else, whose only aim was to bring a breath of beauty into this tiny village – the seamstress who worked only to adorn other people…
He was talking about her.
… One who was devoted to the daughters and mothers of rich and poor alike and who spread kindness and goodwill.
The whole village was applauding her, under the white clouds, the blue sky. All were smiling at her. Someone, Kwan perhaps, gave her a push from behind and she stumbled forward.
And her friend Shen was holding out a certificate for her.
'In our day, Mrs Chung-ma'am,' he said, 'there were no schools for the likes of us, not after early childhood. So. This is a graduation certificate for you. From all your friends. It is in 'Fashion Studies.'
There was applause. Mae tried to speak, and found that only fluttering sounds came out, and she saw the faces all in smiles, ranged around her, friends and enemies, cousins and non-kin alike.
'This is unexpected,' she finally said, and they all chuckled. She looked at the high school certificate, surprised by the power it had, surprised that she still cared about her lack of education. She couldn't read it. 'I do not do fashion as a student, you know.'
They knew well enough that she did it for money and how precariously she balanced things.
Something stirred, like the wind in the clouds.
'After tomorrow, you may not need a fashion expert. After tomorrow, everything changes. They will give us TV in our heads, all the knowledge we want. We can talk to the President. We can pretend to order cars from Tokyo. We'll all be experts.' She looked at her certificate, hand-lettered, so small.
Mae found she was angry, and her voice seemed to come from her belly, an octave lower.
'I'm sure that it is a good thing. I am sure the people who do this think they do a good thing. They worry about us, like we were children.' Her eyes were like two hearts, pumping furiously. 'We don't have time for TV or computers. We face sun, rain, wind, sickness, and each other. It is good that they want to help us.' She wanted to shake her certificate; she wished it was one of them, who had upended everything. 'But how dare they? How dare they call us have-nots?'
CHAPTER 2
The next morning was the day of the test.
Mrs Tung came calling, on the arm of her grandson Mr Ken Kuei.
'Granny Tung!' exclaimed Mae, delighted and alert. She was doing her laundry, and the cauldron was huge and unsteady on the kitchen brazier. Mr Ken gracefully passed his grandmother across to Mae.
Mrs Tung was still in her robe and slippers, hooting to herself like an owl. 'I thought I would just pop in, dear,' said Old Mrs Tung. It was a great adventure for her to go visiting. She laughed at her daring, as Mae eased her onto a chair.
Mr Ken was a handsome, orderly man. 'I told my grandmother about your certificate, and she wanted to see it.'
'Oh! It is nothing, but please sit down, Mr Ken.' Mae wanted Mr Ken to sit. She liked his calming influence. 'I meant to visit you this morning with some graduation cakes. Please have some.'
Mr Ken smiled and bowed slightly. 'It would be delightful, but my wife is doing the laundry, and I said I would help her.'
'Oh, perhaps you could come and help me!' Mae joked. Mae got no help.
Mr Ken bowed and left.
Mrs Tung ran her hands over the certificate with its frame and glass.
'It shows how we all love you,' said Old Mrs Tung. 'Read it for me, dear.'
Mae could not read. This was embarrassing. She recited what she remembered it said:
____________________
for FASHION STUDIES
____________________
Mae had to stop. Something was swimming in her eyes. There was an area out of focus. 'I think I need glasses,' said Mae.
The blur shifted, changing size and shape like a slug. Mae's fingers began to buzz.
Mrs Tung's head was cocked to one side. 'Do you hear something, dear?'
There was a flash as if someone had taken a photograph. 'Oh!' Mae said, and was thrown back onto a chair. Everything tingled – her feet, her hands, even her eyes. Worst of all, her brain tingled; she could feel it dance. The room went dim.
'Chocolate. I smell chocolate,' cooed Old Mrs Tung.
Mae smelled wine, perfume, sweat, onions, rain on cobbles, scorched rice, old shoe leather. Colours danced in her eyes; green-yellow red-blue, as if colour had become toffee to be stretched and mixed. And there was music – all kinds of music – as if hundreds of radios were being played at once, and a rearing-up of screeching, tinkling sounds like thousands of birds.
'I don't feel well,' said Old Mrs Tung. She raised her hand to her forehead, and for Mae it seemed to open up in stages like a fan.
'It must be this Test of theirs,' said Mae.
'Mae, dear,' Mrs Tung said, 'I need to get home.'
And then Mae had a sense of deja vu, so strong that the words seemed to echo. It was not as if she had been here once before. It was as if she had always been here, and would go on being here, for ever. It was as if an image of herself had been copied in layers, off into eternity.
Mae stood up, but the room seemed to be stuffed full of sponges. She had to fight her way forward, giddy with sensation.
Colours, lights, stars, sounds, smells… Mae's hand touched a skillet, or so she thought, and she yelped and jumped back. She felt silk on her cheek. A baby kissed her toes. Her fingers were plunged into paddy mud.
Mrs Tung rose shuddering to her feet. 'Flies,' she said, and began to wave her stick.
Pork, cheese, tomatoes, oak bark, ginger – all skittered about Mae's tongue.
'All these flies!' Old Mrs Tung's blind eyes looked wild.
'I'm here, Granny!' said Mae, trying to sound calm. She waded her way through sight and sound. The world chattered, screeched, stank, glittered, rippled, stroked, soured, sweetened, burned. The air seemed set solid against her. Mae had to push herself from one second into the next. Time was gluing shut.
Mrs Tung spun around. 'Ugh. Flies!' She stumbled, and tottered sideways into the brazier.
Granny Tung!
Everything was slow. The cauldron rolled like a world making up its mind to fall. A wash of boiling water poured over Mrs Tung's thighs and legs, and the cauldron toppled against her, ringing like a slow gong and knocking her off her feet. Mrs Tung fell forward onto the ground and a steaming white sheet poured out with the chalky water and enveloped her, clinging.
Suddenly, stillness.
Mae panted for a moment. She had the sensation of having been fired from a gun, shot a great distance to somewhere else-
Here.
She jumped forward, and jostled the scalding sheet away from Mrs Tung. The boiling water had settled into her earthen floor, turning it into steaming mud. Hopping barefoot, Mae grabbed hold of Mrs Tung's arms and pulled. The old woman howled. The skin of Mrs Tung's hands was rucked-up and red like old tomatoes.
'I will get your grandson,' Mae said. It seemed as if hundreds of versions of Mae were speaking all at once,
