'I would love to do that!' enthused Sezen, so brightly that it was plain she could think of nothing worse. 'She would teach me how to improve my pronunciation.'
And improve your manners, thought Mae. She gave Sunni's hand a little squeeze. To her surprise, Sunni squeezed back.
Sunni persisted. 'Such a terrible thing that people do not understand the uses of the TV. To think! There are people who want it turned off!'
'People who try to destroy others,' said Sezen, her voice now simple, hard and dark.
'Indeed,' said Sunni, simply. Mae twisted around and her eyes said to Sezen: Enough.
Sezen's smile was one of contentment. She gave Mae a little salute and looked away, honour satisfied.
Already their little village was gone. Just alongside Mr Oz's window, there was a brutal falling-away of stone. 'Music?' Mr Wing asked, and turned on the radio.
Full of echo and sounds of machinery was something like a song for Sezen's generation. She was drawn, silenced by what to her was a mating call, a cry to be joined with the modern. The old folk fell silent.
Fluttering past like insubstantial scarves went rice fields, misty terraces, fat men riding donkeys, women in broad straw hats considering harvest.
They went down into the Desiccated Village. Mae was shocked to see grey dishes and wires on most of the houses.
'They've had those since summer,' said Sunni, turning. 'Perhaps we are not so advanced in Kizuldah.'
'Installing sat ho lih tuh,' said Mr Oz, shaking his head, as if they all shared his amusement. 'Still, it's reliable old technology.'
Mae felt unable to ask: What is a satellite?
'Look,' said Sunni, suddenly pointing. 'They are already threshing!'
Going down the hill was like plunging into their future. On the burnished-yellow threshing ground were big rented machines and wagons loaded with chickpeas. The men were pitchforking them raw into the threshers. The jets of straw, the waiting reed baskets to collect the peas, the women and boys bearing them off to plastic matting, the little girls herding the geese away from the mats – it was all as it always had been.
The vision was withdrawn behind a flurry of fencing and gates. A good harvest.
'Ah!' sighed Sunni, as if the relief were her own. 'They will have a good party, then.'
'High feasting,' agreed Mae. 'It is useful that they are so dry compared to us. We grow rice, they grow chickpeas.'
'Mmm, we can just exchange,' Sunni agreed. It was what they always said.
Suddenly the road stopped complaining under them. Suddenly it was smooth, humming like a song. The clouds of white dust died away in trails behind them, like the silver tracks of aircraft.
Sunni and Mae looked at each other in wonder: Paved? Our road is paved?
Then they both broke out in laughter.
Sunni held her plump belly. 'Who… Who thought it was worthwhile paving a city road here?'
'Make it easier for the donkey!' chuckled Mae.
They thought of all the fat old farmers, their bewildered wives, the barefoot children, the brown-toothed brigands with ancient rifles. Oh, indeed, how they needed a highway.
'You need it for motorcycles,' said Sezen, sharply. The radio played another Balshang song. 'We will all have motorcycles.'
Mae placated her. 'I know, Sezen, but it just seems strange.'
'Remember when grass grew between the wheel tracks?' Sunni said.
'Yes! I'd forgotten that.'
'And the first time down each year, there was no track at all.'
'Yes, yes, the wheels spun on the spring grass, and you were always frightened the tractor would slide off the road!'
'My father always made us get out and walk. He would cast lye behind him to kill the grass.'
Mae turned to tell Sezen. 'You went to the town, oh, only if your father was buying a horse…'
'… or parts for the tractor…'
'And we would pile all of us, oh, six or seven children, in the trailer behind. It would take all day to get down. We would sleep in the trailer overnight.'
'You remember the fires?'
'Everyone set up camp in the market square.'
'You would cook soup over the fires.'
'And the lutes…'
'The lutes came out, particularly the Horsemen, and they would sing. Remember the Cossacks! So handsome with their moustaches, they would sing…'
The truck seemed to lurch and sway as if on green grass. Mae turned to warn Mr Oz about his driving, but as she leaned forward, everything lurched, swayed, and suddenly she smelled smoke…
… and saw the fires.
The Cossacks wore spotless white shirts, with high collars.
They smelled of smoke. It clung to their huge moustaches. Like thieves, they had wicked faces but they were lit up with kindly smiles, and the little girl was sitting on the knee of one of them. His face was lit up with love, tender love.
'I… have… a… little… girl,' the Cossack said, slowly, in Karz. 'She is pretty. Like you.' His truck full of horses sweltered even though it was night. His mates smoked pipes, and her father sat drinking with them, ramrod straight and slightly twitchy. He was frightened of Cossacks.
It was not Mae's father. The little girl was not Mae.
The Cossack said, 'I send presents to my little girl. She does not always get them. Things are so bad, the postmen take them.' The Cossack shrugged. 'Oh, I miss my little girl. You are happy to live with your father. You are far from the war.'
What war?
The Cossack patted little Miss Hu on her head and let her run back to her father. Her father was plump, smooth-skinned, beardless. He smelled of chives and garlic, not smoke. Miss Hu climbed onto his lap and was covered in kisses as hot and damp as new leaves on tender shoots.
'Ai-ling,' breathed out Mr Hu.
World War Two. This would be, say, 1941.
The town square was dark, except for one streetlight, and there were no tall buildings. Indeed, the square was a terrace of shacks, with men sitting out front, in worn, torn, dusty clothes. Barbershops, bars, spare-parts shops, teahouses. There was a traffic light, and Mae remembered. There was only one traffic light in the whole town.
The Cossack grinned, picked up his viola: It was tiny, unvarnished, with loose wood holding up the strings. The bow was made of horsetail hairs. 'For pretty little girls,' he said.
He played something high, sweet, sad, simple.
'Song says, "Red children, Red children, play.. ."' he explained, and began to sing.
It was a jolly song that made Ai-ling want to dance, jolly but somehow sad. She thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard. She wanted to remember it forever and ever. She beamed up in delight, wonder, at her father, who smiled down indulgently.
And little Ai-ling began to dance. She held out her arms, and spun, wearing her best town dress, a stiff froth of lace, her hair in ribbons, so pretty, little princess, spinning and spinning. The Cossacks, as hard as the roads, melted as if in rain. 'Ahhhh!' they sighed, for all things homely and beautiful. The moment came that Miss Hu loved, when she ceased to be shy. Then she could really dance.
So she really danced, knowing herself to be little and pretty and sweet. All the Cossacks began to sing the song together, enraptured by the sight of a pretty little girl, of home. Some of them came from other fires, with mandolins. The music mounted. Little Ai-ling fell back into shyness, and stopped, and hid her head in her father's trousers. The Horsemen laughed with love.
Mae was rocked like a little paper boat cast out onto the ocean.
The music changed. It rattled. It was Balshang music on the radio, with a roar of engine and harsh sunlight.
Mae was sick again, waves of nausea. She wanted to say: Stop, I need to be sick.
See? See? said Old Mrs Tung. See what you are destroying?