The Rent Collector

by Wright, Camron

  “He was killed by the Khmer Rouge at the beginning of the takeover, as was my older brother. Now please, go up the stairs, across the veranda, and out to the garden roof.”

  And then he pauses and swallows hard. “When she saw that we had rebuilt the garden roof, she cried like a child. Quite frankly, I haven’t been able to get her to rest inside.”

  I walk up the steps, across an open balcony lined with beautiful plants, then step out into a magnificent garden, only partially blocked by a half roof.

  Indeed, I am not prepared for what I see.

  Her eyes are closed. Her leathery skin—from spending so much time in the sun of Stung Meanchey—is furrowed and grey. She is heaving slow, deep breaths.

  I don’t want to wake her, but as I pull a chair close, she opens her eyes, looks up, and seems momentarily confused as to where she might be. She coughs, reaches for a blanket that covers only half her legs, then whispers—but so softly I can’t understand what she says. I lean close so that she can repeat it.

  “You just won’t leave me alone, will you?” she says.

  “No. I won’t,” I tell her. “Not considering that you got it so wrong.”

  Her pinched features harden with a question of confusion. “Don’t worry,” I say, “I am here to show you. Now, I have some people I need you to meet.”

  I motion to Grandma Sin, who is waiting to step close. She shuffles beside Sopeap’s bed and then instinctively, like any good mother would, reaches over without saying a word and clasps Sopeap’s hands. I am about to explain to Sopeap who the old woman is, but the tears in her eyes tell me that she already knows. Of course, the packages. Sopeap would have watched their delivery from afar.

  With the old mother close, Sopeap taps her bony finger to her own heart.

  “Three holes,” she whispers.

  Grandma Sin’s scratchy voice answers, and I realize it is the first time I have heard her speak. “ . . . not your fault. My daughter loved you.”

  I step back and try to hold my tears, watching two momma elephants nuzzle and reminisce. Then when Grandma Sin shuffles aside, I motion to Rathana, and she moves beside the bed.

  “Auntie,” she whispers, a common Cambodian title for someone revered, related or not. “I am Rathana, Sopeap’s sister. We have not met, but you have made such a difference in our family.” She motions to her husband and he steps to her side.

  “Auntie, I am Ponleak, Rathana’s husband. I am a chemical engineer. I work for an oil company here in Phnom Penh. My parents were able to help me with school because of your kindness and generosity. I will be forever grateful.” He reverently bows and then waves forward a teenage boy and a younger girl. “These are two of my children. I have another daughter who is married and living in Seim Reap. We have come here today to honor you.”

  The children make way for their oldest uncle, a man I met just this morning. He motions for his family to gather close to Sopeap’s bed.

  “Auntie, my name is Kiri. This is my family. My children have also been able to get a good education. I have a son who is not here. He works in farming. He has an advanced degree in agriculture. But we are most proud of the woman he married—and we even have a grandson.” A young mother, whose name I don’t remember, holds up a child of two or three. “I wish we’d have had more time to get to know you better,” she says, “but regardless, our family will be forever blessed because of your kindness.”

  Two more families take turns gathering children around Auntie, expressing thanks and paying tribute. She is too weak to respond, but it doesn’t matter. With the room still full, I work my way around to where I can lean in close, so that I’m certain she can hear me.

  “That is your lesson,” I tell her, “and there is no other that is more important.”

  Once everyone has finished and final good-byes have been said, the families file quietly and reverently away, leaving me alone to sit by her side and hold her hand as she continues to heave heavy breaths.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

  As the clouds close in, an evening rain begins to fall. The drops are large, like elephant tears, and as they smack the floor, they break into tiny beads that dance and play across the tiles. The owner of the home, Mr. Rangsey, comes out from inside and together we reach for the corners of Sopeap’s bed, ready to pull it in from the edge of the terrace and out of the rain. With all the strength she can muster, she raises her hand to ask that we leave her be. And so Mr. Rangsey excuses himself while I sit with Sopeap and welcome the warm evening shower.

  Rain in the dump makes water filthy. Rain in the garden cleanses.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

  The blanket has fallen off, but Sopeap doesn’t seem to care. It is only then I notice that one of her brown socks—the baggy, ordinary socks I once criticized—has slipped off of her foot. Her ankles are swollen, but that is not what catches my attention. It is the scars that crisscross her feet, old wounds common to those who gather trash too close to the dump’s nighttime fires.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

  If Sopeap is crying, I cannot tell, as the cleansing droplets now run down every furrow of her face. I know that she is dying and that I should run and get the owner or the housekeeper and have them call a doctor. But if I do, they will rush her from the rooftop garden beneath her rescuing rain, and away from her home rebuilt from ashes.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

  To ease her mind and offer comfort, I reach for the story she called her favorite. It is from the author named Hans Andersen. I am not familiar with him, but I plan to change that with a bit more time and Sopeap’s gift of books.

  I hold her twisted fingers lightly with one hand and turn the book’s pages with the other. The pages are getting wet, but it doesn’t matter.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

  I read slowly and deliberately, to make sure she can hear and understand every word.

  In the Garden of Paradise bloomed a rosebush. Here, in the first rose, a bird was born.

  As my voice reaches Sopeap’s ears, her muscles relax, her grip slackens, and any fear that might linger in her heart wanes and flows away in the rain.

  I continue.

  His flight was like the flashing of light, his plumage was beauteous, and his song ravishing. But there fell a spark into the nest of the bird, which blazed up forthwith.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

  The bird perished in the flames; but from the red egg in the nest there fluttered aloft a new one—the one solitary Phoenix bird. The fable tells that he dwells in Arabia and that every hundred years, he burns himself to death in his nest; but each time a new Phoenix, the only one in the world, rises up from the red egg.

  The bird flutters round us, swift as light, beauteous in color, charming in song. When a mother sits by her infant’s cradle, he stands on the pillow and, with his wings, forms a glory around the infant’s head. He flies through the chamber of content and brings sunshine into it, and the violets on the humble table smell doubly sweet.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

  But the Phoenix is not the bird of Arabia alone. He wings his way in the glimmer of the Northern Lights over the plains of Lapland and flutters among the yellow flowers in the short Greenland summer. Beneath the copper mountains of Fablun and England’s coal mines he flies, in the shape of a dusty moth, over the hymnbook that rests on the knees of the pious miner. On a lotus leaf he floats down the sacred waters of the Ganges, and the eye of the Hindoo maid gleams bright when she beholds him.

  The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? The Bird of Paradise, the holy swan of song! On the car of Thespis he sat in the guise of a chattering raven and flapped his black wings, smeared with the lees of wine; over the sounding harp of Iceland swept the swan’s red beak; on Shakespeare’s shoulder he sat in the guise of Odin’s raven and whispered in
the poet’s ear, “Immortality!”; and at the minstrels’ feast he fluttered through the halls of the Wartburg.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

  The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? He sang to thee the Marseillaise and thou kissedst the pen that fell from his wing; he came in the radiance of Paradise, and perchance thou didst turn away from him towards the sparrow who sat with tinsel on his wings.

  The Bird of Paradise—renewed each century—born in flame, ending in flame! Thy picture, in a golden frame, hangs in the halls of the rich, but thou thyself often fliest around, lonely and disregarded, a myth—“The Phoenix of Arabia.”

  Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in . . .

  In Paradise, when thou wert born in the first rose, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, thou receivedst a kiss, and thy right name was given thee—thy name, Poetry.

  . . . breathe out.

  Sopeap lets go of her final breath, flies away with my words that drift distant in the night to the glorious place where family waits—and it is over.

  I close the dripping book and place it restfully against her chest. I want to be sad—to wail and lament the passing of my dear teacher and friend, Sopeap Sin—but I do not. Perhaps it is because I don’t want the feeling of peace and love that has swept across my life to leave. Instead, I sit back in the rain, letting it also cleanse and wash another, for perhaps an hour, holding Sopeap’s hand and pondering the wonder and sacredness of the day.

  And then, when the time feels right, I pull the blanket over Sopeap’s silent body and stand to leave. As I make my way out of the home, I look for the owner or perhaps his housekeeper, to let them know what has happened, and to thank them. They are nowhere, and I presume they have retired to bed for the evening. I will return in the morning to make arrangements for cremation of the body Sopeap has left behind.

  As I near the base of the steps, adjacent to the front door, I find Ki asleep in a chair, still waiting. Of all the stories I have read about heroes, and all that I could ever read, of one thing I’m now certain—he is mine. I touch his face and he wakes up. It takes a moment for him to gather his reason, but when he does, he understands what has happened. He rises and folds his arms around me, holding me tight for a very long time.

  “Mr. Rangsey said we are welcome to stay the night. He showed me which room.”

  “Is there time instead to get back to the dump, to get to Sopeap’s home?”

  “It’s late,” he says, “but we can make it.”

  Together, we walk through the dirty streets of Phnom Penh, sometimes in darkness, but it doesn’t matter. We walk through Sopeap’s renewing, restoring, astonishing, redeeming rain.

  Chapter Thirty

  Many have gathered around our old home on the mound. I know most as my neighbors from the dump, but there are also many faces I don’t recognize. They are here because Lucky Fat has announced that an important story is about to be told.

  When everyone is ready, I step up and inside, just behind where the tarp attaches as it folds onto the roof, so I can stand above the crowd and everyone can hear. At times the events that have occurred in my life over the last several weeks push emotions so close to the surface that it’s difficult to speak. Not tonight. Instead I offer a silent plea to Father that my voice will be strong, and then I begin.

  “I am here today to tell you of a fable.

  “After I finish, some of you may whisper that it is not true. You may say that my words are made up, that my story is nothing but a myth—and you may be right. But as a wise and great teacher once explained so patiently, all good stories—stories that touch your soul, stories that change your nature, stories that cause you to become a better person from their telling—these stories always contain truth.

  “Some, including myself, have told a false fable, a story of Sopeap Sin that was a lie. I come tonight to correct your misconceptions and open your eyes.

  “I ask now that instead of listening with your ears you listen with your hearts—for Sopeap taught me that hearts comprehend truth.

  “Many years ago, the great sky god, Vadavamukha, received word that those living on the earth below in Stung Meanchey had lost their way. They had been consigned by luck, both good and bad, to pick through mountainous piles of other people’s trash in an effort to make their living. The long hours, their meager earnings, and the filthy conditions at the dump caused many to lose hope. Even worse, many forgot their true nature.

  “‘We must help them to see past their filthiness,’ said Vadavamukha. And so he counseled with his wife, Queen Reak Ksaksar Devy. They considered many solutions, but each was fraught with problems. Finally, after many days, they agreed they would send down Soriyan, a beautiful princess and also a great teacher in the heavens, to help those at Stung Meanchey. Soriyan was also their daughter.

  “And so Princess Soriyan was summoned. However, as the princesses entered the great hall where Vadavamukha and Reak Ksaksar Devy sat, the queen exclaimed, ‘This plan will not work. She is too beautiful. If she goes down to the ugliness of Stung Meanchey, her beauty and radiance will blind all who look upon her.’

  “Vadavamukha knew his wife was right, and so a great sadness swept across the heavens for the people of Stung Meanchey. But Princess Soriyan stepped forward and exclaimed, ‘Do not be sad. The plan will work. I will clothe myself in garbage as a disguise, so that I might have the chance to teach the people and restore their hope. For there is no greater gift I can offer than that of hope.’

  “Her parents agreed, and so, even though it was difficult for them to send their daughter away, Vadavamukha and Queen Devy clothed Princess Soriyan in filthiness and placed her into a garbage can to obscure her beauty. Then, Vadavamukha hurled the can from the sky toward the earth, where it landed at Stung Meanchey.

  “But when it landed, Princess Soriyan struck her head, and she forgot who she was and why she had been sent to Stung Meanchey. For many years, she was called Sopeap Sin, as no one knew her true identity—neither she nor the people whom she had come to teach.

  “When Vadavamukha and his wife looked down from the heavens and saw what had happened, the queen said, ‘We must do something. Our plan is not working. We must go down and save Soriyan and forget about restoring hope to Stung Meanchey.’ But the king wisely answered and said, ‘Give our daughter time. She will soon remember, and the experience will make her an even greater teacher, for she will also have empathy.’ And so they waited.

  “Though it was a difficult trial, Princess Soriyan—or Sopeap Sin, as the people knew her—slowly began to remember her heritage and that she was a great teacher. By now she was old, and she realized there wasn’t time to teach all the people living at Stung Meanchey before she would be called back home. But being the wise teacher that she was, she wrote down her most important lessons in the form of simple stories that the people could understand, and she called on others to both write and tell stories, stories filled with truth—though sometimes hidden—to offer direction to anyone with patience and a heart ready to listen.

  “To this day, if we look carefully around Stung Meanchey, if we search for stories that teach truth and goodness, stories with lessons that can soften and change our hearts—we will discover hope.”

  *****

  In quiet moments the feeling returns, the same one that washed over me the night Sopeap passed away, the night Ki and I walked back to Stung Meanchey in the rain.

  In spite of my learning many new words since, I’ve never found a proper way to describe this feeling, except to say it is the same as waking up in a place you know is polluted and stained but instead finding it covered in a cleansing blanket of white, a layer that does more than mask. When you dig down, all your filthiness, uncertainty, and fear have vanished and instead you are encircled by pure and overwhelming love.

  The moments are infrequent in a hectic life that is still a constant storm of struggle, and yet when they occur, these moments are anchors. They keep me facing in the right di
rection. I still awake every morning to a dump that is smoky, but through the smoke, I’ve seen some of the most amazing sunsets.

  Still, one thing remains certain—Grandfather spoke the truth. The day Ki found Sopeap’s book, the same day he was robbed, the day that felt so miserable and terrible and discouraging—it was indeed a very lucky day.

  Now I’m going to teach a young boy how to write his name.

  Acknowledgments

  I sincerely thank the following for their contributions and support:

  The many great writers of classical literature whose work I’ve referenced or quoted in The Rent Collector. In a handful of cases, for the sake of pacing and tone, I’ve modified their original work. There is a reasonable chance that all are horrified, but their work is in the public domain, and, of course, they are dead and I’m not. Perhaps by the time we meet up, they will have forgiven me.

  Joni Buehner, who offered permission to include her amazing poem, Love Forever.

  Earl Madsen, my associate and business partner, who was instrumental in the success of my first book, Letters for Emily. Earl passed away unexpectedly just before Christmas in 2009. His wry humor is still missed. It was at his funeral that I decided to get off my butt and write another book.

  The many editors and readers who helped correct my mistakes and improve the story: Emily Watts, Ken Neff, Richard Peterson, Rosemary Lind, Wendy Ulrich, and, of course, my wife, Alicyn.

  My son, Trevor, whose documentary film and love of Cambodia provided the basis for my setting, story, and characters.