The Rent Collector (23 page)

The businessman, standing beside the driver, watches me approach. Ki Lim steps down off the bus first with Nisay, but before I can follow, the businessman stops me. Everything about the man is meticulous, including the quality of his clothes, and I can’t help but wonder why someone of stature would even ride this bus.

“Thank you,” he says as he reaches out and clasps my hand. When he does, I feel him pass along money.

“No, please, I can’t accept this,” I say. “I was just trying to calm down my son.”

“I insist you take it. I had decided, even before the journey began, that it was going to be a miserable trip—and, well, you proved me wrong. Trust me when I tell you, you were better than book-on-tape.”

He is obviously used to getting his way, and I realize any protest will be in vain. I push his gift into my pocket and bow. Besides, I am flattered. An important businessman has just politely thanked
me
—Sang Ly, a scavenger from Stung Meanchey. I bow again as graciously as I can, all the while suppressing a spontaneous grin. I step off the bus.

Ki Lim, Nisay, and I all stand together at the side of the road as the bus drives away and complete strangers wave their good-byes.

“What did he say?” Ki finally asks.

I pull out the folded money and look at the amount. It’s enough to cover all of our fares and then some. “He said I’m better than
buk-on-tape,
” I tell him.

Ki wrinkles up his nose. “Who is
buk-on-tape?
”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

It takes a little more than an hour to hike from the road to the bank of the river where the boats stop. We are tired, hot, and hungry, so a ride on the water will be welcome. With some of the businessman’s money, we buy a dinner of rice, pork, and dragon fruit. We should eat it more slowly, but we don’t. After we finish, I rest with Nisay in the shade while Ki arranges with one of the boats to take us down the river to the village.

Back at the bus station, we borrowed a phone and called my Uncle Keo to let him know we would be coming. It apparently paid off, as we are greeted by waves and shouts from the path along the river as we near our village. It is two distant nephews who have been assigned as a welcoming party. After the boat drops us off on the bank, the boys volunteer to each carry a suitcase. We don’t complain.

The villages along the Mekong River (or almost any river in Cambodia) are all laid out the same. Homes are built to hug the riverbank and can dot the water’s edge for miles. Behind the homes, where the flooding river deposits its annual mud and silt, lie the partitioned fields of rice that have provided sustenance, livelihood, and hope to countless generations. Beyond the fields of groomed rice lies the jungle.

Uncle Keo’s home is a short walk. For three years, Uncle has worked for the provincial government, though I’m not certain in what capacity. Every time we ask, we get a different answer. Even Auntie can’t say for sure. Either his job is very shady or it’s very uncertain, as he keeps changing responsibilities. Regardless, the position comes with benefits. Two and a half years ago, he received a load of wood to build a new home across from his old one. A little more than a year later, he became one of the first in the village to get a phone.

As we arrive, Aunt and Uncle greet us warmly. “It’s so nice to have you back. How is my little monkey?” Auntie asks. She’s looking at me, but she must be talking about Nisay, as I haven’t been called
little monkey
in twenty-five years.

“He’s not doing well,” I say. “That’s why we came: to see the Healer.”

Her quizzical look answers my monkey question and we both laugh. She waves us to follow her up the ladder and inside.

Auntie prepares some fruit while Uncle catches up. “How is your mother?” he asks.

“Stubborn,” I say, not trying to be funny but getting a chuckle in response.

We chitchat—rather, gossip—about the province, the dump, and the difficult life living in either place. He tells us that Munny Sap, a dozen houses up the road, was bitten by a pit viper in the middle of the night and died three days later. I tell him that Prak Sim was run over by a garbage truck and died instantly. I am about to explain that my friend Sopeap Sin, an ornery and wonderful woman who has taught me to read, has something constricting her arteries, and I plead to heaven that she’ll still be alive when I get back—but I stop myself.

During the conversation, Uncle mentions that after our call, he tried to contact the Healer to let him know we’d be coming, but learned he’ll be up river for at least another two days. My heart sighs. He must sense we are tired, so, as the conversation wanes, he tells us we will be staying in his old home to the west but that his mother-in-law has moved in recently so it’s a space we’ll need to share. When I assure him that it won’t be a problem, he restrains a grin. I’m not clear if it’s a warning to us or payback toward his mother-in-law.

The old home’s stilts are not quite as high as his new home’s, portending to the heavier flooding as of late, and I offer gratitude that it’s not the rainy season. Once the river’s waters rise, the only way to get to any of the homes along it will be by boat. When we enter behind Uncle, an old, pearl-haired woman grunts; it’s apparent that she’s none too pleased to welcome invaders. I don’t remember her from my childhood, and I’m sure I should, but then Uncle explains she’s been living in Stung Treng with a sister-in-law. However,
circumstance
(a term on which he doesn’t expound) has made it necessary for her to relocate to the province. The way he now emphasizes the word
relocate
makes the woman sound as though she were a convict, and I soon understand why.

Her things are spread out, almost too neatly, across both rooms, though notably concentrated in the smaller area where we’ll stay.

“Nana,” Uncle says, taking a scolding tone, “I told you, we’re having company for a few days.”

She doesn’t reply.

“I call it
magic hearing,
” he says, talking to us as if she weren’t there. “It works on the oddest occasions, such as when it’s time for dinner. Then, when work needs to be done, it fades away . . . 
magically.
”

I think I see the old woman scowl.

As Uncle gathers her things and tosses them into the adjoining room to make space, I attempt to make peace. “I’m sorry. We won’t be here long. We’re just here to take my son to the Healer.”

If she understands, she doesn’t let it show.

“Make yourself at home,” Uncle says with enough cunning in his voice I can’t help but think he’s hiding something. He’s halfway down the ladder when I hear him call out, “Goodnight, Nana.” Then I hear him laugh.

Ki, who has hardly said a word, glances at the woman now fussing with the pile Uncle has created on the floor. He decides to retreat as well. “I’m taking Nisay down to the river for a quick bath. You get things situated here.”

I’m not sure why
he’s
leaving. He’s the one with a knife. Then again, Ki bathing Nisay is an offer that’s hard to turn down.

I’m alone with the woman, who still hasn’t uttered a decipherable word—and then I take out Sopeap’s book. Her eyes brighten; the corners of her mouth reverse position; her new grunting echoes glee rather than disdain.
That’s it,
I decide.
Who doesn’t like a story?
Tomorrow I’ll read the tiger story again so that Ki can hear the ending. The old woman can listen and it will be just like our ride in on the bus.

I will read her literature, she will understand that we mean her no harm, and all can be right with the world once again.

*****

The air is magnificent and the sun eager as the countryside welcomes us home as old friends. Uncle has arranged with a village farmer to let Ki Lim help plant rice. While he won’t make as much per day as recycling trash at home, at least it’s something.

I cart Nisay down to the river to let him watch the local villagers rise out from the murky flow atop their massive water buffalos as they cross from the opposite bank. If he were feeling well, Nisay would laugh, giggle, and clap. Today he barely opens his eyes. His fever and diarrhea were especially acute last night, and our roommate was none too happy about it. Still no words from the woman, but I listened to enough of her groans and mutters to make me decide that we’ll spend the day outside.

When the water-buffalo parade is over, I wander with my son along the river path, tracing many ancient steps that intertwine into my childhood. I wish Nisay could have known his grandfather, but then again, I could fill a bushel basket with my wishes, and for what? We rest beside the twisted roots of a banyan tree for shade, to eat some of the food Auntie prepared, but we don’t stay long.

“We need to go,” I say. “You know what Grandfather said.
‘We can’t claim heaven as our own if we are just going to sit under it.
’
”

Then I remind myself, he’s also the grandfather who said,
“If you are going to do wrong, at least make sure you don’t get fat from it.”

When I realize we’ve wandered close to the Healer’s home, I decide to drop in and set a formal appointment. I understand that it is not necessary for him, but it is for me. The Healer’s wife greets us, and at first I don’t recognize her—too many years have passed between already distant neighbors. When I explain the reason for my visit, she agrees politely. “Yes, come back in two days. He will see you then,” she says.

I bow my thanks and we leave. “Two more days, Nisay,” I tell my child on our walk home. “Two more days and then you can finally get better.”

*****

As we reach home, smoke wafts from the open windows, though I’m fairly certain—no, I’m positive—it’s not Ki cooking us dinner. Then I see him standing several yards away speaking with Uncle. Nisay sees Ki as well and gurgles something I consider close enough to
Ba
(Daddy) that I pass the child off. Then I climb the stairs to our room.

When I see the source of the smoke, I let out a horrific scream. “NO! STOP!” The crazy old woman is boiling rice on her ceramic stove. Adjacent, and providing the fuel for the stove, is my book of short stories with most of the pages torn out and in flames!

From my shriek of death, the woman must think I’m about to kill her, which I will commence to do shortly, but first I try to pull the burning pages from beneath her stove. It’s too late. I instead snatch what remains of the book from beside her as I contain another battle of my own—fury versus tears. Before a winner is declared, Uncle and Ki rush in, responding to my lament. I want to ask Ki for his knife, but before I can, tears throw a knockout punch. Clutching what’s left of my book to my chest, I slump helplessly to the bamboo floor, whimpering like a distressed child. It is several minutes before the men’s consolation registers.

“She’s just getting so old and ornery,” Uncle says. “She doesn’t think clearly all of the time. She didn’t realize anyone here reads. All she’s ever used old books for is to start fires.”

I don’t buy her innocence, but my only evidence of her malice is the satisfaction that glows from her face. I wipe at my cheeks, draw back my shoulders, and attempt to regain my composure. “The book was for reading to Nisay,” I manage to mutter.

“Perhaps we can find you another?” says Uncle, missing the point of the old woman’s vengeance.

“She should replace it,” I demand.

Uncle glances at the cover, still in my hand, then says, “That may be difficult, unless you can wait until the next time I head to the city. Other than a handful of basic readers used by the teacher at the school, I don’t know of any books in the village.”

I know this to be true—or at least it was when I was growing up in the province. Yet the words still stun. Even at the dump, the filthiest place in Cambodia—perhaps on the entire planet—I can always find something to read.

*****

Even by morning I keep a suspicious and wary eye on the old woman. Auntie must presume I’m planning wicked revenge because she invites me to carry Nisay down to the river with her while she scrubs clothes. Mostly it appears she just wants to talk.

“Your mother mentioned you and Ki are happy, in spite of your financial challenges with Nisay,” she adds.

“Mother? When did you speak to Mother?”

“We talk on occasion.”

“You do?”

Auntie chuckles. “The province is remote, but dear, we do live in the twenty-first century.”

The way she calls me
dear
almost reminds me of Sopeap, and I find it comforting. Auntie continues, “Since we got our phone, she’s been borrowing a few cell minutes every month or two. I’m not sure from whom, but it’s enough that we’ve managed to stay caught up. She’s so proud that you’re learning to read—though a little nervous.”

“Nervous?”

Auntie hesitates. “Don’t say anything.”

“Of course not, but why would she be nervous?”

“That may not be the right word. She’s proud of you and wants to always live close so she can watch her grandchildren grow up.”