The Rent Collector (19 page)

To wash clothes at Stung Meanchey, I stoop down over a large blue bucket that I keep behind our house and I scrub and scour our clothes against each other until they are clean—well, as clean as they will ever be at Stung Meanchey. While some women at the dump use a washboard, a few rub their clothes against a flat rock. They say it reminds them of home, doing laundry by the river in the province.

Our clothes are typical Western styles—sweats, T-shirts, shorts—many with popular name-brand logos. We don’t wear American clothes to be stylish; we wear them because they are cheap. All of the major companies have factories in Cambodia, and we can buy blemished seconds for just pennies.

Ki comes around the house to where I work to bring me Nisay’s towel. It suddenly needs washing. Before he can say anything, I ask him a question that’s been rattling in my head.

“Sopeap said that in books, stories foretell other meanings—she called them metaphors.”

“Metaphors? What do you mean?”

“According to Sopeap, it’s using a word or phrase to explain a different meaning. It would be like when I tell you Stung Meanchey is a prison. It’s not really a prison, and there aren’t any guards, but it feels like there could be.”

Ki glances down at the dirty towel he still holds in his hand, and I can tell he’s thinking it was a mistake to come out back at this particular moment. He can’t help but voice the obvious.

“So?”

“Well, I have been back here doing laundry by myself for nearly an hour—washing mostly yours and Nisay’s clothes—and I’ve finally figured out its true meaning.”

“A metaphor for laundry?”

“Yes.”

“The fancy words you’ve been reading are mixing up your brain. You do laundry because
our clothes are dirty.
”

“See,” I explain, “I think it means that since we both wear clothes, you should help me do the wash—I think that’s the metaphor that was speaking to me.”

“Fine,” Ki says. “Then I think it means I should take off your clothes right now to wash them.”

He steps behind me and tugs at my shirt—only he hasn’t washed up yet from his day of work and the stench of garbage lingers.

I protest. “I think it means that you smell too bad for that right now. And besides, it’s still light and Nisay is up.”

“Okay, then,” he says. “That means that I’d better take a bath so I’ll be clean
later
when Nisay is not up.”

I’m trying to remember exactly when I lost control of this conversation. “Well, that means if you’re going to bathe now, this early, then you’d better give your dirty son a bath along with you.”

“That means—you have a deal!”

Ki leaves with a grin, and I hear him tell Nisay that it’s time to step outside for a good scrubbing because Mommy and Daddy have something to do later. Then I reflect a little longer on who is really getting the better end of the bargain.

Metaphors in literature can be a very confusing thing.

*****

Grandfather had a saying:
If you know a lot, know enough to make people respect you. If you are stupid, be stupid enough so they can pity you.

I wait for the right moment, put on my pity face, and then make a request of my teacher. “I would like you to bring a certain book to read next time.”

She is pleased that I’ve taken some initiative—that is, until she hears which book. “I’d like you to bring Nisay’s book, the one that you—”

“I remember the book,” she interrupts. She isn’t angry but rather faceless, like a book with its cover torn off. “Why that book?” she asks.

“Last time I held it, I couldn’t read the words. Now that I can, I’m curious. It seemed like a beautiful story.”

“It’s a children’s book,” she answers.

“Yes, I understand.”

“It’s not a typical children’s book.”

“Are you trying to say you’d rather I not read it?”

“I’m saying that if you’re going to read it properly, the way that particular book was meant to be read, I insist that you read it with your son sitting in your lap.”

Her passion intrigues me. “I can do that—but I have a condition as well.”

“You’re giving
me
conditions now?”

“Yes, this time I am.”

“And your condition is . . . ?”

“I want you to be there when I read it.”

I have either left her speechless or she has a lot to think about. “Why?” she finally asks.

“You are the teacher. We may need to discuss it afterwards.”

There’s a heartbeat of uncomfortable silence, followed by contemplation, surrender, and a nod of agreement. “I will bring it tonight.”

As Grandfather said: .
 . . stupid enough so they can pity you.

*****

The thought was charming—my young child, Nisay, would sit patiently on his mother’s lap, waiting for each page to turn, listening intently as the story unfolded. Like so many classics, my plot is pure fiction. Instead, Nisay wants to maul the book and then eat it—if he can just get his hands on it. We decide the only way he won’t destroy the thing is for him to sit in Ki’s lap beside me so his father can physically restrain him, if needed, and otherwise force him to listen. It also lets me concentrate on reading.

I wonder when the Model Parent Award will arrive?

With the soul of a teacher, Sopeap stands behind us, observing but saying nothing, and for a split second, I think I catch the corner of her mouth turning upward.

The book’s cover is more alluring than I’d remembered, and as I flip through a few of the pages, just to get a grasp of the task at hand, I recall the striking illustrations of mountains, trees, and oceans.

“Are you going to begin?” Ki asks impatiently.

“Certainly.”

I read the title,
Love Forever,
and then I turn to the first page.

*****

If I were the trees . . .

I would turn my leaves to gold and scatter them toward the sky so they would circle about your head and fall in piles at your feet . . .

so you might know wonder.

If I were the mountains . . .

I would crumble down and lift you up so you could see all of my secret places, where the rivers flow and the animals run wild . . .

so you might know freedom.

I’m using inflections in my voice to keep Nisay’s attention. However it’s Ki whom I’ve roped in. He sits wide-eyed as a curious little boy at story time.

If I were the ocean . . .

I would raise you onto my gentle waves and carry you across the seas to swim with the whales and the dolphins in the moonlit waters,

so you might know peace.

If I were the stars . . .

I would sparkle like never before and fall from the sky as gentle rain,

so that you would always look towards heaven and know that you can reach the stars.

If I were the moon . . .

I would scoop you up and sail you through the sky and show you the Earth below in all its wonder and beauty,

so you might know that all the Earth is at your command.

If I were the sun . . .

I would warm and glow like never before and light the sky with orange and pink,

so you would gaze upward and always know the glory of heaven.

But I am me . . .

and since I am the one who loves you, I will wrap you in my arms and kiss you and love you with all of my heart,

and this I will do until . . .

the mountains crumble down . . .

and the oceans dry up . . .

and the stars fall from the sky . . .

and the sun and moon burn out . . .

And that is forever.

It’s a treasure. I turn to thank Sopeap for allowing me to read it, but she is no longer standing by the door watching.

Sopeap is gone.

*****

It’s early when Sopeap calls out. She has stopped by to ask if we can put off meeting for today. She has a touch of the flu and needs to rest. Before she leaves, however, I grab Nisay’s book.

“I don’t think my son listened to a word, but Ki enjoyed it,” I say.

“Nisay will. Just give him time.”

When I try to hand her the book, she waves me away. “Actually,” she says, “I would like your son to have it as a gift.”

I want to tell her
no,
that it’s too important, it means too much to give away so easily—then I remind myself, giving it away probably isn’t easy at all.

“We will treasure it. But may I ask why it means so much to you?”

“Yes. I have also come to share its story.”

We sit on the ground and, once she is comfortable, she begins.

“This book was written by a dear friend. We taught together at the university. We had both studied in the United States years before and had discussed the many children’s stories that are published there every year. We wondered why few such books were written for Cambodian children. My friend was tenacious and passionate and created a book, first crafting the words, then hiring an artist to paint the illustrations. After everything was perfect, I helped her find a small, local publisher.”

“Did it sell?” I ask.

She hesitates, stepping cautiously among banished thoughts.

“We didn’t get a chance,” she says haltingly. “Just weeks after the publisher delivered the first copies, the Khmer Rouge soldiers pushed into the city. The schools and universities were ransacked. Books were stacked in great piles and burned. Those who had written them were tortured, shot, and burned as well. Can you imagine dying for having written something so beautiful?”

“She was murdered?”

“Yes. And the illustrator—and thousands like them. There were so few copies printed in the first place that I presumed all had been lost—until the day I saw it on your floor. I wasn’t sure if life was offering me a second chance or slapping me in the face. Sometimes the two can be confusing.”

“I am so sorry to hear about your friend.”

“Though it’s been many years, I still miss her. However, she was not the reason I was so overcome the day I visited your home.”

“No?”

“Sang Ly, my friend had no children.” A pause, a sigh, a hesitation. “The story was written about me—and my son.”

*****

The tap on the wooden post outside our front door is timid, and when I come out from around back with a pan filled with water to cook rice for dinner, I find my cousin Narin waiting.

“Sang Ly, I am sorry to disturb you.”

I can tell by her trembling tone, the panic in her face, that this isn’t a social call. My own heart quickens. “What is it? Is Ki all right?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not Ki.”

“Who, then?”

She leans up against the house, and so I do likewise. “Do you know Makara Hong?” she asks.

“No.”

“She sells fruit in the city, near the French clinic.”

“Yes. I mean, no. I don’t know her, but I know the fruit stand. Why?”

“We’ve become friends. Makara’s older sister lives in the Dangkor district of Phnom Penh.”

As Narin pauses, I must ask: “Please, what does Makara or her sister have to do with me?”

Narin quickens her pace. “Her sister works as a nurse at the hospital. I went with Makara to meet her, to pick up some money.” Narin shifts her weight uneasily. “We talked, and when she found out that I live at Stung Meanchey, the sister said they were treating a patient there from the dump.”

“Who?”

“She said it was a woman named Sopeap—Sopeap Sin.”

“Treating? For what? What are you saying?”

“Sang Ly, she has something wrong in her chest. Cousin, I’m here to tell you that Sopeap is very ill, perhaps dying.”

I hear her words, but I don’t believe them. “What does that mean? It’s not true. This woman at the hospital is mistaken. Sopeap was here. She just left and she said nothing about . . .” My own words trail as my mind darts back—the vomit, the blood, the stumbling, the bad days—how could I have not seen it?

Narin continues. “She said it’s a tumor in her chest; it’s pushing against her heart.”

“Cancer?”

“I guess.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“Yes, she . . .” Narin hesitates.

“What is it? Please tell me!”

“The time that Sopeap has left is very short.”

Chapter Twenty