. Seconds pass before she processes the notion.

  “Thank you.” The phrase thank you coming from Sopeap Sin is about as common as fresh air at Stung Meanchey. What she says next only compounds my puzzlement.

  “I will mark your rent for this month as paid in full.”

  I choke, stumble, and then grab at my ears. Sopeap Sin, the Rent Collector, the greediest person I have ever known, has never been concerned about our well-being, and she has certainly never forgiven any rent.

  And then I realize I must be dreaming. I bite my lip—it hurts. I glance around the room—it’s our home at the dump. Surely, if I were dreaming, I’d be living in a place nicer than this.

  “That is kind,” I finally reply. “It will help us out a great deal.”

  She lingers, as if she has more that needs to be said. “The other night . . . I was . . . I had been drinking. I don’t remember much . . .”

  It is my turn to interrupt. “Sopeap, there is no need to explain.” My words lie. I desperately wish to understand. More important, I wonder if now is the right time to pose my question. I take so long debating with myself that she assumes we are finished and turns to leave. She is three steps away when I call out.

  “Sopeap?”

  She pauses, pivots, waits. “Yes?”

  “Will you teach me how to read?”

  *****

  “I don’t like it, Sang Ly. It’s just not right.”

  I had expected Ki Lim to be excited. Can’t he see that if I learn to read, I can teach Nisay, and then, perhaps, our son can follow in better footsteps? Our only other hope is to enroll him in one of the NGO charity schools when he gets older, but there are thousands of destitute Cambodian children and very few openings. As a mother, I need a greater hope than that.

  “Fine. If not me, then she can teach you,” I say.

  This irritates Ki further. “Don’t be foolish. I dig through stinking garbage every day just so we can eat!”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just . . .” How do I explain? “Ki, if we don’t give Nisay every possible chance to do better . . .”

  Ki sighs, and I can’t tell if it’s a sign of disgust or surrender. “I just don’t like our son being around Sopeap Sin,” he adds. “She’s a witch, and I don’t trust her.”

  I wait to tell Ki about Sopeap’s conditions. He would never understand. I’m not sure I understand. After he leaves, I revisit in my head the conversation I had with Sopeap.

  “Why? Why do you want to read?” she had asked, obviously a bit unsettled by my request.

  I should have been prepared with a quick reply, but I wasn’t. And to make matters worse, Nisay, who was sound asleep on the floor, awoke with a start and began to holler. Then I realized he was my cue.

  “I need to be able to teach my son to read stories, like the book you hold in your hand . . . for his sake.”

  “Is that why you gave me the book? So I would teach you to read?” With every word, her tone hardened and I questioned my judgment in asking.

  “No, I . . . well, yes, yes, I did. I saw how much the book meant to you and I hoped that you’d see how important reading will be to my son. Sopeap, I need to teach Nisay to read so that he can find a way out of this dump and into a better life.”

  “What’s wrong with the dump?” she asked, as if we lived in paradise.

  Was she serious? Could she not glance around? Were her eyes blind from the smoke? Was her nose dead from the smell? I couldn’t say for certain why this set me off, but it did, and my reply was not kind.

  “Are you out of your drunken mind?” I asked with disgust. I expected Sopeap to bolt. Instead, she paused, as if I were finally speaking her language. She rolled her thick lips inward but said nothing. I took the pause as an opportunity.

  “The only way my son will get better is if I get him out of Stung Meanchey.”

  “What is wrong with him?” she asked.

  “He’s not well. He has never been well. You’ve seen him. We have tried folk remedies, taken him to doctors—French, Cambodian, and American. They give us medicine, but as soon as it runs out, his diarrhea and fever return. I need to do something more to help him. I need to do something now.”

  As Sopeap’s shoulders rose, her features wrinkled. “And you think that something is teaching him to read? Why, if medicines don’t work, do you believe reading will help?”

  How could I explain the illogical feelings swirling and swelling inside, forcing my action? “Sopeap,” I said, “I’m not replacing one with another. I don’t expect reading to make his body well. But I hope reading will give him something to look forward to, a reason to fight. I want to believe reading will fill him with courage.”

  I picked Nisay up from the floor and held him over my arm to calm his cries. Sopeap’s gaze shifted to the child, and for a moment it appeared as though perhaps my arguments were working. Her head bobbed as she watched him, as if memories pulled from her brain were causing it to lose balance.

  I continued, “I’ll keep taking him to doctors. I’ll keep searching for answers. I just don’t think anything will change until he has the desire to get better. I can’t rely on Grandfather’s luck any longer. So yes, as naive as it may sound, I believe reading will help Nisay. I want to think that reading will offer him hope.”

  In spite of my poorly phrased argument, my plea had at least been heartfelt—and for that I deserved some respect. I received none. The interest I thought I read in Sopeap’s face faded, and instead of showing sympathy, her response was swift and biting.

  “If you’re looking for hope,” she said, sarcasm hardening her voice, “you should know that it died at Stung Meanchey.”

  She didn’t flinch. I couldn’t tell if she was serious
. There was no hint of amusement, no wry grin, and as her eyes stabbed deeply into mine, I realized how much I despised the woman. The longer we sat with our eyes locked in a silent battle, the harder I could feel my teeth grind.

  I blinked first. “Perhaps hope did die at Stung Meanchey,” I answered, as I scooted closer to be sure that she wouldn’t miss my point. “Or . . .” I gestured toward her with my finger, while lowering my head, as if a new idea had just arrived. I let the moment hang as I sharpened my remaining words. “. . . it could be that what died at Stung Meanchey was you!”

  I took a step back. I was furious and expected fury in return.

  Instead Sopeap paused—and then she laughed. Not a chuckle, as though I’d said something funny. Nor was it a snicker, as if I’d done something stupid. Instead, it came from deep within her chest, and as it spilled out, it surprised her more than it did me. Her eyes then darted back and forth, as though she were watching a dog chase its tail. As I waited just inside my little three-walled shack with a tarp nailed on the front, I thought I also heard the ancestors laughing.

  And then everyone was silent.

  Sopeap turned to face me, as if she wanted to be sure there would be no misunderstanding.

  “I have conditions,” she announced.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, I have conditions.”

  “Anything.”

  “Don’t you want to hear what they are first, before you agree so quickly?”

  I nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  “First, every Friday, without fail, you will bring me a bottle of Bourey rice wine.”

  “Okay. I can do that.” Ki Lim was not going to be happy. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Did you not listen? Conditions is plural. Two . . .”

  To keep the word Cow from creeping into my brain, I began to calculate the price of Bourey rice wine in my head. No, Ki Lim was not going to like this at all.