'And indeed much advice was given for free. Out of friendship,' said Mae. Her voice was sad, she felt sad. 'And one can tell, of course, who one's friends are in adversity.' Sunni, Sunni, I know what you are, but you are better than this. Sunni said nothing.
Mae continued: 'Your husband, of course, is in the farm-buying business.'
Sunni was still unmoved. All of this, so far, she would have been expecting; she would have known that the loan would be offered. Sunni may even have tried to dissuade her husband, but right now, as far as she was concerned, the decision had been taken.
Sunni took her time to respond. 'It is more clever than being a farmer. It is the way to prosperity. It is, of course, prosperity that pays for fashion.'
'Your husband has got Joe drunk, and fired him up with wild imaginings and loaned him one hundred riels.'
'Tuh. More like your Joe has got my husband drunk, to loan you that much.'
'We can't pay, Sunni, and you know as well as I do that that is how your husband gets rich. And I am asking you as a friend to use your good offices to get your husband to take back the money now. Or, indeed' – Mae reached down into her dress – 'to take the money back from me now yourself. And plead our case with him, and ask him to spare us.'
Mae held out the money, printed so elaborately with the portrait of President Kubla Khan. Sunni seemed to falter in her resolve.
'Please, Sunni,' said Mae, and felt the weakness of the illness return, as her voice shook, near tears again. 'Otherwise we will lose everything.'
'This loan nonsense,' said Sunni, faltering. 'It is men's business, my husband's business, I cannot interfere.'
'Sunni. He will destroy us!'
'I cannot help you.' She turned to go.
'Sunni, if you were ever my friend…' Mae stood to follow her, unbidden, into the rich man's house.
There were embroidered curtains, embroidered cushions, gold on green, everything overstuffed, the very room overstuffed, a small farm room full of glass decanters, snowstorm domes, and a set of billiard balls without a table.
'This is none of my business!' said Sunni, more fiercely now. Her arm was across her tummy, as if she had cramps. She suddenly spun. 'And as for being friends, you were a servant, do you understand? I bought your services, your, your, advice, your, your fawning over me, I purchased it, and you know that.'
Sunni, Sunni, you hate this, you are made clumsy.
'Of course it was business, we both knew that.' Mae was growing annoyed. 'But you cannot have a business without a relationship, and ours was straightforward and good, with no misunderstandings. That can continue. But only if this nonsense – as you so rightly call it – this nonsense over the loan is put to bed!'
Sunni looked cornered, her head was shaking slightly, No, no, no.
Mae understood. 'You are frightened of him.'
'What nonsense, how dare you!'
'Of course you are frightened of him; I am frightened of him. He is a brute, Sunni.'
The two women stared at each other. The money was between them. Mae looked at it, considering its power.
'But,' Mae sighed, 'he makes you rich. That is why you married him. And therefore you cannot question the way he makes his money. As you say: It pays for fashion.'
She put it back into her dress.
Sunni's face had crumpled, her mouth working. She wanted revenge now – revenge for being so coldly, clearly described.
'Fashion expert. Who will need you, ah? Who will want your advice, servant, when your friend Wing's TV gives us all advice, and better advice than you ever gave. Peasant. Farmer's wife!'
'Whore,' said Mae, coldly. I will regret that, she thought. But I do not need to take insults now. 'At least I am not a whore, Sunni.'
Sunni had no response to that at all. Mae turned and quickly walked away.
Sunni started to bellow: 'I was going to say something, something to him to help you.' Sunni followed Mae into the kitchen. 'I was, but I will not now! How dare you call me names? "Friend?" You? You do anything for money, and you call me whore?'
Mae stood at the kitchen door. 'Save it, Sunni, save it. Everything you have said about me is true. And I am sorry you sold your life for this house. I might have done the same.'
And out into the night, out under the stars and clouds that were eternal. A moon that was nearly full.
What now! she wondered. Dear God, what now?
Mae got back to find both her husband and Sunni's-man asleep at the table. Siao had climbed upstairs.
'Out,' Mae said, and shook Mr Haseem. 'Drunken man, get out, up, out.'
Blearily, Mr Haseem gazed up at her and grinned.
I know you, she thought. You are the strong man who rules by force. You will have heads on spikes if we let you.
'Out of my house,' she said again, and hit him.
'Hey!' he bellowed, and looked for assistance at Joe. Her useless husband was dead to the world, too deadened even to help his enemy.
'Out, out, out,' was all she could think of saying, raining blows about his head. He began to chuckle; he seemed to think it funny.
'She-wolf,' he chuckled. Oh yes, that was it, the image of the angry wife, chastising her husband's drunken friends. It enraged her still further to find herself cast in such an ancient role.
'I am not throwing you out because you are drunk! I am throwing you out because you are an enemy to us. Because you want to steal everything from us. Get out before I slice open your eyes!'
Mae grabbed her big kitchen knife. He stopped laughing and jumped back, away from the table. She saw his eyes flicker and she seized the cleaver before he did. 'I will kill you and then we do not have to pay you back the money. I will kill you and spare the village a strongman.'
She meant it. She swiped the cleaver at him and he yelped and jumped back, shouting, 'Hey! Madwoman! The air has entered your head and – hey!'
'I… will…' she promised and came at him, knife and cleaver flashing '… kill you!' Her voice became a screech.
He ran for the door and seized his coat, his thick tobacco-yellow fingers trembling, face crossed in surprise, fear, confusion. The world was suddenly upside down for him to be chased by a madwoman with knives. One last gasp of surprise and he ducked out of the house.
Mae chased him across the courtyard, howling insults. 'Run, dog! Run, donkey! Go, go, go!'
There was light on courtyard walls, lights springing on throughout the village. Mr Ken's dog, awakened, began to bark. She heard the sound of Mr Haseem's feet outside the gates, the flapping of his loose shoeheel. Other dogs began to bark; all the village was awake, all the village would know by morning what had happened.
'Mrs Chung?'
There, in his underpants only, was Mr Ken.
She began to sob. She dropped the knives, they clattered to the stone. She hid her eyes in shame, in fear. How had things gone so far so quickly?
'What is happening?' Mr Ken said. He stood still, looking at her, aghast. She didn't want him to think her mad. She gathered herself in and explained.
'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.