The Rent Collector (6 page)

And he is right, but I have no choice. It is a remedy practiced by my mother and father, and by their mother and father, and I’m certain by a line of waiting parent ancestors that stretches past heaven. It is as old as Cambodia itself. It is called
Koah Kchol,
a name that means
to scrape air.

It starts with oil distilled from leaves of the
Mentha arvensis,
a menthol plant that grows wild in the jungle. Once the oil is rubbed thoroughly onto the skin and it’s had a chance to soak in, a coin or other piece of round metal, held sideways, is used to scrape the recipient’s back, chest, and arms, using long parallel strokes.

The skin is scraped to bring toxic air to the body’s surface and restore the natural balance of hot and cold, keeping these universal elements in harmony. As a side effect, it also causes blood vessels just beneath the surface to rupture, resulting in maroon, zebra-like lines that remain for two or three days before they fade.

Once, several weeks before, after one of Nisay’s treatments, an American doctor arrived at Stung Meanchey on behalf of Charity House, a Christian service organization that had come to offer free medical assistance for the day to children at the dump. Naturally, I took advantage, hoping it would finally be a time for answers. When the doctor noticed Nisay’s lines, through a translator, he called my treatment
superstitious nonsense
and
a
complete waste of energy.
He said I should instead trust modern medicine and administer a course of antibiotics, which he then provided.

I will try anything to help my child and so I followed his instructions implicitly. However, ten days later, when the medicine ran out, Nisay’s symptoms returned. I would like to find that doctor and explain to him the difference between superstition and intuition, and to let him know that his solution proved to be
nonsense
and
a
complete waste of energy.
He didn’t leave a forwarding address.

And so I continue to search for answers, and as I scrape my son’s skin today, I console with words meant to soften his cries—words that I suppose are meant for me. “Child, we only want you to get well. Understand that while it’s painful, it’s for your own good. If we do nothing, your illness will worsen. I promise that in spite of your complaints, one day you will thank me. Be brave, my little son, and when you are a father and you pour oil into your own hands and your own sick child begins to sob, remember.”

*****

We don’t have running water—unless you count my pouring it out of a cup. Instead, we purchase our water from a vendor several huts to the west, who in turn buys rights from the government (read
bribe
) for the flow of water that comes from one of several pipes that feed into the dump. About once a week, I carry water to our home in two large jugs that hang from a stick draped across my shoulders. It’s an arduous, three-trip effort that, by necessity, requires I stare down at the path as I walk so as to not lose balance, trip, and spill my precious load.

This morning I left Nisay with Teva Mao, my neighbor two houses down the hill, and when I am finished, I will watch her two youngest children while she repeats the effort for her own home.

On my second trip back, I almost run over Sopeap, who has squatted squarely in the middle of the trail to wait. As I jolt to a stop, some of my water sloshes out. If she notices that I’m annoyed, it doesn’t show. She sets down her bag alongside her drooping socks so that she can gesture with her hands as she speaks. “Friday turned out to be a difficult day,” she announces.

I want to blurt out, “
Oh, really?
” I don’t.

“I’m sorry,” I offer instead. “You didn’t look well.” What I mean is that she acted like a drunken pig, but I hold my tongue.

“Are you ready?” she asks.

I turn. “For what?”

“Are we going to hold lessons? Don’t you still want to learn how to read?”

“I . . . uh . . . yes . . . I suppose, but I have Nisay . . . and then I need to watch Teva’s children while she gets—”

She interrupts. “I can make arrangements. Do you trust Teva Mao to watch Nisay?”

“I do . . . yes . . . certainly.”

“I will speak with her. Carry back your water and I will meet you at your house.”

I don’t know what to say but finally mutter, “Okay,” and then I add, “Ki will be surprised. He doesn’t think you—” I pause midsentence, regretting that my excitement has only highlighted my stupidity. I hope that she doesn’t notice, but I feel a guilty blush creep across my face as she turns.

“He doesn’t think I can
read?
”

“Well, um, he wasn’t sure. He thought you could be . . . pretending.”

I wonder if she’ll be angry, but instead the notion brings her obvious pleasure. “Sang Ly,” she answers, “I have been called many names in my life. Some call me
Sopeap Sin.
Here at Stung Meanchey many call me the
Rent Collector.
Still others simply call me
Cow.
But my most cherished title, the one I most revere, was a long time ago in the Department of Literature at the Royal University of Phnom Penh. There, for nine wonderful years, the most cherished of my life, my students called me
Teacher.
”

Chapter Six

I already know the basic sounds of the Khmer (Cambodian) alphabet. I mean, other than being illiterate, I do
speak
the language. I’ve been told (mostly by those who don’t read or write either) that, with the speaking part out of the way, learning to match sounds to letters will be easy.
Surprise!

Perhaps ever more naively, I expect Sopeap to be understanding.

“Sang Ly, pay attention! I won’t repeat myself.”

I can’t help but admire the glossy pencil I hold in my hand, one taken from the stack she has extracted from her oversized bag. I touch its tip to the crisp, unused sheet of starched paper that lies on the varnished board in my lap—all supplies she has brought. I’m ready to take notes on every word—but of course, I can’t yet write. Still, even pretending feels sensational.

I look up with such eager anticipation that she softens.

“Please, put down the pencil, Sang Ly, and listen.”

While I am crouched on the floor, Sopeap stands beside a small portable easel. I’m glad she has brought it with her because it makes our tiny home feel like a real school. The easel lets her write with a piece of chalk and then she wipes it away with ease. What a wondrous invention!

She continues. “We’ve already talked about consonants and vowels. Now, Khmer consonants are divided into two series. The sound each vowel makes will depend on the series to which the consonants belong. I know it seems complicated, but it’s not. It’s these sounds that we’re going to learn first. Do you understand?”

I nod
yes,
not understanding.

“Good. Now, go ahead and pick up your pencil.”

For the better part of the afternoon, Sopeap repeats a letter, writes it on the board, then announces the sound the letter makes. I copy it down exactly as she has written it. To help me remember the sounds, she has agreed to let me draw a small picture beside each letter. If the letter makes the
b
sound, for example, I will draw a picture of a bird beside it, since both the word and the letter sound the same.

“For your homework assignment,” Sopeap announces, “three days from today, I want you to have memorized all the letters we have written—both names and sounds. Can you do it?”

“That quick?”

“Yes. Can you do it?”

“I will try.”

“Trying is not good enough. Will you
do
it?”

It has become a familiar question. “Yes. I will do it.”

It appears she is satisfied because her head nods with mine. “That is good. Now, keep writing the letters we have learned.”

I am on my fourth page when Ki pulls back the tarp and enters the room. We are both surprised.

“What are you doing home?” I ask, perhaps sounding as though he isn’t welcome. “I thought you took your lunch with you today.”

“Lunch? Sang Ly, I’m home for dinner.”

“But it’s not . . .”

Sopeap gathers her supplies. “It has been nearly six hours, Sang Ly,” she says. “You need to go and pick up your son, and I desperately need a drink.”

*****

“What is she like?” Lucky Fat asks, eyes as round as his cheeks. No one, including the boy, can picture Sopeap Sin actually teaching.

“She is stern, but she is also smart. I mean, who would have guessed?”

“Does she hit you?”

I can’t help but giggle. “Hit me? No, of course not—at least not yet.”

It’s his next question that catches me off guard. He glances down first at his feet, shuffles them in the garbage. “Sang Ly, after you learn . . . once you can read and write on your own . . . would it be all right . . . ”

“What is it? Just ask.”

“Could you teach me how to write my name?”

I put down my sack and picture myself standing in front of a chalkboard, the same as Sopeap, showing Lucky how to carefully draw each perfect line. I take a deep breath, not caring that the air is particularly smoky, and then I try to remember if I’ve ever been asked a more satisfying question. I can’t think of what it might have been.

It is several moments before Lucky interrupts. “Are you okay?” he finally asks.

I turn my head, not wanting him to see my eyes, certain that I look completely ridiculous. I clear my throat, pretending to cough, wanting to be sure my voice won’t crack when I answer. “Why, yes,” I say to Lucky. “It will be my pleasure.”

*****

“Are you listening to anything I’m saying?” Ki asks as I scrub out the pots from dinner.

“I’m sorry. I was thinking about Sopeap.”

“The Cow?”

“Don’t call her that.”

“You are right. She’s more of a bull.”

“Ki, please.”

“What should I call her,
Princess?
Perhaps
Her Majesty?
”

“How about
Teacher?
”

“If she is such a wonder teacher, why is she living at the dump? Why isn’t she at a school or a university?”

It’s a valid question and when I don’t answer, Ki fills in the blank for me. “I’ll tell you with two simple words—
rice wine.
The woman is a hapless drunk.”

“Perhaps,” I say. “She does drink a lot, but there’s something more.”

“And what’s that?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”

Chapter Seven

In Cambodia, when parents get old, they move in with their children, who offer shelter, food, and happy grandchildren. It’s the perfect retirement plan—as long as your children don’t live at the city’s municipal dump.

Instead of being angry, Lena, my mother, relishes her situation. She showed up at Stung Meanchey two months after we’d left the province. She stayed with us just one night and by the next afternoon had arranged to live with her distant cousin, Dara Neak, about a ten-minute walk across the dump. Although I’m supposed to be the one helping Mother, she instead watches Nisay on the days she doesn’t pick. Her biggest fault—perplexing to this day—is that Mother
loves
to pick trash.

“It’s an adventure,” she says. “You never know what surprises you’ll find.”

I remind her that
surprises
usually mean human body parts.

“True, but the people who work here are nice,” she adds, “except perhaps Sida Son, whose shelters are just pitiful. The poor, angry woman is so jealous.”

I forgot to mention, Mother builds some of the best day shelters Stung Meanchey has ever seen.

*****

Sopeap was tolerable during our first lesson, but today she is madder than a constipated water buffalo. Some drunks are embarrassing, constantly making fools of themselves. Other drunks are friendly, bowing to everyone they meet. Sopeap is pure vinegar, and though she isn’t too drunk to teach, she’s too drunk and angry to show any patience.