The Rent Collector

by Wright, Camron

  He stops nodding and also gestures toward the stairs.

  We locate the office, which I hope will prove to be friendlier territory. Within the room stands a lone man behind a long counter. He wears no uniform. Once inside, Ki lets me do the talking.

  “We are here to research the names of landowners,” I tell him, “not only for the home where we live, but also for a few of our neighbors.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place,” he says with a comforting wave of his hand.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “Wonderful.”

  “Tell me where you live,” he asks.

  In outlying parts of Cambodia, and also within the dump, there are few formal addresses. While there may be official coordinates recorded somewhere, most homes would be known and described by either their occupants’ names or by a physical description of the land and building itself.

  “We live in the dump at Stung Meanchey,” I say, to begin.

  “The dump?” he says, shooting back a look that’s hard to read. “Is there a sale going on there?”

  I have no clue what he means so I ignore his comment and move forward. “We live on the northeast side, where the ground is higher, above where the water puddles into the marsh on the south, several hundred yards from where the water pipe enters beside the building with the bright blue roof.”

  I then pass him the list of renters we found in Sopeap’s home. “These are the renters. I can describe each dwelling.”

  He studies the paper before taking a sudden interest in who might be asking. He scans me up and down first, and then Ki Lim.

  “Wait here, please,” he says sternly, as though we have done something wrong, before he steps away into another office. We hear voices, two people talking, and I lock my eyes on Ki, wondering if we should bolt this instant—though I have absolutely no idea why. Ki returns a shrug.

  When the man steps back to the counter, he holds a second paper that he places on the hard surface next to mine. They are identical, his also in Sopeap’s distinctive handwriting. “She brought this in nearly a month ago, and then she’s returned twice since with additional information that was required,” he says. “I remember her well. She was the sick woman—I have her name right here . . .”

  “Sick?” I say.

  “Yes, not doing well at all.”

  “Here it is—Sopeap Sin,” he confirms.

  “Yes,” I say, “she is the Rent Collector. Did she say where she was going?”

  He shrugs. “I’m sorry, she didn’t—and I don’t know about her business in collecting rent. I just know her business here was as a landowner.”

  It takes my brain a minute to play catch-up. “Did you say landowner?”

  “Yes,” he says, tapping his finger on the list sitting on the counter. “Well, until she sold them, that is. Technically, she is now no longer the owner.”

  I came to find answers, but instead the questions are piling up. Why would she keep the fact that she owned the properties a secret? More important, if she owned a dozen such properties, why would she live at the dump?

  “Excuse me,” I say. “Can you give me the names of the new owners?”

  “Yes, it’s public record. Except these transfers are so recent, the documents have not yet been recorded. It’s in a different file. Please wait.”

  He steps away into the same office and again I hear voices. He is shuffling papers as he returns. “Ownership of the twelve listed properties,” he says, “transferred to a single person. However, it will be fifteen days before everything is official.” He scribbles down the name and city address of our new rent collector, then hands it over.

  I stare at the name—Chenda Lai Sin.

  We are just about to leave when he remembers something. Flipping through his file, he says, “That’s right. There was one property not on your list.” He digs deeper through his folder until he finds the paper he seeks.

  “Here it is,” he says. He reads a coordinate, but when I shrug that it means nothing to me, he steps to a long drawer and extracts an aerial plat. I have never seen such a bird’s-eye view of the dump, and it’s fascinating. It takes me a minute, but I soon identify several landmarks. He points to the home in question. It is Sopeap’s home. It wouldn’t have been on her list because she didn’t need to collect her own rent. The man picks up his papers, lowers his reading glasses, and then finds the listing once again.

  “Yes,” he says. “This last property was different. In fifteen days, when the documents are recorded, this property will be owned by . . . let’s see, Ki Lim and Sang Ly.”

  *****

  The home of the new landowner lies on the outskirts of the city, far enough away that I take a moto to get there. There was a time when I would have worried about trekking off such a distance alone, but no longer. I was concerned about spending the fare, but Ki reminded me that it appears we will no longer have a rent payment. Ki did add that if I find Sopeap—our Sopeap—he would like me to offer his humble apology and gratitude.

  Now as I stand in front, with my finger on the doorbell of the surrounding gate, I’m hesitant to press the button. I have a hunch who might live here, but I can’t be certain. What do I say? How do I start? Without answers, I take a breath and push.

  I hear a distant buzz, and then the door to the home, several feet inside the gate, swings open. A well-dressed, middle-aged woman steps out to see who is calling. The way she looks me over, I’m certain she must think I’m a beggar, but I raise my chin and wait for her to approach.

  “Yes?” she calls out. “How may I help you?” still keeping her distance.

  The beginning is always a critical part of the story.

  “Good morning,” I reply as confidently as I’m able. “My name is Sang Ly and I am looking for the family of a girl who worked in the city as a housekeeper, many years ago, before the revolution. Her name was . . .” And then I purposely draw out my pause, to study the woman’s reaction, to know if I may have the right home.

  She leans forward, then actually takes a step closer. Her expression of indifference blends with uncertainty. Her eyes narrow. Her weight shifts. Her chin drops ever so slightly as her mind dusts off memories from a more difficult time. And then, I actually watch her mouth form a sound, a girl’s name I have not yet spoken. Even before I finish my question, I already have my answer.

  “Her name,” I repeat, “was Sopeap Sin. Did you know her?”

  She turns back and glances behind, as if someone else at home may have overheard, before pushing a button that releases the latch of the gate that separates us. Then, with a pleading wave of her hand, she beckons me to enter.

  “Please,” she says, “come in.”

  She points to a parlor just inside the home’s main entrance, and we enter and sit. It is obvious that she wants to be polite, but at the same time she must want to know this instant who I am and what news I bring of their long-lost loved one. Before I can say more, she scoots nearer and confides, “I had a sister named Sopeap, but contact was lost with her during the revolution. Please tell me, do you have information about her? Is she still alive?”

  “Before I continue,” I say, “I want to be sure that we are discussing the same person. Did your sister work as a housekeeper when the revolution began?”

  “Yes,” she answers in a tone now reverent yet still begging for answers.

  “Did she work for a teacher?”

  “A teacher? Yes.”

  “And the teacher’s husband, did he work for the government?”

  “Yes, he did.” With each answer the anticipation in her voice builds, as do the tears that now well in her eyes. Her hand reaches out and clutches mine.

  “Do you know if the teacher was named Soriyan?” I ask.

  “Yes, the teacher’s name was Soriyan Song. The girl you mention, her housekeeper, Sopeap Sin . . . she is my older sister.”

  And then, like a crumbling dam that can hold its pressing weight no longer, her story flows out and she is power
less to stop it.

  “My name is Rathana,” she says. “Sopeap didn’t want to go, but Papa encouraged her. He told her she represented the family, that it was important she work hard and always honor our good name. The truth is, we were poor then. Papa couldn’t find work, and we desperately needed the money.

  “When the revolution took over the country, many families such as ours were separated in the turmoil. Papa was especially heartbroken. We tried to reach Sopeap, but we were in the provinces then, not living near the city, and the Khmer Rouge forced everyone out. When the violence ended, Momma and Papa made their way to the city to look for her. The home where she worked had been burned, all but destroyed. They found work and soon sent for us to join them. We continued to ask, search, and inquire, but were never able to locate Sopeap. We tried working with the new government to find news of her, but unfortunately, we discovered our family wasn’t the only one separated by the conflict—there were thousands, perhaps tens of thousands. On occasion we would hear bits and pieces of information that suggested she was still alive—but then, at other times, the news indicated she was dead. It was heart wrenching, especially for Papa—and then the packages began to show up. It gave him such hope.”

  “Packages?” I ask.

  “Yes. It started many years ago. One day we found a box on our doorstep, and when we opened it, to our surprise, it contained money—several thousand riels. There was no note, just the carefully bundled stacks of bills. We were certain it was a mistake and we would have happily given it all back, but we didn’t know where to send it. And then the next month, it was there again.”

  “And it has continued?”

  “Usually every month. Once in a while, a month would be missed. Then, at a later time, we’d get two in a single month. Papa was convinced that they were from Sopeap, but to me that didn’t make sense. If she were alive, she would surely return home. Papa said perhaps she was ashamed for something that had happened during the war—that was the kind of conflict it was. Of course, nobody could really say for certain.”

  “Did you try to find out who was sending the money?”

  “Yes. I have three strong brothers. It took a lot of waiting and many sleepless nights because he would come at the oddest times, even in the middle of the night.”

  “He?”

  “Yes, the person making the deliveries was a young boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen. We caught him, of course, and he confessed to making the deliveries for a woman, but he claimed that she never told him her name. I didn’t believe him. I asked him directly if the money was coming from Sopeap Sin. He didn’t flinch, but he said that if we continued to interfere, the packages would stop. He wasn’t happy that we’d caught him, and he insisted the woman must never find out.”

  “But did you ever . . . find her, I mean?”

  “The very next month I followed him, quietly and from afar. I had to know if my sister was still alive—for Papa. His health was not good. I followed the boy to the dump at Stung Meanchey. Are you familiar with it?”

  “Yes,” I say, “I am.”

  “Following him in the city was easy, but it was more difficult at the dump. It’s more dangerous there, and I had to stay close for fear of losing him. I think he must have figured out I was following because he began to weave and crisscross though many paths until I lost him. Still, I returned several times. I would stand back, far away from the people, and I would watch for my sister, Sopeap. On occasion I would see the boy, but never Sopeap. After several months, I determined she wasn’t there after all and I quit looking. And then the packages began to arrive by a commercial delivery service, one located in the city.”

  “I see.”

  “I followed them as well, but just back to their office. I sat across the street, at a café, nearly every day for almost a month, hoping Sopeap would drop in to mail the package—but she didn’t. I never found her there, either.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So please, tell me,” she says as she pauses. “Now that you know my story, I beg of you, do you have news from Sopeap?”

  I remember Sopeap—my Sopeap—once saying that heartbreaking news, unlike rice wine, does not get any better with age. I do not drink myself, but at this moment, I think I would try a swallow.

  “I am sorry to have to tell you, so many years late, but your sister, Sopeap Sin, the housekeeper, died at the hands of Khmer Rouge soldiers at the beginning of the revolution.”

  Rathana lowers her head. I follow, feeling guilty for smothering her hope. “Are you certain?” she asks.

  I nod my affirmation. “There is more to the story that I would like to tell you,” I say. “But before I do, are your brothers at home? I would like everyone to hear, for it is a story of courage, kindness, and loyalty on behalf of your sister that should be told and retold for many generations to come.”

  “I am sorry,” she says, “my three brothers are married with their own families. My husband and I and our three children live here with Momma to help take care of her. Papa passed away a few years ago.” Then her face brightens. “I can gather everyone tomorrow, if you could come back.” Her eyes tug along with her plea. “It would mean so much for everyone to hear it for themselves.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  And then the front door opens and Rathana and I stand as a man steps into the room. Behind him shuffles an elderly woman. “I’m sorry,” he announces upon seeing me, “I didn’t realize we had company.”

  Rathana makes the introductions. “Sang Ly, this is my husband, Ponleak.” He greets me politely and then steps away. The old woman is about to follow when Rathana calls after her. “Nana?”

  She turns and shuffles back. “Nana, there is someone here I’d like you to meet. This is my new friend, Sang Ly.”

  I bow and then reach out and clasp her frail and wrinkled hands. Rathana hesitates, deciding just how much to say. Always choose words with great care. Her hesitation confirms that the woman I am touching is the mother of the housekeeper, Sopeap Sin.

  “It is my honor,” I say with genuine sincerity, “to meet you this day.”

  “Nana,” Rathana says to the old woman, “Sang Ly has a story that she would like to share with us, a special story, about Sopeap. She’s going to come back tomorrow when the entire family can gather around. Would you like to hear it?”

  The woman’s head barely moves, and I’m not sure if she understands until I notice her old eyes quiver. Then she turns and her tiny feet scrape out of the room.

  “Don’t let her decaying and uncooperative body fool you,” Rathana says. “Her mind is still keen and curious.”

  We set a time for my return and then she asks, “Can you tell me how you know so much about my sister?”

  “Of course,” I reply. “But first, let me ask you about the teacher, the woman for whom your sister worked. Have you seen her since the revolution?”

  “Seen her? The teacher? No . . . I mean . . . I was in the province when Sister worked for her, so I never met her. But I’m certain that she would have been killed by the Khmer Rouge. All of the teachers were—anyone educated was put to death. Why do you ask?”

  “I believe the teacher your sister worked for is still alive, and I desperately need to find her.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  On the way back to Stung Meanchey, I visit three additional hospitals. They have never heard of Sopeap or Soriyan. Once home, Ki and I visit Sopeap’s home one more time to see if there is anything we may have missed. The only thing out of place that I hadn’t noticed previously is a book that is lying open on her desk chair. If one believes the cover, it’s the story of a large bird emerging from an even larger fire. Based on Sopeap’s previous comments, I think it’s the book she was planning to bring on the day I rushed Nisay to the hospital—the book she called her favorite.

  Ki sees the cover and notes that it looks like the massive fires that burn at the dump at night, but then he adds, “At the dump the bird would never get away. It wo
uld just get burned.”

  I flip through its pages but see nothing that helps me to know where Sopeap is hiding.

  Ki glances around the room one last time. “I don’t think this place will survive Nisay.” He’s trying to be funny, but the city of books reminds me he’s right.

  After picking up Nisay, we pass Lucky Fat and the boy follows us home. I start a fire to cook dinner, let Lucky Fat entertain Nisay—or is it the other way around?—and while the rice cooks, I continue to read through Sopeap’s essays, looking for anything I may have missed.

  After carefully reading more than a dozen pages, I think I find a clue. It is an essay I skimmed over previously, one that on the surface seemed to hold no answers. I should have known to look deeper. When I explain that I may have found something, Ki asks me to read it aloud. Lucky Fat is adding his plea. The only one who doesn’t care is Nisay. Two out of three isn’t bad. Ki shovels rice into Nisay’s mouth, anything to keep him quiet, and I begin.

  *****

  The Old Woman and the Elephant

  by Sopeap Sin

  The old woman was already weary when the Khmer Rouge soldiers marched her to the work camp at Khum Speu—tired bones, tired mind, tired heart.

  She didn’t expect to survive long, since others around her—younger, stronger, wiser—were killed or died almost every day. “The educated,” the new leaders of the regime announced, “are a stain on the true worker. Cities are evil. Education and learning is useless and selfish. Money and commerce are corrupt. The strength of a nation is in the working man—not the parasites who live off the laborer! Plant rice for the nation to prosper! Only those working in the fields will eat!”

  They told her over and over again that she was irrelevant, nothing better than a single grain of rice in a larger communal bowl. “Remove one grain of rice and the bowl is just as full,” they would drill into her. “To keep you is no benefit. To destroy you is no loss.” It was a holocaust of life but also of common sense and reason.