The Rent Collector Read Online Free PDF Page A

furious. People crowd together, everyone flinging their sticks fashioned with a sharp metal hook at the end, ready to tear open the tumbling bags of garbage. They pick, prod, and pry at the sacks of trash, searching for any scrap of discarded metal, glass, or plastic worth selling to the buyers.
    The last picking method, and the one I prefer, is working away from the trucks, in open areas that have been stirred up by passing bulldozers. It’s a method that is less hectic, less dangerous, and unfortunately also the least fruitful. It’s a method that requires not quick thinking but rather methodical diligence. If you are persistent and patient, it can still prove worthwhile. This method is followed mostly by the elderly, the children, and anyone recovering from injury. I prefer it because it lets my eyes and hands disengage from my brain, working like a robotic machine, thus giving me time to think. As I see it, with no money, no rice, a sick child, and a husband with a line of fresh stitches still throbbing in his head, I have a considerable amount to think about.
    I always tell Ki that it’s a dangerous thing sending me to work the dump, not because I’ll get run over by a truck, burn my legs and feet, or fall into a pool of toxic sludge—though all those are possibilities. It’s dangerous because my thoughts get away from themselves. Mixed with emotion, they pile up like the garbage that surrounds me. They stack layer upon layer, deeper and deeper, month after month—crushing, festering, smoldering. One day something is certain to combust.
    Where did Sopeap learn to read? What would cause a woman so hard and brutal to break down into a well of tears? Does Ki really think his knife will protect him from the gangs of thugs? What if the unspeakable happens? Could Nisay and I survive alone at Stung Meanchey?
    It’s late in the day when I finish. I have filled a canvas bag half full of discarded plastic and metal cans that I balance on my shoulders. I carry it to the buyers, where it is sorted and weighed. They offer less than I expect, but I am too tired to barter. I take my money, then go to the home of the rice vendor, where I purchase two kilos of rice and some vegetables. She tells me that I seem quiet today, not my normal self. I shrug politely, take my food, and head for home, hoping that all has been well.
    I have been quiet today because fear in my heart has been fighting with frustration in my brain, leaving little energy for my mouth. Halfway through the day, my brain declared itself the winner and started to work out a plan. Grandfather loved luck, but I am tired and can no longer wait around for its arrival. I haven’t spoken to Grandfather all day because I know he’ll be angry when I tell him that his luck is . . . well . . . lacking. It won’t stop by, it doesn’t call, and I must conclude that we’ve been abandoned. It’s like the friend who gets a job in the city, begins to earn decent money, and then no longer visits. Luck has also moved on to better times, and it’s not coming back.
    Seriously, what does one do when the ancestors no longer listen? To my dismay, Grandfather’s words echo in my ears. Crafting a plan is easy. Taking action will always prove to be the more difficult path.
    And the question remains, will my plan work? Will everyone, including Ki Lim, think I’ve banged my head against a garbage truck? While he will undoubtedly be surprised, it won’t be my husband who is the most astonished. The person most likely to think the toxic smell of the dump has finally rotted away my brain will be a woman whom I still struggle to understand—Sopeap Sin.

Chapter Three
     

     
     
    “Hello?”
    The voice outside the flap is so hoarse that at first I don’t recognize it. When I pull back the canvas, Sopeap waits. She does not look well.
    “May I speak with you?” she asks.
    Now I am worried. Not because of her ragged appearance but because she never asks for permission to