'Mr Haseem has loaned Joe one hundred riels. He got Joe drunk, and Joe took the money.'

Mr Ken knew what that meant. 'Ah,' he said.

'We will never pay it back. He will get our farm!'

'Won't he take the money back?' Mr Ken shifted, aware now of his nakedness.

She yearned to hold him. That would comfort her, that would stop the world spinning, make everything stop.

'No, he doesn't want the money, he wants us, and our land. He wants to make us slaves. He wants to do the same to you, too.'

A pause, a beat. The lights were still on. 'You'd best go inside,' he said.

She felt frozen in place, still shaking, still helpless. He knelt down to pick up her knives; she saw how the top of his back swelled outwards to broad shoulders. She saw the crease down the middle of his strong back where the spine was buried deep.

Then he put an arm around her and in silence turned her not towards her house, but his own.

'Sssh,' he said.

He guided her into his own kitchen. He did not turn on the light. Very carefully, her knives were placed on the table, almost without a sound.

What are we doing here in the darkness, each of us? Are we doing what I think we are doing?

'My mother will be awake,' he said, in a voice as quiet as water on reeds. She smelled his breath: sleepy, garlicky, but somehow not unpleasant.

It was Old Mrs Tung who moved her, Old Mrs Tung who knew how to get what she wanted.

Somehow her hands were on his shoulders, then down his smooth broad back. Then his hands were on her breasts, and her heart was thumping, she could hardly breathe. This was dangerous, madness, but she found she did not care. One should not do this, one should make men stand off and away, but she had been doing that all her life and all she had to show for it was Joe.

She must have tugged at him, for suddenly his smooth upholstered chest seemed to surround her. His thick bowed legs and his underpants, loose but also now full with a small hard penis, were pressed against her. She was wearing no underpants. Such a tiny penis, it would be inside her so quickly, it could be done so quickly so simply, as simply and as sweetly as a kiss.

She found herself pulling up her good white dress. He kissed her, she slipped down the last of his clothing, and finally, finally, finally, for the first time in her life, she had it. This was foolish, he would despise her later.

But she had just tried to kill someone with knives and she no longer cared. It was softly done, it was quiet. She felt his spasm, felt something shoot against an inner wall. Then his forehead leaned against hers.

He had not left her body yet. Suddenly, as if clubbed, she was overwhelmed; something clenched shook and moistened inside her. She couldn't stop herself saying, oh, oh, oh.

'Sssh,' he said, and slipped out of her.

Her dress fell down, covering her. He stepped out of his underwear, and walked with her, to the courtyard. The village lights were off now; the moon was still out. He was blue and naked and she had never seen anything as beautiful.

They looked at each other. What now? both their faces seemed to say. Then they both smiled, overwhelmed by the speed of what had happened. Let tomorrow take care of itself. He nodded once, meaning, Swift now, hide now.

She turned and walked back into her house, turned and looked at his dark and empty doorway.

She got back in, and Joe was still asleep. You are not a bad man, she thought, you are just a bit of a fool and I do not want you the way I want Mr Ken. She left him sleeping at the table. She fell onto their disordered bed.

CHAPTER 5

In the morning, Joe had a hangover.

He would not stop moaning and holding his head. Mae was abrupt with him. She took back his plate of cold uneaten breakfast.

'You'll have a headache longer than that; you'll have a headache all your life when you find yourself the slave of Mr Haseem.'

Joe's eyes were fearful as well as pained. 'We will have to make money. We might as well buy goats and make cheese.'

Mae said, 'We should spend none of it. Then all we have to do is earn back the interest.'

'The interest!' Joe groaned, and held his head. 'We agreed no interest.'

'Then we will say that, and give him back just the hundred.'

Joe looked fearful. 'He will say it was fifty per cent. He always says that.'

'Then you had best get to work,' she told him.

Joe left, looking guilty. He left Mae alone with all the terrors of adultery.

If Joe looked guilty, what was she? The village did not forgive women who strayed. They would say Mr Ken was a widower, he had his needs. But what had Mae been thinking of? You can't be a fallen woman and a fashion expert; the husbands won't let you in the house. The best she could hope for was that they would blame Air. So who buys fashion from a crazy woman with Air in her head who chases men with knives? What was she going to do?

Well, Mae, apart from anything else, you have to make money. All your life you have done that by staying ahead of the village. You better get to that TV and find out what everyone has been watching on it.

With no more precise thought than that, she stood up and walked out into the courtyard.

And in the courtyard, Mr Ken was staggering with a wheelbarrow of mucked straw.

Oh, wonderful.

'Good morning, Mr Ken-sir!' Mae called brightly, for the village to hear. She walked more quickly to escape. To her horror, Mr Ken lowered the barrow and began to walk towards her with an expression of perplexed sincerity, even solemnity. At least this time he was fully dressed.

Mae started to walk more quickly. She wanted to avoid any chat in public places such as her house. He began to smile slightly. He walked faster.

He stood in the gateway, of all the silly places! There was still a hint of a smile in the creases of his mature face, but he said the most direct thing: 'Do you regret last night?'

'No,' she said, before realizing that she had spoken. She wanted to escape.

'Do you want to go on?'

Mae felt something akin to panic; she wanted him to stand out of the gate, to keep his voice down. He looked like both her husband and her son at once.

'Yes,' she said, quickly.

So, this was love. Ken Kuei stood before her and she could scarcely bear to look at him. She felt old and misshapen in comparison. He was her boy, her baby, she saw in him the beauty and sadness of passing generations. It was as though Mr Ken were a corridor into which she could shout and hear echoes resonate like sad voices. Into a lost past, into lost chances.

No wonder she had never had love. Mae knew now that she had avoided it. Love hurt. She had known inside that love would make her guts twist, her eyes weep. She wanted to be with Ken Kuei; it hurt that she found no light and easy words with him, it hurt that their situation was dreadful, that they would have to slip and slide, hide, do it in corners like something dirty. It hurt worse than childbirth, worse than anything.

Mr Ken said, 'I will see you when I can.' His jaw worked with something unsaid. 'I do not want to cause you trouble.'

Mae cupped her forehead between her hands. Oh, that is nice. Trouble, what trouble could there be, fucking another man than your husband? All disaster loomed there.

'I am a widower, there will be no blame on me,' he said, looking at the ground.

'We have been talking long enough, and too solemnly,' she murmured, and mimed the pleased and neighbourly smile that kept distance.

Mae raised her voice for the sake of the walls. 'It is so sad about your wife, I still feel for you,' she said. 'If there is anything you need, please ask my husband.'

Mr Ken was still smiling. 'There's no one to hear you.'