The Rent Collector (9 page)

“She’s back?”

“Yeah, and she left a message. She said for you to plan on Friday, that you’d know what that means.”

“It means,” I say, “that my time is running out.”

Chapter Nine

Sopeap said it was all around us, that we were swimming in it. Perhaps literature is easier to find in the dump if you’re a drunk. I have read wrappers, cans, magazines, notes on napkins, directions, bills, packaging, bottle labels, even tattoos on men picking trash. Nothing feels like literature. I have let friends know to keep their eyes open for books—surely, I must be looking for books. Still, the one that Lucky left yesterday only showed how to fix a moto. While it may be literature to a mechanic or anyone who owns a moto, I am neither. I only need a single example. If I show up with nothing, our lessons will end.

It is after dinner, after dark, after Nisay has finally fallen asleep, and after we are lying down that Ki casually says, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Your cousin was here looking for you.”

“Narin? When? What did she want?”

“It was when you were still out—
working.
” He emphasizes the word and I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me for looking for literature in a dump or if he is resentful that I’m not gathering my share of recyclables. When he pokes me and begins to laugh, I’m relieved it’s the former.

“You didn’t say what she wanted.”

“She said she found something, but didn’t say what.”

I take a generous breath, try not to sound excited. “But she didn’t leave anything?”

“Not with me. She mentioned that she was watching Nisay on Friday and would give it to you then.”

That would be the day Sopeap is coming, the day of our lesson, and that means one thing is certain—waiting until Friday to see Narin is not an option.

“I’m not really tired yet,” I say as I roll over and stand up in the darkness. “Perhaps I’ll go out for some fresh air.”

Ki laughs so loud that Nisay stirs. I guess it is pretty funny, when one associates
fresh air
with the aroma and haze of the dump that permeate our home at night.

“Take the light,” he says, not bothering to ask where I’m going or how long I’ll be gone. “And take the path in front of the homes, around the perimeter. It’s longer, but it’s safe. Don’t even think about cutting across the dump.”

I kiss him quickly, then grab the light that he’ll sometimes use to pick in the dark when we have enough to pay for a charged battery. I don’t bother clicking it on inside, as I’m afraid it won’t work and he’ll insist I stay home. The moon is out anyway, and there is sufficient light to see my way just fine.

When I arrive at Narin’s, I strain, hoping to see a glow coming from inside. There isn’t one. Should I turn around and go home empty-handed?

“Narin?” I call out through an open window.

Nothing.
I try again. “Narin?”

The door to the home opens and my cousin steps out. “Sang Ly? What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice ringing with worry.

“Everything is fine. It’s just that Ki said you came by. I would have come earlier, but he just told me. Did you find something? Did you find a book?”

“No, I’m sorry, no book. What I have may be nothing. I was reminded of a simple poem that I learned in the province, one Mother taught me. She would whisper when I was restless and couldn’t sleep.”

“I’m not sure if a poem is what I need. Sopeap did not say if poems were literature, but I’d love to see it.”

Narin glances down in the moonlight. “I have nothing written. I don’t read. Instead I remember it. Like I said, I don’t know if it’s what you want, I just—”

“Narin, I’d love to
hear
it.”

She points to the step and we sit, so as to not disturb her children, who are already trying to sleep. She scoots close, and as she begins, I can almost hear my aunt’s raspy voice.

*****

Laugh with me, monkey. Bring impish tricks and mischievous heart. Help sorrow waft and cheer restore before the sun sets red.

Run with me, tiger, with imposing stripes of orange and deafening growl. Cause enemies to cower and bring my spirit courage.

Pull with me, water buffalo. Turn furrowed fields to golden rice that’s sweet. Show true resolve and the strength of a determined mind.

Rest with me, turtle, with emerald shield and wisdom old as time. Teach me to value a strong home that will protect against the rain.

Swim with me, fish, through renewing waters that are broad and deep and blue. Cleanse my body and keep it cool from the sun’s hot rays.

Sing with me, bird. Trill nature’s song and carry tired limbs through indigo sky. Open my eyes to the world’s expanse and Nature’s wonder.

Scurry with me, beetle. Remind of life’s short days and of precious time. Tap your violet legs about to keep me alert and prepared.

Scurry, beetle—sing, bird—swim, fish—rest, turtle—pull, water buffalo—run, tiger—laugh, monkey. Play together in my dreams. Dance across nature’s sky. It’s now time that I must sleep.

*****

We sit quietly with our thoughts that drift and mingle with the nighttime sounds of the dump. We remember our lives in the province—but mostly we remember Aunty.

“I miss Mother,” Narin finally says aloud.

“I know. I miss her too.” I put my arm on my cousin’s shoulder, hoping to offer comfort.

Narin’s mother, my aunt, passed away just two months after Narin arrived at the dump. Back then, since the family didn’t have a way to contact her, nearly three weeks passed before the news could be delivered from the province.

“Is it literature?” she finally asks. “Is it what you are looking for?”

“I don’t know for certain, but I think it feels like literature,” I reply. She seems pleased as I continue. “I am going to need to write it down. If I come back in the morning with a pencil and paper, do you think you could repeat it again slowly?”

“Yes. But when you return, can I ask a favor?”

“Certainly.”

“Would you mind writing a second copy, one that I can have?”

They are words she knows by heart and yet she wants something in hand—this must surely be literature. I squeeze Narin’s arm. “Thank you.”

“For what?” she asks.

“For helping me find my first piece of literature. Now, there is just one more problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I hope Sopeap agrees.”

*****

As my teacher arrives, she stumbles, and I presume she has been drinking, but I smell no alcohol.

“Did you have a successful trip?” I ask.

“It was more trying than I expected. But I am here and on time, so let’s get started.”

For the first hour, Sopeap bluntly details the use of grammar. As she promised, it is clear and straightforward, usage that I grasp from speaking the language. While I prod her along, wanting to move the discussion forward, she purposely drags on as if to spite me.

“Do you have any questions?” she finally asks. “If not, we can end.” She hesitates, waits, watches—and I consider that she may be toying with me.

“I did my homework,” I tell her.

“I thought you might have,” she answers. “Are you going to show me or just sit there grinning like a monkey?”

I take out two copies of Narin’s poem and pass one to her.

“Before we read it,” Sopeap says, “tell me its history.”

I narrate Narin’s circumstance, her life in the province, the passing of her mother. I don’t know how much information Sopeap is asking for and so, after I ramble for longer than I should, I apologize and then wait for instructions.

“Read it and I’ll follow along,” she says.

While I want to be methodical and not mispronounce any of the words, I do my best to deliver them with the verse’s natural rhythm—to read it as Narin shared it. The sounds flow smoothly from my lips, and when I finish, Sopeap is quiet, even pensive.

“Did you know,” she says, without revealing whether she likes it or not, “that poetry predates literacy?”

“What does that mean?”

“People recited poems before they could even read or write. They would repeat them aloud, hand them down orally in songs, legends, and stories—and this poem you have read was apparently passed along in the very same manner. You, Sang Ly, are likely the first person to ever write it down.”

I consider the notion, touch my fingers to the page, and let them follow my scribbles, which now feel somehow special. Sopeap has not yet finished her inspection. As she reads it again, I watch the whisper of her lips, the moving of her eyes, and the rhythmic nodding of her head. Her fingers curl around the pages, embracing them, and I promise to read more diligently and with more passion from this moment forward.

“Do you see it?” she asks.

“See what?”

“Look at the words, their order. Can you see the pattern in their structure? The last stanza repeats the subject order, but in reverse.”

I hadn’t noticed. I feel like a blind baboon.

She continues, “And this was recited at bedtime, clearly.”

“Yes, that’s what Narin said.”

“Notice the last line; it caught my eye. It says ‘Dance across nature’s sky.’ Do you see why?”

I stare at the poem, read the lines again. “No, I don’t.”

“Every stanza lists a color. See them? Red, then orange, then golden, which I presume is yellow, and they continue. Do you see each color?”

“Yes.” Now that she’s pointed them out.

“The poem is painting the colors of the rainbow,” she says, “colors that
dance across a sky.
Fascinating.”

Reading is too new. She couldn’t possibly have expected me to notice such things, and yet I feel as though I’ve failed my first test—and perhaps my last.

“Now, I have a question for you, Sang Ly. Why would you call this literature?” In but a moment, her tone firms and a sudden hardness seeps through.

“You just finished saying, there are words and patterns that repeat—”

She interrupts, even more demanding and stern. “Words and patterns are meaningless.”

“But you’re the one who noticed them. You’re the teacher and you said—”

“Stop!” she demands, cutting me off midsentence. “We aren’t talking about the teacher; I am asking
you.
Besides, if you ask half a dozen teachers about literature, they will give you twice the number of answers. Now, listen to my question, Sang Ly. WHY IS THIS LITERATURE TO YOU? WHY SHOULD I CARE?”

She raises her voice at me and I don’t understand why. I don’t know what she expects of me. While my nature is to fight back, today I’m not ready for her sudden blows—as if she’s found a hole in my armor and has forced her angry self inside.

“It’s just a poem. Why are you mad at me?” I ask, sounding now like a hurt child.

I must look pitiful because she turns away, slaps her hands to her side, and stomps her foot in frustration against the bamboo slats of my floor. She mumbles, but it’s to herself and I can’t tell what she is saying. I wipe at my face and swallow hard, attempting to gather my composure as I wait for her to turn around and face me. She does.

She speaks now with words so soft and low it doesn’t seem possible they come from the same woman. “I am not angry with you. I am frustrated at a lost and tired old woman who is just too weary. Now, do you have an answer for me?”

If I pretend an understanding with her staring straight into my heart, she will know I’m a fraud. I answer truthfully and remove all doubt. “I don’t know what literature is. I don’t understand it. Is that the answer you were hoping to hear? If so, you can go now.”

“That is the problem today that vexes me,” she explains. “As I once told but a small handful of my students, so long ago—
you do know, child.
You just don’t realize it yet.”

Sopeap turns the battered watch on her wrist around so that she can see the time. “I had no intention of continuing our classes,” she says, “but I believe I have changed my mind.”

“You have?”

“Over the next several days,” she continues, “I will do my best to remember a few of the literature lessons that I once taught at the university. But we will need to go through them quickly.”

“Okay, but why quickly?”

Sopeap hesitates. Her eyes fidget as her focus darts around to everything in the room but me.

“I wasn’t going to . . . I mean . . . I wasn’t prepared to say anything yet,” she replies cautiously, “but I’m making plans to leave Stung Meanchey.”

Chapter Ten