Air (or Have Not Have)

CHAPTER 17

Mae looked out of her attic window and saw snow was falling.

Winter is here, she thought with excitement. Winter was dark, enfolding, and safe. She saw her new winter very clearly: long happy hours alone in her old house, with her own glowing screen.

In the grey morning, snow blew like feathers. It nestled along the top of the stone wall, and on the roof tiles. This was good heavy snow that fell with a gentle hissing sound and mounted up quickly, as if the town were being padded with thick white pillows.

It had been so long since Mae had been outside. In winter, everyone stayed inside; no one would see her. The snow would be a veil.

Mae threw a scarf over her head, and wrapped round one of Kwan's Eloi sheepskins. It sat slightly askew around her shoulders, bulky and still smelling of lanolin.

Outside on the landing, she snapped on a light. The staircase stayed dark. Kwan called up through the darkness. 'There's a power failure!'

Mae felt her way down the staircase. The main room had its front door open to let in grey light.

'I'm going out in the snow!' Mae announced. 'Come along!'

Kwan's answering chuckle was both affectionate and edgy. There had been no sign of the army, but Kwan was still cautious. 'I'll stay here,' said Kwan.

Mae eased herself down Kwan's slippery stone steps. The snow was already sealing over the dungheap next to the barn. Mae's own breath was a sheltering scarf of fog.

All sounds were muted. On the chilly stones of the courtyard the snow looked like lace, its delicate patterns refrigerated from underneath. Mae pushed the courtyard gate, and for the first time in weeks stepped back out into her village.

Everything was being tucked into a bed of snow, as if by a mother. The houses and terraces were all outlined in white. From the high hillside came the tuneless clanking of twenty or thirty sheep bells. Someone had left his flock out to pasture too long. Mae smiled. The same happened every year. Was it Old Mr Pin? Lazy Mr Mack? Who would sit in a corner of the Teahouse, smoking a hubbly-bubbly and grinning with embarrassment?

Mae walked up and over the bridge. The invulnerable ducks still paddled in snow-rimmed water. Mae passed the door of Mrs Doh and her fearsome dog. Mae heard its breath, and the scratching of its giant claws against the other side of the doorway. She caught a gasp of food odours from Mrs Doh's kitchen window: garlic, bean sauce, rice.

The next door opened just as Mae was beside it.

Out came Sunni's friend, Mrs Ali. 'Oh!' she said startled. Then she saw it was Mae. Her face faltered and then recovered.

'Hello,' she said. 'It snows.'

This was awkward. Village manners would not allow them to part without talking. Mrs Ali slammed her door twice with her customary thoroughness. She was bundled up against the chill, tall, skinny, regal and slightly absurd, like a walking telephone pole.

'It is very beautiful,' said Mae. 'It makes me feel like I have come home.'

Then the old rake did not know what to say, for Mae plainly had lost her home several times over. She was discomfited, but not hostile.

'Well, we all have fond memories of snow.' Mrs Ali paused. 'I hear your business does well.'

They both started to walk down the hill together.

'Yes. We have orders from America for five hundred collars. I don't know how we will do all the work!'

That was so far beyond Mrs Ali's imagination that she could not be sure she had heard correctly.

'Successful indeed!' she said, and her smile froze. 'That brings in money?'

'It is a special deal. We have a good relationship with a New York fashion magpie. So we said, join our Circle and wear our collar for only ten dollars each.'

Yes, thought Mae, that does make five thousand dollars. 'So amidst all the terrible things that have happened, there has been some good. The ladies of the Circle share the money. Sunni and I are friends again.' Mae shrugged with her eyebrows, a kind of peace offering. Don't forget that I have been hurt too.

They were at the Okans', the last house on Upper Street. Mrs Ali paused.

'I have noticed,' said Mrs Ali, 'that your friends tend to benefit.' She looked back at Mae, and there was something completely unexpected: a rueful humour, as if Mae were one of life's bitter jokes.

'Good day,' said Mrs Ali. 'I have no lard, and winter is upon us, and I go to beg some from Sunni.' She turned and began to trudge uphill towards Sunni's big house.

There was a rumble, as if from the sky. Mae scowled. Something shifted gears and roared and suddenly, a truck came round the hill and up Upper Street, straight towards her.

A big green truck with huge devouring tyres.

Army! Mae thought, and it was a though a fist had seized hold of her heart and stopped it pumping. She ducked to the side of the Okans' house.

Army, army, army, army, struggled her heart as if to breathe.

The truck roared past, green canvas over camouflaged sides, lashed down, bolted, huge. Army, army, army roaring up the hill, slowing to shoulder their way over the bridge.

Towards Kwan's house.

Mae ran without thinking. Her feet slipped on the snowy cobbles; the cold reached down like deep roots into her lungs. Please! Please! It was a prayer.

She had to be there to tell her story, to explain. I am New York Times! I am New York Times! Mae ran out of breath and had to lean forward onto her knees. Fire from her pregnancy shot up her gorge into her mouth. She swallowed, pushed herself upright and struggled on up the hill. Kwan's gates gaped defencelessly. The courtyard already full of truck. Mae stumbled into the yard.

There was a bloodcurdling yell, and the green door of the cab swung open. A bull of a man burst out of it in piebald camouflage. Before Mae could think, he was running towards her, full pelt. male. huge, fast, young, and strong. She managed to skid to a halt, and was about to turn and run.

He grabbed hold of her.

And then swung her round and round and round. Her string shoes with their slippery leather soles left the ground. She flew. Kwan's courtyard became a merry-go-round, spinning around her, and the man was laughing. Mae wanted to be sick.

He kissed her.

'Surprise!' he called, as if out of a nightmare. Mae's feet were helpless as flippers as she fought to find footing.

She looked up at him. She saw his teeth grinning. 'It's me!' he said.

The world shifted gears like a truck. Her breath left her, she clutched at her chest, all was confusion.

'Lung?' she asked. 'Lung!' For one further terrible moment she thought her own son had come to arrest her best friend.

He laughed. 'Not expecting me were you?'

'No,' she said weakly. 'What are you doing here?'

He laughed again. 'We are bringing you your knitting machine!' As big as a tree branch, his arm was flung towards the cargo under the canvas.

'Oh!' she called out, clutching herself in relief. 'Oh! Oh!'

'Your Mr Oz told me the machine was going, and said, it would be a good chance for me to see you again. Also we have the new TV for you! Did no one tell you?'

Relief spilled over, sloppily, loosely into other emotions. 'Oh Lung!' she said again, and hugged him, held onto him as if he were a new village tree to root things in place. Suddenly it was joyful to see him. Out of confusion, relief, and love her eyes were suddenly full of tears. He chuckled and patted her back. 'Meet my colleagues,' he said.

Two more soldiers lurched out of the cab. One was small and wiry with bad teeth in a cheerful grin. The other looked uncomfortable smiling. He was slim in the hips but fat in the face. Fat and brutal was how he would swell into the future. Both bowed slightly in politeness.

'This is Private Ozer, and Sergeant Alkanuh,' said Lung. 'This is my mother, Mrs Chung Mae.'

Mae was shivering with cold and nerves but managed to bow to each of them. She looked back at her son. The cold was bringing a beautiful pink to her cheeks. The two soldiers were chuckling, the tears and emotion were what they expected from a homecoming. Mae saw Kwan, pale, grey at a window.

'Kwan!' Mae called. 'It is my son Lung. He has brought our knitting machine.' She pushed the tear out of her face and smiled, smiled as wide as she could so that Kwan would see everything was all right.

'Kwan, come out and see my huge, new son! I mean, machine!'

They all laughed because it was true.

Lung was a monster. He had left home as a skinny, spotty seventeen-year-old, off to Army College and refusing to admit that he was shy of the future. Army food and training had made him tall and broad and fit. And he was handsome, oh how handsome Lung had become! She stared in wonder at his perfect face, his perfect teeth, his perfect combed jet black hair.

'Why didn't you tell me?' she said and hit him, lightly on the arm.

His colleagues chuckled again.

'I thought Mr Oz would tell you,' he said, coyly, charmingly.

The skinny one spoke. 'Lung wanted to surprise you.'

'He surprised me all right, I thought I would die!' Her eyes betrayed her again, she wept again. 'It has been three years since I have seen him!'

Shaking like fine china on an unsteady shelf, Kwan crept down the stone steps of her house, clutching her coat. Kwan looked as though she had been punched in the belly.

'Mrs Wing-ma'am,' said Lung, with a practised adult politeness that would have been beyond him when he left home. He bowed, and beamed, and enveloped Kwan's frail hand in his own. 'It is so good to see old friends.' He smiled. He held onto Kwan's hand and said to Mae, 'Come, quick, see your beautiful machine.' He escorted them both to the back of the truck and flung back the tarpaulin with one huge gesture.

The weaving machine like her son was huge, brown and khaki.

Lung chuckled. 'Mrs Wing-ma'am,' he asked the owner of the barns. 'Where do you want it?'

Mae spoke instead. 'Oh not here. I have rented our old house. It needs to go there.'

Lung's smile faltered; he did not look at her, but he managed not to look sad, or ashamed.

The beefy one with the dark chin said, 'We better get it there, Lieutenant,' said the Sergeant. 'Before the snow settles too badly.

'And there's a power failure,' warned Mae.

Lung barked with laughter. 'Of course! There always is the first snow of winter! Come on, let's get this in!' He bowed again, quickly to Kwan, and was striding back to the cab on legs as thick as prize hams. 'Come on, Mama!'

'We need to stop at Sunni's.' said Mae. He pulled her into the cab, and for lack of space sat her on his lap. It was strange to be so supported by your baby.

'I remember when I used to hold you like this,' she said. He looked like a barrel full of apples, all round, red. She knew she was looking with a mother's eyes, but there was no doubt. He was so much better looking than the other two. They were invisible next to him, as if you were blinded from looking at the sun.

No wonder a Western girl fell in love with you, Mae thought. They must all fall in love with you. She felt herself fall in love with him, all over again. So this is what my son grew up into. Lieutenant Chung.

Mae realized that her son was the best looking man she had ever seen. Better looking than a movie star. But he smelled different from those pretty boys, there was nothing wispy about him. This was someone, you could tell, who jumped from aeroplanes, who built rope bridges across ravines.

Mae thought of Joe. No wonder he had been so proud, so amazed at what had stepped out from his own loins. No wonder he wanted to talk about nothing else. Lung was the one good thing he had done.

'We stop here,' Lung told the skinny driver, and the truck whined to a professional halt, not skidding in the snow.

Sunni greeted Lung graciously, just as if the family Chung had not been shattered by scandal. Her kitchen still smelled of gas and was lit with a gas lamp.

Mae murmured to her about housing the machine in the old house. Sunni waved a hand, in a grand ladylike way that was also slightly crabby. Mae suddenly saw how she would be when she was old. Saw that Sunni was already getting old, but that somehow, getting old would be good for her.

'Oh!' Sunni said. 'I already told that man of mine, I said we will get nothing else for that old place, it's only good for giving to tenants and who needs tenants? They are trouble, you have to give them the house for free with the land. Pshaw! Fifteen riels a month.'

'Twelve,' said Mae.

'Twelve,' said Sunni. 'But only because I want to see to see the machine loaded.'

Both ladies got to sit on Lung's lap, one thigh each.

The snow still fell, shooting past the windscreen as the truck moved through it. The snow looked like shooting stars, as if they were travelling through outer space.

Their old house turned as if to greet them, grey as a ghost.

'I'll get the gate,' Mae said, and stepped down from the truck. She lifted up the ground bolts, and wondered why she did not feel more. Snow, power failure, Lung, machine, there was too much going on to feel the pain and the loss of what had happened. That was good.

As the gate opened amid a spangle of illuminated snow, it was more like a festival.

The huge green van bounced into the courtyard, just missing taking off the lintel from the gate. All Mr Ken's hens were inside out of the cold or surely some of them would have been crushed. The great truck swung around and backed up. Mae saw Mr Ken's house, darkened as if deserted.

Her washing line was folded, her kitchen door was locked, and the stump for chopping wood lay sideways. Mae went to open up the barn.

The bolts were cold on her hands; the old doors groaned as if in protest at being awakened. The earthen floor had been beaten flat as polished flagstone.

The floor sloped down, as did the entire courtyard.

Lung stepped out of the truck, holding what looked like a remote control. Sunni hung back behind him as if afraid. Mae walked out then.

'We've got to put it on something first,' she said.

'Why?'

'There are floods,' said Mae.

Mae felt as if elastic braces were drawing in around her heart as she knocked on Mr Ken's door.

She looked at the old grey wood of the door, and waited unable to breathe, feeling Lung's eyes on her back. She heard footsteps; the door opened.

There he was. Mr Ken. He looked older than she remembered, more rumpled, but then she had seen Hikmet Tunch, and her son Lung, since. His eyes quickened when he first saw her, widened, darted over her face, then looked behind and saw the truck. He tried to straighten his hair; he looked embarrassed, befuddled.

'Hello, Mae,' he said. 'What's going on?'

There was no time for yearning, remembrance, or even any sign of what happened. Not with Joe's son looking on.

'Hello,' she said with restraint. 'I am sorry to bother you like this. But we are putting a new machine in the barn…'

'My mother needs to talk to you about this…'

Mae cut him off. 'It is actually Sunni's barn and I rent it. You once said that you had no use for the stone drinking troughs. Can I have them?'

He looked at her with an expression that was impossible to read. You and I meet again and we talk about this?

'I'm moving back in,' she told him. 'I've only just decided.'

Behind her, Sunni said to Lung, 'I have the keys. Let's get the TV inside.'

Kuei's hands did a helpless little wave. 'Have them if you want. They are very old. What do want them for?'

It would not be right not to warn him.

'There will be a flood. Everything will be washed away. I need to have my machine on a platform, to save it.'

His whole face was wary. 'This is Grandmother talking,' he said. 'Every winter, she would always warn us about the flood.'

'This time it's true.' All right, don't believe me, she thought. I have no time to argue. The truck's engine is running and so is Lung's. She glanced behind and saw her TV lowered from the back of the van. 'May I have the use of the troughs? I can pay you for them, whatever you ask.'

Mr Ken held up a hand. 'Take them, take them.'

Mae nodded, smiling, hoping her eyes were also able to jam into such snatched time, a form of remembrance.

'I'll have them back when the flood does not come,' he said darkly, and shut the door on her.

Mae blinked, for that had been too sudden. She turned slowly, followed her TV as it was huffed and sighed into her old house.

'Here, here, into its new home!' enthused Sunni, too bright, too glowing. She was covering for Mae. The house was small and dark and smelled of dust. Noodles had stiffened on plates left on the table. Some of Mae's old dresses still hung from the wall, as if preserved by the cold. Lung glanced down, ashamed.

'Does it convert to Aircast?' Sunni asked tapping the top of the TV.

'Oh yes, I expect Sezen will use it to serve Collabo.'

'Can I rent it?' Sunni asked. Mae hesitated. 'I want to serve high fashion. We can split the market.'

'It has possibilities,' said Mae. 'We'll talk tomorrow.'

The two fashion experts nodded, eyes hooded. Then something happened. Listen to us both, they seemed to say, and both burst out laughing at themselves.

'Captains of industry,' said Lung, but he was smiling.

The truck roared back into Kwan's courtyard to find it full of preparations for a party.

A tractor ran its engine and its lights, and Mr Wing and Mr Atakoloo were moving tables. Children stuck their heads through the gate and turned to run back home. There always was a party with the first snow, this year it would be at the Big House.

The forecourt quickly filled with people. Hot wine was left on braziers that smoked as much as most people's mouths steamed.

Men took cups of warm wine and stood on Mr Wing's steps. Lung strode into their midst, shaking hands, remembering names. Mae, as his mother, accompanied him.

'Ah, you've grown!' said men snatching hats from heads, out of politeness.

Mr Ali squared up to Lung. 'Your father tells us much of your doings. You are a lieutenant now, I hear.'

'Yes, luckily enough, I had early promotion.'

'Your father is very proud of you,' said Mr Ali, glancing in Mae's direction, the fallen mother.

'That is good to hear. He lives in Balshang now, so I see him every day.' Lung smiled and plainly moved on.

'Good evening Mr Ali,' said Mae, deliberately sounding pleased. 'Lung has bought me a huge weaving machine. It is automatic, and intelligent. It will help the Ladies Circle meet all its orders.

Mr Ali was as heavy as lead. He glowered at her and did not answer. 'And you are looking so well Mr Ali,' said Mae in a little bell-like voice. 'So plump. If you don't mind me saying.' Mr Ali pushed past her as if to go for more red wine.

Mae saw her own family arrive. Ju-mei, his wife, Mae's mother and, after some deliberation no doubt, Siao and Old Mr Chung.

'Lung! Lung!' called Ju-mei.

'Uncle!'

Mae deliberated too and decided to let Lung greet his uncle without her. The two men hugged, and clapped each other's backs. Ju-mei wore a heavy Russian coat and pork pie hat. He looked like a Party chairman. Lung paused when he saw his Uncle Siao, and blinked in some surprise that the two families were friends. Siao shook his hand and winked. He and Lung hugged too, but the hug was gentler, less showy. Lung had grown up with Siao, who was more of a big brother to him than an uncle. Siao looked up. His eyes caught Mae's, and he gestured for her to come near them.

Very well, thought Mae. For your sake, Siao. She remembered: Siao has never fought me or called me bad names. She was surprised; she realized that she knew in her heart that Siao would keep things calm and good.

Mae saw her mother's plump face close up like a purse as she approached. Old Mrs Wang retreated from Mae behind Ju-mei's Russian back. His face looked like polished soapstone. Siao spoke first. 'Mae, how are things with you?'

'I am happy to say the business goes well.'

'And happy to see Lung,' said Siao.

'Indeed!' chuckled Mae.

Old Mr Chung blinked like an ancient tortoise, and bowed sweetly to Mae, out of respect or mere good form.

'We are all happy to see you, Lung.' Ju-mei grinned awkwardly and jabbed his upper body up and down like a crow pecking at road kill. He was trying to bow with respect to his officer nephew.

None of them were comfortable. Mae glanced up and saw a tight little knot of Alis and Dohs, peering at them over their shoulders. They were a spectacle: the family of the deserted husband in company with the adulterous wife and her brother.

'People are staring,' said Mae's mother miserably.

Mae felt sorry for her, so small and worried. 'Pay them no mind, Mama.'

'It is easy for you to say, you are a woman who has no face left to lose,' said her mother. 'You do not even come to call on us.'

So which is it Mama, are you ashamed of me or mad because I do not call, or are you just looking for another reason to be miserable?

Siao intervened. 'Perhaps it is because Mae is embarrassed that her husband's family are staying there with you, Mrs Wang-ma'am.'

'You credit her with delicacy,' said Mae's mother. 'Ju-mei, I cannot bear this. I am on show. I have been an object of show all my life. I thought all that had ended. But there is always something. I so look forward to the first winter party, but I must… I must…' Mama had stared to quaver again.

'You stay here, Mama,' said Mae. 'I was just going back into the kitchen.'

Lung looked dismayed. 'I'll be down in a while, Mama,' he said.

Mae smiled with gratitude at Lung and said goodbye to them all in turn. Standing as straight as she could, Mae turned sideways to slip through the crowd and down the stairs to Kwan's kitchen.

Kwan was at work, wearing her best dress. The tables were already full of food. 'It's a good thing I guessed the party would be here,' Kwan said. Whenever there was a power failure, there would be a party in someone's courtyard.

Mae's stomach suddenly felt heavy and she had to sit down. They were alone so Mae said quickly, 'I don't know what else these soldiers know, so it will be good to stay cautious.' In the half-darkness, the two women looked at each other. It was plain where Mae's loyalties lay. From outside there came a swelling of laughter. Lung had finished a story.

'Can I help?' asked Sunni.

Without missing a beat, Kwan smiled. 'Sunni! Hello. Yes, I am sure there is much to do.'

So there they were, the three of them, in Kwan's kitchen, with the ropes of garlic around the wall and the pile of round village bread.

'Shall I restore the bread for you?' Sunni asked. Village bread was dry and needed to be moistened.

Mae offered, 'I could string the beans.'

'Oh, it will be fun with just us three,' said Kwan, kneeling. She hoisted out a bucket of water and a tray for soaking bread.

'Yes, it will be good to sit and be convivial,' said Sunni, and smiled at Mae. The kitchen smelled of pork and rice. 'Oh! Soy and lard on boiled rice. Oh, that takes me home.' Sunni, though Muslim, had grown up in a liberal household.

Mae strung and snapped the beans. Sunni took out her corncob pipe and so did Kwan. 'Look at us, we look like old grannies!' said Sunni.

'We are, nearly,' said Mae.

'Oh! You talk!' said Sunni.

'Lung is to be married soon,' said Mae, not quite telling the truth. How could she admit that she had not been asked to the wedding?

'You bet,' said Sunni, 'He is a prince, and any girl with brains would get him as fast as she could.'

'She is a Western girl,' said Mae. 'She is very pretty, educated, and says she likes me. This is because of my screens. How can you like someone for their screens?'

'Oh,' said Sunni and looked sad. 'Then we will lose him?'

Mae let this sink in. 'Yes,' she said. 'I am sure he will stay in Bal-shang at least. And who knows, he may even go back to Canada with his wife.'

'Has he talked about what has happened?' Kwan asked. She meant the end of Mae's marriage.

'Yes.' Mae played with the beans and with the truth of the situation. 'Mostly he tells me he forgives me for what has happened. But I don't think he really has.'

'Ah,' said Sunni, getting down to the meat of it.

'I don't think he really understands it,' said Mae.

'I don't think I do,' said Sunni.

Kwan said nothing. Her back as she worked listened and was tense.

'It was love,' murmured Mae.

'Oh I understand that. I understand why you married Joe and I understand why you would tire of him. Speaking frankly.'

'Indeed,' said Kwan, for Sunni was being very frank.

'There is no other way to talk about these things. What I don't understand, now that Joe has gone off with the Pincushion, is why you are not with Mr Ken.'

'Ah,' said Mae. She had no immediate answer.

Sunni patted Mae's hand. 'Joe has left you. That evens things up. Go live with your Mr Ken. The rest of us will get used to things in the end.'

'I'm not scared of the village,' said Mae. 'But I do sometimes wonder if I love Mr Ken because his grandmother does.'

'Ah,' said Sunni, and her hand shuddered.

'I think I see him sometimes through Old Mrs Tung's eyes.'

The room seemed to hold its breath with the cold.

Lung strode in, booming, 'And what good things are you ladies cooking?'

Back to work.

The ladies carried out vats of quick-fried beans, swollen wet bread, and pots of rice with tiny chillies burning within it. The army truck played Lectro on its Balshang radio. Its vast army antennae could pull in signals from the capital. Kizuldah heard advertisements for hypermarkets, toilet paper, and clubs that could play Airfiles on giant TV screens.

The villagers hated the music. A cable was strung from the army van's battery to a cassette player, and more traditional music was played for the adults.

All four hundred people were crowded into the courtyard and barn despite the snow that was still falling, as if the stars had given up clinging to heaven.

They chuckled and sipped tea from mugs. The mugs were then filled with rice and beans. Kwan, Sunni, and Mae moved among the people passing out the food.

The men had to take beans from Mae. The situation allowed no other response. They looked at her, said nothing, were grumpy out of loyalty to Joe. But Joe was not here. And Joe had gone off with Mr Muhammed's wife.

They took the winter food in silence and Mae's presence was made more normal if unwelcome.

Some of the younger men, overcome by the cold, by energy, by the end of the year's work, began to dance. The girls squealed arid pretended to be overcome with embarrassment, hiding their cheeks, turning their backs. And turning again to look.

The married women smiled ruefully and shook their heads. The older men held their hands over their ears as if hating the music and wavered and wobbled in secret rivalry.

'I always knew men were more interested in each other,' said Mrs Mack. Mrs Mack? Mae laughed and touched her arm. Mrs Mack, less aloof towards Mae than others, responded with a chuckle at herself. 'Did I say that?'

'I am afraid so. You are wild Western woman,' joked Mae.

'Oh!' said Mrs Mack, not so pleased with the stale view of her Christianity. 'Yes. I look like the motorcycle girl.'

'I'm sorry. I am the village fallen woman, remember?'

'Tuh. These villagers,' said Mrs Mack. 'They forgive murder faster.'

Mrs Pin said, 'Pay no attention to them, Mae.'

Mrs Mack leaned forward. 'I understand that you are shorthanded in the Circle. I sew well…'

Mae still needed allies. 'Yah, sure, you want to join? Please! Why did you not say so before?'

Mrs Mack was too Christian not to be blunt. 'I didn't know you were making all that money.'

There was not much to say in reply to that.

'And they say money can't buy friendship,' said Mae.

'It can't,' replied Mrs Mack, blunt again.

Mrs Doh, who could practise tact, ballooned out her eyes at the behaviour of her two friends.

Mae paused. 'I'll take that to mean we are friends beyond the money.'

Mrs Mack paused. 'If you like. But you have not previously regarded me much. No one in this village does.' Her eyes were sad.

'We will be at work tomorrow, in my old house,' said Mae. 'Come and join us. All of you.'

'You are kind to extend such a valuable invitation,' said Mrs Doh, the fine lines on her eyes and forehead wincing at Mrs Mack's Christian manners.

There was a sudden involuntary stir amid the people. Oh! said one of the girls.

Lung had joined the dancers. He hopped in, no embarrassment, looking incredibly pleased to be there. And began to dance as a village dance should be done, broadly, happily, rolling his shoulders, hips, and arms in one great sinewy motion. It was what was needed, to finally make the party warm.

Some of the women ululated, in high warbling warrior tones. The men joined in. The slower and fatter men finally hopped into the middle. White beards mocked themselves, or showed that once, they could dance with the best. But no one could compete with Lung.

He began to clap his hands high over his head, he spun around on his heels. The other younger men in the village began to gather round him, to dance just as vigorously. In the cab, Ozer snapped off the Lectro. The flutes, the violins, the tablas of the traditional music flooded the courtyard.

Lung began to sing along. He could sing too, and his voice when lifted up was not that of a Balshang Otter, or a Karzistani Soldier. It was the voice of a happy peasant who had eaten his fill and was dancing to keep warm in the winter.

Every village had one, a Tatlises, a Sweet Voice. Lung's voice slipped around notes as if escaping them, escaping order, to follow the flow of blood of the heart.

'Gel, gel, goomooleh gel,' he sang. Come, come, to a house of welcome. They all danced, they all clapped, even the women began to dance in the snow, amid the sound of who they were.

And Mae's heart that had been starved of company was suddenly stuffed full. She could feel it strain, like a belly, with the light, the noise, her people, and her son.

Joe was a village hero, too, Mae suddenly thought. When he was young.

The air's warmer. It always is after the snow comes.

Too warm, warned Mrs Tung. That's all she could say, too warm, over and over.

Finally people left late, bustling children to bed.

Discipline drilled into them, the soldiers did all the clearing up, gathering up the basins, mugs, spoons. The women were helpless before their speed. Kwan shook their heads. 'We are surplus, ladies,' she joked.

'Why can't we have the army all the time?' Mrs Nan said.

In the kitchen the three soldiers scrubbed the cutlery and boiled water in the pans, scalding off the fats and oils and congealing beans.

'We'll sleep in the truck,' said Lung. Kwan insisted that she had spare rooms. The soldiers nodded in polite gratitude, shaking hands before going to get their bags.

'I will walk you upstairs,' said Lung to Mae.

'I am unlikely to come to harm,' said Mae, smiling. But all understood. He needed to talk.

The joy of the evening fell away behind them as they climbed the stairs. He carried a candle. Mae had to take his arm in the dark. She began to remember their recent unpleasant exchanges by voicemail.

He helped her fold away her scarf and sheepskin.

'You got my warning then,' he said.

In the dark, it was as though Mae could see the steam of her breath glowing. 'It was you?'

Her mind raced: if it was Lung, not Tunch, then the army knows. Did he send the second encryption as well? If so, was he a friend? If not, she must not tell him anything else.

Lung whispered, 'Yes, ssh.'

Mae began to calculate. 'You know about Kwan?'

'Yes,' he said simply.

'Is she in danger?' Mae asked. She began to feel sick.

Lung sighed, 'I don't think so, now. Those screens have gone. She should be all right. After all, you have made Kizuldah famous. What you might ask her to do, which would be even better, is for her to put up some new screens that tell both sides of the story.'

Like milk, the very air seemed to curdle, go sour.

Lung elaborated. 'You know. How the government houses the Eloi, gives them homes…'

'Refrigerators in Balshang,' murmured Mae.

'Yes.' He sounded pleased; she could almost see the teeth in his smile.

'That way, the world does not puzzle over where the site has gone,' Mae added.

'You are very wise,' said Lung. 'But then, you always were wise, Mama.'

She was thinking: You came here to accomplish this. To get Kwan's site to do the government's work.

No. You came here to protect your own career in the army.

Lung relaxed; he felt he had done his job. 'Who would have thought you could do all this? The site, the business? Where did you learn all this?'

Mae was narrow-eyed in the darkness. What was he trying to find out now? 'Oh,' she said airily. 'Your mother is not so stupid. It is all available on the TV.'

'And from Hikmet Tunch,' said Lung, lightly.

'Indeed.'

'How did you find him?'

'He found me.'

It was strange being interrogated by her own son, in a dark and unheated room, as if they had both died and come back as Evil Dead.

Her dead son gave a short, slightly edged laugh. 'No. I mean, what did you think of him?'

'What do you think of him?'

'I think you should stay away from him.'

Mae decided not to ask him: Is that what the army thinks? She decided to deceive him, to protect Kwan, herself, her Circle. 'Why?' she asked in innocence.

'Look. The government likes him being here, he brings in money, but he does things in that place that are illegal everywhere else. You know how he started?'

'As a computer student?'

'Oh, Mother, he was the country's biggest drug smuggler. They let him off because he runs a computer business.'

'Our government would do such a thing?' Mae sounded shocked.

'Our government does many things,' said Lung, quietly.

And you are its servant, thought Mae. You look at what you do full in the face, and you still serve it so that you can be a lieutenant. And Kwan will never put up a site to do what you want.

We could all end up looking at you, my son, from the wrong end of a gun.

Come, Air, and blow governments away.

Then her son said, 'What are you going to do about the pregnancy?'

Mae's whole face pulled back until it was as tight as a mask. 'The usual things.'

'It is not a usual pregnancy.'

Mae watched the wreathing of her icy breath. 'Who told you that?'

Lung blew out. 'That man Tunch. Well…'

'A nurse called Fatimah.'

Lung jerked with a chuckle, amused by his mother's quickness. 'Yes. She at least seems very concerned for you.'

'Yes she is. Perhaps we should both avoid that man Tunch.'

She couldn't read Lung's reaction. He shrugged and laughed and nodded. 'No disagreement there.' Then concern. 'Are you okay, well?'

Mae decided not to let him off the hook. 'No. I feel sick and as you can see I am not welcome many places in the village.'

His eyes could not meet hers. He ducked and ran a hand over his hair.

Mae asked him, 'How is your father?'

'Ugh,' said Lung, involuntarily.

'Seeing a lot of him? He visits you often?' she asked.

'I can't hide from you, Mama. He is there all weekend, every weekend. Sometimes I have to say to him, look, Dad, I am having all the officers over for dinner.'

Dark, dark, and cold, in this attic room not her own.

'And the officers, do they find him interesting?'

'Don't, Mama. No, they don't find him interesting. He gets drunk, and tries to talk up what he has done, and pretends to be a businessman.'

And Tsang, thought Mae, I wonder how you like the overripe peach that people must mistake for your mother.

'But he also visits your sister Ying.'

'Yes, yes, he bounces between the two of us. But she is married to an officer too.'

Mae saw it all: poor Joe, desperate, helplessly in love with his son, yearning only to see Lung and how strong and smart he was, and trying, also desperately, to avoid seeing that he was in his son's way, his daughter's way.

You are not so smart, Lung. You are enough of your father's son, I saw that somehow tonight. This is as far as you will go, and then you too will start, unaccountably, to fade.

'You want some advice, son?' Mae moved through the winter silk of the night. She took the hard band of muscle beside his neck and worked it. 'The army will not like it that you have a Western wife. They will be disappointed in your father. You know what you should do? Though this pains me, I cannot think only of myself. You should be your wife's husband, and go back with her to Canada.'

Lung sighed. 'I know.'

And then, thought Mae, you will not be a spy on all of us.