Geoff Ryman - Air (or Have Not Have)

'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.