or Have Not Have
an extract from the novel
Mae lived in the last village in the world to go on line.
After that, everyone else went on Air.
Mae was the village's fashion expert. She advised on makeup, sold cosmetics,
and provided good dresses. Every
farmer's wife needed at least one good dress.
Mae would sketch what was being worn in the capital. She would always
add a special touch: a lime green scarf with sequins; or a lacy ruffle
with colourful embroidery. A good dress was for display. "We are a happier
people and we can wear these gay colours," Mae would advise.
"Yes, that is true," her customer might reply, entranced that fashion
expressed their happy culture. "In the photographs, the Japanese women
all look so solemn."
"So full of themselves," said Mae, and lowered her head and scowled,
and she and her customer would laugh, feeling as sophisticated as anyone
in the world.
Mae got her ideas as well as her mascara and lipsticks from her trips
to the town. It was a long way and she needed to be driven. When Sunni
Haseem offered to drive her down in exchange for a fashion expedition,
Mae had to agree. Apart from anything else, Mae had a wedding dress
Sunni herself was from an old village family, but her husband was a
beefy brute from further down the hill. He puffed on cigarettes and
his tanned fingers were as thick and weathered as the necks of turtles.
In the back seat with Mae, Sunni giggled and prodded and gleamed with
the thought of visiting town with her friend and confidante who was
going to unleash her beauty secrets.
Mae smiled and whispered, promising much. "I hope my source will be
present today," she said. "She brings me my special colours, you cannot
get them anywhere else. I don't ask where she gets them." Mae lowered
her eyes and her voice. "I think her husband..."
A dubious gesture, meaning, that perhaps the goods were stolen, stolen
from -- who knows? -- supplies meant for foreign diplomats? The tips
of Mae's fingers rattled once, in provocation, across her client's arm.
The town was called Yeshibozkent which meant Green Valley City. It
was now approached through corridors of raw apartment blocks set on
beige desert soil. It had billboards, a new jail, discos with mirror
balls, billboards, illuminated shop signs and Toyota jeeps that belched
out blue smoke.
The town centre was as Mae remembered it from childhood. Traditional
wooden houses crowded crookedly together. Wooden shingles covered the
roofs and gables. The shop signs were tiny, faded, and sometimes hand-lettered.
The old market square was still full of peasants selling vegetables
laid out on mats. Middle aged men still played chess outside tiny cafes;
youths still prowled in packs.
There was still the public address system. The address system barked
out news and music from the top of the electricity poles. Its sounds
drifted over the city announcing public events or new initiatives against
drug dealers. It told of progress on the new highway, and boasted of
the well known entertainers who were visiting the town.
Mr Haseem parked near the market, and the address system seemed to
enter Mae's lungs, like cigarette smoke, perfume, or hairspray. She
stepped out of the van and breathed it in. The excitement of being in
the city trembled in her belly. The address system made Mae's sprits
rise as much as the bellowing of shoppers, farmers and donkeys; as much
as the smell of raw petrol and cut greenery and drains. She and her
middle-aged client looked on each other and gasped and giggled at themselves.
"Now," Mae said, stroking Sunni's hair, her cheek. "It is time for
a complete make-over. Let's really do you up. I cannot do as good work
up in the hills."
Mae took her client to Halat's, the same hairdresser as Sunni might
have gone to anyway. But Mae was greeted by Halat with cries and smiles
and kisses on the cheek. That implied a promise that Mae's client would
get special treatment. There was a pretence of consultancy. Mae offered
advice, comments, cautions. Careful! she has such delicate skin! The
hair could use more shaping there. And Halat hummed as if perceiving
what had been hidden before and then agreed to give the client what
she would otherwise have had. But Sunni's nails were soaking, and she
sat back in the centre of attention, like a queen.
All of this allowed the hairdresser to charge more. Mae had never pressed
her luck and asked for a cut. Something beady in Halat's eyes told Mae
there would be no point. What Mae got out of it was standing, and that
would lead to more work later.
With cucumbers over her eyes, Sunni was safely trapped. Mae announced.
"I just have a few errands to run. You relax and let all cares fall
away." She disappeared before Sunni could protest.
Mae ran to collect the dress. A disabled girl, a very good seamstress
called Miss Soo, had opened up a tiny shop of her own.
Miss Soo was grateful for any business, poor thing, skinny as a rail
and twisted. After the usual greetings, Miss Soo shifted round and hobbled
and dragged her way to the back of the shop to fetch the dress. Her
feet hissed sideways across the uneven concrete floor. Poor little thing,
Mae thought. How can she sew?
Yet Miss Soo had a boyfriend in the fashion business. Genuinely in
the fashion business, far away in the capital city, Balshang. The girl
often showed Mae his photograph. It was like a magazine photograph.
The boy was very handsome, with a shiny shirt and coiffed-up hair. She
kept saying she was saving up money to join him. It was a mystery to
Mae what such a boy was doing with a cripple for a girlfriend. Why did
he keep contact with her? Publicly Mae would say to friends of the girl:
it is the miracle of love, what a good heart he must have. Otherwise
she kept her own counsel which was this: you would be very wise not
to visit him in Balshang.
The boyfriend sent Miss Soo the patterns of dresses, photographs, magazines,
or even whole catalogues. There was one particularly treasured thing;
a showcase publication. The cover was like the lid of a box, and it
showed in full colour the best of the nation's fashion design.
Models so rich and thin they looked like ghosts. They looked half asleep,
as if the only place they carried the weight of their wealth was on
their eyelids. It was like looking at Western or Japanese women, and
yet these were their own people, so long legged, so modern, so ethereal,
as if they were made of air.
Mae hated the clothes. They looked like washing up towels. Oatmeal
or gray in one colour, and without a trace of adornment.
Mae sighed with lament. "Why do these rich women go about in their
The girl shuffled back with the dress, past piles of unsold oatmeal
cloth. Miss Soo had a skinny face full of teeth, and she always looked
like she was staring ahead in fear. "If you are rich you have no need
to try to look rich." Her voice was soft. She made Mae feel like a peasant
without meaning to. She made Mae yearn to escape herself, to be someone
else, for the child was effortlessly talented, somehow effortlessly
in touch with the outside world.
"Ah yes," Mae sighed. "But my clients you know, they live in the hills."
She shared a conspiratorial smile with the girl. "Their taste! Speaking
of which, let's have a look at my wedding cake of a dress."
The dress was actually meant to look like a cake, all pink and white
sugar icing, except that it kept moving all by itself. White wires with
styrofoam bobbles on the ends were surrounded with clouds of white netting.
"Does it need to be quite so busy?" the girl asked, doubtfully, encouraged
too much by Mae's smile.
"I know my clients," replied Mae coolly. This is at least, she thought,
a dress that makes some effort. She inspected the work. The needlework
was delicious, as if the white cloth were cream that had flowed together.
The poor creature could certainly sew, even when she hated the dress.
"That will be fine," said Mae, and made move towards her purse.
"You are so kind!" murmured Miss Soo, bowing slightly.
Like Mae, Miss Soo was of Chinese extraction. That was meant not to
make any difference, but somehow it did. Mae and Miss Soo knew what
to expect of each other.
The dress was packed in brown paper and carefully tied so it would
not crease. There were farewells, and Mae scurried back to the hairdressers.
Sunni was only just finished, hair spray and scent rising off her like
"This is the dress," said Mae and peeled back part of the paper, to
give Halet and Sunni a glimpse of the tulle and styrofoam.
"Oh!" the women said, as if all that white were clouds, in dreams.
And Halat was paid. There were smiles and nods and compliments and
then they left.
Outside the shop, Mae breathed out as though she could now finally
speak her mind. "Oh! She is good, that little viper, but you have to
watch her, you have to make her work. Did she give you proper attention?"
"Oh, yes, very special attention. I am lucky to have you for a friend."
said Sunni. "Let me pay you something for your trouble."
Mae hissed through her teeth. "No, no, I did nothing, I will not hear
of it." It was a kind of ritual.
There was no dream in finding Sunni's surly husband. Mr Haseem was
red-faced, half-drunk in a club with unvarnished walls and a television.
"You spend my money." he declared. His eyes were on Mae.
"My friend Mae makes no charges," snapped Sunni.
"She takes something from what they charge you." Mr Haseem glowered
like a thunderstorm.
"She makes them charge me less, not more," replied Sunni, her face
going like stone.
The two women exchanged glances. Mae's eyes could say: How can you
bear it, a woman of culture like you?
It is my tragedy, came the reply, aching out of the ashamed eyes.
So they sat while the husband sobered up and watched television. Mae
contemplated the husband's hostility to her, and what might lie behind
On the screen, the local female newsreader talked: Talents, such people
were called. She wore a red dress with a large gold brooch. Something
had been done to her hair to make it stand up in a sweep before falling
away. She was as smoothly groomed as ice. She chattered in a high voice,
perky through a battery of tiger's teeth.
"She goes to Halat's as well," Mae whispered to Sunni. Weather, maps,
shots of the honoured President and the full cabinet one by one, making
The men in the club chose what movie they wanted. Since the satellites,
they could do that. Satellites had ruined visits to the town. Before,
it used to be that the men were made to sit through something the children
or families might also like to watch, so you got everyone together for
the watching of the television. The clubs had to be more polite. Now,
women hardly saw TV at all and the clubs were full of drinking. The
men chose another kung-fu movie. Mae and Sunni endured it, sipping Coca
Cola. It became apparent that Mr Haseem would not buy them dinner.
Finally, late in the evening, Mr Haseem loaded himself into the van.
Enduring, unstoppable, and quite dangerous, he drove them back up into
the mountains weaving across the middle of the road.
"You make a lot of money out of all this," Mr Haseem said to Mae.
"I ... I make a little something. I try to maintain the standards of
the village. I do not want people to see us as peasants. Just because
we live on the high road."
Sunni's husband barked out a laugh. "We are peasants!" Then he added,
"You do it for the money."
Sunni sighed in embarrassment. And Mae smiled a hard smile to herself
in the darkness. You give yourself away, Sunni's-man. You want my husband's
land. You want him to be your dependent. And you don't like your wife's
money coming to me to prevent it. You want to make both me and my husband
It is a strange thing to spend four hours in the dark listening to
an engine roar with a man who seeks to destroy you.
In late May, school ended.
There were no fewer than six girls graduating and each one of them
needed a new dress. Miss Soo was making two of them; Mae would have
to do the others, but she needed to buy the cloth. She had a mobile
phone, a potent fashion symbol. But she needed another trip to Yeshibozkent.
Mr Wing was going to town to collect a new television set for the village.
It was going to be connected to the Net. Mr Wing was something of a
politician in his way. He had applied for a national grant to set up
a company to provide information services to the village. Swallow Communications,
he called himself and the villagers said it would make him rich.
Kwan, Mr Wing's wife, was one of Mae's favourite women; she was intelligent
and sensible; there was less dissembling with her. Mae enjoyed the drive.
Mr Wing parked the van in the market square. As Mae reached into the
back for her hat, she heard the public address system. The voice of
the Talent was squawking.
"... a tremendous advance for culture," the Talent said. "Now the
Green Valley is no farther from the centre of the world than Paris,
Singapore or Tokyo."
Mae sniffed. "Hmm. Another choice on this fishing net of theirs."
Wing stood outside the van, ramrod straight in his brown and tan town
shirt. "I want to hear this," he said, smiling slightly, taking nips
of smoke from his cigarette.
Kwan fanned the air. "Your modern wires say that smoking is dangerous.
I wish you would follow all this news you hear."
"Ssh!" he insisted.
The bright female voice still enthused. "Previously all such advances
left the Valley far behind because of wiring and machines. This advance
will be in the air we breathe. This new thing will be like TV in your
head. All you need is the wires in the human mind."
Kwan gathered up her things. "Some nonsense or another." she murmured.
"Next Sunday, there will be a test. The test will happen in Tokyo and
Singapore but also here in the Valley at the same time. What Tokyo sees
and hears, we will see and hear. Tell everyone you know, next Sunday,
there will be a test. There is no need for fear, alarm or panic."
Mae listened then. There would certainly be a need for fear and panic
if the address system said there was none.
"What test, what kind of test? What? What?" the women demanded of the
Mr Wing played the relaxed, superior male. He chuckled. "Ho-ho, now
you are interested, yes?"
Another man looked up and grinned. "You should watch more TV," he called.
He was selling radishes and shook them at the women.
Kwan demanded. "What are they talking about?"
"They will be able to put TV in our heads." said the husband smiling.
He looked down, thinking perhaps wistfully of his own new venture. "There
has been talk of nothing else on the TV for the last year. But I didn't
think it would happen."
All the old market was buzzing like flies on carrion, as if it were
still news to them. Two youths in strange puffy clothes spun on their
heels and slapped each other's palms, in a gesture that Mae had seen
only once or twice before. An old granny waved it all away and kept
on accusing a dealer of short measures.
Mae felt grave doubt. "TV in our heads. I don't want TV in my head."
She thought of viper newsreaders and kung fu.
Wing said, "It's not just TV. It is more than TV. It is the whole world."
"What does that mean?"
"It will be the Net. Only, in your head. The fools and drunks in these
parts know nothing about it, it is a word they use to sound modern.
But you go to the telephone company, you see it. The Net is all things."
He began to falter.
"Explain! How can one thing be all things?"
There was a crowd of people gathering to listen.
"Everything is on it. You will see on our new TV. It will be a Net
TV." Kwan's husband did not really know either.
The routine was soured. Halat the hairdresser was in a very strange
mood, giggly, chattery, her teeth clicking together as if it were cold.
"Oh, nonsense," she said when Mae went into her usual performance.
"Is this for a wedding? For a feast?"
"No," said Mae. "It is for my special friend."
The little hussy put both hands either side of her mouth as if in awe.
"Are you going to do a special job for her or not?" demanded Mae. Her
eyes were able to say: I see no one else in your shop.
Oh, how the girl would have loved to say: I am very busy -- if you
need something special come back tomorrow. But money spoke. Halat slightly
amended her tone. "Of course. For you."
"I bring my friends to you regularly because you do such good work
"Of course," the child said. "It is all this news, it makes me forget
Mae drew herself up, and looked fierce, forbidding, in a word, older.
Her entire body said: do not forget yourself again. The way the child
dug away at Kwan's hair with the long comb handle said back: peasants.
The rest of the day did not go well. Mae felt tired, distracted. She
made a terrible mistake and, with nothing else to do, accidentally took
Kwan to the place where she bought her lipsticks.
"Oh! It is a treasure trove!" exclaimed Kwan.
Idiot, thought Mae to herself. Kwan was good-natured and would not
take advantage. But if she talked! There would be clients who would
not take such a good-natured attitude, not to have been shown this themselves.
"I do not take everyone here," whispered Mae. "Hmm? This is for special
Kwan was good-natured, but very far from stupid. Mae remembered, in
school Kwan had always been best at letters, best at maths. Kwan was
pasting on false eyelashes in a mirror and said, very simply and quickly.
"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."
And that was far too simple and direct. As if Kwan were saying: fashion
expert, we all know you. She even looked around and smiled at Mae, and
batted her now huge eyes, as if mocking fashion itself.
"Not for you." said Mae. "The false eyelashes. You don't need them."
The dealer wanted a sale. "Why listen to her?" she asked Kwan.
Because, thought Mae, I buy 50 riels' worth of cosmetics from you a
"My friend is right," said Kwan, to the dealer. The sad fact was that
Kwan was almost magazine-beautiful anyway, except for her teeth and
gums. "Thank you for showing me this," said Kwan, and touched Mae's
arm. "Thank you," she said to the dealer, having bought one lowly lipstick.
Mae and the dealer glared at each other, briefly. I go somewhere else
next time, Mae promised herself.
The worst came last. Kwan's ramrod husband was not a man for drinking.
He was in the promised cafe at the promised time, sipping tea, having
had a hair cut and a professional shave.
A young man called Sloop, a tribesman, was with him. Sloop was a telephone
engineer and thus a member of the aristocracy as far as Mae was concerned.
He was going to wire up their new TV. Sloop said with a woman's voice,
"It will work like your mobile phone, no cable. We can't lay cable in
our mountains. But before MMN, there was not enough space on the line
for the TV." He might as well have been talking English for all Mae
Mr Wing maintained his cheerfulness. "Come," he said to the ladies.
"I will show you what this is all about."
He went to the communal TV and turned it on with an expert's flourish.
Up came not a movie or the local news, but a screen full of other buttons.
"You see? You can choose what you want. You can choose anything." And
he touched the screen.
Up came the local Talent, still baring her perfect teeth. She piped
in a high, enthusiastic voice that was meant to appeal to men and bright
"Hello. Welcome to the Airnet Information Service. For too long the
world has been divided into information haves and have-nots." She held
up one hand towards the Heavens of information and the other out towards
the citizens of the Valley, inviting them to consider themselves as
"Those in the developed world can use their TVs to find any information
they need at any time. They do this through the Net."
Incomprehension followed. There were circles and squares linked by
wires in diagrams. Then they jumped up into the sky, into the air, only
the air was full of arching lines. The field, they called it, but it
was nothing like a field. In Karzistani, it was called the Lightning-flow,
Compass-point Yearning Field. "Everywhere in the world." Then the lightning
flow was shown striking people's heads. "There have been many medical
tests to show this is safe."
"Hitting people with lightning?" Kwan asked in crooked amusement. "That
does sound so safe."
"It's only the Formatting that uses the Yearning Field," said Sloop.
"That only happens once. It makes a complete map of minds, and that's
what exists in Air, and Air happens in other dimensions."
"There are 11 dimensions," he began, and began to see the hopelessness
of it. "They were left over after the Big Bang."
"I know what will interest you ladies," said her husband. And with
another flourish, he touched the screen. "You'll be able to have this
in your heads, whenever you want."
Suddenly the screen was full of cream colour.
One of the capital's ladies spun on her high heel. She was wearing
the best of the nation's fashion design. She was one of the ladies in
Mae's secret treasure book.
"Oh!" breathed out Kwan. "Oh, Mae, look, isn't she lovely!"
"This channel shows nothing but fashion," said her husband.
"All the time?" Kwan exclaimed and looked back at Mae in wonder. For
a moment, she stared up at the screen, her own face reflected over those
of the models. Then, thankfully, she became Kwan again. "Doesn't that
Her husband chuckled. "You can choose something else. Anything else."
It was happening very quickly and Mae's guts churned faster than her
brain to certain knowledge: Kwan and her husband would be fine with
"Look," he said, "This is what two-way does. You can buy the dress."
Kwan shook her head in amazement. Then a voice said the price and
Kwan gasped again. "Oh, yes, all I have to do is sell one of our four
farms, and I can have a dress like that."
"I saw all that two years ago," said Mae. "It is too plain for the
likes of us. We want people to see everything."
Kwan's face went sad. "That is because we are poor, back in the hills."
It was the common yearning, the common forlorn knowledge.
Sometimes it had to cease, all the business-making, you had to draw
a breath, because after all, you had known your people for as long as
you had lived.
Mae said, "None of them are as beautiful as you are, Kwan." It was
true, except for her teeth.
"Flattery talk from a fashion expert," said Kwan lightly. But she took
Mae's hand. Her eyes yearned up at the screen, as secret after secret
was spilled like blood.
"With all this in our heads," said Kwan to her husband. "We won't need
It was a busy week.
It was not only the six dresses. For some reason, there was much extra
On Wednesday, Mae had a discrete morning call to make on Tsang Muhammed.
She liked Tsang. She looked like a peach that was overripe, round and
soft to the touch and very slightly wrinkled. Everything
about her was off-kilter. She was Chinese with a religious Karz husband,
who was ten years her senior. He was a Muslim who allowed, or perhaps
could not prevent, his Chinese wife from keeping a family pig.
The family pig was in the front room being fattened: half of the room
was full of old shucks. The beast looked lordly and pleased with itself.
Tsang's four year old son sat tamely beside it, feeding it the greener
leaves, as if the animal could not find them for itself.
"Is it all right to talk?" Mae whispered, her eyes going sideways towards
Tsang loved to lie back and be pampered, but only did it when she had
an assignation."Who is it?" Mae mouthed.
Tsang simply waggled a finger.
So it was someone they knew. Mae suspected it was Kwan's oldest boy,
Luk. Luk was sixteen but kept in pressed white shirt and shorts like
a baby. The shorts only showed he had hair on his football player calves.
His face was still round and soft and baby-like but lately had been
full of a new and different confusion.
"Tsang. Oh!" gasped Mae.
"Ssssh," giggled Tsang, who was red as a radish. As if either of them
could be certain what the other one meant. "I need a repair job!" So
it was someone younger.
Almost certainly Kwan's handsome son.
"Well, they have to be taught by someone," whispered Mae.
Tsang simply dissolved into giggles. She could hardly stop laughing.
"I can do nothing for you. You certainly don't need redder cheeks,"
Tsang uttered a squawk of laughter.
"There is nothing like it for a woman's complexion." Mae pretended
to put away the tools of her trade. "No, I can affect no improvement.
Certainly I cannot compete with the effects of a certain young man."
"Nothing... nothing..." gasped Tsang. "Nothing like a good prick."
Mae howled in mock outrage, and Tsang squealed and both squealed and
pressed down their cheeks, and shushed each other. Mae noted exactly
which part of the cheeks were blushing so she would know where the colour
should go later.
As Mae painted, Tsang explained how she escaped her husband's view.
"I tell him that I have to get fresh garbage for the pig," whispered
Tsang. "So I go out with the empty bucket..."
"And come back with a full bucket," said Mae airily.
"Oh!" Tsang pretended to hit her. "You are as bad as me!"
"What do you think I get up to in the City?" asked Mae, arched eyebrow,
Love, she realized later, walking back down the track and clutching
her cloth bag of secrets, love is not mine. She thought of the boy's
On Thursday, Kwan wanted her teeth to be flossed. This was new. Kwan
had never been vain before. This touched Mae, because it meant her friend
was getting older. Or was it because she had seen the TV models with
their impossible teeth? How were real people supposed to have teeth
Kwan's handsome son ducked as he entered, wearing his shorts, showing
smooth full thighs, and a secret swelling about his groin. He ducked
as he went out again. Guilty, Mae thought. For certain it is him.
She lay Kwan's head back over a pillow with a towel under her.
Should she not warn her friend to keep watch on her son? Which friend
should she betray? To herself, she shook her head; there was no possibility
of choosing between them. She could only keep silent. "Just say if I
hit a nerve," Mae said.
Kwan had teeth like an old horse, worn, brown, black. Her gums were
scarred from a childhood disease, and her teeth felt loose as Mae rubbed
the floss between them. She had a neat little bag into which she flipped
each strand after it was used.
It was Mae's job to talk: Kwan could not. Mae said she did not know
how she would finish the dresses in time. The girl's mothers were never
satisfied, each wanted her daughter to have the best. Well, the richest
would have the best in the end because they bought the best cloth. Oh!
Some of them had asked to pay for the fabric later! As if Mae could
afford to buy cloth for six dresses without being paid!
"They all think their fashion expert is a woman of wealth." Mae sometimes
found the whole pretence funny. Kwan's eyes crinkled into a smile. But
they were also moist from pain.
It was hurting. "You should have told me your teeth were sore," said
Mae, and inspected the gums. In the back, they were raw.
If you were rich, Kwan, you would have good teeth, rich people keep
their teeth, and somehow keep them white, not brown. Mae pulled stray
hair out of Kwan's face.
"I will have to pull some of them," Mae said quietly. "Not today, but
Kwan closed her mouth and swallowed. "I will be an old lady," she said
and managed a smile.
"A granny with a thumping stick."
"Who always hides her mouth when she laughs."
Both of them chuckled. "And thick glasses that make your eyes look
like a fish."
Kwan rested her hand on her friend's arm. "Do you remember, years ago?
We would all get together and make little boats, out of paper, or shells.
And we would put candles in them, and send them out on the ditches."
"Yes!" Mae sat forward. "We don't do that any more."
"We don't wear pillows and a cummerbund anymore either."
There had once been a festival of wishes every year, and the canals
would be full of little glowing candles, that floated for a while and
then sank with a hiss. "We would always wish for love," said Mae, remembering.
Next morning, Mae mentioned the wish boats to her neighbour Old Mrs
Tung. Mae visited her nearly every day. Mrs Tung had been her teacher
during the flurry of what passed for Mae's schooling. She was 90 years
old, and spent her days turned towards the tiny loft window that looked
out over the valley. She was blind, her eyes pale and unfocussed. She
could see nothing through the window. Perhaps she breathed in the smell
of the fields.
When Mae reminded her about the boats of wishes, Mrs Tung said, "And
we would roast pumpkin seeds. And the ones we didn't eat, we would turn
into jewellery. Do you remember that?"
Mrs Tung was still beautiful, at least in Mae's eyes. Mrs Tung's face
had grown even more delicate in extreme old age, like the skeleton of
a cat, small and fine. She gave an impression of great merriment, by
continually laughing at not very much. She repeated herself.
"I remember the day you first came to me," she said. Before Shen's
village school, Mrs Tung kept a nursery, there in their courtyard. "I
thought: is that the girl whose father has been killed? She is so pretty.
I remember you looking at all my dresses hanging on the line."
"And you asked me which one I liked best."
Mrs Tung giggled. "Oh yes, and you said the butterflies."
Blindness meant that she could only see the past.
"We had tennis courts, you know. Here in Kizuldah."
"Did we?" Mae pretended she had not heard that before.
"Oh yes, oh yes. When the Chinese were here, just before the Communists
came. Part of the Chinese army was here, and they built them. We all
played tennis, in our school uniforms."
The Chinese officers had supplied the tennis rackets. The traces of
the courts were broken and grassy, where Mr Pin now ran his car repair
"Oh! They were all so handsome, all the village girls were so in love."
Mrs Tung chuckled. "I remember, I couldn't have been more than ten years
old, and one of them adopted me, because he said I looked like his daughter.
He sent me a teddy bear after the war." She chuckled and shook her head.
"I was too old for teddy bears by then. But I told everyone it meant
we were getting married. Oh!" Mrs Tung shook her head at foolishness.
"I wish I had married him," she confided, feeling naughty. She always
Mrs Tung even now had the power to make Mae feel calm and protected.
Mrs Tung had come from a family of educated people and once had a house
full of books. The books had all been lost in a flood many years ago,
but Mrs Tung could still recite to Mae the poems of the Turks, the Karz,
or the Chinese. She had sat the child Mae on her lap, and rocked her.
She could still recite now, the same poems.
"Listen to the reed flute," she began now, "How it tells
a tale!" Her old blind face, swayed with the words, the beginning
of The Mathnawi. "This noise of the reed is fire, it is not
Mae yearned. "Oh. I wish I remembered all those poems!" When she saw
Mrs Tung, she could visit the best of her childhood.
Mae then visited the Ozdemirs for a fitting.
The mother was called Hatijah, and her daughter was Sezen. Hatijah
was a shy, slow little thing, terrified of being overcharged by Mae,
and of being under-served. Hatijah's low, old stone house was tangy
with the smells of burning charcoal, sweat, dung, and the constantly
stewing tea. From behind the house came a continual, agonized bleating
from the family goat. It needed milking. The poor animal's voice was
going raw and harsh. Hatijah seemed not to hear it. Hatijah had four
children, and a skinny shiftless husband who probably had worms. Half
of the main room was heaped up with corn cobs. The youngest of her babes
wore only shirts and sat with their dirty naked bottoms on the corn.
Oh, this was a filthy house. Perhaps Hatijah was a bit simple. She
offered Mae roasted corn. Not with your child's wet shit on it, thought
Mae, but managed to be polite.
The daughter, Sezen, stomped in barefoot for her fitting, wearing the
dress. It was a shade of lemon yellow that seared the eyes. Sezen was
a tough, raunchy brute of girl and kept rolling her eyes at everything:
at her nervous mother, at Mae's efforts to make the yellow dress hang
properly, at anything either one of the adults said.
"Does... will...tomorrow..." Sezen's mother tried to begin.
Yes, thought Mae with some bitterness, tomorrow Sezen will finally
have to wash. Sezen's bare feet were slashed with infected cuts.
"What my mother means is," Sezen said. "Will you make up my face?"
Sezen blinked, her unkempt hair making her eyes itch.
"Yes, of course," said Mae, curtly to a younger person who was forward.
"What, with all those other girls on the same day? For someone as lowly
The girl's eyes were angry. Mae pulled in a breath.
"No one can make you feel inferior without you agreeing with them first,"
said Mae. It was something Old Mrs Tung had once told Mae when she herself
was poor and famished for magic.
"Take off the dress," Mae said. "I'll have to take it back for finishing."
Sezen stepped out of it, right there, naked on the dirt floor. Hatijah
did not chastise her, but offered Mae tea. Because she had refused the
corn, Mae had to accept the tea. At least that would be boiled.
Hatijah scuttled off to the black kettle and her daughter leaned back
in full insolence, her supposedly virgin pubes plucked as bare as the
Mae fussed with the dress, folding it, so she would have somewhere
else to look. The daughter just stared. Mae could take no more. "Do
you want people to see you? Go put something on!"
"I don't have anything else," said Sezen.
Her other sisters had gone shopping in the town for graduation gifts.
They would have taken all the family's good dresses.
"You mean you have nothing else you will deign to put on." Mae glanced
at Hatijah: she really should not be having to do this woman's work
for her. "You have other clothes, old clothes, put them on."
The girl stared at her in even greater insolence.
Mae lost her temper. "I do not work for pigs. You have paid nothing
so far for this dress. If you stand there like that I will leave, now,
and the dress will not be yours. Wear what you like to the graduation.
Come to it naked like a whore for all I care."
Sezen turned and slowly walked towards the side room.
Hatijah the mother still squatted over the kettle, boiling more water
to dilute the stew of leaves. She lived on tea and burnt corn that was
more usually fed to cattle. Her cow's eyes were averted. Untended, the
family goat made noises like a howling baby.
Mae sat and blew out air from stress. This week! She looked at Hatijah's
dress. It was a patchwork assembly of her husband's old shirts, beautifully
stitched. Hatijah could sew. Mae could not. Hatijah would know that;
it was one of the things that made the woman nervous. With all these
changes, Mae was going to have to find something else to do beside sketch
photographs of dresses. She had a sudden thought.
"Would you be interested in working for me?" Mae asked. Hatijah looked
fearful and pleased and said she would have to ask her husband. In the
end she agreed to do the finishing on three of the dresses.
Everything is going to have to change, thought Mae, as if to convince
That night Mae worked nearly to dawn on the other three
Her racketing sewing machine sat silent in the corner. It was fine
for rough work, but not for finishing, not for graduation dresses.
The bare electric light glared down at her like a headache, as Mae's
husband Joe snored. Above them in the loft, Joe's brother Siao and his
father snored too, as they had done for 20 years. In the morning they
would scamper out to the water butt to wash, holding towels over their
Mae looked into Joe's open mouth like a mystery. When he was 16 Joe
had been handsome, in the context of the village, wild, and clever.
They'd been married a year when she first went to Yeshibozkent with
him, where he worked between harvests building a house. She saw the
clever city man, an acupuncturist who had money. She saw her husband
bullied, made to look foolish, asked questions for which he had no answer.
The acupuncturist made Joe do the work again. In Yeshibozkent, her handsome
husband was a dolt.
Here they were, both of them now middle aged. Their son Lung was a
major in the Army. They had sent him to Balshang. He mailed Mae parcels
of orange skins for pot pourri; he sent cards and matches in picture
boxes. He had met some city girl. Lung would not be back. Their daughter
Ying had been pulled into Lung's orbit. She had gone to stay with him,
met trainee officers and eventually married one. She lived in an Army
housing compound, in a bungalow with a toilet.
At this hour of the morning, Mae could hear their little river, rushing
down the steep slope to the valley. Then a door slammed in the North
End. Mae knew who it would be: their Muerain, Mr Shenyalar. He would
be walking across the village to the mosque. A dog started to bark at
him; Mrs Doh's, by the bridge.
Mae knew that Kwan would be cradled in her husband's arms and that
Kwan was beautiful because she was an Eloi tribeswoman. All the Eloi
had fine features. Her husband Wing did not mind and no one now mentioned
it. But Mae could see Kwan shiver now in her sleep. Kwan had dreams,
visions, she had tribal blood and it made her shift at night as if she
had another, tribal life.
Mae knew that Kwan's clean and noble athlete son would be breathing
like a moist baby in his bed, cradling his younger brother.
Without seeing them, Mae could imagine the moon and clouds over their
village. The moon would be reflected shimmering on the water of the
irrigation canals which had once borne their paper boats of wishes.
There would be old candles, deep in the mud.
Then, the slow, sad voice of their Muerain began to sing. Even amplified,
his voice was deep and soft, like pillows that allowed the unfaithful
to sleep. In the byres, the lonely cows would be stirring. The beasts
would walk themselves to the village square, for a lick of salt, and
then wait to be herded down to valley pastures. In the evening, they
would walk themselves home. Mae heard the first clanking of a cowbell.
At that moment something came into the room, something she did not
want to see, something dark and whole like a black dog with froth around
its mouth that sat in her corner and would not go away, nameless yet.
Mae started sewing faster.
The dresses were finished on time, all six, each a different
Mae ran barefoot in her shift to deliver them. The mothers bowed sleepily
in greeting. The daughters were hopping with anxiety like water on a
It all went well. Under banners the children stood together, including
Kwan's son Luk, Sezen, all ten children of the village, all smiles,
all for a moment looking like an official poster of the future, brave,
red-cheeked with perfect teeth.
Teacher Shen read out each of their achievements. Sezen had none, except
in animal husbandry, but she still collected her certificate to applause.
And then Mae's friend Shen did something special.
He began to talk about a friend to all of the village, who had spent
more time on this ceremony than anyone 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 was devoted to the daughters and mothers of rich and poor alike
and who spread kindness and good will.
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'a'm," 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 only fluttering sounds
came out, and she saw the faces, ranged all in smiles, friends and enemies,
cousins and no 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?
© Geoff Ryman 2004
Air is published by St Martin's Press (September
2004, ISBN: 0312261217).
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