Air

by Geoff Ryman

  “Ah, you’ve grown!” said men snatching hats from heads, out of politeness.

  Mr. Ali squared up to Lung. “Your father tells us much of your doings. You are a lieutenant now, I hear.”

  “Yes, luckily enough, I had early promotion.”

  “Your father is very proud of you,” said Mr. Ali, glancing in Mae’s direction, the fallen mother.

  “That is good to hear. He lives in Balshang now, so I see him every day.” Lung smiled and plainly moved on.

  “Good evening Mr. Ali,” said Mae, deliberately sounding pleased. “Lung has bought me a huge weaving machine. It is automatic, and intelligent. It will help the Ladies Circle meet all its orders.”

  Mr. Ali was as heavy as lead. He glowered at her and did not answer. “And you are looking so well Mr. Ali,” said Mae in a little bell-like voice. “So plump. If you don’t mind me saying.” Mr. Ali pushed past her as if to go for more red wine.

  Mae saw her own family arrive. Ju-mei, his wife, Mae’s mother and, after some deliberation no doubt, Siao and Old Mr. Chung.

  “Lung! Lung!” called Ju-mei.

  “Uncle!”

  Mae deliberated too and decided to let Lung greet his uncle without her. The two men hugged, and clapped each other’s backs. Ju-mei wore a heavy Russian coat and pork pie hat. He looked like a Party chairman. Lung paused when he saw his Uncle Siao, and blinked in some surprise that the two families were friends. Siao shook his hand and winked. He and Lung hugged too, but the hug was gentler, less showy. Lung had grown up with Siao, who was more of a big brother to him than an uncle. Siao looked up. His eyes caught Mae’s, and he gestured for her to come near them.

  Very well, thought Mae. For your sake, Siao. She remembered: Siao has never fought me or called me bad names. She was surprised; she realised that she knew in her heart that Siao would keep things calm and good.

  Mae saw her mother’s plump face close up like a purse as she approached. Old Mrs. Wang retreated from Mae behind Ju-mei’s Russian back. His face looked like polished soapstone. Siao spoke first. “Mae, how are things with you?”

  “I am happy to say the business goes well.”

  “And happy to see Lung,” said Siao.

  “Indeed!” chuckled Mae.

  Old Mr. Chung blinked like an ancient tortoise, and bowed sweetly to Mae, out of respect or mere good form.

  “We are all happy to see you, Lung.” Ju-mei grinned awkwardly and jabbed his upper body up and down like a crow pecking at road kill. He was trying to bow with respect to his officer nephew.

  None of them were comfortable. Mae glanced up and saw a tight little knot of Alis and Dohs, peering at them over their shoulders. They were a spectacle: the family of the deserted husband in company with the adulterous wife and her brother.

  “People are staring,” said Mae’s mother miserably.

  Mae felt sorry for her, so small and worried. “Pay them no mind, Mama.”

  “It is easy for you to say, you are a woman who has no face left to lose,” said her mother. “You do not even come to call on us.”

  So which is it Mama, are you ashamed of me or mad because I do not call, or are you just looking for another reason to be miserable?

  Siao intervened. “Perhaps is because Mae is embarrassed that her husband’s family are staying there with you, Mrs. Wang-ma’am.”

  “You credit her with delicacy,” said Mae’s mother. “Ju-mei, I cannot bear this. I am on show. I have been an object of show all my life. I thought all that had ended. But there is always something. I so look forward to the first winter party, but I must … I must…” Mama had stared to quaver again.

  “You stay here, Mama,” said Mae. “I was just going back into the kitchen.”

  Lung looked dismayed. “I’ll be down in a while, Mama,” he said.

  Mae smiled with gratitude at Lung and said goodbye to them all in turn. Standing as straight as she could, Mae turned sideways to slip through the crowd and down the stairs to Kwan’s kitchen.

  Kwan was at work, wearing her best dress. The tables were already full of food. “It’s a good thing I guessed the party would be here,” Kwan said. Whenever there was a power failure, there would be a party in someone’s courtyard.

  Mae’s stomach suddenly felt heavy and she had to sit down. They were alone so Mae said quickly, “I don’t know what else these soldiers know, so it will be good to stay cautious.” In the half-darkness, the two women looked at each other. It was plain where Mae’s loyalties lay. From outside there came a swelling of laughter. Lung had finished a story.

  “Can I help?” asked Sunni.

  Without missing a beat, Kwan smiled. “Sunni! Hello. Yes, I am sure there is much to do.”

  So there they were, the three of them, in Kwan’s kitchen, with the ropes of garlic around the wall and the pile of round village bread.

  “Shall I restore the bread for you?” Sunni asked. Village bread was dry and needed to be moistened.

  Mae offered, “I could string the beans.”

  “Oh, it will be fun with just us three,” said Kwan, kneeling. She hoisted out a bucket of water and a tray for soaking bread.

  “Yes, it will be good to sit and be convivial,” said Sunni, and smiled at Mae. The kitchen smelled of pork and rice. “Oh! Soy and lard on boiled rice. Oh, that takes me home.” Sunni, though Muslim, had grown up in a liberal household.

  Mae strung and snapped the beans. Sunni took out her corncob pipe and so did Kwan. “Look at us, we look like old grannies!” said Sunni.

  “We are, nearly,” said Mae.

  “Oh! You talk!” said Sunni.

  “Lung is to be married soon,” said Mae, not quite telling the truth. How could she admit that she had not been asked to the wedding?

  “You bet,” said Sunni, “He is a prince, and any girl with brains would get him as fast as she could.”

  “She is a Western girl,” said Mae. “She is very pretty, educated, and says she likes me. This is because of my screens. How can you like someone for their screens?”

  “Oh,” said Sunni and looked sad. “Then we will lose him?”

  Mae let this sink in. “Yes,” she said. “I am sure he will stay in Balshang at least. And who knows, he may even go back to Canada with his wife.”

  “Has he talked about what has happened?” Kwan asked. She meant the end of Mae’s marriage.

  “Yes.” Mae played with the beans and with the truth of the situation. “Mostly he tells me he forgives me for what has happened. But I don’t think he really has.”

  “Ah,” said Sunni, getting down to the meat of it.

  “I don’t think he really understands it,” said Mae.

  “I don’t think I do,” said Sunni.

  Kwan said nothing. Her back as she worked listened and was tense.

  “It was love,” murmured Mae.

  “Oh I understand that. I understand why you married Joe and I understand why you would tire of him. Speaking frankly.”

  “Indeed,” said Kwan, for Sunni was being very frank.

  “There is no other way to talk about these things. What I don’t understand, now that Joe has gone off with the Pincushion, is why you are not with Mr. Ken.”

  “Ah,” said Mae. She had no immediate answer.

  Sunni patted Mae’s hand. “Joe has left you. That evens things up. Go live with your Mr. Ken. The rest of us will get used to things in the end.”

  “I’m not scared of the village,” said Mae. “But I do sometimes wonder if I love Mr. Ken because his grandmother does.”

  “Ah,” said Sunni, and her hand shuddered.

  “I think I see him sometimes through Old Mrs. Tung’s eyes.”

  The room seemed to hold its breath with the cold.

  Lung strode in, booming, “And what good things are you ladies cooking?

  Back to work.

  The ladies carried out vats of quick-fried beans, swollen wet bread, and pots of rice with tiny chilies burning within it. The army truck played Lectr
o on its Balshang radio. Its vast army antennae could pull in signals from the capital. Kizuldah heard advertisements for hypermarkets, toilet paper, and clubs that could play Airfiles on giant TV screens.

  The villagers hated the music. A cable was strung from the army van’s battery to a cassette player, and more traditional music was played for the adults.

  All four hundred people were crowded into the courtyard and barn despite the snow that was still falling, as if the stars had given up clinging to heaven.

  They chuckled and sipped tea from mugs. The mugs were then filled with rice and beans. Kwan, Sunni, and Mae moved among the people passing out the food.

  The men had to take beans from Mae. The situation allowed no other response. They looked at her, said nothing, were grumpy out of loyalty to Joe. But Joe was not here. And Joe had gone off with Mr. Muhammed’s wife.

  They took the winter food in silence and Mae’s presence was made more normal if unwelcome.

  Some of the younger men, overcome by the cold, by energy, by the end of the year’s work, began to dance. The girls squealed and pretended to be overcome with embarrassment, hiding their cheeks, turning their backs. And turning again to look.

  The married women smiled ruefully and shook their heads. The older men held their hands over their ears as if hating the music and wavered and wobbled in secret rivalry.

  “I always knew men were more interested in each other,” said Mrs. Mack. Mrs. Mack? Mae laughed and touched her arm. Mrs. Mack, less aloof towards Mae than others, responded with a chuckle at herself. “Did I say that?”

  “I am afraid so. You are wild Western woman,” joked Mae.

  “Oh!” said Mrs. Mack, not so pleased with the stale view of her Christianity. “Yes. I look like the motorcycle girl.”

  “I’m sorry. I am the village fallen woman, remember?”

  “Tuh. These villagers,” said Mrs. Mack. “They forgive murder faster.”

  Mrs. Pin said, “Pay no attention to them, Mae.”

  Mrs. Mack leaned forward. “I understand that you are shorthanded in the Circle. I sew well.…”

  Mae still needed allies. “Yah, sure, you want to join? Please! Why did you not say so before?”

  Mrs. Mack was too Christian not to be blunt. “I didn’t know you were making all that money.”

  There was not much to say in reply to that.

  “And they say money can’t buy friendship,” said Mae.

  “It can’t,” replied Mrs. Mack, blunt again.

  Mrs. Doh, who could practice tact, ballooned out her eyes at the behavior of her two friends.

  Mae paused. “I’ll take that to mean we are friends beyond the money.”

  Mrs. Mack paused. “If you like. But you have not previously regarded me much. No one in this village does.” Her eyes were sad.

  “We will be at work tomorrow, in my old house,” said Mae. “Come and join us. All of you.”

  “You are kind to extend such a valuable invitation,” said Mrs. Doh, the fine lines on her eyes and forehead wincing at Mrs. Mack’s Christian manners.

  There was a sudden involuntary stir amid the people. Oh! said one of the girls.

  Lung had joined the dancers. He hopped in, no embarrassment, looking incredibly pleased to be there. And began to dance as a village dance should be done, broadly, happily, rolling his shoulders, hips, and arms in one great sinewy motion. It was what was needed, to finally make the party warm.

  Some of the women ululated, in high warbling warrior tones. The men joined in. The slower and fatter men finally hopped into the middle. White beards mocked themselves, or showed that once, they could dance with the best. But no one could compete with Lung.

  He began to clap his hands high over his head, he spun around on his heels. The other younger men in the village began to gather round him, to dance just as vigorously. In the cab, Ozer snapped off the Lectro. The flutes, the violins, the tablas of the traditional music flooded the courtyard.

  Lung began to sing along. He could sing too, and his voice when lifted up was not that of a Balshang Otter, or a Karzistani Soldier. It was the voice of a happy peasant who had eaten his fill and was dancing to keep warm in the winter.

  Every village had one, a Tatlises, a Sweet Voice. Lung’s voice slipped around notes as if escaping them, escaping order, to follow the flow of blood of the heart.

  “Gel, gel, goomooleh gel,” he sang. Come, come, to a house of welcome. They all danced, they all clapped, even the women began to dance in the snow, amid the sound of who they were.

  And Mae’s heart that had been starved of company was suddenly stuffed full. She could feel it strain, like a belly, with the light, the noise, her people, and her son.

  Joe was a village hero, too, Mae suddenly thought. When he was young.

  The air’s warmer. It always is after the snow comes.

  Too warm, warned Mrs. Tung. That’s all she could say, too warm, over and over.

  FINALLY PEOPLE LEFT LATE, BUSTLING CHILDREN TO BED.

  Discipline drilled into them, the soldiers did all the clearing up, gathering up the basins, mugs, spoons. The women were helpless before their speed. Kwan shook their heads. “We are surplus, ladies,” she joked.

  “Why can’t we have the army all the time?” Mrs. Nan said.

  In the kitchen the three soldiers scrubbed the cutlery and boiled water in the pans, scalding off the fats and oils and congealing beans.

  “We’ll sleep in the truck,” said Lung. Kwan insisted that she had spare rooms. The soldiers nodded in polite gratitude, shaking hands before going to get their bags.

  “I will walk you upstairs,” said Lung to Mae.

  “I am unlikely to come to harm,” said Mae, smiling. But all understood. He needed to talk.

  The joy of the evening fell away behind them as they climbed the stairs. He carried a candle. Mae had to take his arm in the dark. She began to remember their recent unpleasant exchanges by voicemail.

  He helped her fold away her scarf and sheepskin.

  “You got my warning then,” he said.

  In the dark, it was as though Mae could see the steam of her breath glowing. “It was you?”

  Her mind raced: if it was Lung, not Tunch, then the army knows. Did he send the second encryption as well? If so, was he a friend? If not, she must not tell him anything else.

  Lung whispered, “Yes, ssh.”

  Mae began to calculate. “You know about Kwan?”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  “Is she in danger?” Mae asked. She began to feel sick.

  Lung sighed, “I don’t think so, now. Those screens have gone. She should be all right. After all, you have made Kizuldah famous. What you might ask her to do, which would be even better, is for her to put up some new screens that tell both sides of the story.”

  Like milk, the very air seemed to curdle, go sour.

  Lung elaborated. “You know. How the government houses the Eloi, gives them homes…”

  “Refrigerators in Balshang,” murmured Mae.

  “Yes!” He sounded pleased; she could almost see the teeth in his smile.

  “That way, the world does not puzzle over where the site has gone.” Mae added.

  “You are very wise,” said Lung. “But then, you always were wise, Mama.”

  She was thinking: You came here to accomplish this. To get Kwan’s site to do the government’s work.

  No. You came here to protect your own career in the army.

  Lung relaxed; he felt he had done his job. “Who would have thought you could do all this? The site, the business? Where did you learn all this?”

  Mae was narrow-eyed in the darkness. What was he trying to find out now? “Oh,” she said airily. “Your mother is not so stupid. It is all available on the TV.”

  “And from Hikmet Tunch,” said Lung, lightly.

  “Indeed.”

  “How did you find him?”

  “He found me.”

  It was strange being interrogated by
her own son, in a dark and unheated room, as if they had both died and come back as Evil Dead.

  Her dead son gave a short, slightly edged laugh. “No. I mean, What did you think of him?”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “I think you should stay away from him.”

  Mae decided not to ask him: Is that what the army thinks? She decided to deceive him, to protect Kwan, herself, her Circle. “Why?” she asked in innocence.

  “Look. The government likes him being here, he brings in money, but he does things in that place that are illegal everywhere else. You know how he started?”

  “As a computer student?”

  “Oh, Mother, he was the country’s biggest drug smuggler. They let him off because he runs a computer business.”

  “Our government would do such a thing?” Mae sounded shocked.

  “Our government does many things,” said Lung, quietly.

  And you are its servant, thought Mae. You look at what you do full in the face, and you still serve it so that you can be a lieutenant. And Kwan will never put up a site to do what you want.

  We could all end up looking at you, my son, from the wrong end of a gun.

  Come, Air, and blow governments away.

  Then her son said, “What are you going to do about the pregnancy?”

  Mae’s whole face pulled back until it was as tight as a mask. “The usual things.”

  “It is not a usual pregnancy.”

  Mae watched the wreathing of her icy breath. “Who told you that?”

  Lung blew out. “That man Tunch. Well…”

  “A nurse called Fatimah.”

  Lung jerked with a chuckle, amused by his mother’s quickness. “Yes. She at least seems very concerned for you.”

  “Yes she is. Perhaps we should both avoid that man Tunch.”

  She couldn’t read Lung’s reaction. He shrugged and laughed and nodded. “No disagreement there.” Then concern. “Are you okay, well?”

  Mae decided not to let him off the hook. “No. I feel sick and as you can see I am not welcome many places in the village.”

  His eyes could not meet hers. He ducked and ran a hand over his hair.

  Mae asked him, “How is your father?”

  “Ugh,” said Lung, involuntarily.

  “Seeing a lot of him? He visits you often?” she asked.