The Rent Collector (16 page)

“How? Why are there so many?”

“I think the answer lies in the story itself. Perhaps you touched on it when you said that it made you feel happy. It seems, quite simply, that as human beings, we are born to hope.”

“To hope?” I ask, wrinkling up my brow. “But you told me that hope died at Stung Meanchey.”

“And therein lies another lesson—
consider the source.
”

“I don’t understand.”

“Never rely on the advice of a disillusioned drunk.”

“Then you do believe in hope?” I ask.

A longer pause, a deeper breath. “I believe the message of the story that we have just read anchors deeper than our doubts.”

She can see by my face that my tired brain is working hard to process her comments and so she decides to make it easier for me. “Sang Ly, the desire to believe, to look forward to better days, to want them, to expect them—it seems to be engrained in our being. Whether we like it or not, hope is written so deeply into our hearts that we just can’t help ourselves, no matter how hard we try otherwise. We love the story because
we
are Sarann or Tattercoats or Cinderella. We all struggle with the same problems and doubts. We all long for the day when we’ll get our own reward. We all harbor hope—and that’s why it’s such a problem.”

“Problem?”

“Yes, an issue that bothered so many teachers at the university—myself included—a problem we could never explain away. Is our DNA to blame for this inherent desire to hope? Is it simply another survival mechanism? Is that why we love Sarann or Cinderella? Or is there more to it?”

“Such as?”

“I had colleagues who would dissect and quantify the stories, as though the paragraphs were laboratory frogs. They would split the sentences apart, dig through their insides, write up theories about the why and how and when—but in the end, when the letters all settled, their answers often pointed to something deeper. It would make them crazy. I’ll admit that, at times, it still makes me crazy.”

“When you say
deeper,
are you talking about the ancestors?”

“I am talking about the constant nature of
truth.
Look at Buddha’s philosophy—it’s about the path and our journey. That’s what his teachings of the Noble Eightfold Path are all about. Do you see what I mean? Have you ever found a classical book of literature that isn’t about a journey—whether actual or within?”

Other than the few I’ve read with Sopeap, I can’t name any other stories. It doesn’t matter. She answers her own question.

“There isn’t one. It’s not just Sarann and Cinderella. Look at all books, plays, movies—we keep writing the same plots, with the same characters, teaching the same lessons. Why do you suppose that is?”

“Nobody has an original idea?”

She eyes me intently. “Or is the
original idea
so intrinsic, inherent, and ingenious, so fundamental to our existence, that we can’t help but be drawn back?”

I try to grasp what she means but can only shrug.

“I’m suggesting writers can’t help themselves,” she says. “Our trials, our troubles, our demons, our angels—we reenact them because these stories explain our lives. Literature’s lessons repeat because they echo from deeper places. They touch a chord in our soul because they’re notes we’ve already heard played. Plots repeat because, from the birth of man, they explore the reasons for our being. Stories teach us to not give up hope because there are times in our own journey when we mustn’t give up hope. They teach endurance because in our lives we are meant to endure. They carry messages that are older than the words themselves, messages that reach beyond the page.”

She takes a deep breath and waits.

“Your words today are all so beautiful. Why did you ever quit teaching? Why would you ever give up on literature?”

“Perhaps it gave up on me,” she answers more faintly.

“Do you believe that our ancestors care about us, that they watch over us?” I ask Sopeap, still a bit unsure of the point she is trying to make.

She licks her plump lips, hesitates. “I’m inclined to, but . . .”

“But what?”

“We all want to be Sarann, to have hope for our future. While I also want to have my story end happily, there’s a problem that keeps getting in my way—I wake up most days to find I’m just another ugly stepsister.”

“Do you say this because not all our stories end happily?”

“That, Sang Ly, is the paradox,” she continues, “the part that is perplexing. It seems that if we take these stories too literally, if we expect our personal lives to always end with a handsome prince, most of us will close our books with shattered dreams. Yet, on the other hand—and this is the part that frustrates—if we don’t take the meaning of these stories literally, if we treat these tales as simply entertainment, we miss the deepest, most life-changing aspects of the stories. We miss the entire reason they even exist.”

This time her pause is longer. Then her tone changes. “And if that happens, we grow cynical, teach literature at a university, and end up drinking rice wine at the dump.”

Only when Sopeap forces a smile do I understand that her last comment is meant to be funny. “Besides,” she adds, perhaps to relieve us both from an awkward moment, “if every story ended with a handsome prince, there wouldn’t be anybody left in the kingdom to stand around and cheer.”

Chapter Sixteen

On the far southeastern side of the dump, where the bulldozers have not yet piled mountains of trash, the ground turns to swamp and the water pools into small, irregular ponds, each a foot or two deep and a couple of hundred feet across. Reeds thrive around the edges, and, at certain times of the year, the snails that live in the water will grow big enough for us to gather.

Since I’m now seldom picking trash, and since Sopeap has only forgiven the single month’s rent, I’m hesitant to spend too much of the money Ki Lim earns to buy pork at the market. Instead, when Ki arrives home early today, I grab one of the bags we use to gather recycled trash, ask him to watch Nisay, and tell him that I’ll be back home shortly with dinner.

I once told a doctor, who asked what I fed Nisay, that on occasion we eat boiled snails. He jerked around excitedly, as if snails were a staple in everyone’s diet, and then added that he’d eaten them at
Le Bouillon Chartier,
one of the finest restaurants in France. He was the same doctor who told me that the practice of scraping Nisay’s skin was a waste of time, and I couldn’t tell by his tone if he was mocking me about the snails or if he was being sincere. I presumed the latter, and so the next time I cooked snails, I explained to Ki that we were eating just like the rich do in France. I don’t remember his exact reply, but I know it contained the word
chkuat
(crazy)
.

Teva Mao’s oldest girls are playing out in front, and when they realize where I’m headed, they follow along for the adventure. As we approach the ponds, there are already others gathering, and in spite of the fact that we’re talking about snails from the dump, I pick up my step anyway, worried I’ll miss out. Though the water is muddy, a quick inspection confirms that the snails are still too small—until we wade out to where the water deepens. Not only are they larger, but they are plentiful. Then it starts to rain.

I work an area where the water reaches my knees but where there are still patches of reeds, and there I pluck snails the size of errant limes. As I gather them into my bag, the rain increases. It’s a bit treacherous as I try not to slip, but I can’t complain. The job is tolerable until I glance at my ankle while stepping through the water to see what looks like a black spot of mud.

In this life we all have our own phobias and fears. Lena hates snakes. Narin dreads stink beetles. Dara Neak can’t stand the thought of spiders. I, in turn, am terrified of leeches—just like the one now attached to my ankle.

I’m not stupid enough to leave my bag behind, but I clutch it tightly and high step out of the water as if I’m about to be eaten by a swamp creature—which I am. Once I reach the safety of higher ground, I toss my sack aside and reach down to pull the miserable creature off of my skin, but I can’t. Either my fingers are too slippery from the snails I’ve gathered or my hands are too shaky from my panic. No matter how hard I try to grab hold of the monster still sucking blood from my body, I can’t get a grip. I try an alternative tactic, which entails repeatedly stomping my foot against the ground, as though my pants have caught fire at the dump, hoping to shake the leech loose; but the stubborn little animal doesn’t budge.

“Girls! Come quick!” I scream, as if the swamp water has also caught fire and if they don’t come this instant, we’ll all be consumed. They continue splashing at each other and giggling.

I scream louder.

When they finally reach me, Vanna, Teva’s oldest, rolls her eyes.

“Pull it off, quick!” I say, and she reaches down to give it a try. It stretches out, long and plump, sliding through her slender fingers, and I’m certain it’s getting longer and plumper every second.

“This one’s hard to get off,” she says as she tries again and fails miserably.

Teva’s youngest pipes up next. “Usually they let go once they’ve had their fill of blood.”

It’s an interesting tidbit of advice that I have no intention of testing out!

“Quick, give me your sandal,” I say to Vanna.

She slips it off and hands it to me. Using a flat end, I finally scrape the wretched leech from my leg. After I do, blood continues to ooze out from the spot on my skin where it has been attached.

“I’m going home. I’m through gathering snails,” I declare with a pout as I pick up my bag and stomp away, looking carefully where I step. I feel like a tantrum-throwing child who refuses to play when she doesn’t get her way, but I don’t care. Teva’s girls don’t care either. They shrug, wave, and then, after I’m distant, laugh at me.

By the time I arrive home, I’ve calmed down. I give Ki the snails I successfully gathered before the cruel leech attack, watching as he dumps them into our Styrofoam box. He swirls them around with water to clean them off, then mixes in a little salt to draw them out of their shells. As he works, I rehearse the vicious assault in more vivid detail. He tries not to smile but does a poor job hiding his amusement.

“Where exactly did it bite you?” he asks, and I can’t tell if he’s concerned or just teasing. I think I’ve already shown him, but to eke out as much sympathy as possible, I twist around and pull up my pant leg so he can see for himself.

“It was right here—” I point to my wound, but when I look down, there’s nothing there. I must have mixed up which leg got bitten. I twist to the other side and pull up that pant leg instead. “I mean it was—” It’s not on that ankle either, which is confusing, and suddenly, I can’t remember exactly where it bit me.

No matter; Ki can hardly contain himself. I want to join his laughter, as the situation really is hysterically funny. Instead, I shake my disgusted head, bend down, and transfer our dinner into a cooking pot, promising myself not to speak another word to the man until well into the evening.

*****

“I have been thinking about something you said last time we met,” I say to Sopeap after we finish talking about the story we have just read.

“Then you
do
listen.”

I ignore her sarcasm. “You said we all want to be the story’s hero.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I asked Sida Son what she thought about heroes.”

“What did she say?”

“She chuckled and told me to look around at where I lived. She said to let her know when I saw a hero walking past, but that I’d grow old waiting—and then she left.”

“Perhaps she’s looking for the wrong kind of hero.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Heroes come in many varieties—some are reluctant, others are willing; sometimes heroes act alone, other times they represent a group. Seldom are heroes perfect.”

“Then what makes them heroes?”

“Most teachers will agree that the true mark of a hero, what sets him apart from everyone else, is sacrifice. A hero gives something up, sometimes even his own life, for the good of others.”

“Does giving up
time
for another count, like you teaching me how to read?”

Our discussion so far today has been friendly. Instantly Sopeap flashes anger. “Don’t pander to me! I won’t tolerate it.”

I don’t understand how she can turn so mean so quickly. “I’m not . . . or I don’t think I am. I don’t even know what
pander
means.”

She isn’t finished. “Understand, child, I’m nobody’s hero.”

As always, I should shut my mouth. But when she gets angry for no reason, it makes me . . . well . . . 
angry.
Rather than show it, I decide to play dumb.

“But you
are
teaching me—isn’t that a sacrifice?”

It works. She steps so close I have a hard time focusing on her eyes. Her tone reaches out with invisible fingers and grabs my neck. “Don’t you
ever
assume that I’m doing this for you. I am
not
a hero—not to you, not to anyone! Do you understand me?”