The Rent Collector

by Wright, Camron

  “And you could let a poor woman rest. Besides, you are not ready,” she says flatly.

  “Ready? What do you mean?”

  “You’re anxious to jump into the river, but you haven’t checked to see if the water is deep enough.”

  I don’t bother pretending. “Sopeap, you speak in riddles. What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that life at the dump has limitations, but it serves a plate of predictability. Stung Meanchey offers boundaries. There are dangers, but they are understood, accepted, and managed. When we step out of that world, we enter an area of unknown. I’m questioning if you are ready. Everyone loves adventure, Sang Ly, when they know how the story ends. In life, however, our own endings are never as perfect.”

  “I’m just talking about literature,” I say.

  “And so am I.”

  We’re both getting irritated.

  “Explain it to me, then,” I say in frustration. “Why is someone like you even here at the dump? Are you hiding from someone?”

  “Hiding? Yes, Sang Ly. I’m hiding at Stung Meanchey—beneath the scorching sun, and even when it shuts its dreary eyes, still my shadow mocks.”

  “There are times when you speak like my grandfather.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means I need to understand . . . won’t you give me a chance?”

  “You’re asking me to remember what I’ve spent years trying to forget.”

  She shakes her head side to side, stretches her weighted shoulders, and winces, as if a pain is bothering her back—and she keeps glancing toward me, as if wishing will make me go away. When it doesn’t, she closes her eyes.

  So I wait.

  She is now silent and stony. I imagine she is trying to turn herself into a stone statue, like those at Angkor Wat, simply because she wants to be rid of me, and it’s all I can do to resist the urge to push her over. I poke out my finger to touch her, but her mouth opens first and she begins to speak. “Our next reading lesson will be the last.”

  My heart drops, but she continues. “However, I will agree to the following: Work hard while I’m gone. You will need to improve your reading substantially between now and then, and that will take a tremendous amount of study and practice. On that day, bring me an example of literature that we can discuss. Then, we shall see if we are both ready for more lessons.”

  “What kind of example?”

  “That is your decision.”

  She ignores my confusion and instead returns her chalk to the holder below the board, stacks books into her bag, and turns away.

  “Wait! I’ll need books, won’t I? Should I go into the city to find them?”

  Sopeap pauses long enough to reach out with her wrinkled and blemished fingers to grasp my cheeks, oddly the same as I would do to Grandfather. Only now that I am on the receiving end, I don’t like it.

  “You foolish child,” she declares. “You don’t need to go to the city. Even at Stung Meanchey, the dirtiest place in all of Cambodia, we are awash in literature.”

  “But where?” I ask.

  Hiding behind a chilling stare, the old woman smirks. I wait for her answer. She offers none, but instead twists away.

  “That’s it?” I call out.

  She shuffles to a stop one final time. “You will know when you find it. Literature should be discovered. I must go now. Good luck, Sang Ly.”

  She has forgotten her bottle. “Wait!” I call out. “You didn’t take your rice wine.”

  She doesn’t turn around. “Save it for me,” she answers. “I’m certain that I’ll need two next time.”

  *****

  I am anxious to discuss my assignment with Ki so that he can be on the lookout as he sorts through garbage from the trucks. But when he arrives home, he is distant.

  “What is the matter?” I finally ask, after he has eaten his rice and boiled eggs in utter silence. “Are you angry?”

  “At what?”

  “I don’t know—me? You haven’t said two words all through dinner.”

  “I’m sorry, I was thinking.”

  “About what?”

  His hand brushes against his ankle, confirming his knife is there. “I saw them today.”

  “Saw who?”

  “The gang who robbed me.”

  I crouch beside him. “Where? What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. They walked through the dump in the middle of the day, as though they were daring somebody to do something. Nobody did. Everyone just turned away and kept working with their backs toward them.”

  “Did you find the police?”

  Ki laughs aloud. “You think they care? You know they won’t come into the dump—not for us, anyway.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Half a dozen—all walking together, like a pack of dirty animals.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “No, they were far enough away. But I saw them. Even through the haze I could tell who they were—especially the tall one.”

  I’m concerned at Ki’s methodical tone, his intent gaze. I don’t want him planning anything crazy. “Ki, you need to stay clear of them. Let this be.”

  He turns to meet my stare. “They robbed us, Sang Ly. They could have killed me. They took what wasn’t theirs. It’s not right.”

  “Ki, I understand, but nothing good can come of this. Promise me you’ll keep your distance.”

  Ki lifts his head, offers a noncommittal shrug. “Like the other cowards? Then I’m no better.”

  “Those thugs are not worth dying for.”

  “You are right—but you are. If protecting my family isn’t a cause worth dying for, then what’s left?”

  He taps the weapon’s rigid handle. “Now, if you don’t mind,” he adds, “I need to get some rest.”

  *****

  Sopeap was wrong. My head really is about to explode. I have been reading aloud for so long from the books she left me that Ki has threatened to stuff garbage into his ears. It’s not that my reading isn’t liked. In fact, it actually settles Nisay down. However, Ki says that too much sugarcane will rot even the strongest teeth. I’m sure he means it as a compliment.

  I take a break from the books and thumb through a few of the glossy fashion magazines that I had Ki pull from the trash. I used to muse over the pictures, envy the beautiful women, and wonder about their lives. Now that I can actually read the words, I am amused. The teasers splashed across the covers say it all.

  Seduce Your Man in the Kitchen. I picture our one-room home and giggle.

  Eat at Home and Save a Bundle. I’ll keep that in mind.

  Wear Your Best Dress to Work. Not a good idea at Stung Meanchey.

  And my all-time favorite: Will Eating Starchy Rice Make You Fat? I glance down at my thin frame. Can they be serious?

  I don’t think any of this is the literature that Sopeap had in mind. I’ll keep searching.

  *****

  Choob khyol or cupping is an ancient remedy that means to suck the wind. I don’t know if it will work any better than scraping, but I must try. Mother says that cupping will not only improve Nisay’s circulation and appetite but restore his balance. My plea is that it stops his diarrhea.

  We take Nisay to a practitioner in the city, a man who learned the art from his father. We are greeted on the street by his female assistant and escorted down a narrow alley to his treatment room. It is small but clean. The man inside is young, but he carries himself with confidence, as though he’s performed the treatment a million times. He bows his head in greeting as we enter, but then continues to prepare a tray of glass, globe-shaped cups that stand in rows like soldiers. They are translucent, perhaps blown from melted soda bottles, each about the size of a round lime. He lights the end of a small torch, then sets it aside on a stand that keeps it upright.

  “We are ready,” he announces. “Take off his little shirt and we will begin.”

  He instructs Ki to lay Nisay facedown on a blanket that is s
pread across a narrow wooden exam table. The instant Ki complies, Nisay begins to fuss and then squeal. Ki holds his feet so he won’t roll over. I pat his legs for comfort.

  “Oh, you whiny child,” I protest, knowing that he’s perfectly fine.

  I know from experience that though the cups will feel warm to his skin, they won’t be painful. Nisay doesn’t care. He has been to the doctor too many times to believe differently.

  The man picks up the torch and his first cup and then pushes the burning end into the round globe. Just when it looks as though the flame might smother and go out, he pulls away the torch and places the open end of the cup’s rim directly onto Nisay’s back. My child screams louder.

  As quickly as the man can pick up and heat each cup, he repeats the process, lining the glass globes on my baby’s body in almost perfect symmetry. As the glass cools, I can see my son’s skin pull upward into the opening, as the excess energy or wind is drawn out of his thin body. By the time the man is finished, my child’s back is covered with eight clinking cups, and he actually looks quite ridiculous. An adult receiving the same treatment may have up to three or four times the number, with cups also being placed on the arms, legs, chest, and even forehead. If it were Ki receiving treatment today, I’d be teasing him to no end. With Nisay, I refrain. My son’s arms and legs are so skinny that the cups won’t stick there, so we decide that his back will be sufficient. True to form, and in spite of my encouragement otherwise, Nisay never quits bawling. Though he kicks constantly for ten minutes (which feel like thirty), the cups hold fast. Then the man pushes his finger against each cup’s rim to pop them off, and as quickly as they were placed, he returns them to the waiting tray—and the treatment is over.

  I pick up Nisay from the table and hold his bare, polka-dotted body over my shoulder. “It’s over,” I tell him. “Quit crying now.” Surprisingly, he does.

  The man is paid, tears are dried, and we head home. It is on our walk back, after we enter the dump, that we pass Lucky Fat.

  “I just came from your house and you guys weren’t there,” he says.

  “No, we weren’t,” I reply, confirming the obvious. He doesn’t ask where we’ve been or why Nisay’s bare little body is spotted with perfect circles.

  “Well, I found a book and left it for you. I’ll keep looking for more. Oh, and while I was there, Sopeap came by.”

  “She’s back?”

  “Yeah, and she left a message. She said for you to plan on Friday, that you’d know what that means.”

  “It means,” I say, “that my time is running out.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sopeap said it was all around us, that we were swimming in it. Perhaps literature is easier to find in the dump if you’re a drunk. I have read wrappers, cans, magazines, notes on napkins, directions, bills, packaging, bottle labels, even tattoos on men picking trash. Nothing feels like literature. I have let friends know to keep their eyes open for books—surely, I must be looking for books. Still, the one that Lucky left yesterday only showed how to fix a moto. While it may be literature to a mechanic or anyone who owns a moto, I am neither. I only need a single example. If I show up with nothing, our lessons will end.

  It is after dinner, after dark, after Nisay has finally fallen asleep, and after we are lying down that Ki casually says, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Your cousin was here looking for you.”

  “Narin? When? What did she want?”

  “It was when you were still out—working.” He emphasizes the word and I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me for looking for literature in a dump or if he is resentful that I’m not gathering my share of recyclables. When he pokes me and begins to laugh, I’m relieved it’s the former.

  “You didn’t say what she wanted.”

  “She said she found something, but didn’t say what.”

  I take a generous breath, try not to sound excited. “But she didn’t leave anything?”

  “Not with me. She mentioned that she was watching Nisay on Friday and would give it to you then.”

  That would be the day Sopeap is coming, the day of our lesson, and that means one thing is certain—waiting until Friday to see Narin is not an option.

  “I’m not really tired yet,” I say as I roll over and stand up in the darkness. “Perhaps I’ll go out for some fresh air.”

  Ki laughs so loud that Nisay stirs. I guess it is pretty funny, when one associates fresh air with the aroma and haze of the dump that permeate our home at night.

  “Take the light,” he says, not bothering to ask where I’m going or how long I’ll be gone. “And take the path in front of the homes, around the perimeter. It’s longer, but it’s safe. Don’t even think about cutting across the dump.”

  I kiss him quickly, then grab the light that he’ll sometimes use to pick in the dark when we have enough to pay for a charged battery. I don’t bother clicking it on inside, as I’m afraid it won’t work and he’ll insist I stay home. The moon is out anyway, and there is sufficient light to see my way just fine.

  When I arrive at Narin’s, I strain, hoping to see a glow coming from inside. There isn’t one. Should I turn around and go home empty-handed?

  “Narin?” I call out through an open window.

  Nothing. I try again. “Narin?”

  The door to the home opens and my cousin steps out. “Sang Ly? What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice ringing with worry.

  “Everything is fine. It’s just that Ki said you came by. I would have come earlier, but he just told me. Did you find something? Did you find a book?”

  “No, I’m sorry, no book. What I have may be nothing. I was reminded of a simple poem that I learned in the province, one Mother taught me. She would whisper when I was restless and couldn’t sleep.”

  “I’m not sure if a poem is what I need. Sopeap did not say if poems were literature, but I’d love to see it.”

  Narin glances down in the moonlight. “I have nothing written. I don’t read. Instead I remember it. Like I said, I don’t know if it’s what you want, I just—”

  “Narin, I’d love to hear it.”

  She points to the step and we sit, so as to not disturb her children, who are already trying to sleep. She scoots close, and as she begins, I can almost hear my aunt’s raspy voice.

  *****

  Laugh with me, monkey. Bring impish tricks and mischievous heart. Help sorrow waft and cheer restore before the sun sets red.

  Run with me, tiger, with imposing stripes of orange and deafening growl. Cause enemies to cower and bring my spirit courage.

  Pull with me, water buffalo. Turn furrowed fields to golden rice that’s sweet. Show true resolve and the strength of a determined mind.

  Rest with me, turtle, with emerald shield and wisdom old as time. Teach me to value a strong home that will protect against the rain.

  Swim with me, fish, through renewing waters that are broad and deep and blue. Cleanse my body and keep it cool from the sun’s hot rays.

  Sing with me, bird. Trill nature’s song and carry tired limbs through indigo sky. Open my eyes to the world’s expanse and Nature’s wonder.

  Scurry with me, beetle. Remind of life’s short days and of precious time. Tap your violet legs about to keep me alert and prepared.

  Scurry, beetle—sing, bird—swim, fish—rest, turtle—pull, water buffalo—run, tiger—laugh, monkey. Play together in my dreams. Dance across nature’s sky. It’s now time that I must sleep.

  *****

  We sit quietly with our thoughts that drift and mingle with the nighttime sounds of the dump. We remember our lives in the province—but mostly we remember Aunty.

  “I miss Mother,” Narin finally says aloud.

  “I know. I miss her too.” I put my arm on my cousin’s shoulder, hoping to offer comfort.

  Narin’s mother, my aunt, passed away just two months after Narin arrived at the dump. Back then, since the family didn’t have a way to contact her, nearly three weeks passed before the news could be deliv
ered from the province.

  “Is it literature?” she finally asks. “Is it what you are looking for?”

  “I don’t know for certain, but I think it feels like literature,” I reply. She seems pleased as I continue. “I am going to need to write it down. If I come back in the morning with a pencil and paper, do you think you could repeat it again slowly?”

  “Yes. But when you return, can I ask a favor?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Would you mind writing a second copy, one that I can have?”

  They are words she knows by heart and yet she wants something in hand—this must surely be literature. I squeeze Narin’s arm. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” she asks.

  “For helping me find my first piece of literature. Now, there is just one more problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I hope Sopeap agrees.”

  *****

  As my teacher arrives, she stumbles, and I presume she has been drinking, but I smell no alcohol.

  “Did you have a successful trip?” I ask.

  “It was more trying than I expected. But I am here and on time, so let’s get started.”

  For the first hour, Sopeap bluntly details the use of grammar. As she promised, it is clear and straightforward, usage that I grasp from speaking the language. While I prod her along, wanting to move the discussion forward, she purposely drags on as if to spite me.

  “Do you have any questions?” she finally asks. “If not, we can end.” She hesitates, waits, watches—and I consider that she may be toying with me.

  “I did my homework,” I tell her.

  “I thought you might have,” she answers. “Are you going to show me or just sit there grinning like a monkey?”

  I take out two copies of Narin’s poem and pass one to her.