The Rent Collector

by Wright, Camron

  The villages along the Mekong River (or almost any river in Cambodia) are all laid out the same. Homes are built to hug the riverbank and can dot the water’s edge for miles. Behind the homes, where the flooding river deposits its annual mud and silt, lie the partitioned fields of rice that have provided sustenance, livelihood, and hope to countless generations. Beyond the fields of groomed rice lies the jungle.

  Uncle Keo’s home is a short walk. For three years, Uncle has worked for the provincial government, though I’m not certain in what capacity. Every time we ask, we get a different answer. Even Auntie can’t say for sure. Either his job is very shady or it’s very uncertain, as he keeps changing responsibilities. Regardless, the position comes with benefits. Two and a half years ago, he received a load of wood to build a new home across from his old one. A little more than a year later, he became one of the first in the village to get a phone.

  As we arrive, Aunt and Uncle greet us warmly. “It’s so nice to have you back. How is my little monkey?” Auntie asks. She’s looking at me, but she must be talking about Nisay, as I haven’t been called little monkey in twenty-five years.

  “He’s not doing well,” I say. “That’s why we came: to see the Healer.”

  Her quizzical look answers my monkey question and we both laugh. She waves us to follow her up the ladder and inside.

  Auntie prepares some fruit while Uncle catches up. “How is your mother?” he asks.

  “Stubborn,” I say, not trying to be funny but getting a chuckle in response.

  We chitchat—rather, gossip—about the province, the dump, and the difficult life living in either place. He tells us that Munny Sap, a dozen houses up the road, was bitten by a pit viper in the middle of the night and died three days later. I tell him that Prak Sim was run over by a garbage truck and died instantly. I am about to explain that my friend Sopeap Sin, an ornery and wonderful woman who has taught me to read, has something constricting her arteries, and I plead to heaven that she’ll still be alive when I get back—but I stop myself.

  During the conversation, Uncle mentions that after our call, he tried to contact the Healer to let him know we’d be coming, but learned he’ll be up river for at least another two days. My heart sighs. He must sense we are tired, so, as the conversation wanes, he tells us we will be staying in his old home to the west but that his mother-in-law has moved in recently so it’s a space we’ll need to share. When I assure him that it won’t be a problem, he restrains a grin. I’m not clear if it’s a warning to us or payback toward his mother-in-law.

  The old home’s stilts are not quite as high as his new home’s, portending to the heavier flooding as of late, and I offer gratitude that it’s not the rainy season. Once the river’s waters rise, the only way to get to any of the homes along it will be by boat. When we enter behind Uncle, an old, pearl-haired woman grunts; it’s apparent that she’s none too pleased to welcome invaders. I don’t remember her from my childhood, and I’m sure I should, but then Uncle explains she’s been living in Stung Treng with a sister-in-law. However, circumstance (a term on which he doesn’t expound) has made it necessary for her to relocate to the province. The way he now emphasizes the word relocate makes the woman sound as though she were a convict, and I soon understand why.

  Her things are spread out, almost too neatly, across both rooms, though notably concentrated in the smaller area where we’ll stay.

  “Nana,” Uncle says, taking a scolding tone, “I told you, we’re having company for a few days.”

  She doesn’t reply.

  “I call it magic hearing,” he says, talking to us as if she weren’t there. “It works on the oddest occasions, such as when it’s time for dinner. Then, when work needs to be done, it fades away . . . magically.”

  I think I see the old woman scowl.

  As Uncle gathers her things and tosses them into the adjoining room to make space, I attempt to make peace. “I’m sorry. We won’t be here long. We’re just here to take my son to the Healer.”

  If she understands, she doesn’t let it show.

  “Make yourself at home,” Uncle says with enough cunning in his voice I can’t help but think he’s hiding something. He’s halfway down the ladder when I hear him call out, “Goodnight, Nana.” Then I hear him laugh.

  Ki, who has hardly said a word, glances at the woman now fussing with the pile Uncle has created on the floor. He decides to retreat as well. “I’m taking Nisay down to the river for a quick bath. You get things situated here.”

  I’m not sure why he’s leaving. He’s the one with a knife. Then again, Ki bathing Nisay is an offer that’s hard to turn down.

  I’m alone with the woman, who still hasn’t uttered a decipherable word—and then I take out Sopeap’s book. Her eyes brighten; the corners of her mouth reverse position; her new grunting echoes glee rather than disdain. That’s it, I decide. Who doesn’t like a story? Tomorrow I’ll read the tiger story again so that Ki can hear the ending. The old woman can listen and it will be just like our ride in on the bus.

  I will read her literature, she will understand that we mean her no harm, and all can be right with the world once again.

  *****

  The air is magnificent and the sun eager as the countryside welcomes us home as old friends. Uncle has arranged with a village farmer to let Ki Lim help plant rice. While he won’t make as much per day as recycling trash at home, at least it’s something.

  I cart Nisay down to the river to let him watch the local villagers rise out from the murky flow atop their massive water buffalos as they cross from the opposite bank. If he were feeling well, Nisay would laugh, giggle, and clap. Today he barely opens his eyes. His fever and diarrhea were especially acute last night, and our roommate was none too happy about it. Still no words from the woman, but I listened to enough of her groans and mutters to make me decide that we’ll spend the day outside.

  When the water-buffalo parade is over, I wander with my son along the river path, tracing many ancient steps that intertwine into my childhood. I wish Nisay could have known his grandfather, but then again, I could fill a bushel basket with my wishes, and for what? We rest beside the twisted roots of a banyan tree for shade, to eat some of the food Auntie prepared, but we don’t stay long.

  “We need to go,” I say. “You know what Grandfather said. ‘We can’t claim heaven as our own if we are just going to sit under it.’”

  Then I remind myself, he’s also the grandfather who said, “If you are going to do wrong, at least make sure you don’t get fat from it.”

  When I realize we’ve wandered close to the Healer’s home, I decide to drop in and set a formal appointment. I understand that it is not necessary for him, but it is for me. The Healer’s wife greets us, and at first I don’t recognize her—too many years have passed between already distant neighbors. When I explain the reason for my visit, she agrees politely. “Yes, come back in two days. He will see you then,” she says.

  I bow my thanks and we leave. “Two more days, Nisay,” I tell my child on our walk home. “Two more days and then you can finally get better.”

  *****

  As we reach home, smoke wafts from the open windows, though I’m fairly certain—no, I’m positive—it’s not Ki cooking us dinner. Then I see him standing several yards away speaking with Uncle. Nisay sees Ki as well and gurgles something I consider close enough to Ba (Daddy) that I pass the child off. Then I climb the stairs to our room.

  When I see the source of the smoke, I let out a horrific scream. “NO! STOP!” The crazy old woman is boiling rice on her ceramic stove. Adjacent, and providing the fuel for the stove, is my book of short stories with most of the pages torn out and in flames!

  From my shriek of death, the woman must think I’m about to kill her, which I will commence to do shortly, but first I try to pull the burning pages from beneath her stove. It’s too late. I instead snatch what remains of the book from beside her as I contain another battle of my own—fury versus tears. Be
fore a winner is declared, Uncle and Ki rush in, responding to my lament. I want to ask Ki for his knife, but before I can, tears throw a knockout punch. Clutching what’s left of my book to my chest, I slump helplessly to the bamboo floor, whimpering like a distressed child. It is several minutes before the men’s consolation registers.

  “She’s just getting so old and ornery,” Uncle says. “She doesn’t think clearly all of the time. She didn’t realize anyone here reads. All she’s ever used old books for is to start fires.”

  I don’t buy her innocence, but my only evidence of her malice is the satisfaction that glows from her face. I wipe at my cheeks, draw back my shoulders, and attempt to regain my composure. “The book was for reading to Nisay,” I manage to mutter.

  “Perhaps we can find you another?” says Uncle, missing the point of the old woman’s vengeance.

  “She should replace it,” I demand.

  Uncle glances at the cover, still in my hand, then says, “That may be difficult, unless you can wait until the next time I head to the city. Other than a handful of basic readers used by the teacher at the school, I don’t know of any books in the village.”

  I know this to be true—or at least it was when I was growing up in the province. Yet the words still stun. Even at the dump, the filthiest place in Cambodia—perhaps on the entire planet—I can always find something to read.

  *****

  Even by morning I keep a suspicious and wary eye on the old woman. Auntie must presume I’m planning wicked revenge because she invites me to carry Nisay down to the river with her while she scrubs clothes. Mostly it appears she just wants to talk.

  “Your mother mentioned you and Ki are happy, in spite of your financial challenges with Nisay,” she adds.

  “Mother? When did you speak to Mother?”

  “We talk on occasion.”

  “You do?”

  Auntie chuckles. “The province is remote, but dear, we do live in the twenty-first century.”

  The way she calls me dear almost reminds me of Sopeap, and I find it comforting. Auntie continues, “Since we got our phone, she’s been borrowing a few cell minutes every month or two. I’m not sure from whom, but it’s enough that we’ve managed to stay caught up. She’s so proud that you’re learning to read—though a little nervous.”

  “Nervous?”

  Auntie hesitates. “Don’t say anything.”

  “Of course not, but why would she be nervous?”

  “That may not be the right word. She’s proud of you and wants to always live close so she can watch her grandchildren grow up.”

  “Grandchild,” I clarify. “Singular, not plural—and why would my reading interfere with that?”

  “I think now that you’re reading, she worries you’ll find a job and move away from Stung Meanchey. She says you hate the place.”

  “She’s right. I do hate the place. It smells. It’s filthy. The air is smoky all the time. Nisay never gets better. Here in the province life is so . . . peaceful. I miss being here.”

  “Yes . . .” Auntie says pensively, “memory can be such a pernicious monkey.” And then she smiles.

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

  “I’m saying that the province is no different from the dump. It’s just as hard and unforgiving—in many ways, harder. Have you already forgotten the reasons you left?”

  “But you do okay.”

  “Since your uncle started his new job, things are better. But they haven’t always been—and who knows what the future will bring? Most of the families here struggle. You know that.”

  What she says is true but I’m not willing to concede so easily. “Yes, but—”

  “Sang Ly, do you love durian fruit?” she asks, changing the subject so abruptly, I sense an ambush coming.

  “Yes . . .” I say cautiously. “I guess so.” And it’s true. I do like the taste, though it does have a bad reputation. While it’s considered one of the tastiest fruits in all of Cambodia, it’s also the worst smelling—so bad, in fact, it’s actually banned at many hotels.

  “I think, Sang Ly,” she says, “that the dump is a lot like the durian fruit.”

  “You’re right. They both stink.”

  “Correct, they do. But that’s not what matters. What’s important is what you find beneath. That is what makes the durian so popular.”

  “Seeds?” I say, being obstinate.

  It doesn’t slow her down. “It not only tastes good,” she says, “but it’s one of the country’s most nutritious fruits.”

  And then she goes in for the kill. “The dump is like the durian. Though it’s smelly, it provides a way for families to stay together—families such as yours. Even though it’s putrid, it provides nourishment.”

  I presume the lesson is over. It’s not.

  “On the other hand, Sang Ly, the province is like the dragon fruit. Its bright colors are pleasing and attractive, and it smells delicious—and it is. However, if one were to eat only dragon fruit, he would starve. It doesn’t provide enough nourishment on its own.”

  I lean over and clasp her hands, as if to offer thanks for her lesson. Only now, she stops scrubbing and turns to make eye contact. It’s obvious she is not yet finished.

  I reply with a gracious bow as she continues.

  “Coming home from time to time is a good thing—and you are always welcome. Returning to one’s roots is healthy and admirable. However, if it’s at the expense of following your own path in the world, or of losing sight of what matters most, then I think you’d be making a mistake.”

  If she wants to get serious, so can I. “Auntie, what if fate tries to keep me in the dump? It’s so ugly there. That can’t be right.”

  “If it does, then so be it. But remember, the province, though beautiful, has its own pockets of ugliness. While the dump is ugly, it also has pockets of beauty. I think finding beauty in either place simply depends on where you decide to stand.”

  And then Auntie points to her scrubbed clothes. “Now, Nisay’s not that heavy. You have a free arm. Help me carry this wash back home, will you?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As I hold Nisay in my arms while we travel up the river, there is a thought I can’t shake from my mind. If people are placed in our path, if events happen for a reason, if everything has meaning and the characters in stories and myths mimic those of our own lives and dreams, why did the Healer—a man who was always cold, uncaring, and distant—show up in mine? Is he an unlikely hero in my story, the man who finally helps my son? Or will he turn out to be just another shape-shifter and once again dash my hope into disappointment?

  Ki decided it was best for him to keep working the fields, to ensure we’d have sufficient money to get back home. Auntie agreed to come in his place to help me. Now, as we step out of the small boat onto the riverbank, I must appear to be nervous because Auntie puts her hand on my shoulder and delivers words that encourage. “Everything is going to be fine. Don’t worry.”

  The Healer waits nearby the path and greets us.

  “Hello. It’s good to see you,” he says as he bows graciously.

  He’s a wiry man of medium frame, wearing plain black shorts, sandals, and a dark T-shirt with white English lettering. I haven’t seen him in years, so I’m not sure exactly what I am expecting, but he’s not nearly as intimidating as I had remembered. In fact, if I passed this man on the street, I probably wouldn’t even notice he was there.

  “How have you been?” he asks, and though I can’t imagine he actually remembers who I am, I’m impressed that he pretends.

  “Fine,” I tell him, before I remember that I’m not fine at all. “Except that my son has been sick. That is why we’ve come.”

  “What is wrong?” he asks, sounding surprised, though I don’t know why he would be, since he knew we were coming to see him, and he is the Healer.

  As we walk, I tell him about Nisay’s diarrhea, his lack of appetite, his constant crying, and my despair. I tel
l him about the hospitals, the Western doctors, my treatments of Koah Kchol and Choob khyol, and the modern medicines that work only for a short while. He disparages none of it but simply says, “I’m sorry to hear. You should have come sooner.”

  “We would have, it’s just that we live in the city now and—” His reply was so typical, so expected, that I’m halfway through my response before my ears tell my brain to hold up a minute and pay attention to the words he just spoke—you should have come sooner!

  In my dream his admonition was definitive and certain. Today his manner is casual and quiet. As I try to decide if there is actually a connection or if my imagination is now having a terribly good laugh, the Healer reaches out and touches Nisay’s cheek. At first it appears to be a friendly touch, something a grandfather might do, but when he leans forward to smell the child’s breath, I understand he has already started his work.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, looking into my eyes, “I can help him.”

  We reach the steps to his treatment room, a separate hut also on stilts that is apart from his home. He leads the way up and Auntie follows. I take a breath, tell myself it will all be okay, praying that this time it actually will, and then I follow with my son. I sit down cross-legged on the bamboo floor opposite the Healer, with Nisay in my lap. Auntie stands distant to stay out of the way.

  We all watch attentively as the man unwraps a plastic bag tied with rubber bands and then separates several used syringe needles, a sharp silver knife, a spoon, and a small plastic jar that contains two irregular-shaped black rocks. Though I watch in silence, Nisay doesn’t. Just as with his treatments of Koah Kchol and Choob khyol—or at any recent doctor visits, for that matter—my boy begins to protest the moment we sit. The longer the Healer prepares, the more I realize Nisay may have a point.

  After the man lights incense, he uses his knife to break off a measured portion of the coal-like medicine. He places it in the underside indentation of a broken, overturned teacup and grinds it with the corner of a wooden block into what soon becomes a sticky, pasty mixture that he continually sniffs, as if the odor will tell him when it’s ready. His splotchy fingers and the dark lingering residue caked beneath his nails tell me that this gummy tar—whatever it may be—is his medicine of choice.