The Rent Collector

by Wright, Camron

  Metaphors in literature can be a very confusing thing.

  *****

  Grandfather had a saying: If you know a lot, know enough to make people respect you. If you are stupid, be stupid enough so they can pity you.

  I wait for the right moment, put on my pity face, and then make a request of my teacher. “I would like you to bring a certain book to read next time.”

  She is pleased that I’ve taken some initiative—that is, until she hears which book. “I’d like you to bring Nisay’s book, the one that you—”

  “I remember the book,” she interrupts. She isn’t angry but rather faceless, like a book with its cover torn off. “Why that book?” she asks.

  “Last time I held it, I couldn’t read the words. Now that I can, I’m curious. It seemed like a beautiful story.”

  “It’s a children’s book,” she answers.

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “It’s not a typical children’s book.”

  “Are you trying to say you’d rather I not read it?”

  “I’m saying that if you’re going to read it properly, the way that particular book was meant to be read, I insist that you read it with your son sitting in your lap.”

  Her passion intrigues me. “I can do that—but I have a condition as well.”

  “You’re giving me conditions now?”

  “Yes, this time I am.”

  “And your condition is . . . ?”

  “I want you to be there when I read it.”

  I have either left her speechless or she has a lot to think about. “Why?” she finally asks.

  “You are the teacher. We may need to discuss it afterwards.”

  There’s a heartbeat of uncomfortable silence, followed by contemplation, surrender, and a nod of agreement. “I will bring it tonight.”

  As Grandfather said: . . . stupid enough so they can pity you.

  *****

  The thought was charming—my young child, Nisay, would sit patiently on his mother’s lap, waiting for each page to turn, listening intently as the story unfolded. Like so many classics, my plot is pure fiction. Instead, Nisay wants to maul the book and then eat it—if he can just get his hands on it. We decide the only way he won’t destroy the thing is for him to sit in Ki’s lap beside me so his father can physically restrain him, if needed, and otherwise force him to listen. It also lets me concentrate on reading.

  I wonder when the Model Parent Award will arrive?

  With the soul of a teacher, Sopeap stands behind us, observing but saying nothing, and for a split second, I think I catch the corner of her mouth turning upward.

  The book’s cover is more alluring than I’d remembered, and as I flip through a few of the pages, just to get a grasp of the task at hand, I recall the striking illustrations of mountains, trees, and oceans.

  “Are you going to begin?” Ki asks impatiently.

  “Certainly.”

  I read the title, Love Forever, and then I turn to the first page.

  *****

  If I were the trees . . .

  I would turn my leaves to gold and scatter them toward the sky so they would circle about your head and fall in piles at your feet . . .

  so you might know wonder.

  If I were the mountains . . .

  I would crumble down and lift you up so you could see all of my secret places, where the rivers flow and the animals run wild . . .

  so you might know freedom.

  I’m using inflections in my voice to keep Nisay’s attention. However it’s Ki whom I’ve roped in. He sits wide-eyed as a curious little boy at story time.

  If I were the ocean . . .

  I would raise you onto my gentle waves and carry you across the seas to swim with the whales and the dolphins in the moonlit waters,

  so you might know peace.

  If I were the stars . . .

  I would sparkle like never before and fall from the sky as gentle rain,

  so that you would always look towards heaven and know that you can reach the stars.

  If I were the moon . . .

  I would scoop you up and sail you through the sky and show you the Earth below in all its wonder and beauty,

  so you might know that all the Earth is at your command.

  If I were the sun . . .

  I would warm and glow like never before and light the sky with orange and pink,

  so you would gaze upward and always know the glory of heaven.

  But I am me . . .

  and since I am the one who loves you, I will wrap you in my arms and kiss you and love you with all of my heart,

  and this I will do until . . .

  the mountains crumble down . . .

  and the oceans dry up . . .

  and the stars fall from the sky . . .

  and the sun and moon burn out . . .

  And that is forever.

  It’s a treasure. I turn to thank Sopeap for allowing me to read it, but she is no longer standing by the door watching.

  Sopeap is gone.

  *****

  It’s early when Sopeap calls out. She has stopped by to ask if we can put off meeting for today. She has a touch of the flu and needs to rest. Before she leaves, however, I grab Nisay’s book.

  “I don’t think my son listened to a word, but Ki enjoyed it,” I say.

  “Nisay will. Just give him time.”

  When I try to hand her the book, she waves me away. “Actually,” she says, “I would like your son to have it as a gift.”

  I want to tell her no, that it’s too important, it means too much to give away so easily—then I remind myself, giving it away probably isn’t easy at all.

  “We will treasure it. But may I ask why it means so much to you?”

  “Yes. I have also come to share its story.”

  We sit on the ground and, once she is comfortable, she begins.

  “This book was written by a dear friend. We taught together at the university. We had both studied in the United States years before and had discussed the many children’s stories that are published there every year. We wondered why few such books were written for Cambodian children. My friend was tenacious and passionate and created a book, first crafting the words, then hiring an artist to paint the illustrations. After everything was perfect, I helped her find a small, local publisher.”

  “Did it sell?” I ask.

  She hesitates, stepping cautiously among banished thoughts.

  “We didn’t get a chance,” she says haltingly. “Just weeks after the publisher delivered the first copies, the Khmer Rouge soldiers pushed into the city. The schools and universities were ransacked. Books were stacked in great piles and burned. Those who had written them were tortured, shot, and burned as well. Can you imagine dying for having written something so beautiful?”

  “She was murdered?”

  “Yes. And the illustrator—and thousands like them. There were so few copies printed in the first place that I presumed all had been lost—until the day I saw it on your floor. I wasn’t sure if life was offering me a second chance or slapping me in the face. Sometimes the two can be confusing.”

  “I am so sorry to hear about your friend.”

  “Though it’s been many years, I still miss her. However, she was not the reason I was so overcome the day I visited your home.”

  “No?”

  “Sang Ly, my friend had no children.” A pause, a sigh, a hesitation. “The story was written about me—and my son.”

  *****

  The tap on the wooden post outside our front door is timid, and when I come out from around back with a pan filled with water to cook rice for dinner, I find my cousin Narin waiting.

  “Sang Ly, I am sorry to disturb you.”

  I can tell by her trembling tone, the panic in her face, that this isn’t a social call. My own heart quickens. “What is it? Is Ki all right?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s not Ki.”

  “Who, then?”

&nbs
p; She leans up against the house, and so I do likewise. “Do you know Makara Hong?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “She sells fruit in the city, near the French clinic.”

  “Yes. I mean, no. I don’t know her, but I know the fruit stand. Why?”

  “We’ve become friends. Makara’s older sister lives in the Dangkor district of Phnom Penh.”

  As Narin pauses, I must ask: “Please, what does Makara or her sister have to do with me?”

  Narin quickens her pace. “Her sister works as a nurse at the hospital. I went with Makara to meet her, to pick up some money.” Narin shifts her weight uneasily. “We talked, and when she found out that I live at Stung Meanchey, the sister said they were treating a patient there from the dump.”

  “Who?”

  “She said it was a woman named Sopeap—Sopeap Sin.”

  “Treating? For what? What are you saying?”

  “Sang Ly, she has something wrong in her chest. Cousin, I’m here to tell you that Sopeap is very ill, perhaps dying.”

  I hear her words, but I don’t believe them. “What does that mean? It’s not true. This woman at the hospital is mistaken. Sopeap was here. She just left and she said nothing about . . .” My own words trail as my mind darts back—the vomit, the blood, the stumbling, the bad days—how could I have not seen it?

  Narin continues. “She said it’s a tumor in her chest; it’s pushing against her heart.”

  “Cancer?”

  “I guess.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “Yes, she . . .” Narin hesitates.

  “What is it? Please tell me!”

  “The time that Sopeap has left is very short.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Sopeap hobbles in and drops her bag on the floor. I say nothing as she leans down and removes a small yellow paperback book. She opens it to a marked page and then holds it out away from her face so that she can focus.

  “We’re going to read parts of a story today from a Japanese author, Yasunari Kawabata,” she announces. “This is a story I would often read to my students.”

  I can hold my tongue no longer. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I demand.

  She stops, looks me over, but I don’t give her the time to decide if and what I know.

  “You’re dying,” I scream, “and you said nothing to me!”

  She closes the book. “I told you I was going away.” She answers with such composure, it’s confusing. “I just failed to mention how far.”

  I want to jump up, to cry, to yell, to hit her in the chest myself until she understands that I feel the same pain in mine. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I had planned to—just not yet.”

  “I deserved to know.”

  “I was waiting for the right moment. It was your fascination with learning, your childlike desire to drink in the stories. It was so—refreshing. I just didn’t want to spoil it, for either of us.”

  “Spoil what?”

  “Your innocence, your hope for the future, your trust in the words and messages that stories carry. I didn’t know how to make you understand.”

  “Understand what—that all stories aren’t happy? That life can be miserable?” I should settle down, but I can’t help myself. “You think I’m too stupid to realize that? Did you forget that I have a sick child, that I live in a disgusting dump?”

  While I’m the one behaving hysterically, Sopeap remains calm. She takes a long and steady breath, as if drawing on a pipe. “You may have a point,” she says. “There’s a possibility that I may have been thinking about myself—trying to rewrite things that should be left alone.”

  I don’t pretend to understand what she’s talking about, but her tone hints of remorse. I should tell her that it’s okay, that I understand—but I don’t. I am still too angry.

  “What did they say is wrong with you?” I ask instead.

  “It’s a long list, but if you’re referring to my medical condition, I’m told it’s a growth contracting the artery that feeds my heart. Apparently, arteries don’t like to be contracted.”

  “Can they operate? Can they cut it out?”

  “They could if . . .”

  “If?”

  “If I were younger, if I had gone in sooner, if I had more money, if I were living in America or Europe or any other country in the free world that has modern facilities. Life is full of so many ifs.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “A while.”

  “Please, how long?”

  “The doctor broke the news to me the day I threatened to kick you out—not one of my better days. It was a bit emotional and confusing.”

  “You should be home resting.”

  For the first time, Sopeap bristles; her voice hardens. “I’ll do no such thing! We’re here to learn about literature. I’ve taken the time to translate much of the book myself and, by damn, you’re going to listen! And just so you know,” she says, waving her crooked, pointing finger directly between my eyes to be crystal clear, “there will be no negotiation on this point. I’m going to show up here every day until I think you are ready, or until I . . . well, until you are ready.”

  She opens the book and lets her finger find the sentence.

  “Besides,” she adds, “I can’t die yet. I’m just starting to like you.”

  *****

  Our lessons become a blur. I listen; I make notes; I try not to ask contentious questions. Now that I know about Sopeap’s condition, there are little things I notice: long breaths from the teacher that I once thought were meant for drama’s sake in telling the story but that I now realize are to ease the pain in her chest; her choosing to sit beside me, not so I can see the page but because she’s too tired to continue standing; her finding excuses to end early so I don’t have to watch her stumble outside, fall to her knees, and vomit.

  There are times my eyes water—I simply can’t help myself—though Sopeap’s eyes never do, and I admit to feeling a bit hurt. It causes me to recall a conversation I had with Ki the day I found out that Sopeap was sick.

  “How could she sit there reading stories so casually, knowing the entire time that she was sick—and then never tell me?” I asked with complaint.

  “She wasn’t angry?” Ki inquired, a bit surprised.

  “No, she hasn’t been angry for a while.”

  “Then don’t you be angry,” he said.

  Since my husband obviously wasn’t understanding, I would need to better explain. “It’s just not right. She needs more time.”

  He paused, letting me settle down, and then he asked a question that still lingers. “Does she need more time—or do you?”

  How ironic that Sopeap is the one dying and yet I’m the one feeling sorry for myself because she doesn’t mind that she’ll be leaving!

  I let my thoughts wander again and only snap awake when I realize my teacher is speaking to me.

  “I’m going to bring one of my favorite books tomorrow,” she says.

  “What’s it called?”

  “It’s a story that is . . . well, it’s my favorite,” she says.

  “What is it about?”

  “It’s a metaphor, but then, what in literature isn’t? It’s an old story that seems tragic at first, but in the end . . . well, I don’t want to ruin it for you. No, this is a story best understood if you don’t know the ending.”

  “Then you won’t tell me?”

  “Tomorrow. We will read it tomorrow.”

  *****

  “Sang Ly! Sang Ly!”

  Even from far away, the terror-filled echo of my mother’s cry yanks me from the floor to my feet. I bolt to the front yard. She is out of breath, chest heaving, eyes wide with horror, and Nisay is collapsed lifeless in her arms.

  She mutters so fast I can barely understand her. “He was playing . . . on the floor . . . not crying at all . . . he slumped over . . . I can’t wake him up . . . I’ve tried and I can’t wake him!”

&nbs
p; “Nisay? Nisay!” I pull open his eyelid, but his pupils are rolled back. I press my face close to his, strain to feel any signs of life. I think he’s breathing; I hope he’s breathing; I look heavenward. “Please, Grandfather, help him to keep breathing.”

  I take him from my mother’s arms and, out of instinct, turn toward the house for Ki. Wait, he’s not home. It’s late. The sun is setting. He should be here—but he’s not. He is still picking at the dump. Who else can help? Teva Mao. I speak first to Mother. “Run to the trucks. Find Ki. Tell him what’s happened. I’ll take Nisay to Teva.”

  I don’t know how, but Teva knows about such things. Surely she can help. She is just a few houses away, over the slight rise of garbage that separates the view of our two homes. With Nisay cradled in my arms, I do the only thing I can think of—I run.

  My left sandal flips off, but I don’t turn to retrieve it. I fly across the garbage with a single bare foot toward Teva’s, oblivious to anything sharp or dangerous that may cut my feet. As I reach Teva’s home I scream, “Teva! Help!” There is no answer, no sound, no bustle inside to see who may be calling. “Teva, please!” Teva Mao is not home.

  I check Nisay again and he looks terrible. I want to scream, to cry, to curse, to plead to the ancestors, but none of that will help my child.