Air (or Have Not Have)

he succeeded in hauling the wires free from their screws.

'There,' he said, shaking the naked wires at Mae. Then he walked away, taking the plug with him. He stopped at the foot of the stone staircase leading up to the Wing house.

'Mrs Wing-ma'am!' Shen shouted. 'I have taken the liberty of turning off your machine. Perhaps I can advise you to keep it inside your house and away from my students.'

The children were gone, still giggling, like laughing leaves blown in the wind. Shen marched off, through the dust, without a further word to Mae. She looked up and saw Kwan already descending the stairs to the courtyard. She had a screwdriver and a replacement plug.

The village was a boat that had come free from its anchor. Mae shook her head.

An was elegantly scornful. 'He's scared because he is Teacher and he knows nothing about all this.'

'Tub. My parents pretend nothing has happened,' said Ling-so, even more beautifully turning away. Her lipstick was perfect.

Kwan knelt beside the TV, quietly replacing the plug.

'Why don't you take it inside?' Mae asked.

'Because we want the village to have it,' said Kwan, still kneeling.

'At least now we can look at fashion in peace,' said An.

On came Paris again. Kwan walked back up the stairs to her laundry or her sweeping. The Paris show ended, and the two girls changed to the Vogue Channel. More ghosts, in silver fabric, and Mae found that she had nothing to say that was any different from what the two girls said. Finally, when a shadow had crept across the wall and touched the screen, it was like a sorrowful spell. Quietly she bid the girls farewell. Young, poised, beautiful. They could read. They had no dinners to cook. This new world was theirs.

When Mae got home, Joe was waiting with Mr Haseem.

Joe did not look like a dolt now. He looked very upright and angry. 'You will apologize to Mr Haseem,' he demanded.

Mr Haseem's face seemed to be made of old porridge – heavy, dour, unmoving – and he looked without blinking at Mae. She looked back. She calculated quickly, knowing what had happened. Someone had told Joe about the attack, and honest Joe, moral Joe, was appalled. He had no understanding that sometimes morality was not enough. There was one quick way out.

'I'm very sorry, Mr Haseem,' Mae said coolly. 'I have not been myself lately.'

Joe nodded once, abruptly. Quite right and proper, the nod said. 'To chase a guest with knives from our house!' Joe murmured.

You have to cling to something, if all the world is changing. Joe clung to rules. He was stiff, formal, but dignified. Mae's heart wanted to break for him; he just did not understand.

'Mr Haseem-sir,' said Joe, 'please accept an invitation to dinner.'

Haseem was as slow as a frog on a lily-pad, with its sticky tongue curled up, waiting to lunge. 'I am afraid, Mr Chung-sir, that my wife would not consent. She is too upset by the events of last night.'

'Oh!' said Joe, in shock. He turned and glared at his wife.

'Things were said to her that cannot be easily forgiven.' Mr Haseem pressed his advantage. 'I accept the apology for your good sake, Mr Chung. I have to say that nothing in your wife's manner makes me think her apology is genuine.'

He was trying to enlist Joe, force more out of her. No, thought Mae. You will not humiliate me further. Mae said, 'It was genuine enough, Mr Haseem-sir, when I got down to you on my knees and begged you to take back the money. If you are so insulted, perhaps you will withdraw your generous loan.'

She held out the money again.

Sunni's-man leapt to his feet. 'Really, this is too much. You let your wife drive you, Joe. She has no place in interfering with our business! You and I are friends, but I want no dealings with her.'

That's because, thought Mae, I am a match for you.

'Any further business will be conducted in my house. She is not welcome there.' Mr Haseem stalked out.

Joe blinked at her in fury, speechless. He was not used to scenes of any sort, least of all in his own kitchen.

Mae felt detached. It was strange, the mix of feelings. She thought of Joe in a kindly, distanced way. It was part of the beauty of their way of life that he should be so small, so constrained, and so insistent on good behaviour. That way of life was dead.

'What is the interest rate?' Mae asked Joe, in a small, clear voice.

'What?' He clamped a hand on his forehead. His head shook in disbelief. 'Do you care only for money?'

She stayed in the same mode, still and cool. 'Is anything in writing?'

'Yes,' he said fiercely, proudly thinking: See how businesslike I am? Her heart sank for him.

'So. I ask again. What is the interest rate?'

'Two per cent,' he said, with a diagonal jerk of the head that seemed to say: See how unfounded were your fears?

'A month?' she asked.

He blinked at her. Poor Joe.

'That means that in a year's time, we not only have to pay him back the hundred, but also find a further twenty-four riels.' A quarter of a year's income. 'And that is only if he does not compound it monthly.'

She let the roll of notes fall like leaves onto the table. 'There is your money, Joe. I suggest that you do not spend one riel of it. It will be hard enough for us to find the extra twenty-four.'

She turned and began to cook supper: the blackened pot, the single electric ring. She looked at him, and he was looking at the money. 'Make no mistake, Joe. I will not work for Mr Haseem.' Her voice was cool with promise. She cooked. Joe drank.

Come, darkness; come, three a.m., she prayed.

In the courtyard of the Wings' great house, Kwan had an air of someone cleaning up after the party, collecting cigarette butts.

'Kung fu?' Mae asked ruefully.

'Oh!' sighed Kwan.

'You begin to regret your generosity?' said Mae.

'I begin to regret that people do not get bored!' said Kwan, and slumped on a chair.

'I know. I know,' said Mae, her eyes going hard like boiled eggs in agreement. 'I am bored.'

Kwan looked around, questioning.

'Is there anything on that thing other than fashion and kung fu? Junk for women, junk for men?'

'Ask it,' said Kwan.

'But ask it for what?'

'Ah,' said Kwan, 'that is the question. When you are an ignorant peasant, you do not even know what to ask.'

Mae's mind danced in the Format like a moth around an electric light.

'Search,' she told the television.

The TV replied. 'Please tell me which word or keywords.'

'Eloi,' Mae said. The name of Kwan's national minority. Kwan sat up, with a sharp intake of breath.

'Ah. That does not bore you.' Tonight, thought Mae, I am as sharp as a knife.

The TV asked, 'What aspect of the Eloi interests you?'

Kwan intervened. 'History. Politics.'

The TV whirred to itself.

The TV said, 'We have found sixteen listings whose main subject is the history or politics of the Eloi minority.'

Kwan's face softened. 'I thought there would be nothing.'

'Fourteen of these listings are held in our professional or academic files. If you are a professional or academic subscriber, say 'Yes.' Say 'No' if you are not a subscriber.'