Geoff Ryman - Air (or Have Not Have)

Something was up with Siao. He had come back from the Teahouse looking distracted. He tore off the top of his thumbnail with his teeth, kissed Mae on the cheek, and told her not to worry. Then he was gone in young Mr Pin's car. Old Mr Chung shuffled and shrugged and then left early, perhaps embarrassed, for a gathering of old village reprobates like himself.

Mae had hoped at least to share some warm rice wine at New Year's with her family, with Siao. Whenever she talked to Siao she always got good sense, she always felt secure.

She didn't own him; if he wanted to go off and have fun, okay. He wasn't married, he must need a woman, and perhaps he hoped to find one.

And, ah, Mae, that is it. That is why your hands tumble over themselves, round and round. That is why you cannot sit still. You see another woman coming into the house, and that disturbs you, but more than that, you see another woman with Siao.

Mae? What has happened here? Sit down, Mae, and look at your hands. What do they tell you?

They tell you want to look into his calm, honest blue-grey eyes. You want to see his smooth lean arms, with the silky skin that mixes Karzistan with China. You want to hear his deep, measured voice. You wish he were here. You wish you were with him.

Mae put her head into her hands. Oh, Mae Mae, Mae, Mae, what is this?

Mae stood up from the kitchen table. I want him to work with me. We work well together. He understands the things I understand. He is even better than me at selling, he is better than me at understanding what all this new stuff is for…

Yes, Mae, and what else?

I want to hold him, I want to give him a home, I want to show him the respect his stupid brother never gave him. I want him to know that someone sees how smart he is, how kind, how patient. How wise.

Oh, Mae. You are in love with your husband's brother.

Well, it is traditional. The husband dies, the brother can take over. But when the husband just goes off? When the husband goes off because the wife went with his next-door neighbour?

And when she is about to have the next-door neighbour's child?

Oh, Mae, the knots you tie. If you were scandalous before, what will you be after this? And poor Siao, suppose he feels nothing for you but kindness? What will he feel if you declare yourself? You will be trapped together in the house, you see each other half-naked nearly every day, he has to think of his brother, he has to be neighbours with Mr Ken… Oh, Mae, nobody needs this!

Mae, if you go after your husband's brother, you really will lose everything. Maybe you really have gone mad.

But once given its proper name, the feeling would not go away.

I love his little beard, I love the way it makes his teeth shine out when he smiles, I love the slow way he moves, I love the way he turns everything around, stands it on its head, and it makes more sense that way. My God, I love his body, I love his mind.

When did it change? When did I notice as if in passing that he was also handsome? When did he wake up and start to speak? Or rather, when did I begin listening to him?

Mae, leave this. You don't like being alone, that's all. Being alone at New Year's is making me jealous. I do not like being the crazy lady of the village. I do not like being where I am. I am not Madam Owl, I am not Mrs Disruption, and I wish all this would stop. I want peace, I want quiet.

Mae went up to the loft to work. The moment she woke up the TV, it was invaded. The screen was cleared, and there was Kwan.

'Mae,' Kwan said, her living room ghostly behind her. Mae reached forward to restart. 'Please don't go. We must talk real-time. Open other channel.'

The picture was torn in half, and there, on her machine, uninvited and full of concern, was Fatimah, of Yeshiboz Sistemlar. 'Hello, Mae,' she said.

Mae felt herself go cold. 'Fatimah, I told you once before that you would find it impossible to do good,' said Mae. 'It is nothing to do with who you are. It is your job.'

'Mae, please listen,' said Kwan. 'This woman is a doctor.'

'Nurse. She kept me prisoner.'

Fatimah looked so sweet, made-up, groomed. Oh, she's wearing white, that gives her the right to kill people's children. 'Mrs Chung. There is no chance of it coming to term. It could kill you.'

'Oh, so it is by no means certain I will die?'

Fatimah sighed. 'Not if we could get you into a hospital.'

Kwan's arms were folded. It was the posture she adopted whenever she struggled against other people's stupidity. 'She is trying to help save both of you, Mae.'

'Mae,' said Fatimah, sounding conciliatory, 'Come to us, in a hospital, stay with us.'

'Okay. Maybe I will go and stay in a hospital in May. Maybe the whole month. Is that good enough for you? Goodbye.'

Mae unplugged the machine and detached the battery. The screen image collapsed as if punctured. All communication would be broken, and the invasive code disabled. She pushed the battery back in, and a fresh clear screen came up. She downloaded her written mail.

Her machine was invaded again. The image interlaced in stages.

'This is rude, crashing in on me like this,' said Mae.

'You are still distributing paper,' said Kwan, fixing her eye on her. 'You are still telling people, "No Flood just yet, but more snow and it will come." I had Old Mrs Nan in here yesterday, asking if I could keep her goats in my loft.'

'It's the safest place for them,' said Mae. 'Since no one is taking any steps to save people, maybe the goats will at least survive the flood.'

'Why are you having the child?' Kwan demanded.

'Why did you have yours?'

'Do you think it's some kind of magic sign?' Kwan demanded, still beautiful, little aging pouches of loose flesh under the determined mouth.

Mae thrust out her jaw. 'Yes,' she said. Since you phrase it that way.

Kwan's eyes widened momentarily.

'Look, Kwan. I am doing this weather work. The weather is all tied up together. But not like we think. We think that everything that happens has a cause. That I strike with a knife and that causes a cut. But sometimes a cut happens somewhere else, too, without a cause. Sometimes things happen because the world is held together by patterns. Things that are alike. So there are signs and portents.'

Kwan chose her words. 'You believe your child is a sign.'

'So is the Flood,' said Mae.

Kwan looked momentarily defeated. She wilted a little and ran her hand over her forehead. 'You really have been working too hard.'

'My baby is lodged in my stomach, it will be born out of my mouth. You know why Mr Tunch wants my baby dead? Because he thinks my child is a portent, too.'

'Mae,' said Kwan in despair. 'Listen to yourself. Please. You sound like some superstitious old woman from one hundred years ago.'

'I am one,' said Mae.

Kwan shook her head.

'Everything is changing and my baby is part of everything. You know what Fatimah does? She helps makes intelligent talking dogs. One of them helped me escape. His name was Ling. How is that for Karz people, ah? – they always give their dogs Chinese names. A talking intelligent dog, and it asked, asked to be put back as a dog.'

Kwan's face was shaking slightly from side to side. 'You really have gone, Mae,' she sighed.

'Who has gone? You threaten me, you break into my machine. Are you going to break down my door? Are you going to drag me off into the night?'

Kwan did not answer. Her face said: Whatever is necessary to help you. Her words said something else. 'Mae. You can believe any nonsense that you like. But you must shut up, because your nonsense is stopping the very thing you believe in most. Progress. Mae, I cannot tell people this is a good thing when you are being driven crazy.'

'Ah, so you are not concerned about me, really.'