The Rent Collector (26 page)

Mother, Nisay, Teva Mao, and I are organizing our home, and, before my eyes, friendship is soothing the sting of injury. Teva is carrying water to fill up our new jar while her daughter, Vanna, keeps an eye on Nisay, who is becoming a handful. Other neighbors are dropping off extra food, sleeping mats, pillows, and cooking items. Love abounds, even at Stung Meanchey.

The one person I long to see is Sopeap Sin. I excused myself this morning and hurried to her house, but there was no answer. I will try once again this afternoon after everyone leaves. But when Lucky Fat shows up, my plans change. He carries a bag that I immediately recognize as Sopeap’s.

“Sopeap asked that I give this to you,” he says.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. I can’t read.”

Inside I see only a notebook. “When? When did she give it to you?” I ask, my whole manner pleading for more information.

“She came by three days ago to see if you were back. She didn’t look real good—she even looked thin and that’s something I never thought I would say about Sopeap.”

“Is she home now? Did she say anything more? Have you seen her since?” I don’t mean to bombard the child with questions. I just have to know. Lucky Fat looks confused, as if he’s not sure which to answer first. His single reply covers them all.

“I think she was leaving.”

I would ask where, but what would be the point? I rummage through the bag to make sure there’s nothing else inside, and then I lean against our step and thumb the notebook’s pages. There is a letter in front.

Dear Sang Ly,

I am sorry we could not see each other again. As I’ve said, endings sometimes disappoint. Still, I want to finish what we started. I have put together a few more lessons—I trust they will answer your countless questions.

Thank you, Sang Ly, for listening to this miserable old woman whose bones don’t deserve your friendship. You are not a foolish girl after all.

Be well,

Sopeap Sin

P.S.: I have left a few books for you at home. My key is behind the water jar.

With rising anxiety soon to trump neighborly friendship, I consider leaving the gathering and running to Sopeap’s myself to confirm what I already know to be true—she is no longer there. Then Ki and Pran approach carrying a bundle of canvas. Though it’s clear that Pran was kidding about the chicken, the material is indeed bright yellow. At the moment, I couldn’t care less. Worry must be parading across my face because Ki immediately asks what is wrong.

“Sopeap is gone,” I say, holding up the papers for him to see.

“What are those?”

“They appear to be more lessons, but Lucky Fat says that she has already left.”

“To go where?”

“He doesn’t know. The note doesn’t say either. She would never tell me where she was going.”

“When?” he asks. “Do you know when she left?”

“According to Lucky Fat, about three days ago.”

Ki glances at the canvas and then at Pran. “Three days,” he repeats. “Well, I guess we could see if she’s returned. Let me get this canvas put up before Pran has to leave and then I’ll go with you to check her house.”

While Ki works, Mother takes over duties watching Nisay, and I sit on a piece of cardboard, out of their way, to leaf through Sopeap’s lessons.

As I turn the pages, I realize these are different. There are no printed stories, no translations from English, no pamphlets or books. Instead, every page is written on notepaper in Sopeap’s hand.

The title on the cover of the bound bundle reads,
The Essays of Sopeap Sin.
The volume is thick with many lessons, and if I read them all, I’ll be here for days on end. Every one looks interesting, at least at first glance. I see a story about her college life in America, another reminiscing about her first love, and several that apparently come from the time she taught at the university. It’s the title of the last story, however, that grabs me and won’t let go. It is called simply
The Epilogue.

It catches my attention because I had asked Sopeap about the word
epilogue
and its meaning when I came across it in several of the stories we read together. She explained that an epilogue is often used by an author to step out of the story, to speak directly to the reader once the story is over, to bring the narration to its close. She said the epilogue is the moment when the author gets to explain what happened to the story’s main character after the story ended. She also called it
the final chapter.

I’m hesitant to read it now, not only because of what I may discover but because of another lesson Sopeap constantly drilled into my head:
Never read the ending first.

What my teacher despised were readers who flipped to the last chapter, read the ending, then turned back to begin their stories with smug and wicked smiles dripping from their faces. I can still hear her admonition—actually, it was more of an order.

Child, unless you are opening a dictionary, you start at the book’s opening page and you read the story through. If it’s terribly dreadful, then just put it down and move on. What I will not tolerate is reading ahead. It’s not fair to the reader or to the author. If they meant to have their books read backwards, they would surely have written them that way!

Ki watches my hesitation, but I don’t have the time or patience to explain. Nor do I have the emotional energy to read her final words aloud. I tell everyone that I would like to read silently. They all seem to understand.

Then, with Sopeap’s threats sounding in my head, I bite my lip, plead in silence for forgiveness, and begin. As I do, a voice echoes.

You’re a foolish girl after all!

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Epilogue

by Sopeap Sin

There is an old Cambodian folktale in which Sovann Som, a hunter, is lured into the jungle by a temptress, but instead of finding his desired riches, he is silently strangled to death by a snake.

It’s a story to which I, and the rest of Cambodia, should have paid more attention.

By early 1975, factional fighting and civil unrest had lasted for so long in the provinces around Phnom Penh that on April 17 of that same year, when Khmer Rouge soldiers claimed victory and marched through the streets, even soldiers in the opposing army cheered. We were just so glad to finally have the war over, nobody seemed to care who had won. We didn’t understand that peace at any price is a fool’s bargain. We welcomed apathy with open arms, invited it over for dinner, offered it keys to the spare bedroom, then silently slept while it sneaked up behind and cut our throats.

We wanted change. Could the new leaders be any worse than those who had just been overthrown? I would find out that very day.

Reports blaring over the radio instructed everyone to stay inside—most obeyed. However, I wasn’t worried. History had taught me that Cambodia had always adapted to change in government. This time would be no different.

My husband, Samnang, wasn’t so sure. Though he wasn’t an elected official, he worked directly with the Minister of Education. In addition, he came from a respected family with numerous political ties. Defeat of the Republic, with a new regime in power, would probably mean he’d lose his job. But his connections had always served him well, and I had no doubt they would come through again.

Because of the recent rocket attacks aimed directly at the city, we hadn’t left the house for three days and I was stir-crazy. With the shooting over, and to simulate a sense of normalcy, I grabbed a basket from the cupboard and announced that I was going to make a quick visit to see how Samnang’s sister, Channary, was faring. Samnang was hesitant to let me go alone, but at the same time, he didn’t want to miss any news that might come across the radio. Since our infant son was asleep in the back bedroom, he motioned for the housekeeper to accompany me.

“Be cautious,” he instructed.

“We’ll be fine.” I assured.

My trek was not as adventuresome as it might sound. We lived in a modern, three-story home in the central part of the city with a beautiful garden roof where I grew rumdul and lotus. At the back of the home, a narrow bricked path, concealed from the front entrance, connected a dozen similar-sized homes with what amounted to a disguised entrance. Since most of the homes were owned by family and friends, it offered not only convenience but a safe and easy method of escape should the unlikely need ever arise.

Channary’s home was the farthest away, but still only a short distance. I let the housekeeper carry the basket and I led the way, all the while wondering about eggs.

Recent fighting in the outlying provinces had driven many to the capital to seek refuge. The influx of people had caused shortages at the market, and prices had skyrocketed. Twice I’d been to the market to find eggs and twice I’d come back empty-handed.

Like my husband, his sister seemed to know everybody. She had mentioned that a family nearby had purchased several hundred chickens and were now selling eggs to acquaintances. She felt confident she could get me two or three dozen without a problem.

It appeared she was right. As we approached the back of the house, I could see a basket brimming with eggs sitting on their table near the kitchen. However, as we entered, my sister-in-law was nowhere to be found. I called out. “Channary? Channary?”

No answer.

The housekeeper was nervous. “I think we should go back.”

“Nonsense. There is nothing to worry about.”

Not knowing exactly how many of the eggs were mine, I carefully transferred three dozen into my basket, leaving what looked to be an equal number behind. I scribbled a note, letting Channary know I’d dropped in, and we then headed home.

Once again, the housekeeper carried the basket while I walked a step ahead. As we passed though the yard gate and out onto the path, in her haste she tipped the basket, spilling and breaking several of the eggs. I was furious and snatched the basket from her.

“Foolish girl! Be careful. Those are expensive.”

Perhaps I should have been more understanding. After all, they were just eggs. At the time, however, I felt she needed to be taught a lesson. She had been with us for almost a year but hadn’t made much progress in her effort to learn how to serve others. She had come from the province, and as a favor to a mutual friend, I had agreed to let her learn at our expense. What the girl didn’t know was that two weeks earlier, in spite of the time we’d already spent training her, I’d decided to let her go. However, with the confusion of the war and the fact that I had yet to find a suitable replacement, I simply hadn’t found the right time to break the news. Perhaps she sensed change coming. A week earlier, when I lectured that she needed to be more disciplined and take responsibility for her actions, she bowed her head and apologized, “I’m sorry. I will do better. I will try harder.”

Words—hollow words. I was growing weary.

As we reached our yard, the housekeeper opened the gate and stepped through first. I followed, careful not to spill any more eggs.

Once we were in the yard, four waiting Khmer Rouge soldiers pointed their rifles at us and ordered us to move inside. My grip on the basket tightened. It was a moment when time slowed, when heightened senses seemed to observe and record every sight and sound.

As we entered the house, two more soldiers leveled their gun barrels at our heads. Across the room, my husband stiffened in his chair. The soldier behind him was but a boy, dressed in a man’s uniform. Yet even though he was just a child, hatred smoldered in his eyes.