The Rent Collector (12 page)

If I were Ki, I’d get angry. He doesn’t.

“There’s a time and place for defending yourself,” he says calmly, “whether it be with words—or with a knife. Keep reading; your stories will teach you that.”

We’ve each said our piece and the ending is no surprise, though there is one thing he has said that causes me to wonder.

“I’m curious,” I ask. “The half person you mentioned . . . are you talking about Lucky Fat?”

The corners of his mouth turn up ever so slightly, and that tells me that when he answers, I won’t be certain if he’s serious or teasing. Either way, I know from experience that I won’t discover the truth for the rest of the day.

“No,” he says with a straight and sincere face, “it’s not Lucky. The person I was counting as a half, the gutsy person willing to also take a stand and fight with me—I was talking about Lena,
your mother.
”

*****

The air is heavy and warm, enough so that I pull back my canvas and sit on the ground in the shade. I look to the distant hut of Teva Mao and listen for Nisay. My good friend has been anxious to watch my son of late, when Mother can’t, and while I’m not certain, I suspect that Sopeap has made arrangements with Teva to forgive a portion of her rent.

I worry about Nisay, leaving him almost every morning for so long while I learn from Sopeap. Learning to read feels like the right thing to do, yet when my child cries as I pass him along to waiting hands, I want to throw away the books and pencils and just hold him close. But then, his constant whimpering throughout the day reminds me that if conditions don’t change, he’ll never improve. I wonder . . . is life so conflicted for everyone everywhere?

Sopeap notices my concern. “Don’t worry about your son,” she says. “He’ll be fine.”

“Will my learning help him?” I ask, needing to confirm that I’m making the right choice.

“Education is almost always good, especially when it brings us to an understanding of our place in the world.”

“And literature will do that?”

“Sang Ly, we
are
literature—our lives, our hopes, our desires, our despairs, our passions, our strengths, our weaknesses. Stories express our longing not only to make a difference today but to see what is possible for tomorrow. Literature has been called
a handbook for the art of being human.
So, yes. It will do that.”

“Will it help me to know how to get him better?”

She sets down her book. “I am a tired old woman who lives in a dump. I can’t say if this is the right direction for you. That is a question only you will be able to answer. But I should warn you.”

“Warn me? About what?”

“As you learn, as you read stories that speak to you and begin to understand how they relate to you and your family—you may find questions you weren’t expecting.”

“What kinds of questions?”

“The deepest questions of mankind: What is the meaning of my life? Why am I here at the dump? What’s in store for me on this path? Do the ancestors listen and care about me? Why is life so hard? What is good and what is evil? What must I do about it? The list goes on and on.”

“I don’t understand. How does reading stories about others answer those questions for me?”

“That is what I’m hoping you will understand—every story we read, Sang Ly, is about us, in one way or another.”

“But how . . . ?”

“Hold your questions, child. Let’s not let the morning pass and find out that we haven’t yet cracked open a book. We’ll begin today with the story
Tum Teav
by Cambodian author Preah Botumthera Som.”

She hands me a worn text. “I think you’ll enjoy this story,” she says. “It’s about a beautiful adolescent girl named Teav. She is caught in a rather unusual predicament.” Sopeap’s eyes lock on mine, as if she can read my thoughts, and her words carry such wryness that I’m certain she must have found out about the girl. And if she knows, who else also knows?

I freeze, not budging, not breathing, until Sopeap finally points to the book and says, “Open to the first page and we’ll get started.”

Chapter Twelve

Mother is causing trouble again at the shelters, and I seem to be the only one to notice. By the time I arrive, she has convinced Sida Son and Jorani Kahn to build a large single shelter together rather than two smaller shelters of their own. “If you work together,” she told them, “you’ll create the best shelter ever seen at Stung Meanchey.”

The problem is she knows full well that Sida and Jorani hate each other—and yet she persists. If my mother’s motives were pure, if she were trying to get two friends to make up, I would applaud the woman. Instead she finesses the less-than-brilliant pair together, just so she can sit back and watch the show.

“Shame on you,” I say as I take a seat beside her while the two women continue to argue about how far their cardboard should extend past their fabric roof. I would step in and break things up, but I know better.

“What would Father say if he were still alive?” I say to Mother.

“First of all, I don’t know what you are talking about,” she says. “And second,
you
should talk—you’re the one who killed him.”

Naturally I don’t remember, and the story would change every time Mother or Grandfather would tell it. It was said that during my childbirth, Mother was in heavy labor, pushing and pushing, while I refused to come out. She was encouraged by the midwife while my father smoked homemade cigarettes as he paced nervously in the front yard.

Grandfather said I refused to leave the ancestors, who must have been gathered around telling jokes. I suspect, instead, that someone there must have warned me about my future at Stung Meanchey. Either way, my birth took hours. When I finally filled my lungs and announced to the village that I had arrived, the midwife ran out to deliver the good news and found my father stone-cold dead on the ground.

As a child, I liked to imagine that he gave up his life for me, that whoever was in charge that day had decided to allow a limited number of my relatives on the earth at one time. I convinced myself that I was the one destined to die, but then, at the very last moment, my father somehow pulled a
phlah bdo
(a secret switch) and volunteered himself instead.

It was just a child’s silly story, but it helped ease the pain of one of my biggest regrets growing up: I never knew my father. To this day, I don’t know what he looked like. Pictures were rare in the province, and the single photo Mother had of him was lost when I was still a baby.

“Do you want to stay for more?” Mother asks as Sida begins to curse and Jorani starts to throw trash.

I don’t mean to laugh, but the two women are rather comical.

“It’s no wonder we’re both at Stung Meanchey,” I tell her as we lean back and resist the temptation to clap. “It’s no wonder at all.”

Only when the fighting winds down does Mother lean over and casually mention, “You should also know . . . I have made arrangements for the girl.”

I lurch forward. “Arrangements? For Maly? What does that mean?”

“It will be best if I keep the details to myself,” she says, “for everyone’s safety. Let’s just say I’ve found a good situation, away from the city, where she will be safe.”

“When?”

“I will leave with her tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“Yes, but there is one slight problem.” I hate it when Mother mentions
problems.

“What kind of problem?”

“To make this work, we’re going to need the help of the Rent Collector.”

*****

I’m waiting outside my curtain when Sopeap arrives. I sent word that we needed to speak and, thankfully, she arrives on time.

“What is so important?” Sopeap asks, irritated.

“I’m sorry,” I begin, unsure how to explain. “I just . . .” When I pause, she loses patience.

“Is this about the girl?”

I take a breath. “You know about her?”

“Since the day I saw her sleeping on your floor,” she scoffs.

“I’m sorry. We wanted to keep her safe until—”

“Do you have a plan?” she interrupts.

“Yes, but . . .”

“Spit it out.”

“We need your help. The girl—Maly is her name—will need money for the bus trip, and then for the family, to cover her expenses.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sopeap asks.

To me it seems obvious, but I continue. “The only extra we have is the money we’re saving for next month’s rent.”

Sopeap’s voice hardens. “Are you asking if I think helping this girl, a stranger to us both, is more important than you paying rent?”

I didn’t expect her to be so belligerent, though I’m not sure why. Her question demands an answer, but I hesitate in my reply.

“Are you?” she repeats.

“Yes,” I say. “I am.”

There is no mistake in her tone. “I won’t allow you to use your rent!”

“But Sopeap . . .”

Abruptly she reaches into her pocket and removes a tight roll of money, as if she expected this all along, and passes it to me. “This should be sufficient. However, offer it only to those you can trust—for the girl’s sake. When does she leave?”

I am so taken aback, I say nothing.

“I asked, when does she leave?” Sopeap repeats, as if I’m hard of hearing.

“Tonight.”

“So we won’t be meeting today?”

“Not today.”

“Then I’m going to have a drink—and tomorrow you can finally get your mind back on your studies.” As she wobbles away, she calls out, “And don’t be late with your rent!”

*****

Life is a funny thing. One day I’m worried about our safety with Maly staying with us. Days later I’m scared to death to have her leave. Even though the sun still beats down outside and we desperately need some air, we keep our canvas down until it gets dark.

Lucky is the first to say good-bye. He stands next to Maly, looking confused as to whether he should hug her or not. She helps him decide by wrapping her little arms around his neck. They whisper words we can’t hear, and when the two separate, the boy quietly announces that he’s going outside to look around and make sure it’s safe. As he wipes his sleeve across his forehead and eyes, we all understand.

I step over to Maly next, and when she begins to tear up, I pull her close.

“I have something for you,” I say as I present her a copy of
Reamker,
a book given to me by Sopeap.

“But I don’t read,” she answers.

“Not yet,” I add, “but you will.”

She touches the cover. “What is it about?”

“I have just finished reading it myself. It’s a celebrated Cambodian epic that you are going to love. You’ll fly away with Prince Rama and Queen Sita, fight giants, befriend monkeys, swim with mermaids, and rescue a forlorn princess. It’s a wonderful world where good balances evil, friendships last forever, and magic keeps you safe—and every time you read it, you can think of us.”

I hold her close a little longer until Lena reaches out her hand to indicate that it’s time to go. Maly takes Lena’s fingers and then hesitates.

I stoop beside the child. “Maly, be strong. You can do this.”

“How will I live on my own?” she asks, gasping now as she weeps.

“You won’t be—we’ll all be here cheering for you.”

She gathers her courage and nods, and then, as quickly as the child dropped into my life, she is taken away. Despite my head explaining to my heart that she is not my own daughter, that her leaving is for the better, my chest still aches.

Chapter Thirteen

The stories that Sopeap brings are sometimes written by Cambodian authors. Most, however, are translated books by writers from distant parts of the world. Many are also in English, but with scribbled Khmer translations penned between the typed lines. I don’t know where she gets them all.

I’ve learned that Sopeap not only taught years ago at the university in Phnom Penh but, prior to that, attended college in America, studying English. (She hasn’t said, but her family must have been well-off to afford such blessings.)

The opening page of her book today shows a penned engraving of ocean waves and the splashing tail of a fish.