Air (or Have Not Have)

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e-mail from: Lieutenant Chung Lung

7 December

I am not a son to choose to lose a mother, even when she is lost to herself. Your material at your home site has recently much improved. I trust that it was because you listened to your son's advice. Encouraged, I write again.

Yes, I married, and in confusion did not tell my mother. And my honest sister in an innocent card told the truth for me, and that is humbling. I've clipped on a picture of your new daughter. Her name is Sarah. You see perhaps why it was a bit more difficult to tell you?

Sarah is from Canada, and has chosen to cast her lot with your son, though I cannot think why. She is beautiful and intelligent, and regards your son as an educated man because of Army College. She stayed in the American Institute here while studying the history of Attila the Wonderful. She is not a model of Karzistani femininity, but she opens a world for me. She is very good with the other officers' wives, who tell me they find her delightful. She has seen your screens and your last letter and likes both very much!

I did decode your personal mail. Either I did it, or someone else would. Your friendship with the fashion magpie is well regarded by officials here. I thought I would set your mind at rest.

Your son,

Lung

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audio file from: Mr Oz Oz

9 December

Mae

Your letter was well received here. All our hearts were warmed by such simple, truthful words from a good Karzistani woman who works so hard for her people. We know what happened to your machine. You will not get that one again, but we have arrested your Mr Saatchi Saatchi. He will be executed next month. The warehouse boss who I thought was innocent, was not. My boss has personally approved a repurchase for your business. It will be delivered by the army!

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audio file from: Mr Hikmet Tunch

9 December

Mae,

I am sorry to slip back into your life, perhaps unexpectedly. Don't worry, you will not need to escape me again – though you should know that I have watched the development of your fashion screens with interest. Do you really intend to become part of a romance for Americans? They do so like foreign pets. And how is your little inner friend? Both of them. A file is attached. It is a scientific paper about you. It is about to appear in the Journal of Medical-Computer Interface. It shows that no physical change has happened to you. It shows instead that a mangled imprint of two selves have been united in Air. It shows how this could happen, due to real flaws in the UN Format. It also proves that such a catastrophe could not have occurred if the Formatting process had been achieved by opening the Gates. It suggests that elements of the Gates Format be copied across and made part of the UN system.

One further thing I meant to tell you when I drove you back. You are in the Information business, Mae. That means everyone you know will betray you. You can relax with me. I already have done that.

Your guardian angel,

Hikmet Tunch

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audio file from: Mrs Chung Mae

12 December

Bugsy, I was pleased to hear about your new apartment. I understand how lovely it is to have a place of your own and how living even with best friends produces sadness. I was so happy for you, to think of my good friend in her own place. Please send me pictures of your apartment. It will ease my heart. Oh, woman, I am avoiding telling my news because I do not know how to begin. It is so strange, the workings of life. I do not say the workings of God, because I am not sure He would do anything like this! Last night, the electricity was shining in Kwan's barn. The Circle has been sewing our beautiful collars late into the night. Naughty girl Sezen brought in some rice wine from her boyfriend's village. Why not? Her mother Hatijah, who was frightened to join the Circle at first, is becoming lively and outgoing. It is now Hatijah who warms up the wine, and it warms us, and soon we are all singing. Then the door is thrown back with a loud bang, and in comes Mr Hasan Muhammed. He is strict Muslim gentleman, white lace cap and long beautiful beard, but he is carrying a whip. He strikes the whip against the walls of the barn, and we all scream and clutch our work, for we never lose our embroidery place. There could be an earthquake and none us would lose a stitch. So we all are pressed against the wall and he prowls and curses us as wicked women all – little singing old women who sip a bit of wine.

Well, Kwan is courageous and she arrives and says, 'Mr Muhammed, have you left your brain behind? Why do you frighten guests in my barn as they work so hard?' And he says, This all the work of Shytan, all of the women have gone mad since this thing has come, most especially that bride of Shytan,' and he points at me. I hardly need say that this is not an amusing thing. But listen to how destiny plays like a cat with your friend Mae. Mr Muhammed still jabs his finger like a knife towards me and says: 'That devil woman leaves her husband, and now my wife has left me to live with him.' And he cracks his whip. And all us women try hard not to laugh, even Kwan. For you see, we all know his wife Tsang. Tsang is a pincushion, she has had every man she can get. She is plump, ripe, shameless, lots of fun, and about as devoted a wife, and devout a woman, as a gerbil. In my fashion-expert days, I was always giving Tsang a makeover for her latest paramour. Poor old Mr Muhammed has finally discovered what the rest of the village knows. So there is now a closing of Tsang's always-welcoming doorway. That Tsang finally should have taken wing with my dull old husband strikes our humble peasant sense of humour like a blow to the elbow. Poor Mr Muhammed yells like a character in an old play, They have run off to live together in Balshang!' It is terrible but we all have to fight not to laugh, though the poor man is in agony. Kwan says kindly, 'It is not Mae's fault that your wife strayed, we are all scandalized by such behaviour.' And Mr Muhammed points again at me and says, 'Why, then, do you welcome that viper into your midst?' And Kwan answers him: 'Because though she strayed, she helps the whole village build business.' He screams back, 'She is the mother of all whores! My sweet and faithful wife has had her mind poisoned by that creature and her machine!' And Kwan puts her hand on his shoulder and says, gently, 'It was not Mae who corrupted her. Your wife just this spring lured my young son and had sex with him until I asked her to stop, for my son was growing confused. And she had both Mr Alis before that, and before that, Mr Pin's eldest boy, just before his marriage. Tsang corrupted herself. Mae had nothing to do with it.'

And poor old Mr Muhammed's face melts like candlewax. 'You all knew?' he says, and drops his whip. 'Didn't you?' asks Kwan. He does not answer but, hollow like an old crisp pinecone, he goes out of the barn. So we all wonder, Did he know as well?

But oh, woman, there was further news to come. Joe has sold our house. He has sold it to Mr Haseem and taken the money to live with Tsang in Balshang. The house and lands I fought all this year to pay for and save, those are deserted. The kitchen I cleaned for years, it is dark, with only moonlight for lighting. The brazier I kept alight for thirty years is now cold and full of dust. The chairs and tables are lonely, the cupboard hastily emptied, as if by thieves. I sit wearing all my clothes in Kwan's unheated attic, listening alone to the happiest time of year, to the harvest, the parties, and the various Circles. I hear life waft up like smoke from the village below. My life has been unstitched, cousin, like embroidery needing to be reworked. Oh. Joe. Joe. You always thought money was quick, because you were slow. So you have quick money to make new life in the city with Tsang. That old