As a child, the old woman had suffered from nightmares—fiendish, gruesome dreams that had caused her to wake screaming, drenched in sweat and fear. However, no matter how awful they seemed at the time, she always took comfort in a truth her grandmother repeated, “Fear will flee. You will always wake up when morning comes.”
In the camp, fear stayed. Everything was backwards there, topsy-turvy, upside down. Truth no longer applied, since the old woman’s worst nightmares now played out during the day—when she was awake and her eyes were open.
Only at night would relief come.
Even if an occasional nighttime dream was horrific, it was always better than the alternative that waited for her each time the sun rose.
To a rational woman, someone who valued understanding and wisdom, the Khmer revolution was especially perplexing. She was beaten once for speaking up, and then beaten again two nights later for staying quiet. If she sang the Communist songs at dinner too loudly, she was accused of insulting the group leaders and of wanting to take charge. If she hummed them softly, she was derided for not adequately supporting the new regime. It was a drought of sanity, and with each passing day her own thirst for hope continued to wane.
Reason became so jumbled that after three years, four months, and sixteen days of living as a single grain of rice, and with no answers in sight, she decided to end her existence. Who in the bowl, she reasoned, would notice?
Not wanting to give Khmer Rouge soldiers the satisfaction of killing an old woman (as if there could be satisfaction in such an act), she awoke early, before the sun, and slipped out of her hut. While others around her slept, she crept noiselessly into the darkness of the surrounding jungle.
To some it may seem that making your way into the jungle undetected was a proper escape. Not in Cambodia—and especially not in the Khum Speu Province. Anyone trekking into the jungle alone and unprotected, especially an old woman, was simply playing jungle-death roulette. It wasn’t a question of if she would die, but rather how: land mine or soldier’s bullet? Malaria or starvation? Spider bite or poisonous snake? So many interesting possibilities. On that morning, she no longer cared.
She hadn’t gone far, just a minute or two into the dense vegetation, when she heard a rustle coming from a stand of trees ahead.
“It’s come more quickly than I expected,” she said as she closed her eyes and waited for death. But neither man nor animal emerged. And then she heard the rustle again, and once more, she waited. Nothing.
It was still mostly dark. The morning’s feathery glow was just beginning to outline shapes and offer dimension. So the old woman patiently stood alone, wondering about the occasional movement and what the morning’s unveiling light might bring. By the time she could see clearly, she’d not only grown incredibly curious, she had, in fact, properly considered the uniqueness of her situation. Since she didn’t care if she perished—and would be disappointed if she didn’t—she saw no harm in moving closer to investigate. And that’s when she spied the elephant.
The animal was lying on its side in the thicket, near the base of a rather large banyan tree, occasionally shifting its head as if trying to get more comfortable. The old woman noticed stains of blood marking the animal’s side around three piercing bullet holes, each opening a wound that led toward the creature’s heart.
She knew about elephants, had learned about them in school, had read essays about them written by her students. Occasionally, her father and their driver had even taken her, as a child, up north to Battambang, where the three, on more than one occasion, had ridden elephants into the jungle with a guide. She understood that though elephants are docile in captivity, wounded wild elephants are among the most fierce and dangerous creatures on all the earth. Today, however, considering that she had come into the jungle to die, she didn’t really care. Death by an angry, charging Asian elephant would not have been at the top of her list of ways to die when she had first conceived her plan, but it would be effective, quick, and, arguably, original.
And so she stepped close to the elephant’s side and reached out to pat its leathered and worn hide. To her amazement, and perhaps even her disappointment, instead of raising up and charging her to death, the elephant simply lifted its head as if to get a better look before letting out what sounded to the woman like a disappointed sigh.
“I don’t know who you were expecting,” the woman finally replied, thinking now that this must actually be a dream, but hoping not, as she couldn’t bear to wake up to the reality of her life for even one more day. Realizing that she was tired of standing, and that the elephant didn’t seem bothered by her presence, the woman slid down against the creature’s thick, crinkled skin to rest beside its enormous domed head.
As the two lay silently together, the old woman found herself breathing in unison with the beast’s heavy, labored breaths.
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.
As she filled her nostrils with the humid morning air, the woman tried to separate the pungent aromas—banyan bark, rotting jungle foliage, elephant dung, blood, loneliness.
She mulled over her extraordinary predicament, letting her hands trace the animal’s features and then touch and caress its rough hide. As she did, she felt both her breathing and the animal’s becoming less labored.
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.
“I am sorry for you, momma elephant,” she finally whispered. “I wish there were something I could do.”
She waited for the animal to speak, for if this were indeed a dream, then talking elephants would not only be normal, they would be expected.
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.
But the animal didn’t speak because it wasn’t a dream. The creature simply stared back with her sad and teary eyes, perhaps wanting to reply in her own elephant way but being either too exhausted or too near death to make the effort.
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.
And that’s when the old women remembered learning that elephants mirror humans in numerous ways—life span, development, family ties, and feelings. Similar to people, they display a range of emotion. They will help one another in adversity, miss an absent loved one when separated, smile when they feel happy, and shed tears when they are sad. And when they are too weak to get up, they die surrounded by their grieving loved ones, just as humans would choose to die. She even remembered reading that when elephants come across other elephant bones on a trail, they will pick them up with their trunks and carry them away to the safety of nearby trees.
“What happened to you, elephant?” the woman finally asked. “Why would the soldiers shoot you?”
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.
“Wouldn’t they be surprised if they arrived soon to find you lying down in the jungle, chatting with an old woman?” The bizarre notion caused her to chuckle quietly.
Another moment passed as the old woman hesitated, not sure if she should confide her secret. But then, realizing that she was talking to an elephant, she continued, “I want you to know, momma elephant, that I too am tired and that I also came here today to die.”
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.
The elephant’s head shifted as her massive body shuddered, her internal organs beginning to shut down. Still the old woman didn’t move, but instead leaned in closer.
“I am sorry you are alone today, momma elephant,” she whispered.
No sooner had her words been spoken than she realized that the elephant wasn’t alone at all. For she, the old woman, was there by her side, helping the dying creature when comfort and friendship were most needed.
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in . . .
And then, the elephant smiled.
. . . breathe out.
The great beast exhaled one last time and it was over.
Nearly an hour passed as the old woman remained beside the elephant, pondering the oddity, wonder, and sacredness o
f the day.
If she returned to the camp and told them about the creature, she would be hailed as a hero. They’d had only rice gruel to eat for many weeks, and an animal of this size would provide real meat for a very long time. But they would slice up the elephant, cut her into pieces, boil her flesh, and ultimately scatter her bones across the jungle.
The woman stood up from the ground, stretched her muscles, and then spoke to the elephant one last time.
“I came into the jungle this morning thinking only of myself, but now, I dearly need to thank you. I need to thank you, momma elephant, for truly needing me. You see, I haven’t been needed for a very, very long time. Today, you’ve made a difference—at least to me.”
She gathered enough leaves and branches to cover the body of the elephant until she was certain it was so well hidden that it would never be found. Then she retraced her early-morning path out of the jungle and back to her hut in the work camp. When the soldiers demanded to know where she had been, she pointed to the jungle path, directly toward the spot where she’d found the elephant, and then she rubbed her stomach and replied, “I didn’t feel well. Surely you didn’t want me doing my messy business near the huts, did you? You’re welcome to go into the jungle and investigate for yourself, if you like that kind of thing.”
And then, with a suspicious but convincing smile, she returned to her work to plant rice for the benefit of the new society.
*****
“Is the old woman really Sopeap?” Ki asks. “Is it possible that she actually found an elephant in the jungle?”
“I don’t know,” I say, frustrated that I’m not able to put my finger on what is so peculiar and bothering about this story. I page back through the writing to confirm a suspicion.
“The woman doesn’t have a name,” I say. “Doesn’t that seem odd?”
Lucky Fat shrugs. “You’re the teacher. Is it?”
My brain drops the pieces together one by one. In stories, everything means something.
“And wouldn’t she be too old to be Sopeap?” I add. “The Khmer revolution occurred in the mid-seventies, so she would have been . . . what? . . . in her mid-thirties at best.”
Then I remember the phrase that Sopeap used to describe herself in her letter, and the picture comes together.
“Sopeap isn’t the old woman!” I announce, certain of my realization.
“She isn’t?”
“No, Sopeap is the elephant.”
“The elephant?”
“Yes, and in her story the elephant died almost in sight. Wounded and hidden, but so close, almost anyone could find her—if they just knew where to look.”
“What are you saying?”
“I think I know where she might be!”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
We stand near the street and wave for a moto. As the driver slows, Ki is still asking questions.
“I’m confused. Why did she leave home again in the first place? I mean, she’s lived at Stung Meanchey for years.”
“It wouldn’t matter if it were a hundred years,” I say. “The dump was never her home—no matter how hard she tried to make it so.”
“But you don’t know exactly where she is?”
“No, not exactly.”
“And the book in your bag is going to help you to know?”
“Sort of. It’s going to be important once we get there.”
“If you don’t know where she is, how do we know where there is? I mean, how will you actually find her?”
My answer is simple. “I know a momma elephant who is going to lead the way.”
*****
The plush area of the Daun Penh district of Phnom Penh, while older, offers stately homes—many rebuilt and restored to the grandeur of their days prior to the revolution, complete with gardens, fountains, and statues. They are estates occupied by the nation’s wealthy and important. It’s a beautiful and fitting place. We approach the neighborhood, which is guarded by a towering stone wall with two matching iron gates. Thankfully, we arrive by car, courtesy of Rathana and her family.
There is not just one guard shack, but two—one for the entrance and a separate one for anyone leaving. The heavy gates serve to protect the place from outsiders who try to enter. When our car slows, the cars behind us also slow and then stop. A uniformed guard dutifully steps to our window.
From the passenger seat, I turn to Grandma Sin, who is seated behind me in the back. “Is this the place?” I ask.
She lifts up her head, gazes at the homes beyond the gate, and then raises her scrawny and bent fingers toward the second home on the right. Similar to those that surround it, the structure is distinguished and striking. From outside the gate, it looks to be three stories high, with a tiered roof and several open verandas that snake around its levels. I can see grand marble pillars that connect with stone railings, retaining plants, and flowers that both hide and invite.
The guard waits for the driver to speak, and he, in turn, points to me. The guard stoops to see inside, as if I may be some visiting dignitary or royal visitor. I lean toward the window to see his face. He says nothing, but rather raises his bushy eyebrows, as if it were a universal sign that means, “Well, then, who are you and who are you here to see?”
“We are here to speak with the owner of that home,” I tell the man, pointing to the home that Grandma Sin has identified.
“What is your business?” he asks. He reminds me of a soldier, and I wonder about the memories that must have flooded Sopeap’s head on her return. And then there’s the question: What if I’m wrong? Worse, what if I’m right, but the man won’t let us pass? What do I say to him that will make any sense? And then I tell a small lie.
“The owner is expecting us. Please call and tell him that we are here to see the old woman.”
“What old woman?” the guard asks.
“Just call him. He will know.”
Ki sits in the back, next to Grandma Sin. He directs his concern forward. “What if the homeowner doesn’t know what you’re talking about?”
“He’ll know.”
“How?”
“He’ll know because she is here.”
The guard hesitates, then relents, picks up a phone receiver, and pushes a button. I can only hear his end of the conversation.
“Mr. Rangsey? This is Chimm. I have a group of people here asking for you. They say they are here to see the old woman.”
There is a long pause. He glances toward me, and then up again to the house.
“Yes, sir,” he replies. “I understand. I will tell them.”
He hangs up the phone and bends over to the car window. “He will come down to meet you. Please pull through the gate and park your cars just ahead in the empty spaces on the right.”
Storm clouds thicken on the horizon, and I wonder if they portend a sign. The man’s words imply that Sopeap is here, don’t they? Why else would he let us in and agree to come down? But what if, instead, he’s greeting us because we are here too late?
We are out of the car for what feels like a lifetime before the front door opens and a well-dressed man of about forty steps out of the house. Since I am in front, and the most eager, he presumes I am in charge and extends his hand to me.
“Hello. My name is Heng Rangsey.”
“And I am Sang Ly.”
“You are here to see the old woman?”
“Yes, we are.”
“She told me that she had no one. That she was all alone.”
“She was mistaken. It just took a while to find her,” I explain.
“Then she was telling the truth, that she once lived in this house before the revolution?”
“Yes.”
“I presumed so.”
“May we see her?”
“Certainly, but I need to warn you. She is not doing well. She has hardly eaten since she arrived, and she has difficulty speaking—but she has been made comfortable. I’ve had my housekeeper watching after her.”
He motio
ns to the door and we enter. As we do, I can’t help but ask, “Did you know her? I mean, before she came?”
“No. I first met her several weeks ago, after she discovered her condition. She seemed fine, and when she explained that she needed to die here, in this particular home, I was understandably reluctant. I told her no.”
“But she offered you money?”
“Yes, she did. But I refused. I don’t need her money. That is not what changed my mind.”
“What did, then?”
“She is a teacher. My father was also a teacher, only he wasn’t so lucky.”
“What do you mean?”
The Rent Collector Page 22