The Rent Collector (5 page)

I picked Nisay up from the floor and held him over my arm to calm his cries. Sopeap’s gaze shifted to the child, and for a moment it appeared as though perhaps my arguments were working. Her head bobbed as she watched him, as if memories pulled from her brain were causing it to lose balance.

I continued, “I’ll keep taking him to doctors. I’ll keep searching for answers. I just don’t think anything will change until he has the desire to get better. I can’t rely on Grandfather’s luck any longer. So yes, as naive as it may sound, I believe reading will help Nisay. I want to think that reading will offer him hope.”

In spite of my poorly phrased argument, my plea had at least been heartfelt—and for that I deserved some respect. I received none. The interest I thought I read in Sopeap’s face faded, and instead of showing sympathy, her response was swift and biting.

“If you’re looking for hope,” she said, sarcasm hardening her voice, “you should know that it died at Stung Meanchey.”

She didn’t flinch. I couldn’t tell if she was serious. There was no hint of amusement, no wry grin, and as her eyes stabbed deeply into mine, I realized how much I despised the woman. The longer we sat with our eyes locked in a silent battle, the harder I could feel my teeth grind.

I blinked first. “Perhaps hope did die at Stung Meanchey,” I answered, as I scooted closer to be sure that she wouldn’t miss my point. “Or . . .” I gestured toward her with my finger, while lowering my head, as if a new idea had just arrived. I let the moment hang as I sharpened my remaining words. “. . . it could be that what died at Stung Meanchey was
you!
”

I took a step back. I was furious and expected fury in return.

Instead Sopeap paused—and then she laughed. Not a chuckle, as though I’d said something funny. Nor was it a snicker, as if I’d done something stupid. Instead, it came from deep within her chest, and as it spilled out, it surprised her more than it did me. Her eyes then darted back and forth, as though she were watching a dog chase its tail. As I waited just inside my little three-walled shack with a tarp nailed on the front, I thought I also heard the ancestors laughing.

And then everyone was silent.

Sopeap turned to face me, as if she wanted to be sure there would be no misunderstanding.

“I have conditions,” she announced.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, I have conditions.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t you want to hear what they are first, before you agree so quickly?”

I nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“First, every Friday, without fail, you will bring me a bottle of Bourey rice wine.”

“Okay. I can do that.” Ki Lim was not going to be happy. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Did you not listen?
Conditions
is plural. Two . . .”

To keep the word
Cow
from creeping into my brain, I began to calculate the price of Bourey rice wine in my head. No, Ki Lim was not going to like this at all.

“You will always do your homework,” she said.

“Home work?”

“No, not
home—work.
It is one word,
homework.
Say it again.”

The classes had apparently already begun. “Homework,” I repeated.

“Good. Now, have you ever done homework?”

There was a school in the province where I grew up, but I had attended for only two years as a child before giving up to help Mother in the rice fields. I didn’t remember anything called
homework.

“I have never done homework,” I admitted.

“You will begin now—and you must try your hardest. I can tell you are bright, but it will still be difficult. I will not have you waste my time. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Lastly, you will need some pencils, paper, and something hard to write on. Can you get these things?”

“I believe so.”

“
Believing
is not enough, Sang Ly. If you want to resurrect hope,
doing
is the most important. Can you
do
these things?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

She was about to walk away when I stopped her by asking, “But, Sopeap, when do we start?”

“We will start . . . on Friday!”

Chapter Four

I was right about Ki Lim. He wasn’t happy at all.

“You can’t be serious! We have to buy the drunken hag
Bourey
rice wine? Regular rice wine isn’t good enough? Who does she think she is?”

Before I can answer, he asks a more probing question. “How do you know for sure that she can even read?”

“I watched her eyes the night she was here; she was reading Nisay’s book.”

“You watched her eyes?” he asks.

“Well, yes, and she—” I stop. It is a reasonable question, and in less than a breath, I realize I am not absolutely certain. He may actually be right.

He continues, “Let’s assume, just for a minute, that she
does
read, even a few words. That doesn’t mean she knows enough to teach you—or anyone.”

“Well . . .”

“And how much time will it take? Who will watch Nisay?”

With each question, I grow more concerned. Perhaps I should have given my brain more time when planning my strategy in the dump.

*****

It hasn’t rained for several days and the heat is stifling. Before bed, I pull back our canvas tarp to provide some air. Now, hours later, with the moonlight finally breaking through the haze, it reflects off the hands of our wall clock that reads ten minutes after two. Naturally, since we have no electricity and the clock’s insides have been taken out, its time never changes. Ki found it in the dump several months ago, and I hung it on our wall because I liked the printed flowers that adorn its face. I tell Ki often that it’s right twice a day, and at the moment, if I had to guess, I’d say that it’s pretty close.

In spite of the stench of burning trash, neither my husband nor my son has stirred for hours. I reach over again to touch the three used pencils that lie beside our mat, as if one may have tried to sneak away in the darkness. Like me, they remain prostrate, waiting for morning to come.

Lucky Fat helped me find them, and, to my surprise, Ki sharpened them for me with his knife. They sit on top of their own sleeping mat, several sheets of various and assorted papers. The papers aren’t new. Every sheet has words or markings on the opposite side. No matter—I will still have sufficient space to write my letters. Next to the pencils and paper rests a bottle of premium rice wine—the expensive brand that Sopeap demanded. Ki had protested, but I reminded him that we only had enough money to buy it because Sopeap hadn’t made us pay this month’s rent.

In the stillness of the morning, Ki’s breathing also reminds me that his concerns about the Rent Collector are valid. I don’t know for sure if Sopeap
can
read.

I pretend the clock is ticking softly in the darkness, counting down the hours, the minutes, the seconds. I told Ki I wanted to hang the clock on our wall because I liked its flowered face—but that’s not exactly true. There is more. It helps me to remember that even though something is broken, it can still serve a purpose. Someday, if we ever have the money, I want to take it to a clock maker and have it repaired. It’s silly, I know, because buying a new clock would be less expensive.

Sometimes broken things deserve to be repaired.

My thoughts ramble.
Will I learn to read?
I implore the ancestors to just give me a chance. I’m wrong about a lot of things, but I believe that Sopeap really can read and that she’ll teach me. Like my clock and its telling of time, I hope this will be one of the moments, even if it’s only twice a day, that I’m right.

*****

I rush outside in the early-morning light and scan the hazy horizon, trying to spot Sopeap. The smoke is heavy and it’s difficult to make out silhouettes. After several minutes of study, I am certain that none of the shadows is my new instructor. I carry in more water and scrub the floor again where Nisay slept, to make sure it is spotless should Sopeap decide to sit there while she teaches. I pat the area dry, at least as much as possible, and then return to the path in the front of the house. No teacher.

Our canvas wall is loose on the far end, and, using the rock that Ki keeps by the side of the house, I hammer the nails along the tarp’s top edge until all are tight. Then I hear someone coming and glance across my shoulder.
Never mind.
It is a neighbor who is just passing by.

The massive cistern that holds our water at the side of our house is tipping slightly. I turn and twist the pot until it appears level and stable, and then I get on my knees and scrape up and pack enough dirt around the base to ensure it remains so. I imagine Sopeap will arrive when I least expect and interrupt me, perhaps even compliment me on being such a good worker. She doesn’t.

Inside I organize my papers, sorting them again, this time by shape rather than by how much open space remains on the back of each page where I will write. I pick up one of my pencils and hold it to a paper as if I’m about to write something very important, though I can’t imagine what.

With each accomplished task, my throat tightens, my breathing deepens, my focus shortens, and my hope fades like a morning moon. When Ki arrives at noon to see how my first day of learning is progressing, he finds me sitting alone on our mat, my knees pulled tight to my chest. I am not crying—I refuse. But as he enters, I neither move nor speak, afraid any discussion of the obvious topic will demolish my resolve.

I expect him to say, “I told you so.” He doesn’t, though a heavy sigh handles the job just as admirably.

“Where is Nisay?” he asks instead.

“Mother wanted to work today, so Narin is watching him. Let me fix you something to eat, and then I will go and pick him up.”

I have a cousin, Narin Sok, who also came to the dump from the province. On occasion, when special circumstances arise, we will watch each other’s children. Because I didn’t know what time Sopeap would show up, I left with Nisay before dawn, just after Ki Lim headed out for the day.

Now, after preparing Ki’s rice, I reach for my sandals—and then we both hear a commotion at the front door, near where our curtain is pulled back. We look up at the same time. It is Sopeap Sin and she can hardly stand.

“Where have you been?” Ki asks, before Sopeap enters and before I can say a word. He seems to be forgetting that she is still the Rent Collector, a woman with the power to kick us out of our home at any time.

She ignores his tone, looks past him as if he weren’t there, and instead directs her question to me. “Do you have my rice wine?”

Ki steps sideways to block her view. “You get nothing until you carry out your part of the bargain.”

“Out of my way!” She threatens—at least as threatening as a staggering, drunken woman sounds to a larger, stronger man. She attempts to move around him, but Ki Lim will have none of it.

“Don’t you dare!”

I don’t know if he’s defending me or begrudging her. I assume it’s the former and I step to his side.

“Ki, it’s okay.” I interrupt with words, coupled with a soft touch to his shoulder. “It’s not worth it,” I whisper. “She is still the Rent Collector.”

Then, with Sopeap watching, I reach out and place a twice-polished bottle of Bourey’s finest distilled rice wine into her hands. “You need this worse than we do.”

She is about to stumble away when I stop her.

“Sopeap, you forgot these.” I force her fingers around my three pencils and hold her clasped hand tightly. Then, before she has a chance to see the moisture forming in my eyes, I thank her for coming and retreat behind the safety of our curtain.

Chapter Five

As I pour a spot of menthol oil into my hands, its pungent odor wafts around the room and Nisay immediately begins to wail.

“Oh please, child, I haven’t even touched you yet.”

He doesn’t care and I hear his objection loud and clear. “
True, you haven’t, but you’re sure as certain about to!
”