Free The Rent Collector by Camron Wright Page B

like a blind baboon.
    She continues, “And this was recited at bedtime, clearly.”
    “Yes, that’s what Narin said.”
    “Notice the last line; it caught my eye. It says ‘Dance across nature’s sky.’ Do you see why?”
    I stare at the poem, read the lines again. “No, I don’t.”
    “Every stanza lists a color. See them? Red, then orange, then golden, which I presume is yellow, and they continue. Do you see each color?”
    “Yes.” Now that she’s pointed them out.
    “The poem is painting the colors of the rainbow,” she says, “colors that dance across a sky. Fascinating.”
    Reading is too new. She couldn’t possibly have expected me to notice such things, and yet I feel as though I’ve failed my first test—and perhaps my last.
    “Now, I have a question for you, Sang Ly. Why would you call this literature?” In but a moment, her tone firms and a sudden hardness seeps through.
    “You just finished saying, there are words and patterns that repeat—”
    She interrupts, even more demanding and stern. “Words and patterns are meaningless.”
    “But you’re the one who noticed them. You’re the teacher and you said—”
    “Stop!” she demands, cutting me off midsentence. “We aren’t talking about the teacher; I am asking you. Besides, if you ask half a dozen teachers about literature, they will give you twice the number of answers. Now, listen to my question, Sang Ly. WHY IS THIS LITERATURE TO YOU? WHY SHOULD I CARE?”
    She raises her voice at me and I don’t understand why. I don’t know what she expects of me. While my nature is to fight back, today I’m not ready for her sudden blows—as if she’s found a hole in my armor and has forced her angry self inside.
    “It’s just a poem. Why are you mad at me?” I ask, sounding now like a hurt child.
    I must look pitiful because she turns away, slaps her hands to her side, and stomps her foot in frustration against the bamboo slats of my floor. She mumbles, but it’s to herself and I can’t tell what she is saying. I wipe at my face and swallow hard, attempting to gather my composure as I wait for her to turn around and face me. She does.
    She speaks now with words so soft and low it doesn’t seem possible they come from the same woman. “I am not angry with you. I am frustrated at a lost and tired old woman who is just too weary. Now, do you have an answer for me?”
    If I pretend an understanding with her staring straight into my heart, she will know I’m a fraud. I answer truthfully and remove all doubt. “I don’t know what literature is. I don’t understand it. Is that the answer you were hoping to hear? If so, you can go now.”
    “That is the problem today that vexes me,” she explains. “As I once told but a small handful of my students, so long ago— you do know, child. You just don’t realize it yet.”
    Sopeap turns the battered watch on her wrist around so that she can see the time. “I had no intention of continuing our classes,” she says, “but I believe I have changed my mind.”
    “You have?”
    “Over the next several days,” she continues, “I will do my best to remember a few of the literature lessons that I once taught at the university. But we will need to go through them quickly.”
    “Okay, but why quickly?”
    Sopeap hesitates. Her eyes fidget as her focus darts around to everything in the room but me.
    “I wasn’t going to . . . I mean . . . I wasn’t prepared to say anything yet,” she replies cautiously, “but I’m making plans to leave Stung Meanchey.”

Chapter Ten
     

     
     
    I am kneeling on the floor in the corner to clean the ashes out of my cooking stove when our canvas flap lifts open and Lucky Fat scrambles inside. I am about to scold the boy for not calling out first, as I may have been undressed, but the fright in his eyes waves away my concern. He glances back before speaking, all while sucking in panting breaths.
    “Please, Sang Ly . . . I need your