The Rent Collector

by Wright, Camron

  “That is what I’m hoping you will understand—every story we read, Sang Ly, is about us, in one way or another.”

  “But how . . . ?”

  “Hold your questions, child. Let’s not let the morning pass and find out that we haven’t yet cracked open a book. We’ll begin today with the story Tum Teav by Cambodian author Preah Botumthera Som.”

  She hands me a worn text. “I think you’ll enjoy this story,” she says. “It’s about a beautiful adolescent girl named Teav. She is caught in a rather unusual predicament.” Sopeap’s eyes lock on mine, as if she can read my thoughts, and her words carry such wryness that I’m certain she must have found out about the girl. And if she knows, who else also knows?

  I freeze, not budging, not breathing, until Sopeap finally points to the book and says, “Open to the first page and we’ll get started.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Mother is causing trouble again at the shelters, and I seem to be the only one to notice. By the time I arrive, she has convinced Sida Son and Jorani Kahn to build a large single shelter together rather than two smaller shelters of their own. “If you work together,” she told them, “you’ll create the best shelter ever seen at Stung Meanchey.”

  The problem is she knows full well that Sida and Jorani hate each other—and yet she persists. If my mother’s motives were pure, if she were trying to get two friends to make up, I would applaud the woman. Instead she finesses the less-than-brilliant pair together, just so she can sit back and watch the show.

  “Shame on you,” I say as I take a seat beside her while the two women continue to argue about how far their cardboard should extend past their fabric roof. I would step in and break things up, but I know better.

  “What would Father say if he were still alive?” I say to Mother.

  “First of all, I don’t know what you are talking about,” she says. “And second, you should talk—you’re the one who killed him.”

  Naturally I don’t remember, and the story would change every time Mother or Grandfather would tell it. It was said that during my childbirth, Mother was in heavy labor, pushing and pushing, while I refused to come out. She was encouraged by the midwife while my father smoked homemade cigarettes as he paced nervously in the front yard.

  Grandfather said I refused to leave the ancestors, who must have been gathered around telling jokes. I suspect, instead, that someone there must have warned me about my future at Stung Meanchey. Either way, my birth took hours. When I finally filled my lungs and announced to the village that I had arrived, the midwife ran out to deliver the good news and found my father stone-cold dead on the ground.

  As a child, I liked to imagine that he gave up his life for me, that whoever was in charge that day had decided to allow a limited number of my relatives on the earth at one time. I convinced myself that I was the one destined to die, but then, at the very last moment, my father somehow pulled a phlah bdo (a secret switch) and volunteered himself instead.

  It was just a child’s silly story, but it helped ease the pain of one of my biggest regrets growing up: I never knew my father. To this day, I don’t know what he looked like. Pictures were rare in the province, and the single photo Mother had of him was lost when I was still a baby.

  “Do you want to stay for more?” Mother asks as Sida begins to curse and Jorani starts to throw trash.

  I don’t mean to laugh, but the two women are rather comical.

  “It’s no wonder we’re both at Stung Meanchey,” I tell her as we lean back and resist the temptation to clap. “It’s no wonder at all.”

  Only when the fighting winds down does Mother lean over and casually mention, “You should also know . . . I have made arrangements for the girl.”

  I lurch forward. “Arrangements? For Maly? What does that mean?”

  “It will be best if I keep the details to myself,” she says, “for everyone’s safety. Let’s just say I’ve found a good situation, away from the city, where she will be safe.”

  “When?”

  “I will leave with her tomorrow.”

  “So soon?”

  “Yes, but there is one slight problem.” I hate it when Mother mentions problems.

  “What kind of problem?”

  “To make this work, we’re going to need the help of the Rent Collector.”

  *****

  I’m waiting outside my curtain when Sopeap arrives. I sent word that we needed to speak and, thankfully, she arrives on time.

  “What is so important?” Sopeap asks, irritated.

  “I’m sorry,” I begin, unsure how to explain. “I just . . .” When I pause, she loses patience.

  “Is this about the girl?”

  I take a breath. “You know about her?”

  “Since the day I saw her sleeping on your floor,” she scoffs.

  “I’m sorry. We wanted to keep her safe until—”

  “Do you have a plan?” she interrupts.

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Spit it out.”

  “We need your help. The girl—Maly is her name—will need money for the bus trip, and then for the family, to cover her expenses.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Sopeap asks.

  To me it seems obvious, but I continue. “The only extra we have is the money we’re saving for next month’s rent.”

  Sopeap’s voice hardens. “Are you asking if I think helping this girl, a stranger to us both, is more important than you paying rent?”

  I didn’t expect her to be so belligerent, though I’m not sure why. Her question demands an answer, but I hesitate in my reply.

  “Are you?” she repeats.

  “Yes,” I say. “I am.”

  There is no mistake in her tone. “I won’t allow you to use your rent!”

  “But Sopeap . . .”

  Abruptly she reaches into her pocket and removes a tight roll of money, as if she expected this all along, and passes it to me. “This should be sufficient. However, offer it only to those you can trust—for the girl’s sake. When does she leave?”

  I am so taken aback, I say nothing.

  “I asked, when does she leave?” Sopeap repeats, as if I’m hard of hearing.

  “Tonight.”

  “So we won’t be meeting today?”

  “Not today.”

  “Then I’m going to have a drink—and tomorrow you can finally get your mind back on your studies.” As she wobbles away, she calls out, “And don’t be late with your rent!”

  *****

  Life is a funny thing. One day I’m worried about our safety with Maly staying with us. Days later I’m scared to death to have her leave. Even though the sun still beats down outside and we desperately need some air, we keep our canvas down until it gets dark.

  Lucky is the first to say good-bye. He stands next to Maly, looking confused as to whether he should hug her or not. She helps him decide by wrapping her little arms around his neck. They whisper words we can’t hear, and when the two separate, the boy quietly announces that he’s going outside to look around and make sure it’s safe. As he wipes his sleeve across his forehead and eyes, we all understand.

  I step over to Maly next, and when she begins to tear up, I pull her close.

  “I have something for you,” I say as I present her a copy of Reamker, a book given to me by Sopeap.

  “But I don’t read,” she answers.

  “Not yet,” I add, “but you will.”

  She touches the cover. “What is it about?”

  “I have just finished reading it myself. It’s a celebrated Cambodian epic that you are going to love. You’ll fly away with Prince Rama and Queen Sita, fight giants, befriend monkeys, swim with mermaids, and rescue a forlorn princess. It’s a wonderful world where good balances evil, friendships last forever, and magic keeps you safe—and every time you read it, you can think of us.”

  I hold her close a little longer until Lena reaches out her hand to indicate that it’s time to go. Maly takes Lena’s fi
ngers and then hesitates.

  I stoop beside the child. “Maly, be strong. You can do this.”

  “How will I live on my own?” she asks, gasping now as she weeps.

  “You won’t be—we’ll all be here cheering for you.”

  She gathers her courage and nods, and then, as quickly as the child dropped into my life, she is taken away. Despite my head explaining to my heart that she is not my own daughter, that her leaving is for the better, my chest still aches.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The stories that Sopeap brings are sometimes written by Cambodian authors. Most, however, are translated books by writers from distant parts of the world. Many are also in English, but with scribbled Khmer translations penned between the typed lines. I don’t know where she gets them all.

  I’ve learned that Sopeap not only taught years ago at the university in Phnom Penh but, prior to that, attended college in America, studying English. (She hasn’t said, but her family must have been well-off to afford such blessings.)

  The opening page of her book today shows a penned engraving of ocean waves and the splashing tail of a fish.

  “We are reading a condensed version today,” she says, “but even so, I suspect it will take us two days. The story was written by an American named Herman Melville and was translated by Khun Chhean.”

  Other than one or two Cambodian authors whose names have sounded vaguely familiar, the author’s names for the stories Sopeap brings are meaningless to me. She insists that will change.

  Since I am new to learning and still trying to grasp the depth of the stories we read, on occasion Sopeap will explain what is going to happen beforehand, so that when I come to relevant passages, my brain will click and whir, my eyes will light up, and I will make her feel as though she is doing an adequate job.

  “In this tale today,” she begins, “some say Captain Ahab represents evil as he seeks revenge. The white whale, on the other hand, is said to represent good.”

  “Does everything always have to mean something else?” I ask before we get started. Who knew that literature was so tangled and complicated?

  “That is a wonderful lesson, Sang Ly. Remember it.”

  “What was it again?” I ask, not certain to what she was referring.

  She repeats it for me. “In literature, everything means something.”

  We open the pages and read.

  *****

  Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world . . .

  *****

  It takes four days instead of two to read the shortened version of the whale story, but these are four of the most exciting mornings I’ve spent at the dump—and they have helped take my mind off of Maly. The story ends in a valiant battle between the captain and the whale.

  Captain Ahab is a consumed old man, bent purely on revenge for a deed his enemy committed long ago (if you must know, the whale bit off his leg). His words and actions are vicious, and even in his final moments, as he harpoons the animal from his sinking boat, Ahab cries, “ . . . to the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee.” Yet in spite of his coarseness, Ahab is not completely repugnant. Wretched, certainly, but also consumed by a misguided desire for revenge.

  Likewise, the white whale, which Sopeap reminds me represents good, isn’t a pure creature either. Though he wins the battle—I presume signifying good prevailing over evil—he also kills the captain and his crew (except for the young man telling the story), an act far from benevolent.

  Throughout the story, Sopeap’s observation bounces back and forth in my head—everything means something. I can’t help but consider Ki. He seems bent on revenge, perhaps to a small degree the same as Ahab. Yet Ki is a good man, a wonderful provider and husband. The question I keep asking is: Is Ki Ahab or the whale? It’s uncomfortable because if Ki is not the whale, if he’s more like Captain Ahab and his crew, I’m worried. Ahab and his crew all drown.

  “Can you help me understand what this story says about dealing with evil?” I ask Sopeap with real intent.

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “How are we supposed to react to evil in our own lives? Should we battle, as Ahab and the whale? Or, is it better to steer clear and mind our own business, like people tend to do in the dump? What about Maly, for example? We helped her get away, but the gangs are still here—and they only get worse.”

  Perhaps because my teacher is educated and knows so much about literature, I expect a reasoned, deliberate answer. Instead, her glance darts back across her shoulder.

  “If you are certain you are facing evil,” she says, “and not ignorance, you must, if you can, destroy it before it destroys you!”

  I have come to know Sopeap well, to read the emotion in her face, to understand her body movements and her quirks. When she twists her watch, she’s impatient. When she throws her left foot to the floor harder than her right, she’s angry. When she purses her lips and turns her head away, she’s trying not to smile at something I’ve said that she finds funny. As she tells me now that I must destroy evil, a new emotion creeps across her face, an emotion that I have never seen in the woman in all the time I’ve known her. When she speaks about evil—true evil—the emotion that gathers in Sopeap’s face is fear.

  I don’t mean to belabor the point, but I need to be sure I understand.

  “I tell Ki that I’m learning about words and stories to help our family. He says he’s protecting our family with his knife. Who is right? Which is best, protecting with words or with his knife?”

  She is instant, certain, and solemn, and there is no misunderstanding her meaning.

  “Fight ignorance with words. Fight evil with your knife. Tell your husband, Ki, that he is right.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  While I wait for Ki near the shelters, on my own I find literature—at least I think so. The paper is stuck between two tattered magazines and I almost toss it aside. The title reads Sy Mao’s Advice for Growing Rice. It’s not the title that intrigues, but two handwritten words beneath. I read the page aloud so Mother, holding Nisay nearby, can listen.

  *****

  Rice is the most important crop in the world. These tips will help you raise your rice properly.

  Growing rice is challenging but not impossible. It takes patience, care, and a tremendous amount of work.

  Even though rice adapts to many environments, it needs plenty of sunshine, water, and nutrients to thrive.

  Rice comes in many varieties—brown, black, white, and red—including long-grain (slender), medium-grain (short and fat), short-grain (nearly round), sweet, sticky, and more. All varieties are good.

  The secret to growing rice that thrives is to provide a proper environment. Clean out all noxious elements that may harm young plants. Use plenty of healthy organic matter.

  Make certain your plants have plenty of room to grow. Stay close to remove sprouting weeds. Trying to care for too many plants at one time can be difficult and tiring.

  While rice does best in certain environments, sometimes you have no control over natural conditions. Don’t worry. Rice has an uncanny ability to tolerate both drought and flood.

  Sometimes rice is planted in a nursery bed and then moved later to a garden. Other times, rice is sprouted right in the garden itself. Both methods work. The advantage of direct seeding is that you reduce transplant shock to the young and tender plants.

  Above all, never take your rice plants for granted. Every plant is important. Care for them properly and they will grow to be mature, tender, and strong.

  Good luck.

  Sy Mao

  *****

  At first glance the page appears to be nothing more than simple advice for gardening, and so, naturally, Mother is confused at my giggles.

  I explain. “Thou
gh the page claims to be instruction for growing rice, beneath the title, someone has written the words ‘and children.’ The title now reads, ‘Sy Mao’s Advice for Growing Rice and Children.’ ”

  Mother is not following, so I try a different approach. “I’m going to read it again, but when I say rice or plants, in your mind think instead of children.”

  As I read, I pause each time the word rice shows up, giving her time to grasp the new meaning. She is soon smiling as well.

  Knowing that I’ve been in search of literature, she asks the same question I’m thinking. “Do two written words turn ordinary instructions into literature?”

  I think through the question carefully, as Sopeap would expect, before I offer an answer.

  “I don’t know if it becomes literature,” I say, suddenly feeling uncomfortably like the teacher. “I just know the two added words cause me to look at the ordinary sentences differently. And quite honestly, I find that to be magical!”

  *****

  Sopeap must know that I’m excited because after I pass her a copy of Sy Mao’s Advice for Growing Rice, I bounce around like a schoolgirl.

  “This illustrates a lesson I’d planned on bringing up tomorrow,” she says. “However, now is as good a time as any. Words, Sang Ly, are not only powerful, they are more valuable than gold.”

  I pause. Doubt must show in my features.

  “You hesitate?” she asks.

  “Well, yes,” I say, “gold pays for food, clothing, rent—everything. What do words buy?”