The Rent Collector

by Wright, Camron

  Until I came to know Sopeap, I didn’t realize how funny she could be.

  “I mean seeing people and places in your dreams that are familiar, but then not understanding what they mean—if they mean anything at all.”

  “You’re talking about serious dreams?”

  “Yes.”

  “The only real dreams I have anymore are usually not pleasant.”

  “Nightmares?”

  She nods. “Perhaps a symptom of old age.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “How do you keep them away?”

  “Rice wine. Why all the questions?”

  “I had a dream that feels important, but I don’t know for sure.”

  “I guess that would depend on whom you believe.”

  “How so?”

  “William Shakespeare called dreams the ‘children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy.’ ”

  “What’s my other choice?”

  “Dreams have also been called a sign of ambition. I think the quote was: ‘Dreams, indeed, are ambition; for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.’ ”

  “And who said that?”

  “That was also William Shakespeare.”

  “He couldn’t make up his mind?”

  She shrugs. “I would say if it feels important it probably is. Our subconscious can be downright persistent in prodding us along our path, even if it’s a road we’d rather not travel.”

  “Then dreams matter?”

  “Absolutely. Some of the world’s most important stories, works of literature that have changed lives, have come through dreams.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Let’s see. Many sacred writings of Buddha depict specific dream images. Then there is Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, a perfect example of a story inspired by dreams. There’s Kubla Khan, a poem by Coleridge that’s considered one of his greatest works. It celebrates creativity and our connection to the universe—and it was composed one night after a dream. Robert Louis Stevenson, a Scottish novelist, was a vivid dreamer, as was Bunyan, who wholly attributes his Pilgrim’s Progress to dreams. Cambodian writer Nhean Uy composed several of his dreams into stories. Give me time and I can probably list dozens, perhaps even hundreds more. And let’s not forget Carl Jung, the Swiss psychiatrist. He was the grandfather of dream psychology. He believed that literature and dreams weave together in astonishing ways. He documented a connection between the dreams of his patients and figures in mythology—even with people who had never read mythology.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “His conclusion was that both came from a deeper source.”

  “But how can I know what my dreams mean?”

  “If you listen to Jung, he said that to learn from our dreams we should ponder them. I believe he said, ‘Consciousness succumbs too easily to unconscious influences, as these are often truer and wiser than our conscious thinking.’ ”

  “I don’t understand what he means.”

  “It’s his way of saying that dreams are more important than we can ever imagine—we just need to listen.”

  *****

  Nisay is filthy, so we step around to the side of the house where I pour water over the child with a tin cup to try to get my little puppy clean before his father comes home. Too late. Ki arrives early and rushes around the house to find us. Before he even opens his mouth to say a word, his face tells me something is wrong.

  “What has happened?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry. Everything is okay. It’s Lucky Fat.”

  “Tell me! What’s happened?”

  “When he wasn’t at the dump today, your mother dropped by to see if he was okay . . .”

  “And?” My eyes lock on his, willing him to continue.

  “Apparently, some in the gang are still looking for the girl.”

  “They went to Lucky’s? How did they know? What did they do to him?” I’m raising my voice to the one person in the dump I shouldn’t.

  “When he wouldn’t tell them anything,” he replies, “they decided to teach him a lesson.”

  My heart picks up a beat and I wish Ki would just spit it out. “Please tell me if he’s okay.”

  “They roughed him up and smashed most of his Buddhas. In the process he was hit in the eye by one of them. It’s swollen shut, but Lena is with him now and it looks like he’s going to be fine.”

  “He’s a child. How could they hurt a child?” It’s a stupid question, as I’m talking about those willing to sell an innocent girl into a life of prostitution. Though I’ve always been the pacifist, I instantly want to bash in their faces with a stone Buddha myself.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask, ready to take Ki’s knife and go after them this instant.

  “I’ve just been meeting with more of the men. It seems that Lucky is well liked. This, coupled with Sopeap’s words, which I shared, suggesting that we fight against evil . . . well, it looks like I’m finally making some progress.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying the number of men finally willing to stand up and fight—it’s now closer to thirty.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sopeap decides to sit today because she’s feeling a bit tired, so we share space, side by side, on the floor where both of us can see. She opens the volume to a marked page. “I think it’s time for a tragedy,” she says.

  “Really? I’m not sure I’m ready for more tragedy.”

  “We never are, Sang Ly.”

  She hands the book over and then explains, “This is the story that many believe inspired Shakespeare to write Romeo and Juliet.”

  I nod agreeably, as if it’s common knowledge, as if I’ve heard of the story of which she speaks.

  “In the original story,” she continues, “they were called Pyramus and Thisbe.”

  “Why did he change their names?”

  “He didn’t. The two are different stories about different people. It’s believed that the Pyramus and Thisbe story was the first . . . well, let’s begin and then you’ll understand.”

  This time she asks me to read, and I begin slowly.

  *****

  Late in the afternoon, when I reach the shelters, I witness a sight at Stung Meanchey more miraculous than snow. Four trucks are lined up in a row, each methodically purging its load, and no one—I mean no one—stands near to sort trash. I stare at the peculiar scene, certain it’s not a dream, but not sure what to make of it, while my mind attempts to process an unfamiliar sound. Mixed in with the beeping of the backing trucks and the humming of the swarming flies, I hear what could be the cheers from a children’s soccer game. Yet, as I glance around, I see only emptiness.

  It is then that a woman runs past from behind. I recognize her, but I can’t recall her name. She often waits at the shelters in the afternoons while her husband, who is new to the dump, works the trucks. “Hurry, they’re just over the hill,” she says, panting and pointing to a direction that I now identify as the source of the sound. “They’ve caught one of them,” she adds, with utter excitement resonating in her voice. “They’ve caught one of the thieves who beat the boy.”

  By the time I approach the horde, the yelling and jeering has all but ceased. I push through the circle, past strangers, neighbors, and friends, making my way to the middle of the melee. As I break through to the very center, I stumble and fall to my knees, not prepared for the scene that waits. They have given the culprit some room now, because he isn’t going to go anywhere. He’s no more than a boy. His eyes are open, but they gaze directly into the sun. His arms are pushed underneath him, as if he could jump up and run, except he is lying on his back and his limbs twist in ways they were never meant to bend. Fresh blood oozes from his mouth and ear, and his shirt has been torn from his body to reveal puncture wounds, certainly caused by the sharp metal hooks from the picking sticks that we use to separate the trash.

  The boy—now just inches away from my face—is dead.

>   Then I notice something familiar in the shape of his defined cheeks. I blink, and the scene begins to tip and spin. My head feels light and I realize that I’m hyperventilating. I cover my mouth, not only to control my breathing but also to subdue the contents of my stomach that are trying to push their way out.

  “He’s the one who beat Lucky,” a man calls out. “A thief,” another adds. “We caught him stealing red-handed,” someone else exclaims. Their asserting voices mix and muddle together in swirls of lawless justification toward the boy who can’t respond.

  “What did he take?” I ask, to no one in particular.

  A woman across the circle answers. “There were four of them who tried to steal a bag of cans from Menn Chim. Lucky was resting two shelters over, still fresh from his beating, and he recognized at least three of them.”

  I look for Lucky, but I don’t see him anywhere.

  “What is the boy’s name?” I call out. “Please, does anyone know this boy’s name?” I am hoping that I’m wrong, that it is not Maly’s brother lying dead before me, but then a voice answers. “I don’t know his name, but he’s the boy who has been looking for the runaway.”

  Before I can properly process the answer in my head, I heave and vomit into the garbage on the ground.

  It was just days ago I wanted to kill the criminals myself. But my desire was for revenge on crooks, thugs—dark images of evil that gathered in my head when I pictured the men who beat my husband and Lucky Fat—not boys, especially this boy.

  And then I feel Ki’s trembling touch on my back. He pulls me up from the ground, away from the broken body, through the crowd that begins to thin, as many retreat toward the trucks. Ki is breathing heavily, clutching his knife with his other hand.

  “What happened?” I ask as we find a place to sit in a swirl of garbage, not certain I am ready for his answer. He takes a minute to catch his breath before speaking. His words are halting and his hands shake. As I look at my own, I see they tremble as well.

  “I was working with the men . . . near the trucks . . . when someone up at the shelters began to point and shout. A few men began chasing them, then others followed. Soon it was everyone.”

  He looks at his hand and realizes he still holds his knife, then glances around as if there should be someone to take it, some easy place to put it. There isn’t.

  “When one of the boys tripped,” he continues, “they caught him. The crowd was screaming thief and robber and hitting him with their pickers as I ran past.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know exactly—everyone, I guess. They had surrounded him, so I chased after the other three with Chey and Pran Teo. We were close to catching them, though I remember thinking I wasn’t sure I wanted to.”

  Ki pulls up the leg of his pant, his hand still quivering, and slips the knife into its sheath. He wipes his fingers against his shirt.

  “They made it to the streets,” he says, “near the factory on Choam Chao, and we lost them . . . and I was glad. Then, by the time we got back . . . well, that’s when I found you kneeling beside . . .” Ki doesn’t know the victim’s name, doesn’t yet realize his identity, and doesn’t want to call him the boy, so he pauses for a second before he continues. “I could see he was dead, and then I . . . didn’t want you to have to look at him.”

  “It wasn’t right they beat him. It wasn’t right that he die,” I manage to mumble, as tears that have been waiting in my eyes run down both cheeks.

  “I know, Sang Ly,” Ki answers, with fear still trailing in his voice. “I just wanted to stop them . . . I didn’t mean for this to happen . . . ”

  And then neither of us has anything further to say. We just sit together in the garbage of Stung Meanchey and weep for the killing of a thief, a crook, a thug, a brother—a boy—whom we didn’t even know. And amidst my quiet tears, a vision of a white whale and an angry captain rows into my head. It was so exciting at the time to read the story with Sopeap—the captain bent on revenge, harpooning the whale from the sinking ship, then being dragged to his death with a rope tangled around his neck.

  Sopeap insisted that I understand the underlying theme—good vs. evil. But I wondered at the time, why, if that is the critical message, wasn’t it better defined? Was the author an amateur writer, not up to the task? In the story, Captain Ahab wasn’t always despicable and the whale wasn’t always pure. Instantly I realize that the man who wrote the words understood the world completely—and I can’t help but wonder if he ever lived in a dump like Stung Meanchey.

  When our breathing softens and our eyes dry and our stomachs finally settle, Ki lifts me up from the trash and we clasp hands and walk together to pick up our son. Just before we arrive at Mother’s, Ki stops. “I am sick knowing that a boy has been killed,” he says. “But there is something I need to make clear.”

  I take his hands. “Yes?”

  “I want you to know that if he or any other gang members like him—boy or not—ever tries to harm you or our son, I will not hesitate to defend you.”

  We pick up Nisay and finish our walk home in silence because, in spite of the power that so many words carry, as so eloquently explained by Sopeap, neither of us can find adequate meaning to the guilt, sorrow, anger, relief, worry, and overwhelming anguish that mix in our hearts.

  *****

  In the morning, with the dead boy’s image still burned into my head, I leave a note for Sopeap, telling her I’ll be back soon. Then, with Nisay in one arm and a small white sack in the other, I swing by for Lucky Fat. He agrees that my idea is fitting, and we head out together.

  In Cambodia, when someone has perished it is common to make an offering, a gift to appease the person’s soul. As we approach the spot where the boy was killed, a woman who lives close also arrives with an offering. She tells us that the police never showed up, that when she went to bed late last night, the body was still there, torn and broken, but staring peacefully toward heaven. By morning, the body was gone, and she could see fresh bulldozer tracks where the garbage had been pushed around during the night.

  “May your next life be more peaceful,” Lucky pronounces, and then we lay out the gifts we’ve brought—a banana, a can of rice, salt, incense, and a small Buddha statue that Lucky found still intact.

  Lucky’s eye is looking better, and on the walk home, he is talkative and happy once again.

  “How do you think she’s doing?” Lucky asks.

  I don’t need to ask who. “I’m sure Maly is doing well.”

  And then Lucky speaks words that confirm he is more mature than his young years let on. “I think her brother will now be in a place where he can finally watch over her.”

  “Yes,” I admit, “I think you’re right.”

  I had considered telling Sopeap on my return, if she were still there waiting, that the last twenty-four hours had been too emotional for me to continue our study of books today. Yet, as I contemplate life and death, justice and mercy, Captain Ahab and a thief at Stung Meanchey, I wonder if it isn’t a perfect time after all.

  Chapter Nineteen

  To wash clothes at Stung Meanchey, I stoop down over a large blue bucket that I keep behind our house and I scrub and scour our clothes against each other until they are clean—well, as clean as they will ever be at Stung Meanchey. While some women at the dump use a washboard, a few rub their clothes against a flat rock. They say it reminds them of home, doing laundry by the river in the province.

  Our clothes are typical Western styles—sweats, T-shirts, shorts—many with popular name-brand logos. We don’t wear American clothes to be stylish; we wear them because they are cheap. All of the major companies have factories in Cambodia, and we can buy blemished seconds for just pennies.

  Ki comes around the house to where I work to bring me Nisay’s towel. It suddenly needs washing. Before he can say anything, I ask him a question that’s been rattling in my head.

  “Sopeap said that in books, stories foretell other meanings—she called them metaphor
s.”

  “Metaphors? What do you mean?”

  “According to Sopeap, it’s using a word or phrase to explain a different meaning. It would be like when I tell you Stung Meanchey is a prison. It’s not really a prison, and there aren’t any guards, but it feels like there could be.”

  Ki glances down at the dirty towel he still holds in his hand, and I can tell he’s thinking it was a mistake to come out back at this particular moment. He can’t help but voice the obvious.

  “So?”

  “Well, I have been back here doing laundry by myself for nearly an hour—washing mostly yours and Nisay’s clothes—and I’ve finally figured out its true meaning.”

  “A metaphor for laundry?”

  “Yes.”

  “The fancy words you’ve been reading are mixing up your brain. You do laundry because our clothes are dirty.”

  “See,” I explain, “I think it means that since we both wear clothes, you should help me do the wash—I think that’s the metaphor that was speaking to me.”

  “Fine,” Ki says. “Then I think it means I should take off your clothes right now to wash them.”

  He steps behind me and tugs at my shirt—only he hasn’t washed up yet from his day of work and the stench of garbage lingers.

  I protest. “I think it means that you smell too bad for that right now. And besides, it’s still light and Nisay is up.”

  “Okay, then,” he says. “That means that I’d better take a bath so I’ll be clean later when Nisay is not up.”

  I’m trying to remember exactly when I lost control of this conversation. “Well, that means if you’re going to bathe now, this early, then you’d better give your dirty son a bath along with you.”

  “That means—you have a deal!”

  Ki leaves with a grin, and I hear him tell Nisay that it’s time to step outside for a good scrubbing because Mommy and Daddy have something to do later. Then I reflect a little longer on who is really getting the better end of the bargain.