The Rent Collector (18 page)

“How is that possible?”

“His conclusion was that both came from a deeper source.”

“But how can I know what
my
dreams mean?”

“If you listen to Jung, he said that to learn from our dreams we should ponder them. I believe he said, ‘Consciousness succumbs too easily to unconscious influences, as these are often truer and wiser than our conscious thinking.’ ”

“I don’t understand what he means.”

“It’s his way of saying that dreams are more important than we can ever imagine—we just need to listen.”

*****

Nisay is filthy, so we step around to the side of the house where I pour water over the child with a tin cup to try to get my little puppy clean before his father comes home. Too late. Ki arrives early and rushes around the house to find us. Before he even opens his mouth to say a word, his face tells me something is wrong.

“What has happened?” I ask.

“Don’t worry. Everything is okay. It’s Lucky Fat.”

“Tell me! What’s happened?”

“When he wasn’t at the dump today, your mother dropped by to see if he was okay . . .”

“And?” My eyes lock on his, willing him to continue.

“Apparently, some in the gang are still looking for the girl.”

“They went to Lucky’s? How did they know? What did they do to him?” I’m raising my voice to the one person in the dump I shouldn’t.

“When he wouldn’t tell them anything,” he replies, “they decided to teach him a lesson.”

My heart picks up a beat and I wish Ki would just spit it out. “Please tell me if he’s okay.”

“They roughed him up and smashed most of his Buddhas. In the process he was hit in the eye by one of them. It’s swollen shut, but Lena is with him now and it looks like he’s going to be fine.”

“He’s a child. How could they hurt a child?” It’s a stupid question, as I’m talking about those willing to sell an innocent girl into a life of prostitution. Though I’ve always been the pacifist, I instantly want to bash in their faces with a stone Buddha myself.

“What are we going to do?” I ask, ready to take Ki’s knife and go after them this instant.

“I’ve just been meeting with more of the men. It seems that Lucky is well liked. This, coupled with Sopeap’s words, which I shared, suggesting that we fight against evil . . . well, it looks like I’m finally making some progress.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the number of men finally willing to stand up and fight—it’s now closer to thirty.”

Chapter Eighteen

Sopeap decides to sit today because she’s feeling a bit tired, so we share space, side by side, on the floor where both of us can see. She opens the volume to a marked page. “I think it’s time for a tragedy,” she says.

“Really? I’m not sure I’m ready for more tragedy.”

“We never are, Sang Ly.”

She hands the book over and then explains, “This is the story that many believe inspired Shakespeare to write
Romeo and Juliet.
”

I nod agreeably, as if it’s common knowledge, as if I’ve heard of the story of which she speaks.

“In the original story,” she continues, “they were called Pyramus and Thisbe.”

“Why did he change their names?”

“He didn’t. The two are different stories about different people. It’s believed that the Pyramus and Thisbe story was the first . . . well, let’s begin and then you’ll understand.”

This time she asks me to read, and I begin slowly.

*****

Late in the afternoon, when I reach the shelters, I witness a sight at Stung Meanchey more miraculous than snow. Four trucks are lined up in a row, each methodically purging its load, and no one—I mean
no one
—stands near to sort trash. I stare at the peculiar scene, certain it’s not a dream, but not sure what to make of it, while my mind attempts to process an unfamiliar sound. Mixed in with the beeping of the backing trucks and the humming of the swarming flies, I hear what could be the cheers from a children’s soccer game. Yet, as I glance around, I see only emptiness.

It is then that a woman runs past from behind. I recognize her, but I can’t recall her name. She often waits at the shelters in the afternoons while her husband, who is new to the dump, works the trucks. “Hurry, they’re just over the hill,” she says, panting and pointing to a direction that I now identify as the source of the sound. “They’ve caught one of them,” she adds, with utter excitement resonating in her voice. “They’ve caught one of the thieves who beat the boy.”

By the time I approach the horde, the yelling and jeering has all but ceased. I push through the circle, past strangers, neighbors, and friends, making my way to the middle of the melee. As I break through to the very center, I stumble and fall to my knees, not prepared for the scene that waits. They have given the culprit some room now, because he isn’t going to go anywhere. He’s no more than a boy. His eyes are open, but they gaze directly into the sun. His arms are pushed underneath him, as if he could jump up and run, except he is lying on his back and his limbs twist in ways they were never meant to bend. Fresh blood oozes from his mouth and ear, and his shirt has been torn from his body to reveal puncture wounds, certainly caused by the sharp metal hooks from the picking sticks that we use to separate the trash.

The boy—now just inches away from my face—is dead.

Then I notice something familiar in the shape of his defined cheeks. I blink, and the scene begins to tip and spin. My head feels light and I realize that I’m hyperventilating. I cover my mouth, not only to control my breathing but also to subdue the contents of my stomach that are trying to push their way out.

“He’s the one who beat Lucky,” a man calls out. “A thief,” another adds. “We caught him stealing red-handed,” someone else exclaims. Their asserting voices mix and muddle together in swirls of lawless justification toward the boy who can’t respond.

“What did he take?” I ask, to no one in particular.

A woman across the circle answers. “There were four of them who tried to steal a bag of cans from Menn Chim. Lucky was resting two shelters over, still fresh from his beating, and he recognized at least three of them.”

I look for Lucky, but I don’t see him anywhere.

“What is the boy’s name?” I call out. “Please, does anyone know this boy’s name?” I am hoping that I’m wrong, that it is not Maly’s brother lying dead before me, but then a voice answers. “I don’t know his name, but he’s the boy who has been looking for the runaway.”

Before I can properly process the answer in my head, I heave and vomit into the garbage on the ground.

It was just days ago I wanted to kill the criminals myself. But my desire was for revenge on crooks, thugs—dark images of evil that gathered in my head when I pictured the men who beat my husband and Lucky Fat—not boys, especially this boy.

And then I feel Ki’s trembling touch on my back. He pulls me up from the ground, away from the broken body, through the crowd that begins to thin, as many retreat toward the trucks. Ki is breathing heavily, clutching his knife with his other hand.

“What happened?” I ask as we find a place to sit in a swirl of garbage, not certain I am ready for his answer. He takes a minute to catch his breath before speaking. His words are halting and his hands shake. As I look at my own, I see they tremble as well.

“I was working with the men . . . near the trucks . . . when someone up at the shelters began to point and shout. A few men began chasing them, then others followed. Soon it was everyone.”

He looks at his hand and realizes he still holds his knife, then glances around as if there should be someone to take it, some easy place to put it. There isn’t.

“When one of the boys tripped,” he continues, “they caught him. The crowd was screaming
thief
and
robber
and hitting him with their pickers as I ran past.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know exactly—everyone, I guess. They had surrounded him, so I chased after the other three with Chey and Pran Teo. We were close to catching them, though I remember thinking I wasn’t sure I wanted to.”

Ki pulls up the leg of his pant, his hand still quivering, and slips the knife into its sheath. He wipes his fingers against his shirt.

“They made it to the streets,” he says, “near the factory on Choam Chao, and we lost them . . . and I was glad. Then, by the time we got back . . . well, that’s when I found you kneeling beside . . .” Ki doesn’t know the victim’s name, doesn’t yet realize his identity, and doesn’t want to call him
the boy,
so he pauses for a second before he continues. “I could see he was dead, and then I . . . didn’t want you to have to look at him.”

“It wasn’t right they beat him. It wasn’t right that he die,” I manage to mumble, as tears that have been waiting in my eyes run down both cheeks.

“I know, Sang Ly,” Ki answers, with fear still trailing in his voice. “I just wanted to stop them . . . I didn’t mean for this to happen . . . ”

And then neither of us has anything further to say. We just sit together in the garbage of Stung Meanchey and weep for the killing of a thief, a crook, a thug, a brother—a boy—whom we didn’t even know. And amidst my quiet tears, a vision of a white whale and an angry captain rows into my head. It was so exciting at the time to read the story with Sopeap—the captain bent on revenge, harpooning the whale from the sinking ship, then being dragged to his death with a rope tangled around his neck.

Sopeap insisted that I understand the underlying theme—
good vs. evil.
But I wondered at the time, why, if that is the critical message, wasn’t it better defined? Was the author an amateur writer, not up to the task? In the story, Captain Ahab wasn’t always despicable and the whale wasn’t always pure. Instantly I realize that the man who wrote the words understood the world completely—and I can’t help but wonder if he ever lived in a dump like Stung Meanchey.

When our breathing softens and our eyes dry and our stomachs finally settle, Ki lifts me up from the trash and we clasp hands and walk together to pick up our son. Just before we arrive at Mother’s, Ki stops. “I am sick knowing that a boy has been killed,” he says. “But there is something I need to make clear.”

I take his hands. “Yes?”

“I want you to know that if he or any other gang members like him—boy or not—ever tries to harm you or our son, I will not hesitate to defend you.”

We pick up Nisay and finish our walk home in silence because, in spite of the power that so many words carry, as so eloquently explained by Sopeap, neither of us can find adequate meaning to the guilt, sorrow, anger, relief, worry, and overwhelming anguish that mix in our hearts.

*****

In the morning, with the dead boy’s image still burned into my head, I leave a note for Sopeap, telling her I’ll be back soon. Then, with Nisay in one arm and a small white sack in the other, I swing by for Lucky Fat. He agrees that my idea is fitting, and we head out together.

In Cambodia, when someone has perished it is common to make an offering, a gift to appease the person’s soul. As we approach the spot where the boy was killed, a woman who lives close also arrives with an offering. She tells us that the police never showed up, that when she went to bed late last night, the body was still there, torn and broken, but staring peacefully toward heaven. By morning, the body was gone, and she could see fresh bulldozer tracks where the garbage had been pushed around during the night.

“May your next life be more peaceful,” Lucky pronounces, and then we lay out the gifts we’ve brought—a banana, a can of rice, salt, incense, and a small Buddha statue that Lucky found still intact.

Lucky’s eye is looking better, and on the walk home, he is talkative and happy once again.

“How do you think she’s doing?” Lucky asks.

I don’t need to ask who. “I’m sure Maly is doing well.”

And then Lucky speaks words that confirm he is more mature than his young years let on. “I think her brother will now be in a place where he can finally watch over her.”

“Yes,” I admit, “I think you’re right.”

I had considered telling Sopeap on my return, if she were still there waiting, that the last twenty-four hours had been too emotional for me to continue our study of books today. Yet, as I contemplate life and death, justice and mercy, Captain Ahab and a thief at Stung Meanchey, I wonder if it isn’t a perfect time after all.

Chapter Nineteen