Air

by Geoff Ryman

  “You said you would tell the Central Man, Sunni. You meant that you could betray Kwan and get the Wings into trouble. Didn’t you?”

  She was silent.

  “Sunni. From the beginning, I have not wanted to be your enemy. If you tell yourself the tale of what has happened, you will see that the first hostile move was your husband’s. And I am not always the most pleasant person in the world when I am angry. So, yes, I behaved badly.”

  All Sunni wanted was to be first, and Mae was always ahead of her. Even now she had lost, for Mae was the first to propose peace and in such a way as to garner advantage.

  Curiously enough, that was sufficient revenge.

  “Talk to your husband, Sunni. That is necessary. The terms are simple. We are friendly rivals in business. We both work to teach the village. We both work against the party that wants the TVs off. And as a gesture, the loan becomes interest-free.”

  It was all a bit of pretense. Mae was being clear, not for Sunni, but for Mr. Haseem, whom she was reasonably certain could hear every word. Mae sat and waited.

  Sunni’s face was closed, not exactly in shame, but in hurt. How she wanted to be the village leader, the “ma’am” of the village. But Kwan would always be that. Sunni would never be free, not until Kwan died. And by then it would probably be the turn of An, or someone like her. Mae found she did indeed pity Sunni. All that time with nothing to do because her husband would not let her work. Mae pitied her lack of application. Sunni, Mae knew, was not as smart as others.

  Sunni said, “I have the better fashion sense.”

  Mae pondered this for a moment. “I think you are probably right, Sunni.” For rich ladies, with money to spend, you are probably right. But you know, I think I will be the one to make the money. Mae chuckled at herself. “You are certainly younger and better looking too.”

  Sunni wasn’t laughing. Sunni was not loved by a beautiful man, who cooked dinner for her, who had wanted her since he had been sixteen. Could Sunni stand to sleep with that harsh husband?

  To be jealous is futile; we are all human, we all live in pain, and Sunni lives in more than most.

  That does not give her the right to steal my shoes or stand on my toes.

  “Sunni, I know you are very busy. Mrs. Ali sometimes visits my lessons at Mrs. Wing’s. Perhaps she could tell me what you decide.”

  Since you will not want to visit my hovel, or risk coming to Mrs. Wing’s.

  “Is it really as much money as you say?” Sunni asked. Ah, money, the juice of life. At least yours. Their eyes finally met.

  “Yes, Sunni, it is.” Mae stood up to go.

  They exchanged polite greetings and Mae left.

  Outside in the street, Mae felt a wild joy swing out of her, like when she had been a schoolgirl and flung her bag of books into the air. She was free of the interest on that loan! They would pay back twenty-five riels a year, and use the money as capital! She could use it to buy cloth or Joe could invest in the farm. Joe would bring back more money; they would be comfortable and happy.

  She thought again that she must put distance between herself and Mr. Ken. Otherwise the fabric of her life would be torn. She would tell Kuei that she would always love him, but that it was impossible to continue. She would hold the memory of him always to her, like pressed flowers hidden in schoolbooks, like clever Old Mrs. Tung and her secret love. And she would teach the TV and she would pick the brains of the Central Man.

  Mae would learn to put up a screen, too, just like Kwan, only Kwan would wonder how she had learned so quickly.

  A screen of what?

  Of fashion? Of course, the whole would want fashion from a mountaintop in mid-Asia. That was the very thing they lacked. Mae laughed at herself, and went, “Wheeeeeee!” And spun, and saw Kwan’s screens, of Eloi embroidery.

  And suddenly she saw the screen slightly different. It offered Eloi embroidery for sale. The year’s most unusual fashion statement. Expressing the model’s interest in Third World issues.

  Mae’s smile was fading. Instead, excitement seemed to grip her stomach.

  Native Eloi embroidery, unavailable except through these treasured outlets.

  Either broaden what you make, or extend your geography, the Kru had whispered.

  Videos could be sent for free to the big stores. She could tell the big stores about her Eloi fashion, and if they liked it, fine. Then she could buy the cloth and the bead.

  Reduce your risk at every opportunity.

  So she only makes them when she is paid.

  Individually tailored to meet your requirements.

  Oh! Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh! Her effrontery made her giggle. Sell to Singapore, Tokyo, Taiwan. Maybe even Paris or New York. The calls would be free, from Wing’s magic free TV. Mae will send her offer with her pretty pictures, but it will not be fashion she is offering. She will offer something real, something from the mountain, something from a long-forgotten, beautiful people.

  Love and ideas, how she loved her life now!

  Visions of her screens danced in her head. She saw Kwan and Shen Suloi twirl in their embroideries; she heard the words: Native Eloi beauties model the traditional wear of their people.

  This is the traditional wedding pattern. The yellow signs promise fidelity, the blue, understanding of foibles.

  Mae’s head seemed to swim, as if the air itself were a river, with currents. She felt herself picked up as if flying only a few inches above the road, and suddenly she saw her screens, very clearly indeed.

  Mae saw her screens in fact. She was looking at the TV in a room at Kwan’s house, not far into the future. Sunlight came through the window; her new screens glowed. In a video, Wing Kwan turned, modeling an Eloi collar.

  This future would happen.

  Why, then, sitting in that room in the future, did Mae feel sick in her stomach with loss? Why was she living with the Wings?

  Mae shivered, and it was gone, this future full of promise and loss.

  She went into her courtyard.

  There were two men outside her doorway. A flashlight shone in her face. “There she is,” said a voice.

  “Who is it?” Mae asked, blinking. She saw movement, and she knew who it was from the way both bodies moved.

  Joe was back. Shen stood with him.

  “What is all this?” Joe demanded. “What is all this about a man?”

  12

  THE WORLD STOPPED, LIKE A TRUCK.

  “What is what?” babbled Mae, looking back and forth between the two men. What do I do, what do I say, do I deny it, do I act like I have no idea?

  Shen, the serpent, looked at her with eyes that seemed green. He seemed to be made of stained green copper like the statues in town of forgotten generals. She hated him; she knew why he had done it. Shen had decided to destroy her.

  “You know, woman,” said Joe, and strode forward and hit Mae in the face.

  The flesh of her cheek was like a pond into which a rock is hurled. It rose and rippled and washed about her eyes. Mae felt her nose give, just to the point of breaking.

  Mae allowed herself to be knocked backwards. She landed and lay still to buy time for thinking.

  “Joe, Joe,” she heard Shen say, gently restraining.

  “Wake up, woman!” Joe demanded. He was leaning over her, she could feel his breath. “You cannot pretend with me!” His voice broke. He shook her. Mae kept her head limp.

  “That … uh … That was premature,” said Shen. “She can answer nothing now.”

  “She is pretending. I know the vixen,” said Joe.

  “Look at that bruise,” said Shen.

  Mae’s mind raced. Shen had seen only shoes and a shadow through the curtains in her room. Can I undermine his story? He is a feeble man; he will hate it that I have been hit. Can I make him retract through guilt?

  And Joe? Joe is weak as well, but he will be full of pain. I bet he’s come back with no money.

  Mae groaned. She let the broken flesh and its black swelling speak for he
r. She moaned and started to cry and held her cheek. She sat up, on the cobbles of the yard, streaked with mud, and wept. The two men stood over her, one now constraining the other.

  Joe was shouting. “Well might you weep! Well might you weep!”

  She was weeping for the happiness, the happiness that had been hers just a minute before. Mae wept for her marriage, her love of Mr. Ken, her business. In the end, Mae wept for death. Many things would now die, little baby possibilities that she had been nursing. It was life. Dog eat dog.

  “Joe, she’s not up to answering much,” said Shen. He turned and tried to help her up. “Come on, Mae. This has to be gone through.”

  How was she going to play it? She could lie, try to disguise it, play the wounded and confused wife, but there was one problem. Shen had truth on his side and knew it. She saw that in his eyes. Fashion expert that she was, her powers of dissimulation were not up to it. She did not have the heart for it. She felt a gathering presence in her breast, a tension. She had decided to draw power by telling the truth.

  She did not take Shen’s hand. So, Shen, so you expected my poor farmer of a husband to react like a schoolteacher, did you? Ruin lives, but avoid making a mess. Is that what you thought you could do?

  Mae rolled over and sat on the cobbles, near the ground, as if the ground could nurture her. She looked at Shen only. “What you are doing is very evil,” she told him.

  Shen warned her: “I am not the one who has done harm here.”

  “You are doing this because you want to stop the machine.” Mae said it wearily. “You do not care about Joe. You will destroy him, destroy me.”

  So be it.

  “It is true, Joe,” she said, turning.

  A throb of silence. “Whore,” whispered Joe.

  “Whores do it for money. I did it for love.” She still sat on the ground.

  “You are not ashamed?” Joe was failing.

  “A bit. Ashamed to be caught. I am the only woman in the village who has been caught.” She nursed her jaw. She would be a sight.

  The two men rocked slightly.

  She held forth while she still had the chance. “What do you do when you are away, Joe? Eh? When you are drunk and looking like a comedian. You go with women.”

  He looked comic now, hair askew, eyes bugged with both shock and sadness. He would not easily forgive being made to look so foolish. “No,” he said in a wan voice. “I … do … not.” His voice became fierce on the last line.

  Oh, Joe. It was probably true. You probably did not. More fool, you.

  “Who was it?” Joe demanded.

  Shen said, “That does not matter,” restraining Joe again.

  Mae spoke. “Oh no, you don’t want the man to get into trouble, do you, Shen? You feel for the man. And more mess would weigh on your conscience.”

  “Who is he?” demanded Joe; her foolish Joe going dark, fists clenched.

  Shen sighed. “Does it make a difference?” Which was exactly what Mae was going to say.

  “I was so happy.” Joe was weeping. He pushed the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. “I had looked all over for work, it took weeks, finally I found it, and there was this stupid thing and I had to go home. All I wanted to do was go home!”

  “I was happy, too,” whispered Mae.

  “Oh, yes,” said Joe, snatching away his hands. “You were skipping. Back from your cock, you whore!”

  The listening lights of the village were on. They reflected on the walls, on the clouds.

  Mae’s eyes were on the Teacher. “Who do you think you have made more unhappy, Shen? Me or him?”

  Shen did not answer.

  “It was me,” said a male voice.

  And that was Ken Kuei.

  Oh, fine. Oh, good. You come in to take your share, to take your part of the blame. To protect me. Just when it all was quieting down, when Joe and I might have talked.

  Why is goodness so stupid?

  There he was, her handsome stupid man against her comic sad one, ranged in orange light, like fire, to burn. Joe’s face said, in horror (Mae could see his thoughts): My neighbor, Ken Kuei?

  Mae could see Joe think: We will meet each other every day.

  Shen had covered his mouth in shock. Of course he would not have known who it was.

  Mae said, “Feeling proud, Shen?”

  “I am sorry, Joe,” said Kuei. “I have always loved your wife.”

  Oh, even better.

  “How long!” yelped Joe. He looked in horror between. “How long have you two done this?”

  “Not long,” said Mae, shaking her head, in a quiet voice.

  “Is Lung my son?” squealed Joe.

  Oh, best yet!—better than anything she could have dreamed. The one thing right in Joe’s life was his boy.

  “Of course,” she said, but she could not speak loudly. She had begun to tremble, deeply, inside. She felt like being sick again. “Lung is your son,” she tried to say again.

  “You pig,” wailed Joe, and launched himself at Mr. Ken.

  “No!” said Shen, and tried to stop Joe, and, to Mae’s immense pleasure, Joe hit Shen full in the face with his fist. Shen spun, holding his nose, blood spurting from it.

  Mae found that part of her wanted to laugh.

  There will be news enough in this night to keep the village going for a year. We will be destroyed, will all lose station, dignity, voice.

  Joe tried to hit Mr. Ken. Kuei caught his fist.

  “I don’t want to fight you, Joe.” Oh, don’t you? thought Mae. You will not have much choice.

  Joe swung again, and connected.

  “Joe, we could not help…” Mr. Ken did not finish as a second blow was struck.

  It is like a toy that you let go, and watch whizzing off until its batteries run down.

  Joe wanted to fight. Joe wanted to die. Mr. Ken wanted to talk. The two agendas were not compatible.

  Joe swung again, and this time Kuei swung back.

  “You’re good at hitting women,” said Kuei, and swung again.

  Joe was going to get beaten up.

  Oh well, thought Mae, here we go.

  Mae started to scream. She did it quite deliberately, almost without emotion, to rouse the village to the point of being desperate to see what was happening. They would stop the fight. The scandal would be immense.

  “Stop it, you’re killing him!” she wailed, choosing her words carefully.

  That truly did it. Beyond her gates, doors bashed open, footsteps clattered, men shouted, women cried aloud. Old Mrs. Ken came running out of her house, clutching at her bathrobe. Mr. Oz came running out hopping into his trousers, panic-stricken. He trampolined towards his golden van to make sure it was safe. The gate boomed back against the wall, and there stood Mr. Kemal, with a pitchfork.

  “What is going on here!” Mr. Kemal demanded.

  There was Shen, bloodied, Kuei and Joe fighting, and a beaten woman on the ground.

  “What is this brawl?” demanded Mr. Kemal. “Teacher Shen, I am surprised to see you involved in this!”

  The dismayed expression on Shen’s face almost made it worthwhile. Almost.

  You should have stayed unconscious, advised Old Mrs. Tung.

  MAE HAD TO LEAVE HER HOUSE AND GO TO LIVE WITH KWAN.

  It would have been impossible to stay with Joe and even more impossible that she move in with Mr. Ken. Joe would have murdered them in their bed.

  Mae’s brother arrived about a half hour after the fight, demanding she move in with him. “I do not wish to do that,” said Mae. She was flinging her clothes into a bag as Joe was comforted by Young Mr. Doh.

  “You have no choice,” said her brother. Ju-mei followed her all the way up the hill, making demands. He did not even offer to help Mae with her bags. “It is all right, brother, I got myself into this mess, I certainly did not expect any help from my family!” She turned and left him standing openmouthed.

  “My god,” whispered Kwan, when she saw Mae’s bruise
d face.

  Kwan let her sleep late. About midday she came up to Mae’s attic room with tea, and sat with her.

  “Will you leave the village?” Kwan asked.

  Normally, that would have been the answer. Mae and Ken would have packed up and gone away, to live in the city. Balshang, probably. God, what a fate, to bake in those sweltering tower blocks, with no money, no air, no friends. Until they ended up hating each other, as was normal.

  Mae shook her head. “I have to help here.”

  Kwan held her hand. “You are not in a good position to help.”

  Mae shrugged. “I will still have my school.”

  “No one would come to it,” said Kwan. Her eyes were sad, her mouth firm. She held her friend’s hand.

  So Mae had lost the school, too. She looked at Kwan’s hand. The hand was the village, all she had left of it. Mae loved the village.

  The fields she had worked in all summer were her husband’s. They were not hers to work any longer. The rice she had nurtured, watered with her sweat, was hers no longer.

  The house she had cleaned was no longer hers, the pans, the brazier, all the old spoons. That house had seen her through three children. She had stirred the laundry and the soup alike as the babies fought and wailed around her ankles.

  Her home.

  She nearly lost even the rough old sewing machine. Mr. Wing fetched it for her, and had to remind Joe that legally it belonged to Kwan.

  The sewing machine now sat in the corner, next to Mae’s suitcases. They looked small in the empty loft room. The only furniture was a couch that Kwan and Wing had wrestled into the space. The roof had a window through which sunlight streamed. Wing had taped clear plastic where panes of glass had been. Everything was coated in a fine white dust.

  At midday, just under the tiles, it sweltered. In winter, she would freeze. Swallows cried urgently to be fed from nests under the eaves.

  “Bloody Shen,” said Mae. “Joe’s come back with no money and who will buy dresses from me now? I don’t even have the loan to pay for any cloth.” Mae sighed and shook herself. “Still—nothing broke. I kept all my teeth.” Such was peasant luck.

  “Joe has been getting drunk with Young Mr. Doh,” said Kwan. “People say that he lost his job through drinking. Siao and Old Mr. Chung still work on the construction.”