The Rent Collector (31 page)

And then, with a suspicious but convincing smile, she returned to her work to plant rice for the benefit of the new society.

*****

“Is the old woman really Sopeap?” Ki asks. “Is it possible that she actually found an elephant in the jungle?”

“I don’t know,” I say, frustrated that I’m not able to put my finger on what is so peculiar and bothering about this story. I page back through the writing to confirm a suspicion.

“The woman doesn’t have a name,” I say. “Doesn’t that seem odd?”

Lucky Fat shrugs. “You’re the teacher. Is it?”

My brain drops the pieces together one by one.
In stories, everything means something.

“And wouldn’t she be too old to be Sopeap?” I add. “The Khmer revolution occurred in the mid-seventies, so she would have been . . . what? . . . in her mid-thirties at best.”

Then I remember the phrase that Sopeap used to describe herself in her letter, and the picture comes together.

“Sopeap isn’t the old woman!” I announce, certain of my realization.

“She isn’t?”

“No, Sopeap is the elephant.”

“The elephant?”

“Yes, and in her story the elephant died almost in sight. Wounded and hidden, but so close, almost anyone could find her—if they just knew where to look.”

“What are you saying?”

“I think I know where she might be!”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

We stand near the street and wave for a moto. As the driver slows, Ki is still asking questions.

“I’m confused. Why did she leave home again in the first place? I mean, she’s lived at Stung Meanchey for years.”

“It wouldn’t matter if it were a hundred years,” I say. “The dump was never her home—no matter how hard she tried to make it so.”

“But you don’t know exactly where she is?”

“No, not exactly.”

“And the book in your bag is going to help you to know?”

“Sort of. It’s going to be important once we get there.”

“If you don’t know where she is, how do we know where
there
is? I mean, how will you actually find her?”

My answer is simple. “I know a momma elephant who is going to lead the way.”

*****

The plush area of the Daun Penh district of Phnom Penh, while older, offers stately homes—many rebuilt and restored to the grandeur of their days prior to the revolution, complete with gardens, fountains, and statues. They are estates occupied by the nation’s wealthy and important. It’s a beautiful and fitting place. We approach the neighborhood, which is guarded by a towering stone wall with two matching iron gates. Thankfully, we arrive by car, courtesy of Rathana and her family.

There is not just one guard shack, but two—one for the entrance and a separate one for anyone leaving. The heavy gates serve to protect the place from outsiders who try to enter. When our car slows, the cars behind us also slow and then stop. A uniformed guard dutifully steps to our window.

From the passenger seat, I turn to Grandma Sin, who is seated behind me in the back. “Is this the place?” I ask.

She lifts up her head, gazes at the homes beyond the gate, and then raises her scrawny and bent fingers toward the second home on the right. Similar to those that surround it, the structure is distinguished and striking. From outside the gate, it looks to be three stories high, with a tiered roof and several open verandas that snake around its levels. I can see grand marble pillars that connect with stone railings, retaining plants, and flowers that both hide and invite.

The guard waits for the driver to speak, and he, in turn, points to me. The guard stoops to see inside, as if I may be some visiting dignitary or royal visitor. I lean toward the window to see his face. He says nothing, but rather raises his bushy eyebrows, as if it were a universal sign that means, “Well, then, who are you and who are you here to see?”

“We are here to speak with the owner of that home,” I tell the man, pointing to the home that Grandma Sin has identified.

“What is your business?” he asks. He reminds me of a soldier, and I wonder about the memories that must have flooded Sopeap’s head on her return. And then there’s the question: What if I’m wrong? Worse, what if I’m right, but the man won’t let us pass? What do I say to him that will make any sense? And then I tell a small lie.

“The owner is expecting us. Please call and tell him that we are here to see the old woman.”

“What old woman?” the guard asks.

“Just call him. He will know.”

Ki sits in the back, next to Grandma Sin. He directs his concern forward. “What if the homeowner doesn’t know what you’re talking about?”

“He’ll know.”

“How?”

“He’ll know because she is here.”

The guard hesitates, then relents, picks up a phone receiver, and pushes a button. I can only hear his end of the conversation.

“Mr. Rangsey? This is Chimm. I have a group of people here asking for you. They say they are here to see the old woman.”

There is a long pause. He glances toward me, and then up again to the house.

“Yes, sir,” he replies. “I understand. I will tell them.”

He hangs up the phone and bends over to the car window. “He will come down to meet you. Please pull through the gate and park your cars just ahead in the empty spaces on the right.”

Storm clouds thicken on the horizon, and I wonder if they portend a sign. The man’s words imply that Sopeap
is
here, don’t they? Why else would he let us in and agree to come down? But what if, instead, he’s greeting us because we are here too late?

We are out of the car for what feels like a lifetime before the front door opens and a well-dressed man of about forty steps out of the house. Since I am in front, and the most eager, he presumes I am in charge and extends his hand to me.

“Hello. My name is Heng Rangsey.”

“And I am Sang Ly.”

“You are here to see the old woman?”

“Yes, we are.”

“She told me that she had no one. That she was all alone.”

“She was mistaken. It just took a while to find her,” I explain.

“Then she was telling the truth, that she once lived in this house before the revolution?”

“Yes.”

“I presumed so.”

“May we see her?”

“Certainly, but I need to warn you. She is not doing well. She has hardly eaten since she arrived, and she has difficulty speaking—but she has been made comfortable. I’ve had my housekeeper watching after her.”

He motions to the door and we enter. As we do, I can’t help but ask, “Did you know her? I mean, before she came?”

“No. I first met her several weeks ago, after she discovered her condition. She seemed fine, and when she explained that she needed to die here, in this particular home, I was understandably reluctant. I told her
no.
”

“But she offered you money?”

“Yes, she did. But I refused. I don’t need her money. That is not what changed my mind.”

“What did, then?”

“She is a teacher. My father was also a teacher, only he wasn’t so lucky.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was killed by the Khmer Rouge at the beginning of the takeover, as was my older brother. Now please, go up the stairs, across the veranda, and out to the garden roof.”

And then he pauses and swallows hard. “When she saw that we had rebuilt the garden roof, she cried like a child. Quite frankly, I haven’t been able to get her to rest inside.”

I walk up the steps, across an open balcony lined with beautiful plants, then step out into a magnificent garden, only partially blocked by a half roof.

Indeed, I am not prepared for what I see.

Her eyes are closed. Her leathery skin—from spending so much time in the sun of Stung Meanchey—is furrowed and grey. She is heaving slow, deep breaths.

I don’t want to wake her, but as I pull a chair close, she opens her eyes, looks up, and seems momentarily confused as to where she might be. She coughs, reaches for a blanket that covers only half her legs, then whispers—but so softly I can’t understand what she says. I lean close so that she can repeat it.

“You just won’t leave me alone, will you?” she says.

“No. I won’t,” I tell her. “Not considering that you got it so wrong.”

Her pinched features harden with a question of confusion. “Don’t worry,” I say, “I am here to show you. Now, I have some people I need you to meet.”

I motion to Grandma Sin, who is waiting to step close. She shuffles beside Sopeap’s bed and then instinctively, like any good mother would, reaches over without saying a word and clasps Sopeap’s hands. I am about to explain to Sopeap who the old woman is, but the tears in her eyes tell me that she already knows.
Of course, the packages.
Sopeap would have watched their delivery from afar.

With the old mother close, Sopeap taps her bony finger to her own heart.

“Three holes,” she whispers.

Grandma Sin’s scratchy voice answers, and I realize it is the first time I have heard her speak. “ . . . not your fault. My daughter loved you.”

I step back and try to hold my tears, watching two momma elephants nuzzle and reminisce. Then when Grandma Sin shuffles aside, I motion to Rathana, and she moves beside the bed.

“Auntie,” she whispers, a common Cambodian title for someone revered, related or not. “I am Rathana, Sopeap’s sister. We have not met, but you have made such a difference in our family.” She motions to her husband and he steps to her side.

“Auntie, I am Ponleak, Rathana’s husband. I am a chemical engineer. I work for an oil company here in Phnom Penh. My parents were able to help me with school because of your kindness and generosity. I will be forever grateful.” He reverently bows and then waves forward a teenage boy and a younger girl. “These are two of my children. I have another daughter who is married and living in Seim Reap. We have come here today to honor you.”

The children make way for their oldest uncle, a man I met just this morning. He motions for his family to gather close to Sopeap’s bed.

“Auntie, my name is Kiri. This is my family. My children have also been able to get a good education. I have a son who is not here. He works in farming. He has an advanced degree in agriculture. But we are most proud of the woman he married—and we even have a grandson.” A young mother, whose name I don’t remember, holds up a child of two or three. “I wish we’d have had more time to get to know you better,” she says, “but regardless, our family will be forever blessed because of your kindness.”

Two more families take turns gathering children around
Auntie,
expressing thanks and paying tribute. She is too weak to respond, but it doesn’t matter. With the room still full, I work my way around to where I can lean in close, so that I’m certain she can hear me.

“That is your lesson,” I tell her, “and there is no other that is more important.”

Once everyone has finished and final good-byes have been said, the families file quietly and reverently away, leaving me alone to sit by her side and hold her hand as she continues to heave heavy breaths.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

As the clouds close in, an evening rain begins to fall. The drops are large, like elephant tears, and as they smack the floor, they break into tiny beads that dance and play across the tiles. The owner of the home, Mr. Rangsey, comes out from inside and together we reach for the corners of Sopeap’s bed, ready to pull it in from the edge of the terrace and out of the rain. With all the strength she can muster, she raises her hand to ask that we leave her be. And so Mr. Rangsey excuses himself while I sit with Sopeap and welcome the warm evening shower.

Rain in the dump makes water filthy. Rain in the garden cleanses.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

The blanket has fallen off, but Sopeap doesn’t seem to care. It is only then I notice that one of her brown socks—the baggy, ordinary socks I once criticized—has slipped off of her foot. Her ankles are swollen, but that is not what catches my attention. It is the scars that crisscross her feet, old wounds common to those who gather trash too close to the dump’s nighttime fires.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

If Sopeap is crying, I cannot tell, as the cleansing droplets now run down every furrow of her face. I know that she is dying and that I should run and get the owner or the housekeeper and have them call a doctor. But if I do, they will rush her from the rooftop garden beneath her rescuing rain, and away from her home rebuilt from ashes.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

To ease her mind and offer comfort, I reach for the story she called her favorite. It is from the author named Hans Andersen. I am not familiar with him, but I plan to change that with a bit more time and Sopeap’s gift of books.

I hold her twisted fingers lightly with one hand and turn the book’s pages with the other. The pages are getting wet, but it doesn’t matter.