Air (or Have Not Have)

by Geoff Ryman

  Kwan's fingers danced on a keyboard. Words in English rattled on the screen.

  'Audio. Karz output, Eloic input,' Kwan ordered. 'Volume down.'

  Then she gave orders in the language of her people. Her language flapped and cawed like a raven and seemed to make Kwan into a different person, less considered, more urgent.

  Up came a photograph of Eloi embroidery.

  The television murmured as if it had a secret. 'The Eloi people are an ancient race, now living in the mountainous region of Karzistan. Karzistan is on the borders of China, Tibet, and Khazakstan. These screens have been created by the Eloi people themselves.'

  The screens offered 'Arts.' Under 'Arts,' Suloi and Kwan sang in high straining voices. In video, they told old stories, while English words danced around them. There were screens of tattoo patterns. Kwan's patient voice explained their meaning. Mae recognized the neatness and complexity of the tattoo outlines. Kwan had drawn them. The patterns, like Kwan, were restrained and somehow private.

  Next, the meaning of the embroidered Eloi breastplates was explained. These collars were worn by courting men and their betrothed. Note, the television said, that the beads all form straight parallel lines symbolizing two lives in conjunction.

  Photographs of the old forts, tales of Eloi heroes against the Cossacks, the Turks, and the Chinese. A history of war.

  A section on the 'Heroes,' meaning the men who fought against the Communists.

  'Few people in the West even knew of the conflict. It lasted for generations and ended in defeat for the Communists and the creation of a new republic. We thought it would be for all the people, not just the Karzistani majority.'

  Behind Kwan's voice, shepherds began to sing. They sang of heroism, about living in the hills and praying to all their various gods, smoking thin cigarettes in freezing winds under clear stars. Heroes rolled rocks down onto the heads of troops, only to find that the crushed bodies were those of their cousins conscripted into the Communist armies.

  Photographs, in smeared black-and-white, were shown. Handsome young Eloi dead stared up at the sky, their chins missing. Handsome young Eloi, alive around fires, their eyes burning with this message: I may die, but it will be worth it. We are the people who stopped the Chinese, who stopped the Arabs. The Eloi are the world's great secret force against tyrants.

  Where did Kwan get these photos?

  Then Mae remembered: Kwan's father, dear Old Mr Kowoloia.

  Dear Old Mr Kowoloia must have been a terrorist. Kwan had these photos. She has kept them secret from all of us.

  So this is why she wanted the Central Man gone.

  'Kwan, is this wise?' Mae asked.

  'The site is locked against any instructions in Karzistani. Only in Eloi or in English.'

  On came the video of the Karzistani woman in her new Balshang apartment. Kwan's recorded voice grew harsher.

  'Listen closely to the Eloi woman, torn away from her people, praising refrigerators. Her voice is rehearsed, her eyes fearful. For she knows: Her people are being destroyed.'

  Mae looked over her shoulder. What if the government man should hear? She looked back, and saw: Kwan's hands were two pale fists, the skin over the knuckles dead white. With rage.

  'We appeal to the world. Do not let this great and graceful people disappear from history. All you need do is show that you are interested in us, as you once were when we controlled the passes through which wound the Silk Road to China.'

  'Sleep,' ordered Kwan.

  Mae breathed out. 'I'll keep that spy away.' No wonder you had not told me. Tell the truth, Mae.

  'I am jealous,' said Mae. 'I had vague plans to learn how to do that. You went and did it. How?'

  'After you left,' said Kwan.

  'From four a.m. to seven a.m., every day?'

  Kwan nodded. 'Suloi and me together.'

  'Wing did not know?'

  'He did not care,' said Kwan, and stood up, graceful, dignified. Eloi, thought Mae. Every particle of her soul is Eloi, and I did not know that, so I did not know her. Like her screens, she is locked away. You must speak Eloi, to have the key.

  'Will… Will you teach me how to do that?' Mae burned to know.

  Kwan looked bleary now from confession and the exhaustion that follows. 'The TV will do a better job of that than I can,' she said. She took Mae's hand and slapped it as if in apology. Do not be surprised -you are my dear Mae, but you are also Chinese in the end: the enemy.

  Kwan lit a cigarette. She pulled a bit of stray tobacco from the tip of her tongue. 'The real question is: What is the nature of our alliance with Sunni?'

  Mae shook her head. This was all moving very quickly. 'Not very strong,' she replied.

  Kwan turned to Mae. 'Do you want to destroy Sunni?'

  'She tries to destroy me,' said Mae.

  'Do you wish to see her destitute?'

  Mae shrugged. 'No. I don't wish anyone in the village to be destitute. Why?'

  Kwan was really very strange. She seemed to uncoil like a serpent, pushing herself away from the TV box.

  Kwan sighed. 'TV does not come free, you know.'

  Mae waited.

  'It comes like calls on a mobile phone. Every time you choose something, you pay. Our government subsidy pays Mr Wing's telephone bills so the TV gets used for the entire village. But the telephone company will charge everyone else. We administer for them.'

  Kwan unfolded a blue, official-looking piece of paper. I told Faysal Haseem that. But you know how he is: "Uh, you charge twice, you try to trick me, I no pay you!"' Kwan did a remarkably good job of imitating him. 'So I didn't tell him again. The first month's bill is fifty riels.'

  Mae felt nothing; or rather, she felt a balancing that left the scales at zero. 'We need him as an ally.'

  'What I was going to do, was let it get to one hundred and twenty-five riels, and then say: "My husband's company will cover these costs. Even though we warned you. We will do this if you write off the loan to Chung Mae."'

  'That was very kind,' said Mae. She could imagine it: Sunni's face held like it was fragile porcelain as Mae kept the money without paying it back. She could see Faysal Haseem glower.

  And she could see herself in debt to Wing Kwan in other ways.

  'We will drop all this rivalry,' said Mae. In the end you had to support your own against the government, or even the telephone company.

  Kwan smiled, pleased, 'I thought so.'

  Sunni's TV set was on even at eleven at night.

  It flickered in Mr Haseem's courtyard, showing a fashion parade. Mae hid her smile. Is that as far as Sunni had got with it? To choose picture shows?

  Only one person was watching. Mrs Ali turned in her chair, saw Mae, and blinked.

  'Good evening, Mrs Chung,' Mrs Ali said after a moment.

  'Mrs Ali.' Mae bowed. 'I wish to speak to Mrs Haseem-ma'am.'

  Mrs Ali considered. 'I will tell her you are here.'

  'I will need to talk to her alone,' said Mae.

  Mrs Ali did not respond, except to push her chair back and walk into Sunni's kitchen.

  In the courtyard, the Talent chattered. 'It would seem that bright colours once again adorn fashion in the West. Could it be our own local Green Valley designers are in the lead?

  Mae heard real voices murmuring in the kitchen. She heard the rumble of Mr Haseem, but she judged he would stay out of this unless there was some kind of argument. If there were some kind of argument, it would give him an excuse to be abusive. He would not wish to take part without that chance.

  Mae was not here to apologize. She was here to get both sides to see sense. And out of that sense, to get advantage for herself.

  Mrs Ali was in the kitchen doorway, outlined in electric light. 'Please come in,' she said in a quiet voice. She stood away from the door, and reassured Sunni's whining dog as Mae approached. Mae gave her a polite nod, and entered Sunni's room.

  A modern stove had replaced the old brazier. It seeped raw gas. There were new white cur
tains in the tiny windows and a new metal top to the sink. All of these things meant fresh expense. Sunni sat behind her table, perfect as always, her hair a motorcycle helmet of crisp, hard shellac. She looked tense, insecure and arrogant. Mae found in herself a strain of pity for her, and brought that to the surface.

  'Hello, Sunni,' she said.

  'I hope it will be more of a pleasure to have you in my house than it was the last time.'

  Mae gestured: May I sit? Sunni nodded yes, dismissively.

  'Last time, both of us were angry. Both of us said things. I find life moves quickly these days. That night seems years ago now.'

  Sunni made no reply. She certainly did not agree.

  'I find after the events of this morning, that we have more in common than the disagreements which divide us.'

  A brief moue flickered across Sunni's face; it was true, but it did not please her.

  'We could cooperate for the common good. We both need the village to be prepared for what is to come. A possible agreement is this. We both do all we can to help our neighbours learn to use this new thing. In the meantime, both of us are free to pursue our commercial interests.'

  Sunni was not really up to this kind of bargaining. Mae was well aware that she was talking like a man. It was the only way to avoid the pits of emotion on either side and keep all the issues separate.

  'You speak as if we were in politics,' said Sunni, finally.

  'Do you not think that we are? You and I both value the future. We are rivals, yes. But we certainly do not want the TVs destroyed. Both of us are intelligent women from the same village, and we do not want our village to fall behind.'

  'That is true,' agreed Sunni.

  'There is something else,' said Mae. 'Something I did not know until today.'

  'And what might that be?' Sunni sounded unimpressed. She perhaps thought Mae was trying to be mysterious.

  'There are telephone charges for using that thing.' Mae pointed into the courtyard.

  From the courtyard, breathless commentary in a piping female voice continued: 'Again we see a new trend towards colour. Modern women have found time for joyful expression.'

  'I know,' said Sunni.

  'Do you know how much?'

  Sunni's face was blank. 'I am sure my husband does.'

  'They are always on the lookout for special touches, something new which makes even the simplest dress different, expressing a new facet of their personality.'

  'After a year, it could be as much as six hundred riels.' Mae paused, waited.

  Sunni was very good. She did not flinch, she gave no sign. She began to sweep nonexistent crumbs of food from the table into her cupped hand. Still in silence, she raised her eyebrows as if to say: So? What is your proposition?

  'For example, this dress expresses the model's interest in Third World issues.'

  Mae took the plunge. 'Mr Wing can ensure that you do not have to pay them. He can arrange things so that they go to his account and the government will pay them.'

  Sunni's visage did not alter in any respect.

  'In exchange he wants the warfare between us to stop.'

  'There is no warfare.'

  'Sunni,' warned Mae.

  'No, there is none.'

  Mae quoted Sunni's leaflet. '"Now that certain parties have been uncovered as offering false advice…" That is what you wrote about me, Sunni. It is one thing to set yourself up in business. It is another to call me a fraud and to invite your friends to mock me.'

  'I will remind you of a certain incident on your screen,' said Sunni, darkening.

  'Indeed. I have not forgotten. That is part of the war. It must stop, Sunni. While we play village games, the world is beating down our door. While we try to destroy each other, it will destroy us.'

  'I will demand a full public apology,' said Sunni.

  'I will demand that we both apologize to each other in public. At the same time. That way everyone knows: The TV people are united.'

  'And I will need individual assessment of what you say about charges.'

  Mae nodded. 'I can bring the government man here. No, Sunni, not to make trouble, please hear me out. I can make it look like a friendly visit. And you can ask him yourself: "The TV is new." I will say you have just bought it. "What kind of charges would I pay?" '

  More crumb-sweeping. There was hurt behind Sunni's eyes.

  'There is one more thing, Sunni. The loan. The terms of the loan will change. It becomes interest-free.'

  And this was something Mae was keeping from Kwan. She did not want to be beholden to Kwan.

  Sunni went still altogether. 'You know I cannot agree to that by myself.'

  'You can perhaps talk to your husband.'

  'I will see.'

  'Just remember, Sunni, the bills mount up, all the time that thing is on.'

  Sunni sighed. Oh, it was like wearing the wrong-size shoe, for her to be in a weak position. She was not used to cutting losses.

  Sunni said, 'I could always have a word with the Central Man and mention to him whatever it is Mrs Wing and Mrs Shen are making.'

  'Oh!' groaned Mae, in utter weariness. 'I am talking about an alliance that will benefit everyone. And you threaten me! Sunni, how can the village learn, if it has to ration the TV? Two machines will be much better than one. Can't you see? We both win, if we agree to this. Or, yes, we can both lose. Badly, very badly. Perhaps one of us will go to jail. But which one of us will be beloved in the village, Sunni, if you are known to have betrayed Mr Wing to the government?'

  Sunni's gaze was not direct. 'I did not say that.'

  'You said you would tell the Central Man, Sunni. You meant that you could betray Kwan and get the Wings into trouble. Didn't you?'

  She was silent.

  'Sunni. From the beginning, I have not wanted to be your enemy. If you tell yourself the tale of what has happened, you will see that the first hostile move was your husband's. And I am not always the most pleasant person in the world when I am angry. So, yes, I behaved badly.'

  All Sunni wanted was to be first, and Mae was always ahead of her. Even now she had lost, for Mae was the first to propose peace and in such a way as to garner advantage.

  Curiously enough, that was sufficient revenge.

  'Talk to your husband, Sunni. That is necessary. The terms are simple. We are friendly rivals in business. We both work to teach the village. We both work against the party that wants the TVs off. And as a gesture, the loan becomes interest-free.'

  It was all a bit of pretence. Mae was being clear, not for Sunni, but for Mr Haseem, whom she was reasonably certain could hear every word. Mae sat and waited.

  Sunni's face was closed, not exactly in shame, but in hurt. How she wanted to be the village leader, the 'ma'am' of the village. But Kwan would always be that. Sunni would never be free, not until Kwan died. And by then it would probably be the turn of An, or someone like her. Mae found she did indeed pity Sunni. All that time with nothing to do because her husband would not let her work. Mae pitied her lack of application. Sunni, Mae knew, was not as smart as others.

  Sunni said, 'I have the better fashion sense.'

  Mae pondered this for a moment. 'I think you are probably right, Sunni.' For rich ladies, with money to spend, you are probably right. But you know, I think I will be the one to make the money. Mae chuckled to herself. 'You are certainly younger and better looking too.'

  Sunni wasn't laughing. Sunni was not loved by a beautiful man, who cooked dinner for her, who had wanted her since he had been sixteen. Could Sunni stand to sleep with that harsh husband?

  To be jealous is futile; we are all human, we all live in pain, and Sunni lives in more than most.

  That does not give her the right to steal my shoes or stand on my toes.

  'Sunni, I know you are very busy. Mrs Ali sometimes visits my lessons at Mrs Wing's. Perhaps she could tell me what you decide.'

  Since you will not want to visit my hovel, or risk coming to Mrs Wing's.

  'I
s it really as much money as you say?' Sunni asked. Ah, money, the juice of life. At least yours. Their eyes finally met.

  'Yes, Sunni, it is.' Mae stood up to go.

  They exchanged polite greetings and Mae left.

  Outside in the street, Mae felt a wild joy swing out of her, like when she had been a schoolgirl and flung her bag of books into the air. She was free of the interest on that loan! They would pay back twenty-five riels a year, and use the money as capital! She could use it to buy cloth or Joe could invest in the farm. Joe would bring back more money; they would be comfortable and happy.

  She thought again that she must put distance between herself and Mr Ken. Otherwise the fabric of her life would be torn. She would tell Kuei that she would always love him, but that it was impossible to continue. She would hold the memory of him always to her, like pressed flowers hidden in schoolbooks, like clever old Mrs Tung and her secret love. And she would teach the TV and she would pick the brains of the Central Man.

  Mae would learn to put up a screen, too, just like Kwan, only Kwan would wonder how she had learned so quickly.

  A screen of what?

  Of fashion? Of course, the whole world would want fashion from a mountaintop in mid-Asia. That was the very thing they lacked. Mae laughed at herself, and went, 'Wheeeeeee!' And spun, and saw Kwan's screens, of Eloi embroidery.

  And suddenly she saw the screen slightly different. It offered Eloi embroidery for sale. The year's most unusual fashion statement. Expressing the model's interest in Third World issues.

  Mae's smile was fading. Instead, excitement seemed to grip her stomach.

  Native Eloi embroidery, unavailable except through these treasured outlets.

  Either broaden what you make, or extend your geography, the Kru had whispered.

  Videos could be sent for free to the big stores. She could tell the big stores about her Eloi fashion, and if they liked it, fine. Then she could buy the cloth and the bead.

  Reduce your risk at every opportunity.

  So she only makes them when she is paid.

  Individually tailored to meet your requirements.