Air (or Have Not Have)

'Of course it was business, we both knew that.' Mae was growing annoyed. 'But you cannot have a business without a relationship, and ours was straightforward and good, with no misunderstandings. That can continue. But only if this nonsense – as you so rightly call it – this nonsense over the loan is put to bed!'

Sunni looked cornered, her head was shaking slightly, No, no, no.

Mae understood. 'You are frightened of him.'

'What nonsense, how dare you!'

'Of course you are frightened of him; I am frightened of him. He is a brute, Sunni.'

The two women stared at each other. The money was between them. Mae looked at it, considering its power.

'But,' Mae sighed, 'he makes you rich. That is why you married him. And therefore you cannot question the way he makes his money. As you say: It pays for fashion.'

She put it back into her dress.

Sunni's face had crumpled, her mouth working. She wanted revenge now – revenge for being so coldly, clearly described.

'Fashion expert. Who will need you, ah? Who will want your advice, servant, when your friend Wing's TV gives us all advice, and better advice than you ever gave. Peasant. Farmer's wife!'

'Whore,' said Mae, coldly. I will regret that, she thought. But I do not need to take insults now. 'At least I am not a whore, Sunni.'

Sunni had no response to that at all. Mae turned and quickly walked away.

Sunni started to bellow: 'I was going to say something, something to him to help you.' Sunni followed Mae into the kitchen. 'I was, but I will not now! How dare you call me names? 'Friend?' You? You do anything for money, and you call me whore?'

Mae stood at the kitchen door. 'Save it, Sunni, save it. Everything you have said about me is true. And I am sorry you sold your life for this house. I might have done the same.'

And out into the night, out under the stars and clouds that were eternal. A moon that was nearly full.

What now! she wondered. Dear God, what now?

Mae got back to find both her husband and Sunni's-man asleep at the table. Siao had climbed upstairs.

'Out,' Mae said, and shook Mr Haseem. 'Drunken man, get out, up, out.'

Blearily, Mr Haseem gazed up at her and grinned.

I know you, she thought. You are the strong man who rules by force. You will have heads on spikes if we let you.

'Out of my house,' she said again, and hit him.

'Hey!' he bellowed, and looked for assistance at Joe. Her useless husband was dead to the world, too deadened even to help his enemy.

'Out, out, out,' was all she could think of saying, raining blows about his head. He began to chuckle; he seemed to think it funny.

'She-wolf,' he chuckled. Oh yes, that was it, the image of the angry wife, chastising her husband's drunken friends. It enraged her still further to find herself cast in such an ancient role.

'I am not throwing you out because you are drunk! I am throwing you out because you are an enemy to us. Because you want to steal everything from us. Get out before I slice open your eyes!'

Mae grabbed her big kitchen knife. He stopped laughing and jumped back, away from the table. She saw his eyes flicker and she seized the cleaver before he did. 'I will kill you and then we do not have to pay you back the money. I will kill you and spare the village a strongman.'

She meant it. She swiped the cleaver at him and he yelped and jumped back, shouting, 'Hey! Madwoman! The air has entered your head and – hey!'

'I… will…' she promised and came at him, knife and cleaver flashing '… kill you!' Her voice became a screech.

He ran for the door and seized his coat, his thick tobacco-yellow fingers trembling, face crossed in surprise, fear, confusion. The world was suddenly upside down for him to be chased by a madwoman with knives. One last gasp of surprise and he ducked out of the house.

Mae chased him across the courtyard, howling insults. 'Run, dog! Run, donkey! Go, go, go!'

There was light on courtyard walls, lights springing on throughout the village. Mr Ken's dog, awakened, began to bark. She heard the sound of Mr Haseem's feet outside the gates, the flapping of his loose shoeheel. Other dogs began to bark; all the village was awake, all the village would know by morning what had happened.

'Mrs Chung?'

There, in his underpants only, was Mr Ken.

She began to sob. She dropped the knives, they clattered to the stone. She hid her eyes in shame, in fear. How had things gone so far so quickly?

'What is happening?' Mr Ken said. He stood still, looking at her, aghast. She didn't want him to think her mad. She gathered herself in and explained.

'Mr Haseem has loaned Joe one hundred riels. He got Joe drunk, and Joe took the money.'

Mr Ken knew what that meant. 'Ah,' he said.

'We will never pay it back. He will get our farm!'

'Won't he take the money back?' Mr Ken shifted, aware now of his nakedness.

She yearned to hold him. That would comfort her, that would stop the world spinning, make everything stop.

'No, he doesn't want the money, he wants us, and our land. He wants to make us slaves. He wants to do the same to you, too.'

A pause, a beat. The lights were still on. 'You'd best go inside,' he said.

She felt frozen in place, still shaking, still helpless. He knelt down to pick up her knives; she saw how the top of his back swelled outwards to broad shoulders. She saw the crease down the middle of his strong back where the spine was buried deep.

Then he put an arm around her and in silence turned her not towards her house, but his own.

'Sssh,' he said.

He guided her into his own kitchen. He did not turn on the light. Very carefully, her knives were placed on the table, almost without a sound.

What are we doing here in the darkness, each of us? Are we doing what I think we are doing?

'My mother will be awake,' he said, in a voice as quiet as water on reeds. She smelled his breath: sleepy, garlicky, but somehow not unpleasant.

It was Old Mrs Tung who moved her, Old Mrs Tung who knew how to get what she wanted.

Somehow her hands were on his shoulders, then down his smooth broad back. Then his hands were on her breasts, and her heart was thumping, she could hardly breathe. This was dangerous, madness, but she found she did not care. One should not do this, one should make men stand off and away, but she had been doing that all her life and all she had to show for it was Joe.

She must have tugged at him, for suddenly his smooth upholstered chest seemed to surround her. His thick bowed legs and his underpants, loose but also now full with a small hard penis, were pressed against her. She was wearing no underpants. Such a tiny penis, it would be inside her so quickly, it could be done so quickly so simply, as simply and as sweetly as a kiss.

She found herself pulling up her good white dress. He kissed her, she slipped down the last of his clothing, and finally, finally, finally, for the first time in her life, she had it. This was foolish, he would despise her later.

But she had just tried to kill someone with knives and she no longer cared. It was softly done, it was quiet. She felt his spasm, felt something shoot against an inner wall. Then his forehead leaned against hers.

He had not left her body yet. Suddenly, as if clubbed, she was overwhelmed; something clenched shook and moistened inside her. She couldn't stop herself saying, oh, oh, oh.

'Sssh,' he said, and slipped out of her.

Her dress fell down, covering her. He stepped out of his underwear, and walked with her, to the courtyard. The village lights were off now; the moon was still out. He was blue and naked and she had never seen anything as beautiful.

They looked at each other. What now? both their faces seemed to say. Then they