Mae's eyes were narrow and merry. 'He probably thinks that he has the male TV and you have the female.'

Kwan had to put down a cup in order to laugh. 'You have become like a thornbush lately!'

'I hate Mr Sunni's-man,' Mae said with a shrug. 'I wish I had killed him.'

'It will be very interesting when you interview him for your Question Map.'

'On the contrary, I look forward to it. I cannot wait until he tries to do one of his own.'

Kwan was still smiling, but she suddenly, gently, pushed the tip of Mae's nose. 'Do not grow too bold, Mae.'

'I have more than one enemy, I hear.'

'Shen,' said Kwan, her voice suddenly curdling. 'I cannot get over the change in that man.'

'I must talk to him as well,' sighed Mae. She saw she was not just making a Question Map. She was building a party. She realized that, in a sense, it was the party of Mr Wing.

Joe got wind of a construction job in Balshang.

It would take three days to drive there. Siao, Joe, Old Mr Chung, and Mr Doh would drive down in Mr Haseem's van, to join the work gang being recruited in Yeshibozkent. They were to leave that very day.

'It is a good opportunity,' Joe said. 'They are building an industrial farm, many buildings. There is a whole camp for the workmen they are hiring.'

'How much do they pay?' asked Mae.

He blew out air, from stress. 'I don't know.'

'All the men in the country will be going there, hoping for work.'

'But Mr Doh says that it is government work, so they try to spread it to all parts of the country. Who knows? There is a chance, and it is better than sitting around here.'

Mae was glad; it showed her husband had taken on the reality of their problem. 'I will pack your food and your shirts,' she said. It was a proper wifely thing to do. He nodded once, to indicate that this was quite right, too, and drew in smoke from his scrawny cigarette. Mae folded his shirts. Even if it was only four riels a week, if it was four weeks' work, that would be sixteen riels. And if Siao and Old Mr Chung did the same, then their problems were over! Taking into account loss of odd jobs, that was still a total of thirty-two riels overall.

Siao took one final look at the household accounts.

Siao's eyes latched onto Mae's, briefly. 'This comes just in time, eh?'

Mae nodded silently, yes. She could feel her eyes sparkle.

Mr Haseem's van drew up outside their gate and beeped. Mae did not want to be seen by that man, so she pressed the food and the reed box of clothing into her husband's hands. Farewell, husband, good health, courage, come back a wealthy man… The words tumbled as automatically from her lips as sneezes.

Then came a pause. He stared at her, wanting more; they had been young lovers once, she had borne him three children.

He pulled her to him and kissed her, and she hugged him, pushing her face to the side of his; she would have her freedom after he was gone. Siao called to him from beyond the gate.

Mr Haseem beeped again, she patted him. 'Go, or your good friend will drop you in the shit,' she said.

And unbidden tears came into her eyes. This was very convenient; she made sure he saw them. There were wisps of fear at being left alone, wisps of loss for Joe, who was her domestic companion.

'I will see Lung and our daughter,' he said. 'I will bring back news of Lung.' Joe worshiped his athletic, achieving, military son.

'That will be the best part,' she said. 'Now, hurry, hurry!'

Joe grinned, like a boy again, and broke into a run. He waved at the gate again.

He thinks I love him, she thought. He thinks that in the end we are still man and wife. And she remembered him when he was sixteen, handsome, a leader of the village youth.

Joe never grew up. She heard the car door slam, she heard male exuberance, a chattering, a yelling. She remembered him, his hair greased up, a toothpick never out of his mouth, car insignia stolen from vehicles in the valley pinned to the back of his jacket. She heard the van grind its way down the mountain road.

She listened to the sound of loneliness, the sound of dust. Mr Ken's house was there, like he was – ever present, always close, with a door that could both open and conceal.

Mae was walking before she knew it. I need to be out in the fields by late afternoon, she thought, or people will talk. It was still lunchtime. The children would be napping in Mr Shen's school, Mr Ken's mother might be sleeping before returning to the fields. If not, she could always say: Who will do your weeding for you, Mr Ken? I and the village women could offer to help.

She walked into Mr Ken's kitchen. He was sipping soup, his late breakfast. He looked up, still shiny with sweat from weeding his own fields.

'Joe's gone,' she said quietly. 'And his brother.'

'I'll be along,' he said.

She walked back to her own house, shaking. Her body was like Mr Haseem's truck rattling down the road. This is crazy, if anyone comes to call, they will find us. She pinned up the window curtains and drew shut the heavy draught-curtains across the doorway. She took down her sun hat, her jumper, her apron to collect the compost, her high-soled field clogs. She rammed them under the bed. Their absence would signal she was not there. All of that would signal: Mrs Chung is out at work. How then did she draw shut the draught-curtains? She opened them again.

She lay down on the bed, still smelling of Joe. It smelled of Joe but that smell would now be driven out by the smell of Mr Ken. That thought alone seemed to loosen the corsets of her belly. I will smell him when I sleep at night.

She heard the latch. Her breath caught. No one called out her name. She heard the latch close. Her heart was pumping. This is mad – if it is not him how will I explain? I will say I caught too much sun and I am ill. The curtains of the alcove were pulled back, rattling on their plastic rings.

It was him and he was smiling. He was shiny no longer. He had bathed.

He was naked under his overalls, which he flung utterly aside, and he was soon on top of her. His skin was as perfect as apricots.

The next day Mae went back out onto her husband's land.

The Chungs had one valley paddy and two long terraces very high up the mountainside. Mae had neglected them since planting the nursery rice. Dock and bindweed were already sprouting between the onions and rice shoots.

She began the long climb up the beaten paths. The swallows swooped about her, scooping insects out of the air. The terraces creaked and buzzed with the sound of crickets. Water lay in puddles, as warm as soup.

On her terrace the air was hot, still, breathless. The heat did a shivering fan-dance in the air. Only the kites circling high overhead looked cool.

Mae went to work hauling out weeds. Her back was soon aching. Tears of sweat wept into the ground. This delicious rice, she thought, it will be seasoned with my own salt.

Her clogged feet sank deep into the creamy soil with every step. The mud sucked and clung like a lover. Her high, broad hat kept the sun off her neck, shoulders, and even her arms. It could not keep away the flies and the midges. Come friend swallow, here is a feast, free me from flies. She waved her hands at the midges but they returned to tickle and stick to her skin that was like cooked rice, glutinous and steaming.

Mae stood up. She could see far below on the plain the livid green paddies of wet rice. The slashes of mirror among them were water reflecting sky. Beyond – hazy, losing all shape in bright sunlight – were the flat yellows, beiges, and greys of the distant mountains.

Was it like this in your day, Old Mrs Tung?'

No.

The voice was like wind.