The Rent Collector (8 page)

Kim Pan plants rice.

Then Kim rides on the wat-er buff-a-lo.

Kim calls to Bora Chan.

The pictures on each page are simple sketches; I don’t care. It’s my concentration on the words that opens up a more colorful and moving visual picture in my head.

Yes, I stumble at first on such words as
buffalo,
but after I’ve read them two or three times, if I falter it’s only because I don’t want to make a mistake and disappoint the teacher. It’s as if my head knows their meaning but my mouth wants to take it extra slow, just to be sure. At times I think I can hear my brain screaming, “
I am reading here, so please, all other body parts, do your best to keep up!
”

“I should have brought harder books,” Sopeap says, as I finish one page and move to the next. I bite my lip and remember what happened last time I was prideful. “I will drop off some harder books tomorrow before I leave.”

“You are leaving?”

“I have an appointment that will keep me away for a few days. I want you to practice reading at least four hours a day until I return.”

“Ki says if I practice much more, my head will explode.”

“Your head will not explode, I assure you. Just work hard, raise your reading level, and next time, we will discuss grammar.”

“Grammar?”

“Yes, the policeman of writing. But don’t worry, there is not much written grammar in our language. Besides, you already understand most of it from speaking. After that, we will finish.”

“But I don’t want our lessons to end.”

“Why not? You are reading sentences. You need to become more proficient, but with practice, it will come.”

“There are more things I want to learn.”

“Things? What things?”

“I want to learn about
literature.
”

“Literature?” Sopeap halts, turns. “What do you know about literature?”

“Only that you said you taught literature at the university.”

“Sang Ly, you’ve just learned how to read. I think it’s a bit early to jump into stories.”

“I don’t,” I plead. “I think it would be the perfect way for me to practice.” I can’t tell if Sopeap is annoyed or flattered that I would even ask.

“Tell me what you think literature is,” she finally questions, shuffling a step back.

“It’s reading, I guess—important reading—from books.”

“Reading, yes, but there’s more . . . well . . . how do I explain?”

Her eyes are perplexed, her mouth open. “To be honest,” she says, “I am tired. I haven’t been feeling well and I just don’t think I will ever have enough energy to teach you literature.”

“But you have enough energy to collect rent—and to drink. That can’t be good for your body.”

Why can’t I just keep my big mouth shut? I regret my words as, for just a second, it looks as though Sopeap will berate me—but she stops.

She doesn’t answer right away, and when she does, she speaks to herself. “It’s not my body I soothe. How do I explain it to the child?”

When she looks up, I shrug. She continues: “Teaching someone to read, Sang Ly, is very mechanical. It is like picking trash—straightforward, simple rules—you just follow the motions instinctively as your brain directs.”

“Okay, I understand that.”

“But literature is unique. To understand literature, you read it with your head, but you interpret it with your heart. The two are forced to work together—and, quite frankly, they often don’t get along.”

“Can’t you teach me with both?”

“That’s what I’m trying to explain to you. My heart wouldn’t be in it. It would be like preparing you a wonderful dessert, meant to be savored and enjoyed, but making it with salt instead of cane sugar. It would leave a terrible taste in your mouth. I have given up on literature, and in those weak moments when I imagine otherwise, rice wine comes to my rescue.”

“You could quit drinking.”

“And you could let a poor woman rest. Besides, you are not ready,” she says flatly.

“Ready? What do you mean?”

“You’re anxious to jump into the river, but you haven’t checked to see if the water is deep enough.”

I don’t bother pretending. “Sopeap, you speak in riddles. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that life at the dump has limitations, but it serves a plate of predictability. Stung Meanchey offers boundaries. There are dangers, but they are understood, accepted, and managed. When we step out of that world, we enter an area of unknown. I’m questioning if you are ready. Everyone loves adventure, Sang Ly, when they know how the story ends. In life, however, our own endings are never as perfect.”

“I’m just talking about literature,” I say.

“And so am I.”

We’re both getting irritated.

“Explain it to me, then,” I say in frustration. “Why is someone like you even here at the dump? Are you hiding from someone?”

“Hiding? Yes, Sang Ly. I’m hiding at Stung Meanchey—beneath the scorching sun, and even when it shuts its dreary eyes, still my shadow mocks.”

“There are times when you speak like my grandfather.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I need to understand . . . won’t you give me a chance?”

“You’re asking me to remember what I’ve spent years trying to forget.”

She shakes her head side to side, stretches her weighted shoulders, and winces, as if a pain is bothering her back—and she keeps glancing toward me, as if wishing will make me go away. When it doesn’t, she closes her eyes.

So I wait.

She is now silent and stony. I imagine she is trying to turn herself into a stone statue, like those at Angkor Wat, simply because she wants to be rid of me, and it’s all I can do to resist the urge to push her over. I poke out my finger to touch her, but her mouth opens first and she begins to speak. “Our next reading lesson will be the last.”

My heart drops, but she continues. “However, I will agree to the following: Work hard while I’m gone. You will need to improve your reading substantially between now and then, and that will take a tremendous amount of study and practice. On that day, bring me an example of literature that we can discuss. Then, we shall see if we are both ready for more lessons.”

“What kind of example?”

“That is your decision.”

She ignores my confusion and instead returns her chalk to the holder below the board, stacks books into her bag, and turns away.

“Wait! I’ll need books, won’t I? Should I go into the city to find them?”

Sopeap pauses long enough to reach out with her wrinkled and blemished fingers to grasp my cheeks, oddly the same as I would do to Grandfather. Only now that I am on the receiving end, I don’t like it.

“You foolish child,” she declares. “You don’t need to go to the city. Even at Stung Meanchey, the dirtiest place in all of Cambodia, we are awash in literature.”

“But where?” I ask.

Hiding behind a chilling stare, the old woman smirks. I wait for her answer. She offers none, but instead twists away.

“That’s it?” I call out.

She shuffles to a stop one final time. “You will know when you find it. Literature should be discovered. I must go now. Good luck, Sang Ly.”

She has forgotten her bottle. “Wait!” I call out. “You didn’t take your rice wine.”

She doesn’t turn around. “Save it for me,” she answers. “I’m certain that I’ll need two next time.”

*****

I am anxious to discuss my assignment with Ki so that he can be on the lookout as he sorts through garbage from the trucks. But when he arrives home, he is distant.

“What is the matter?” I finally ask, after he has eaten his rice and boiled eggs in utter silence. “Are you angry?”

“At what?”

“I don’t know—
me?
You haven’t said two words all through dinner.”

“I’m sorry, I was thinking.”

“About what?”

His hand brushes against his ankle, confirming his knife is there. “I saw them today.”

“Saw who?”

“The gang who robbed me.”

I crouch beside him. “Where? What happened?”

“Nothing happened. They walked through the dump in the middle of the day, as though they were daring somebody to do something. Nobody did. Everyone just turned away and kept working with their backs toward them.”

“Did you find the police?”

Ki laughs aloud. “You think they care? You know they won’t come into the dump—not for us, anyway.”

“How many were there?”

“Half a dozen—all walking together, like a pack of dirty animals.”

“Did they see you?”

“No, they were far enough away. But I saw them. Even through the haze I could tell who they were—especially the tall one.”

I’m concerned at Ki’s methodical tone, his intent gaze. I don’t want him planning anything crazy. “Ki, you need to stay clear of them. Let this be.”

He turns to meet my stare. “They robbed us, Sang Ly. They could have killed me. They took what wasn’t theirs. It’s not right.”

“Ki, I understand, but nothing good can come of this. Promise me you’ll keep your distance.”

Ki lifts his head, offers a noncommittal shrug. “Like the other cowards? Then I’m no better.”

“Those thugs are not worth dying for.”

“You are right—but you are. If protecting my family isn’t a cause worth dying for, then what’s left?”

He taps the weapon’s rigid handle. “Now, if you don’t mind,” he adds, “I need to get some rest.”

*****

Sopeap was wrong. My head really is about to explode. I have been reading aloud for so long from the books she left me that Ki has threatened to stuff garbage into his ears. It’s not that my reading isn’t liked. In fact, it actually settles Nisay down. However, Ki says that too much sugarcane will rot even the strongest teeth. I’m sure he means it as a compliment.

I take a break from the books and thumb through a few of the glossy fashion magazines that I had Ki pull from the trash. I used to muse over the pictures, envy the beautiful women, and wonder about their lives. Now that I can actually read the words, I am amused. The teasers splashed across the covers say it all.

Seduce Your Man in the Kitchen.
I picture our one-room home and giggle.

Eat at Home and Save a Bundle.
I’ll keep that in mind.

Wear Your Best Dress to Work.
Not a good idea at Stung Meanchey.

And my all-time favorite:
Will Eating Starchy Rice Make You Fat?
I glance down at my thin frame. Can they be serious?

I don’t think any of this is the literature that Sopeap had in mind. I’ll keep searching.

*****

Choob khyol
or
cupping
is an ancient remedy that means to
suck the wind.
I don’t know if it will work any better than scraping, but I must try. Mother says that cupping will not only improve Nisay’s circulation and appetite but restore his balance. My plea is that it stops his diarrhea.

We take Nisay to a practitioner in the city, a man who learned the art from his father. We are greeted on the street by his female assistant and escorted down a narrow alley to his treatment room. It is small but clean. The man inside is young, but he carries himself with confidence, as though he’s performed the treatment a million times. He bows his head in greeting as we enter, but then continues to prepare a tray of glass, globe-shaped cups that stand in rows like soldiers. They are translucent, perhaps blown from melted soda bottles, each about the size of a round lime. He lights the end of a small torch, then sets it aside on a stand that keeps it upright.

“We are ready,” he announces. “Take off his little shirt and we will begin.”

He instructs Ki to lay Nisay facedown on a blanket that is spread across a narrow wooden exam table. The instant Ki complies, Nisay begins to fuss and then squeal. Ki holds his feet so he won’t roll over. I pat his legs for comfort.

“Oh, you whiny child,” I protest, knowing that he’s perfectly fine.

I know from experience that though the cups will feel warm to his skin, they won’t be painful. Nisay doesn’t care. He has been to the doctor too many times to believe differently.

The man picks up the torch and his first cup and then pushes the burning end into the round globe. Just when it looks as though the flame might smother and go out, he pulls away the torch and places the open end of the cup’s rim directly onto Nisay’s back. My child screams louder.

As quickly as the man can pick up and heat each cup, he repeats the process, lining the glass globes on my baby’s body in almost perfect symmetry. As the glass cools, I can see my son’s skin pull upward into the opening, as the excess energy or
wind
is drawn out of his thin body. By the time the man is finished, my child’s back is covered with eight clinking cups, and he actually looks quite ridiculous. An adult receiving the same treatment may have up to three or four times the number, with cups also being placed on the arms, legs, chest, and even forehead. If it were Ki receiving treatment today, I’d be teasing him to no end. With Nisay, I refrain. My son’s arms and legs are so skinny that the cups won’t stick there, so we decide that his back will be sufficient. True to form, and in spite of my encouragement otherwise, Nisay never quits bawling. Though he kicks constantly for ten minutes (which feel like thirty), the cups hold fast. Then the man pushes his finger against each cup’s rim to pop them off, and as quickly as they were placed, he returns them to the waiting tray—and the treatment is over.

I pick up Nisay from the table and hold his bare, polka-dotted body over my shoulder. “It’s over,” I tell him. “Quit crying now.” Surprisingly, he does.

The man is paid, tears are dried, and we head home. It is on our walk back, after we enter the dump, that we pass Lucky Fat.

“I just came from your house and you guys weren’t there,” he says.

“No, we weren’t,” I reply, confirming the obvious. He doesn’t ask where we’ve been or why Nisay’s bare little body is spotted with perfect circles.

“Well, I found a book and left it for you. I’ll keep looking for more. Oh, and while I was there, Sopeap came by.”