The Rent Collector

by Wright, Camron

  Though I am worried about Maly, I try to act as if nothing is wrong. Still, I must sound ridiculously impatient as I read because when I pause, she answers a question I haven’t verbalized—at least not in the last twenty minutes.

  “Your reading is coming along well,” she says, “but if we dive into the pool before it’s full, we’ll hit our heads.”

  “Is that a literature lesson?” I ask with a hint of sarcasm.

  “No,” she replies curtly. “That is a common-sense lesson.”

  For someone who insisted that we discuss literature quickly, she is taking her own sweet time. Sopeap also won’t say why she is leaving the dump, just that she’s been planning it for a while but has yet to finalize her timing. Whenever I press her further, she gets belligerent and calls me foolish for asking questions that are none of my damn business.

  “Are you ready?” she asks out of the blue as she shuffles her notes.

  “Yes,” I answer, not sure to what I’m agreeing, but ready anyway.

  “Fine. I’ve taught you how to read. Now let’s teach you how to see.”

  She takes pages from her notebook and hands them to me.

  “In time, we will learn from stories that come from all around the world,” she announces. “Today, we will start with a few of the most basic stories ever written, timeless stories that come originally from Greece.” Sopeap gestures to the papers now in my hand as she makes the introduction. “Sang Ly, meet Aesop, writer of countless children’s fables.”

  I nod, as if Aesop and I are already best friends. She waves her hand at the words, seeming to demand that I begin. So I do.

  *****

  The Dancing Monkeys

  A prince had some monkeys trained to dance. Being naturally great mimics of men’s actions, they showed themselves to be apt pupils. When arrayed in their rich clothes and masks, they danced as well as any of the courtiers. The spectacle was often repeated with great applause, until on one occasion a courtier, bent on mischief, took from his pocket a handful of nuts and threw them upon the stage. At the sight of the nuts, the monkeys forgot their dancing and became (as indeed they were) monkeys instead of actors. Pulling off their masks and tearing their robes, they fought with one another for the nuts. The dancing spectacle thus came to an end amidst the laughter and ridicule of the audience.

  *****

  There are words I stumble through, words I don’t understand. But I get the general idea—it’s a funny story and I can’t help but smile. Sopeap isn’t as amused.

  “One of the first lessons that I hope you grasp is that woven into meaningful literature, so tightly that it can’t be separated, is a telling lesson, even in stories as short as this one.”

  “Always?” I ask.

  “Always!” she confirms. “Good stories teach!”

  “Perhaps it should speak a little louder,” I reply, hoping to amuse. Instead she frowns.

  “Sang Ly,” she says, in a raised tone that instructs me to pay attention, “what do we learn from this story today?”

  I want to say, “Don’t throw nuts on a stage when monkeys are dancing,” but I’m fairly certain that’s not the answer Sopeap is looking for.

  “Is the message always obvious?” I ask instead.

  She lets out a frustrated grunt before explaining further. “Stories are often layered with meaning. If you don’t learn from a story’s message, if you gloss over or dismiss it—even if it’s a message with which you don’t agree—then you have wasted not only your time but the writer’s time as well. So, I will ask you again, what lessons does this simple fable teach? What does it mean to you?”

  I must get this right, but under pressure I get nervous, my blood pumps, my heart races, and my good thoughts run for cover, often not coming back until they are sure the coast is clear. She said that a good story will always have something to say, whether we agree with the message or not. What is she expecting? Please, Grandfather, help me to know how to answer.

  And then a question pops into my head. It is sincere, and I don’t mean to sound like I’m still stalling. However, as the words roll off my tongue, I fail miserably.

  “What does this story mean to you?” I ask.

  She replies with a breath, a sigh, an air of forced patience. It’s only when her eyes drop, her shoulders slump, and the lines of her face wrinkle with such sadness that someone as dense as I can begin to realize that, like the stories she’s describing, Sopeap is also layered. In silent tones her actions scream, This is more than just another one of my ornery days!

  “Aesop reminds me,” she almost whispers, “that during my life, there are times when I pretend to be something I’m not. He reminds me that when nuts are thrown on my own stage, I quit dancing, pull off my mask, and stupidly scramble to gather them. He reminds me that—”

  She reaches out to touch the easel, not for balance but as if she’s remembering. “I’m sorry, Sang Ly,” she continues, “but I have not been a good teacher today. I am going about this all wrong. I still feel a bit tired from my last trip to the city. I’m going to go home now and get better prepared.”

  I want to know what she’s thinking. I want to understand what goes on in her life and her head in between our times together. I long to understand the parts of her life that she keeps hidden—and perhaps, to share some of mine. Instead I ask, “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yes,” she answers. “Please be here tomorrow.”

  *****

  I am about to go over to Lucky’s to check on Maly when Ki arrives home unexpectedly.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  He doesn’t look happy. “There is something I thought you should hear.”

  “What is it?”

  “I told you people at the dump will talk—well, there is a rumor going around that a young girl has been kidnapped. Now we’ve got more than just the gangs to worry about. Everyone will be keeping their eyes open for her.”

  *****

  My night has been miserable. Nisay is still hot and fussy with fever, and to offer even the slightest comfort to the child, I have to keep him constantly draped in wet rags. To make matters worse, Lucky arrived in the middle of the night with Maly. He thought he heard someone walking around his place in the dark, and so when the footsteps abated, he woke the girl up and they ran across the dump in the darkness to stay where they felt safe.

  Ki Lim, who was awake most of the night with us, kissed me good-bye early to head out. There was little more he could do, and should we need to take Nisay to the doctor again, Ki thought it would be best if he got an early start to be sure we have enough money.

  When Sopeap calls out, I’m the one who feels as though I’ve been up all night drinking. I swear it should be midnight, but the sun that fights its way into our home tells otherwise.

  “Nisay has been sick,” I say to Sopeap as I barely pull back the canvas. “I can’t leave him today.”

  She twists at her watch, a gesture I have come to understand as a sign of impatience and frustration. For a woman so hesitant just a few short weeks ago about teaching me, her disappointment reads like tattooed words across her face. “We will try again tomorrow, then,” she finally offers.

  Nisay lets out a cry, and so I turn around to check him. When I turn back, Sopeap has taken a step closer. She doesn’t look well herself. I am about to suggest she also go home and rest, but then I notice her eyes glancing inside to my floor where everyone is sleeping. A look of curiosity crosses her face. Without trying to be conspicuous, I lower the canvas to block her view of Maly.

  “Do you really want to get out of the dump?” she finally asks, as if my haggard appearance doesn’t aptly scream my answer. It is a ludicrous question. Does not everything about me shout that I want to be rid of this place?

  “Absolutely,” I say, short on sleep and patience, forcing myself to remain composed.

  “People only go to the places they have visited first in their minds,” she says, uttering the phrase as if
secrets to the universe have just been shared. “Perhaps that is how learning can help you. However, first you must see it, feel it, and then believe it. When you do, where it takes you may surprise.”

  She clasps her hands and waits for my response, but by the time I realize she expects a confirmation, she has already lost patience and is waddling away through the trash.

  I stand in the hot sun with bloodshot eyes that burn, a child that whimpers behind me in pain, and a brain that can’t figure out the answer to the more important question:

  What are we going to do to help the girl?

  Chapter Eleven

  It’s been two days and Sopeap has not returned. My nerves are frayed. I don’t want my teacher to know about Maly, and so each morning before it gets light, we sneak her back over to Lucky’s. Then when evening comes, with Lucky nervous that someone will find her at his place, he brings her over after dark to sleep with us.

  It’s exhausting. To make matters worse, we still haven’t figured out how to help—and I’m growing attached to the girl. When Sopeap doesn’t show up on the third day, my emotions surrender and I do what I should have done the day we found Maly. I go to my mother.

  “Sang Ly? Where’s Nisay?”

  “That’s what I’m here to talk to you about. You know how I’ve always wanted a daughter?” She stops and turns, staring in disbelief.

  “Are you pregnant?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, no.”

  Her disbelief turns into puzzlement. “What, then?”

  I gesture toward the floor and then sit at her side. I take a breath, grasp her hand, and explain as best I can why her own daughter is Stung Meanchey’s most recent kidnapper. Of course, I’ve never been in this actual situation before, so when I finish and she says nothing, I don’t know what it means.

  I wait. She continues to think.

  “Thank you,” she finally answers.

  “For what?”

  “For helping a mother to feel like she has raised her child right. Now, as to your little problem, it will take me a day or two to work out, but I may have a solution.”

  *****

  Sopeap doesn’t say where she has been for the last several days and I don’t ask. However, the color has returned to her face, she is wearing a pair of new brown socks, and though she will always be demanding, she has never looked better nor been more amiable.

  “Sang Ly,” she begins, “I’m old and long past caring about what people think of me.”

  I had already figured out that part of the woman and so I bob my head in agreement.

  Sopeap continues. “Two things happen when you get to be old. One, you gather experience and knowledge. You learn from your mistakes and thereby offer wisdom to others. The second thing that happens is that you grow forgetful, ornery, and senile, and when you offer advice, well, you sometimes just don’t know what you’re talking about. Often it’s hard for everyone—including me—to know the difference. You see, I haven’t taught for a while, and I stepped ahead of myself last time we met. I launched right into my lesson without giving you a most critical rule.”

  I ready my pencil.

  “Literature should be loved.”

  I raise my head to question, but her lips are already answering. “When I was a child, my father visited a faraway country on business. When he returned, he presented me with a tin that contained a cake. He told me that it was special because it was the custom of that country to mix a small toy in with the batter and bake the toy into the cake. The toy was supposed to be a surprise, though perhaps he worried that I would bite into it and break a tooth or that I’d swallow it and choke. Either way, knowing the toy was there, I began to pull the cake apart, shoving pieces into my mouth, gulping it down, all the while looking for that silly prize.”

  “Did you find it?”

  “I found it near the bottom. It had been baked into one of the corners, but by the time I discovered it, I’d eaten almost the entire cake.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yes, of course. But that’s not the point. The point is that I ate my cake so quickly and with my heart so intent on finding the toy that, to this day, I can’t tell you the flavor of the cake. I can’t describe the texture. I can’t say if it was delicious or bland. I can’t even remember what country it came from. Do you know why?”

  “Because . . . you . . . were focused . . . on looking for the toy.”

  Sopeap sighs again, but this time with relief rather than despair. I bite my tongue to remind my pride to stay seated.

  “Yes!” she says. “Literature is a cake with many toys baked inside—and even if you find them all, if you don’t enjoy the path that leads you to them, it will be a hollow accomplishment. There was a playwright named Heller, American, I believe, who summed it up this way. He said, ‘They knew everything about literature except how to enjoy it.’ ”

  I scribble this quote also.

  She continues, “Learning is an affair that takes a lifetime. Just be patient. As we delve into stories—which we will—you will soon understand. As Plautus said, ‘Patience is the best remedy for every trouble.’ ”

  “How do you remember these quotes?” I ask.

  “Unfortunately,” she answers, “I have the curse of memory that only rice wine will erase. Macbeth had it right when he called memory ‘the warder of the brain.’ ”

  “Do you realize,” I point out, “that you just answered my question about a quote with another quote?”

  Sopeap smiles—and we end for the day.

  *****

  When Ki steps inside, next to where I am boiling our rice, I expect to see disappointment. He has been meeting again with a few men at the shelters, hoping to convince them to stand up against the gangs. Instead, as he pulls off his boots, I think I see him smile.

  “You convinced them?” I ask, tempering my disbelief.

  “Three of them,” he says, “Okay, two and a half.”

  “It’s a start, but three—er, rather, two and a half of you—can’t take on the gangs by yourselves.”

  “Why not?”

  We’ve had this discussion before and I already know how it ends. I plow ahead anyway. “Ki,” I plead, “it’s not worth getting hurt.”

  I wait for his rebuttal, but he instead throws me a question I don’t anticipate. “You are reading to help our family; I’m protecting us with my knife. How is it any different?”

  I don’t care for his tone, the way he seems to mock me, but I stay silent—for all of ten seconds. “Perhaps they’re not any different,” I say to his astonishment as I let my supposed surrender marinate. “But at least my reading isn’t going to get me killed, leaving my family behind and all alone.”

  If I were Ki, I’d get angry. He doesn’t.

  “There’s a time and place for defending yourself,” he says calmly, “whether it be with words—or with a knife. Keep reading; your stories will teach you that.”

  We’ve each said our piece and the ending is no surprise, though there is one thing he has said that causes me to wonder.

  “I’m curious,” I ask. “The half person you mentioned . . . are you talking about Lucky Fat?”

  The corners of his mouth turn up ever so slightly, and that tells me that when he answers, I won’t be certain if he’s serious or teasing. Either way, I know from experience that I won’t discover the truth for the rest of the day.

  “No,” he says with a straight and sincere face, “it’s not Lucky. The person I was counting as a half, the gutsy person willing to also take a stand and fight with me—I was talking about Lena, your mother.”

  *****

  The air is heavy and warm, enough so that I pull back my canvas and sit on the ground in the shade. I look to the distant hut of Teva Mao and listen for Nisay. My good friend has been anxious to watch my son of late, when Mother can’t, and while I’m not certain, I suspect that Sopeap has made arrangements with Teva to forgive a portion of her rent.

  I worry about Nisay, leaving
him almost every morning for so long while I learn from Sopeap. Learning to read feels like the right thing to do, yet when my child cries as I pass him along to waiting hands, I want to throw away the books and pencils and just hold him close. But then, his constant whimpering throughout the day reminds me that if conditions don’t change, he’ll never improve. I wonder . . . is life so conflicted for everyone everywhere?

  Sopeap notices my concern. “Don’t worry about your son,” she says. “He’ll be fine.”

  “Will my learning help him?” I ask, needing to confirm that I’m making the right choice.

  “Education is almost always good, especially when it brings us to an understanding of our place in the world.”

  “And literature will do that?”

  “Sang Ly, we are literature—our lives, our hopes, our desires, our despairs, our passions, our strengths, our weaknesses. Stories express our longing not only to make a difference today but to see what is possible for tomorrow. Literature has been called a handbook for the art of being human. So, yes. It will do that.”

  “Will it help me to know how to get him better?”

  She sets down her book. “I am a tired old woman who lives in a dump. I can’t say if this is the right direction for you. That is a question only you will be able to answer. But I should warn you.”

  “Warn me? About what?”

  “As you learn, as you read stories that speak to you and begin to understand how they relate to you and your family—you may find questions you weren’t expecting.”

  “What kinds of questions?”

  “The deepest questions of mankind: What is the meaning of my life? Why am I here at the dump? What’s in store for me on this path? Do the ancestors listen and care about me? Why is life so hard? What is good and what is evil? What must I do about it? The list goes on and on.”

  “I don’t understand. How does reading stories about others answer those questions for me?”