I The Villa SHE STANDS UP in the garden where she has been working and looks into the distance. She has sensed a shift in the weather. There is another gust of wind, a buckle of noise in the air, and the tall cypresses sway. She turns and moves uphill towards the house, climbing over a low wall, feeling the first drops of rain on her bare arms. She crosses the loggia and quickly enters the house. In the kitchen she doesn’t pause but goes through it and climbs the stairs which are in darkness and then continues along the long hall, at the end of which is a wedge of light from an open door. She turns into the room which is another garden—this one made up of trees and bowers painted over its walls and ceiling. The man lies on the bed, his body exposed to the breeze, and he turns his head slowly towards her as she enters. Every four days she washes his black body, beginning at the destroyed feet. She wets a washcloth and holding it above his ankles squeezes the water onto him, looking up as he murmurs, seeing his smile. Above the shins the burns are worst. Beyond purple. Bone. She has nursed him for months and she knows the body well, the penis sleeping like a sea horse, the thin tight hips. Hipbones of Christ, she thinks. He is her despairing saint. He lies flat on his back, no pillow, looking up at the foliage painted onto the ceiling, its canopy of branches, and above that, blue sky. She pours calamine in stripes across his chest where he is less burned, where she can touch him. She loves the hollow below the lowest rib, its cliff of skin. Reaching his shoulders she blows cool air onto his neck, and he mutters. What? she asks, coming out of her concentration. He turns his dark face with its grey eyes towards her. She puts her hand into her pocket. She unskins the plum with her teeth, withdraws the stone and passes the flesh of the fruit into his mouth. He whispers again, dragging the listening heart of the young nurse beside him to wherever his mind is, into that well of memory he kept plunging into during those months before he died. There are stories the man recites quietly into the room which slip from level to level like a hawk. He wakes in the painted arbour that surrounds him with its spilling flowers, arms of great trees. He remembers picnics, a woman who kissed parts of his body that now are burned into the colour of aubergine. I have spent weeks in the desert, forgetting to look at the moon, he says, as a married man may spend days never looking into the face of his wife. These are not sins of omission but signs of preoccupation. His eyes lock onto the young woman’s face. If she moves her head, his stare will travel alongside her into the wall. She leans forward. How were you burned? It is late afternoon. His hands play with a piece of sheet, the back of his fingers caressing it. I fell burning into the desert. They found my body and made me a boat of sticks and dragged me across the desert. We were in the Sand Sea, now and then crossing dry riverbeds. Nomads, you see. Bedouin. I flew down and the sand itself caught fire. They saw me stand up naked out of it. The leather helmet on my head in flames. They strapped me onto a cradle, a carcass boat, and feet thudded along as they ran with me. I had broken the spareness of the desert. The Bedouin knew about fire. They knew about planes that since 1939 had been falling out of the sky. Some of their tools and utensik were made from the metal of crashed planes and tanks. It was the time of the war in heaven. They could recognize the drone of a wounded plane, they knew how to pick their way through such shipwrecks. A small bolt from a cockpit became jewellery. I was perhaps the first one to stand up alive out of a burning machine. A man whose head was on fire. They didn’t know my name. I didn’t know their tribe. Who are you? I don’t know. You keep asking me. You said you were English. At night he is never tired enough to sleep. She reads to him from whatever book she is able to find in the library downstairs. The candle flickers over the page and over the young nurse’s talking face, barely revealing at this hour the trees and vista that decorate the walls. He listens to her, swallowing her words like water. If it is cold she moves carefully into the bed and lies beside him. She can place no weight upon him without giving him pain, not even her thin wrist. Sometimes at two a.m. he is not yet asleep, his eyes open in the darkness. He could smell the oasis before he saw it. The liquid in the air. The rustle of things. Palms and bridles. The banging of tin cans whose deep pitch revealed they were full of water. They poured oil onto large pieces of soft cloth and placed them on him. He was anointed. He could sense the one silent man who always remained beside him, the flavour of his breath when he bent down to unwrap him every twenty-four hours at nightfall, to examine his skin in the dark. Unclothed he was once again the man naked beside the blazing aircraft. They spread the layers of grey felt over him. What great nation had found him, he wondered. What country invented such soft dates to be chewed by the man beside him and then passed from that mouth into his. During this time with these people, he could not remember where he was from. He could have been, for all he knew, the enemy he had been fighting from the air. Later, at the hospital in Pisa, he thought he saw beside him the face that had come each night and chewed and softened the dates and passed them down into his mouth. There was no colour during those nights. No speech or song. The Bedouin silenced themselves when he was awake. He was on an altar of hammock and he imagined in his vanity hundreds of them around him and there may have been just two who had found him, plucked the antlered hat of fire from his head. Those two he knew only by the taste of saliva that entered him along with the date or by the sound of their feet running. She would sit and read, the book under the waver of light. She would glance now and then down the hall of the villa that had been a war hospital, where she had lived with the other nurses before they had all transferred out gradually, the war moving north, the war almost over. This was the time in her life that she fell upon books as the only door out of her cell. They became half her world. She sat at the night table, hunched over, reading of the young boy in India who learned to memorize diverse jewels and objects on a tray, tossed from teacher to teacher—those who taught him dialect those who taught him memory those who taught him to escape the hypnotic. The book lay on her lap. She realized that for more than five minutes she had been looking at the porousness of the paper, the crease at the corner of page 17 which someone had folded over as a mark. She brushed her hand over its skin. A scurry in her mind like a mouse in the ceiling, a moth on the night window. She looked down the hall, though there was no one else living there now, no one except the English patient and herself in the Villa San Girolamo. She had enough vegetables planted in the bombed-out orchard above the house for them to survive, a man coming now and then from the town with whom she would trade soap and sheets and whatever there was left in this war hospital for other essentials. Some beans, some meats. The man had left her two bottles of wine, and each night after she had lain with the Englishman and he was asleep, she would ceremoniously pour herself a small beaker and carry it back to the night table just outside the three-quarter-closed door and sip away further into whatever book she was reading. So the books for the Englishman, as he listened intently or not, had gaps of plot like sections of a road washed out by storms, missing incidents as if locusts had consumed a section of tapestry, as if plaster loosened by the bombing had fallen away from a mural at night. The villa that she and the Englishman inhabited now was much like that. Some rooms could not be entered because of rubble. One bomb crater allowed moon and rain into the library downstairs—where there was in one corner a permanently soaked armchair. She was not concerned about the Englishman as far as the gaps in plot were concerned. She gave no summary of the missing chapters. She simply brought out the book and said “page ninety-six” or “page one hundred and eleven.” That was the only locator. She lifted both of his hands to her face and smelled them—the odour of sickness still in them. Your hands are getting rough, he said. The weeds and thistles and digging. Be careful. I warned you about the dangers. I know. Then she began to read. Her father had taught her about hands. About a dog’s paws. Whenever her father was alone with a dog in a house he would lean over and smell the skin at the base of its paw. This, he would say, as if coming away from a brandy snifter, is the greatest smell in the world! A bouquet! Great rumours of travel! She would pretend disgust, but the dog’s paw was a wonder: the smell of it never suggested dirt. It’s a cathedral! her father had said, so-and-so’s garden, that field of grasses, a walk through cyclamen—a concentration of hints of all the paths the animal had taken during the day. A scurry in the ceiling like a mouse, and she looked up from the book again. They unwrapped the mask of herbs from his face. The day of the eclipse. They were waiting for it. Where was he? What civilisation was this that understood the predictions of weather and light? El Ahmar or El Abyadd, for they must be one of the northwest desert tribes. Those who could catch a man out of the sky, who covered his face with a mask of oasis reeds knitted together. He had now a bearing of grass. His favourite garden in the world had been the grass garden at Kew, the colours so delicate and various, like levels of ash on a hill. He gazed onto the landscape under the eclipse. They had taught him by now to raise his arms and drag strength into his body from the universe, the way the desert pulled down planes. He was carried in a palanquin of felt and branch. He saw the moving veins of flamingos across his sight in the half-darkness of the covered sun. Always there were ointments, or darkness, against his skin. One night he heard what seemed to be wind chimes high in the air, and after a while it stopped and he fell asleep with a hunger for it, that noise like the slowed-down sound from the throat of a bird, perhaps flamingo, or a desert fox, which one of the men kept in a sewn-half-closed pocket in his burnoose. The next day he heard snatches of the glassy sound as he lay once more covered in cloth. A noise out of the darkness. At twilight the felt was unwrapped and he saw a man’s head on a table moving towards him, then realized the man wore a giant yoke from which hung hundreds of small bottles on different lengths of string and wire. Moving as if part of a glass curtain, his body enveloped within that sphere. The figure resembled most of all those drawings of archangels he had tried to copy as a schoolboy, never solving how one body could have space for the muscles of such wings. The man moved with a long, slow gait, so smoothly there was hardly a tilt in the bottles. A wave of glass, an archangel, all the ointments within the bottles warmed from the sun, so when they were rubbed onto skin they seemed to have been heated especially for a wound. Behind him was translated light—blues and other colours shivering in the haze and sand. The faint glass noise and the diverse colours and the regal walk and his face like a lean dark gun. Up close the glass was rough and sandblasted, glass that had lost its civilisation. Each bottle had a minute cork the man plucked out with his teeth and kept in his lips while mixing one bottle’s contents with another’s, a second cork also in his teeth. He stood over the supine burned body with his wings, sank two sticks deep into the sand and then moved away free of the six- foot yoke, which balanced now within the crutches of the two sticks. He stepped out from under his shop. He sank to his knees and came towards the burned pilot and put his cold hands on his neck and held them there. He was known to everyone along the camel route from the Sudan north to Giza, the Forty Days Road. He met the caravans, traded spice and liquid, and moved between oases and water camps. He walked through sandstorms with this coat of bottles, his ears plugged with two other small corks so he seemed a vessel to himself, this merchant doctor, this king of oils and perfumes and panaceas, this baptist. He would enter a camp and set up the curtain of bottles in front of whoever was sick. He crouched by the burned man. He made a skin cup with the soles of his feet and leaned back to pluck, without even looking, certain bottles. With the uncorking of each tiny bottle the perfumes fell out. There was an odour of the sea. The smell of rust. Indigo. Ink. River-mud arrow-wood formaldehyde paraffin ether. The tide of airs chaotic. There were screams of camels in the distance as they picked up the scents. He began to rub green-black paste onto the rib cage. It was ground peacock bone, bartered for in a medina to the west or the south—the most potent healer of skin. Between the kitchen and the destroyed chapel a door led into an oval-shaped library. The space inside seemed safe except for a large hole at portrait level in the far wall, caused by mortar-shell attack on the villa two months earlier. The rest of the room had adapted itself to this wound, accepting the habits of weather, evening stars, the sound of birds. There was a sofa, a piano covered in a grey sheet, the head of a stuffed bear and high walls of books. The shelves nearest the torn wall bowed with the rain, which had doubled the weight of the books. Lightning came into the room too, again and again, falling across the covered piano and carpet. At the far end were French doors that were boarded up. If they had been open she could have walked from the library to the loggia, then down thirty-six penitent steps past the chapel towards what had been an ancient meadow, scarred now by phosphorus bombs and explosions. The German army had mined many of the houses they retreated from, so most rooms not needed, like this one, had been sealed for safety, the doors hammered into their frames. She knew these dangers when she slid into the room, walking into its afternoon darkness. She stood conscious suddenly of her weight on the wooden floor, thinking it was probably enough to trigger whatever mechanism was there. Her feet in dust. The only light poured through the jagged mortar circle that looked onto the sky. With a crack of separation, as if it were being dismantled from one single unit, she pulled out The Last of the Mohicans and even in this half-light was cheered by the aquamarine sky and lake on the cover illustration, the Indian in the foreground. And then, as if there were someone in the room who was not to be disturbed, she walked backwards, stepping on her own footprints, for safety, but also as part of a private game, so it would seem from the steps that she had entered the room and then the corporeal body had disappeared. She closed the door and replaced the seal of warning. She sat in the window alcove in the English patient’s room, the painted walls on one side of her, the valley on the other. She opened the book. The pages were joined together in a stiff wave. She felt like Crusoe finding a drowned book that had washed up and dried itself on the shore. A Narrative of 1757. Illustrated by N. C. Wyeth. As in all of the best books, there was the important page with the list of illustrations, a line of text for each of them. She entered the story knowing she would emerge from it feeling she had been immersed in the lives of others, in plots that stretched back twenty years, her body full of sentences and moments, as if awaking from sleep with a heaviness caused by unremembered dreams. Their Italian hill town, sentinel to the northwest route, had been besieged for more than a month, the barrage focusing upon the two villas and the monastery surrounded by apple and plum orchards. There was the Villa Medici, where the generals lived. Just above it the Villa San Girolamo, previously a nunnery, whose castlelike battlements had made it the last stronghold of the German army. It had housed a hundred troops. As the hill town began to be torn apart like a battleship at sea, by fire shells, the troops moved from the barrack tents in the orchard into the now crowded bedrooms of the old nunnery. Sections of the chapel were blown up. Parts of the top storey of the villa crumbled under explosions. When the Allies finally took over the building and made it a hospital, the steps leading to the third level were sealed off, though a section of chimney and roof survived. She and the Englishman had insisted on remaining behind when the other nurses and patients moved to a safer location in the south. During this time they were very cold, without electricity. Some rooms faced onto the valley with no walls at all. She would open a door and see just a sodden bed huddled against a corner, covered with leaves. Doors opened into landscape. Some rooms had become an open aviary. The staircase had lost its lower steps during the fire that was set before the soldiers left. She had gone into the library, removed twenty books and nailed them to the floor and then onto each other, in this way rebuilding the two lowest steps. Most of the chairs had been used for fires. The armchair in the library was left there because it was always wet, drenched by evening storms that came in through the mortar hole. Whatever was wet escaped burning during that April of 1945. There were few beds left. She herself preferred to be nomadic in the house with her pallet or hammock, sleeping sometimes in the English patient’s room, sometimes in the hall, depending on temperature or wind or light. In the morning she rolled up her mattress and tied it into a wheel with string. Now it was warmer and she was opening more rooms, airing the dark reaches, letting sunlight dry all the dampness. Some nights she opened doors and slept in rooms that had walls missing. She lay on the pallet on the very edge of the room, facing the drifting landscape of stars, moving clouds, wakened by the growl of thunder and lightning. She was twenty years old and mad and unconcerned with safety during this time, having no qualms about the dangers of the possibly mined library or the thunder that startled her in the night. She was restless after the cold months, when she had been limited to dark, protected spaces. She entered rooms that had been soiled by soldiers, rooms whose furniture had been burned within them. She cleared out leaves and shit and urine and charred tables. She was living like a vagrant, while elsewhere the English patient reposed in his bed like a king. From outside, the place seemed devastated. An outdoor staircase disappeared in midair, its railing hanging off. Their life was foraging and tentative safety. They used only essential candlelight at night because of the brigands who annihilated everything they came across. They were protected by the simple fact that the villa seemed a ruin. But she felt safe here, half adult and half child. Coming out of what had happened to her during the war, she drew her own few rules to herself. She would not be ordered again or carry out duties for the greater good. She would care only for the burned patient. She would read to him and bathe him and give him his doses of morphine—her only communication was with him. She worked in the garden and orchard. She carried the six-foot crucifix from the bombed chapel and used it to build a scarecrow above her seedbed, hanging empty sardine cans from it which clattered and clanked whenever the wind lifted. Within the villa she would step from rubble to a candlelit alcove where there was her neatly packed suitcase, which held little besides some letters, a few rolled-up clothes, a metal box of medical supplies. She had cleared just small sections of the villa, and all this she could burn down if she wished. She lights a match in the dark hall and moves it onto the wick of the candle. Light lifts itself onto her shoulders. She is on her knees. She puts her hands on her thighs and breathes in the smell of the sulphur. She imagines she also breathes in light. She moves backwards a few feet and with a piece of white chalk draws a rectangle onto the wood floor. Then continues backwards, drawing more rectangles, so there is a pyramid of them, single then double then single, her left hand braced flat on the floor, her head down, serious. She moves farther and farther away from the light. Till she leans back onto her heels and sits crouching. She drops the chalk into the pocket of her dress. She stands and pulls up the looseness of her skirt and ties it around her waist. She pulls from another pocket a piece of metal and flings it out in front of her so it falls just beyond the farthest square. She leaps forward, her legs smashing down, her shadow behind her curling into the depth of the hall. She is very quick, her tennis shoes skidding on the numbers she has drawn into each rectangle, one foot landing, then two feet, then one again, until she reaches the last square. She bends down and picks up the piece of metal, pauses in that position, motionless, her skirt still tucked up above her thighs, hands hanging down loose, breathing hard. She takes a gulp of air and blows out the candle. Now she is in darkness. Just a smell of smoke. She leaps up and in midair turns so she lands facing the other way, then skips forward even wilder now down the black hall, still landing on squares she knows are there, her tennis shoes banging and slamming onto the dark floor—so the sound echoes out into the far reaches of the deserted Italian villa, out towards the moon and the scar of a ravine that half circles the building. Sometimes at night the burned man hears a faint shudder in the building. He turns up his hearing aid to draw in a banging noise he still cannot interpret or place. She picks up the notebook that lies on the small table beside his bed. It is the book he brought with him through the fire— a copy of The Histories by Herodotus that he has added to, cutting and gluing in pages from other books or writing in his own observations—so they all are cradled within the text of Herodotus. She begins to read his small gnarled handwriting. There is a whirlwind in southern Morocco, the aajej, against which the fellahin defend themselves with knives. There is the africo, which has at times reached into the city of Rome. The aim, a fall wind out of Yugoslavia. The arifi, also christened are/or rifi, which scorches with numerous tongues. These are permanent winds that live in the present tense. There are other, less constant winds that change direction, that can knock down horse and rider and realign themselves anticlockwise. The bist roz leaps into Afghanistan for 170 days —burying villages. There is the hot, dry ghibli from Tunis, which rolls and rolls and produces a nervous condition. The haboob—a Sudan dust storm that dresses in bright yellow walls a thousand metres high and is followed by rain. The harmattan, which blows and eventually drowns itself into the Atlantic. Imbat, a sea breeze in North Africa. Some winds that just sigh towards the sky. Night dust storms that come with the cold. The khamsin, a dust in Egypt from March to May, named after the Arabic word for “fifty,” blooming for fifty days—the ninth plague of Egypt. The datoo out of Gibraltar, which carries fragrance. There is also the ———, the secret wind of the desert, whose name was erased by a king after his son died within it. And the nafliat—a blast out of Arabia. The mezzar-ifoullousen —a violent and cold southwesterly known to Berbers as “that which plucks the fowls.” The beshabar, a black and dry northeasterly out of the Caucasus, “black wind.” The Samiel from Turkey, “poison and wind,” used often in battle. As well as the other “poison winds,” the simoom, of North Africa, and the solano, whose dust plucks off rare petals, causing giddiness. Other, private winds. Travelling along the ground like a flood. Blasting off paint, throwing down telephone poles, transporting stones and statue heads. The harmattan blows across the Sahara filled with red dust, dust as fire, as flour, entering and coagulating in the locks of rifles. Mariners called this red wind the “sea of darkness.” Red sand fogs out of the Sahara were deposited as far north as Cornwall and Devon, producing showers of mud so great this was also mistaken for blood. “Blood rains were widely reported in Portugal and Spain in 1901.” There are always millions of tons of dust in the air, just as there are millions of cubes of air in the earth and more living flesh in the soil (worms, beetles, underground creatures) than there is grazing and existing on it. Herodotus records the death of various armies engulfed in the simoom who were never seen again. One nation was “so enraged by this evil wind that they declared war on it and marched out in full battle array, only to be rapidly and completely interred.” Dust storms in three shapes. The whirl. The column. The sheet. In the first the horizon is lost. In the second you are surrounded by “waltzing Ginns.” The third, the sheet, is “copper-tinted. Nature seems to be on fire.” She looks up from the book and sees his eyes on her. He begins to talk across the darkness. The Bedouin were keeping me alive for a reason. I was useful, you see. Someone there had assumed I had a skill when my plane crashed in the desert. I am a man who can recognize an unnamed town by its skeletal shape on a map. I have always had information like a sea in me. I am a person who if left alone in someone’s home walks to the bookcase, pulls down a volume and inhales it. So history enters us. I knew maps of the sea floor, maps that depict weaknesses in the shield of the earth, charts painted on skin that contain the various routes of the Crusades. So I knew their place before I crashed among them, knew when Alexander had traversed it in an earlier age, for this cause or that greed. I knew the customs of nomads besotted by silk or wells. One tribe dyed a whole valley floor, blackening it to increase convection and thereby the possibility of rainfall, and built high structures to pierce the belly of a cloud. There were some tribes who held up their open palm against the beginnings of wind. Who believed that if this was done at the right moment they could deflect a storm into an adjacent sphere of the desert, towards another, less loved tribe. There were continual drownings, tribes suddenly made historical with sand across their gasp. In the desert it is easy to lose a sense of demarcation. When I came out of the air and crashed into the desert, into those troughs of yellow, all I kept thinking was, I must build a raft... I must build a raft. And here, though I was in the dry sands, I knew I was among water people. In Tassili I have seen rock engravings from a time when the Sahara people hunted water horses from reed boats. In Wadi Sura I saw caves whose walls were covered with paintings of swimmers. Here there had been a lake. I could draw its shape on a wall for them. I could lead them to its edge, six thousand years ago. Ask a mariner what is the oldest known sail, and he will describe a trapezoidal one hung from the mast of a reed boat that can be seen in rock drawings in Nubia. Pre-dynastic. Harpoons are still found in the desert. These were water people. Even today caravans look like a river. Still, today it is water who is the stranger here. Water is the exile, carried back in cans and flasks, the ghost between your hands and your mouth. When I was lost among them, unsure of where I was, all I needed was the name of a small ridge, a local custom, a cell of this historical animal, and the map of the world would slide into place. What did most of us know of such parts of Africa? The armies of the Nile moved back and forth—a battlefield eight hundred miles deep into the desert. Whippet tanks, Blenheim medium-range bombers. Gladiator biplane fighters. Eight thousand men. But who was the enemy? Who were the allies of this place—the fertile lands of Cyrenaica, the salt marshes of El Agheila? All of Europe were fighting their wars in North Africa, in Sidi Rezegh, in Baguoh. He travelled on a skid behind the Bedouin for five days in darkness, the hood over his body. He lay within this oil-doused cloth. Then suddenly the temperature fell. They had reached the valley within the red high canyon walls, joining the rest of the desert’s water tribe that spilled and slid over sand and stones, their blue robes shifting like a spray of milk or a wing. They lifted the soft cloth off him, off the suck of his body. He was within the larger womb of the canyon. The buzzards high above them slipping down a thousand years into this crack of stone where they camped. In the morning they took him to the far reach of the siq. They were talking loudly around him now. The dialect suddenly clarifying. He was here because of the buried guns. He was carried towards something, his blindfolded face looking straight ahead, and his hand made to reach out a yard or so. After days of travel, to move this one yard. To lean towards and touch something with a purpose, his arm still held, his palm facing down and open. He touched the Sten barrel and the hand let go of him. A pause among the voices. He was there to translate the guns. “Twelve-millimetre Breda machine gun. From Italy.” He pulled back the bolt, inserted his finger to find no bullet, pushed it back and pulled the trigger. Puht. “Famous gun,” he muttered. He was moved forward again. “French seven-point-five-millimetre Chattelerault. Light machine gun. Nineteen twenty-four.” “German seven-point-nine-millimetre MG-Fifteen air service. He was brought to each of the guns. The weapons seemed to be from different time periods and from many countries, a museum in the desert. He brushed the contours of the stock and magazine or fingered the sight. He spoke out the gun’s name, then was carried to another gun. Eight weapons formally handed to him. He called the names out loud, speaking in French and then the tribe’s own language. But what did that matter to them? Perhaps they needed not the name but to know that he knew what the gun was. He was held by the wrist again and his hand sunk into a box of cartridges. In another box to the right were more shells, seven-millimetre shells this time. Then others. When he was a child he had grown up with an aunt, and on the grass of her lawn she had scattered a deck of cards face down and taught him the game of Pelmanism. Each player allowed to turn up two cards and, eventually, through memory pairing them off. This had been in another landscape, of trout streams, birdcalls that he could recognize from a halting fragment. A fully named world. Now, with his face blindfolded in a mask of grass fibres, he picked up a shell and moved with his carriers, guiding them towards a gun, inserted the bullet, bolted it, and holding it up in the air fired. The noise cracking crazily down the canyon walls. “For echo is the soul of the voice exciting itself in hollow places.” A man thought to be sullen and mad had written that sentence down in an English hospital. And he, now in this desert, was sane, with clear thought, picking up the cards, bringing them together with ease, his grin flung out to his aunt, and firing each successful combination into the air, and gradually the unseen men around him replied to each rifle shot with a cheer. He would turn to face one direction, then move back to the Breda this time on his strange human palanquin, followed by a man with a knife who carved a parallel code on shell box and gun stock. He thrived on it—the movement and the cheering after the solitude. This was payment with his skill for the men who had saved him for such a purpose. There are villages he will travel into with them where there are no women. His knowledge is passed like a counter of usefulness from tribe to tribe. Tribes representing eight thousand individuals. He enters specific customs and specific music. Mostly blindfolded he hears the water-drawing songs of the Mzina tribe with their exultations, dahhiya dances, pipe-flutes which are used for carrying messages in times of emergency, the makruna double pipe (one pipe constantly sounding a drone). Then into the territory of five-stringed lyres. A village or oasis of preludes and interludes. Hand-clapping. Antiph-onal dance. He is given sight only after dusk, when he can witness his captors and saviours. Now he knows where he is. For some he draws maps that go beyond their own boundaries and for other tribes too he explains the mechanics of guns. The musicians sit across the fire from him. The simsimiya lyre notes flung away by a gust of breeze. Or the notes shift towards him over the flames. There is a boy dancing, who in this light is the most desirable thing he has seen. His thin shoulders white as papyrus, light from the fire reflecting sweat on his stomach, nakedness glimpsed through openings in the blue linen he wears as a lure from neck to ankle, revealing himself as a line of brown lightning. The night desert surrounds them, traversed by a loose order of storms and caravans. There are always secrets and dangers around him, as when blind he moved his hand and cut himself on a double-edged razor in the sand. At times he doesn’t know if these are dreams, the cut so clean it leaves no pain, and he must wipe the blood on his skull (his face still untouchable) to signal the wound to his captors. This village of no women he has been brought into in complete silence, or the whole month when he did not see the moon. Was this invented? Dreamed by him while wrapped in oil and felt and darkness? They had passed wells where water was cursed. In some open spaces there were hidden towns, and he waited while they dug through sand into the buried rooms or waited while they dug into nests of water. And the pure beauty of an innocent dancing boy, like sound from a boy chorister, which he remembered as the purest of sounds, the clearest river water, the most transparent depth of the sea. Here in the desert, which had been an old sea where nothing was strapped down or permanent, everything drifted—like the shift of linen across the boy as if he were embracing or freeing himself from an ocean or his own blue afterbirth. A boy arousing himself, his genitals against the colour of fire. Then the fire is sanded over, its smoke withering around them. The fall of musical instruments like a pulse or rain. The boy puts his arm across, through the lost fire, to silence the pipe-flutes. There is no boy, there are no footsteps when he leaves. Just the borrowed rags. One of the men crawls forward and collects the semen which has fallen on the sand. He brings it over to the white translator of guns and passes it into his hands. In the desert you celebrate nothing but water. She stands over the sink, gripping it, looking at the stucco wall. She has removed all mirrors and stacked them away in an empty room. She grips the sink and moves her head from side to side, releasing a movement of shadow. She wets her hands and combs water into her hair till it is completely wet. This cools her and she likes it when she goes outside and the breezes hit her, erasing the thunder. 1. 别    墅     她一直在花园里干活，这会儿则站直了身子，眺望远方。她感觉到天气有了变化。又刮起了一阵大风，空气中响起一阵闷雷的声音，那棵高大的丝柏也随之摇曳起来。她转身朝坡上的房子走去，爬过一道矮墙，感觉到雨点已打在自己裸露的臂上。她穿过凉亭，迅速走进屋内。     她没有在厨房逗留，直接登上隐没在黑暗中的楼梯，沿着长长的走廊继续前行。灯光从一道敞开的房门射出，洒在长廊的尽头。     她走进房间，这里是另一个花园——墙壁和天花板上绘有树木和凉亭。那个男人躺在床上，微风吹抚着他的身子。在她进屋时，他缓缓地转过头来。     每隔四天，她便会擦洗一次他那黝黑的身体，先是从伤残的双脚开始。她沾湿一块毛巾，举到他的脚踝上方拧下水来。听到他发出喃喃的声音，她抬起头，看见了他的微笑。胫骨以 上是烧伤程度最严重的部分，深紫红色，连骨头也露出来了。 她照顾他已有好几个月了，因此对他的身体非常熟悉。耶稣的髋骨，她想。他就是她绝望的圣者。他没垫枕头，仰面平躺在床上，望着涂绘在天花板上的树叶、树冠和那片蓝天。     她往他的胸部涂上药水。这里的烧伤程度较轻，她可以触摸。她喜爱最下方一根肋骨下凹陷的肌肤。她靠向他的肩膀，朝着他的脖子吹气，他嘟哝了一句。     “什么?”她回过神来，问道。     他掉转黝黑的脸庞，一双灰色的眼睛直视着她。她把手伸进了口袋，取出李子。她用牙齿咬去李子皮，去掉内核，把果肉塞进他的嘴里。 他的低语，牵引着身旁这位年轻护土的心。与他一起进入临死前的这几个月里，他一直在挖掘回忆的深井。 那人缓缓地对着房间叙述一段段杂乱无章的往事。他在这个绘制而成的花园之中醒来，周围是蔓生的鲜花和参天大树的枝干。他想起了野餐时，曾有一个女人亲吻过他现在已经烧成紫红色的身体。     “我已在沙漠里待了好几个星期，而且根本忘了仰望月亮。”他说。就像一个已婚的男人，与妻子共同居家度日，却从不正眼瞧一下她的脸庞。这不是由于怠慢而犯下的过错，而 是因为心有旁骛。     他的眼睛盯着年轻护士的脸。只要她动一下脑袋，他的目光就会顺着她移转。她倾身向前：“你怎么受的伤?” 已近傍晚。他用指背抚弄着床单。 “我感觉到自己燃烧着掉进了沙漠。     “他们发现了我，用木棍组合成一条小船，把我拖过沙漠。我们是在一片沙海里，有时则要穿过干涸的河床。那些游牧民族的贝都因人。我的飞机坠了下去，沙堆顿时起了火。他们看见我赤裸地从火中走了出来，我头上的帽子着了火。他们把我绑在一个摇篮里，然后带着我一溜烟往前跑，脚步声劈啪作响。     “贝都因人知道火。同时，他们也知道从一九三九年起就开始从天上掉下来的飞机。他们的一些工具和用具都是用飞机和战车残骸的金属材料做成的。这时正在进行空战。他们可以听出受损飞机发出的嗡嗡声，他们也知道怎么在那些残骸之中穿行。驾驶舱的一个螺丝钉，也能成为他们灵活运用的零件。我也许是第一个从燃烧的飞机中活着钻出来的人——一个脑袋着火的人。他们并不知道我的名字。我也不了解他们的部落。”     “你是谁?”     “我不知道。你老是问我。”     “你说过你是英国人。”     夜里，他从来都不会累得想要入睡。她总是从楼下的书房随手拿出一本书，然后读给他听。蜡烛照亮了打开的书页，映亮了年轻护士动人的面容，隐约地照出了装饰墙壁的那片树木和景观。他听着她念书，像喝水一样吞下她的话。     如果天冷了，她就轻轻爬到床上，躺在他的身边。她只要一碰到他，就会弄痛他，连那纤细的手腕都碰不得。     有时到了凌晨两点，他还睡不着，只能在黑暗中睁着眼睛。 在看见绿洲之前，他就闻到了它的味道。空气有着水的味道，还有沙沙作响的声音——那是棕榈树和缰绳。摇摆的锡罐发出深沉的声音，表示里面装满了水。 他们把油膏浇在大块软布上，把布盖在他身上。他被涂上了池膏。 他可以察觉到那个沉默的人总是待在他身旁。每隔十四个小时，他就会在夜幕降临时打开软布，在黑暗之中检查他的皮肤。当那人弯腰的时候，他能闻到他呼吸的气息。 他又是没穿衣服，赤身裸体，而旁边就是那架燃烧的飞机。他们在他身上铺上一层层灰色毛毡。他想知道是哪个伟大的民族发现了他。是哪个国家发明了这些软软的枣子，那种由他身边的那个人嚼了几口，然后塞进他嘴里的枣子。在与这些人相处的时候，他记不得自己来自何方。他只知道，他自己也许就是他在空中交战的敌人。 后来，到了比萨的医院时，他觉得自己看见了那个人的脸，那个每晚都会来到他身边，嚼软了枣子，再送进他嘴里的人。 那些夜晚毫无色彩——没有演讲和歌唱。在他醒了以后，贝都因人停止了这——切。他身处一个看来像吊床的祭坛之上，空泛地想象着自己周围聚有上百人，其中也许只有两个人发现了他，从他头上摘下那顶火帽。而他也只能根据随着枣子进入嘴中的唾液味道或奔跑的脚步声，来辨认他们。 她会坐在那里读书，书本则被摇曳的灯光映照着。她不时会打量一下别墅的走廊。这里曾是一家战时医院，她曾与别的护士住在这里，后来她们陆续走了。战火就这样向北边蔓延，而如今战争几乎已经要结束了。 在这些日子里，她感到自己身陷囹圄，而书是惟一通往外界的门。它们成了她的半个世界。她坐在床头桌前，弯着腰，读着有关印度那个小孩的故事。那个孩子学会了记住托盘中的各种珠宝和物品。教师们把盘子掷来掷去。教会了他方言，教会了他记忆的诀窍，他们教会了他逃脱被催眠的人。 那本书摊在她的腿上。她意识到自己五分多钟以来，一直看着书上渗过水的地方，以及有人为了做记号而在第十七页边角留下的折痕。她抚平了这一页，心中起了一阵骚动，像是一只老鼠跑过天花板，或是一只飞蛾在夜里落到窗户上。她朝长廊那头望去，尽管那里现在没有住着任何人——除了她和这名英国病人，圣吉洛拉莫别墅没有别人。房子那头的果园被炸得坑坑洼洼，她在里面种了蔬菜，足够他们食用。每隔一阵子，会有一个人从城里过来，她就会拿肥皂、床单和这个战时医院剩下的东西，与其交换别的日常用品——一些豆子，一些肉。那人曾给她两瓶葡萄酒，此后每晚当她躺在英国人身边看着他睡着后，她就会煞有其事地给自己倒上一小杯，然后把它放回床头柜上，继续阅读正在看的书。 为英国人读的那些书——不管他是否认真地听——情节支离破碎，就像是被暴风雨冲垮的公路，故事缺头少尾，仿佛被蝗虫吞噬过的织锦，仿佛被轰炸震松的灰泥，到了夜晚就会从壁画处掉下来。 她和英国人现在居住的别墅就很像这个样子。有些房间一片狼藉，根本进不去。月光和雨水经由一个弹坑渗进了楼下的书房，书房的一角放着一把永远是湿漉漉的安乐椅。 就书中不全的情节而言，她并不担心英国人是否介意。她也不为遗失的章节做摘要概述。她只是拿出那本书，说道“九十六页”或“一百一十一页”。这是惟一的出处。她抓起他的双于贴到自己脸上，闻着它们——它们仍有生病的气味。 “你的手越来越粗了。”他说。 “拔草拔蓟，挖这挖那。” ‘小心一点。我告诉过你要留意危险。”     “我知道。”     接着她开始读书。     她的父亲跟她谈过手，是跟狗爪子有关的事。每当她的父亲和狗单独待在屋里时，他会弯腰闻一闻爪子的底部。他会说，这好像来自一个白兰地酒杯的气息，这是世上最了不起的 气味!芬芳怡人!带着惊心动魄的旅途传说!她会故作反感，但是狗爪的确是很奇妙：它的气味从来不会让人联想起肮脏与污秽。它是一座大教堂!她的父亲曾说：某某人的花园，某块 草地，从樱草属植物中间走过——爪子显示了这只动物白天踏过的所有小路。     天花板上一阵骚动，像是一只老鼠窜过。她又将目光从书本上移开，抬起头来观看。     他们揭下敷在他脸上的草药。这一天有日蚀，他们正在等着日蚀。他在哪里?这个懂得预测天气和光线的民族是什么文明国家?不是阿赫马就是阿比亚德，因为他们肯定是西北方沙漠的一个部落。他们逮到了一个来自空中的人，用绿洲芦苇编成面罩盖住他的脸。他现在能辨别芳草的方向了。这世界上他心爱的花园是基尤的芳草园，色彩缤纷，就像山上的榕木层次分明。     他凝视笼罩于日蚀下的大地。他们这时已经教会他抬起胳膊，自宇宙之中指引力量进入他的体内。他躺在毛毡和树枝做成的轿子中，看见昏暗的天空中，火鸟从他的眼前逝去。     他的皮肤总是被浇上油膏，总是被黑暗淹没。一天晚上，他似乎听到了风声，过了一会儿，声音停了，他也带着渴望睡着了——他渴望着那个像是从鸟的喉咙发出的柔弱声音。也许是火鸟，-或是被人放进缝了一半的外衣口袋里的一只狐狸。     第二天，当他又被用布包住时，他听到了青草的沙沙声——黑暗之中发出的噪音。到了黎明，毛毡被打开了，他看见一张长着人类脑袋的桌子朝他移了过来，后来他才意识到那是 一个人扛着一个巨大的扁担，扁担上挂着用长度不等的绳子和铁丝绑起来的几百个小瓶子，瓶子一晃动，看来就像是张水晶帘子，他的身子被裹在其中。     这个形象很像他以前临摹的大部分天使长画像。那时他是一个学童，从来都弄不清楚一个人的身体怎么能有地方长出这样一对翅膀。那人迈着大步，那么平稳，瓶子几乎都没倾 斜。一道水晶的波浪，一个天使长，瓶中的油膏被太阳烤热了，抹到皮肤上时，仿佛是专门为了治伤而加了热。在他身后是转化的亮光——在烟雾和尘沙中闪烁着的蓝色和其它色彩。 微弱的玻璃声，多样的色彩，威武的步伐，还有他的脸庞，像是长熗一样，又瘦又黑。     凑近一看，玻璃粗糙，喷过了沙，已经失去了文明的光泽。每一个瓶子都有一个很小的塞子。那人用牙齿咬下塞子，含在嘴里，把这瓶的油膏和另一个瓶子的油膏——第二个瓶 塞，也含在他嘴里——混在一起。长着翅膀的他，弯腰站在仰卧的那具烧伤躯体旁边，将两根棍子深深插入沙子里，然后卸下六尺长的扁担，将它用那两根棍子平衡支撑着。他从自己的铺子下面走了出来。他跪了下来，来到被火烧伤的飞行员跟前，伸出冰冷的双手扶起他。     在这条从苏丹北部到吉萨，又名“四十天路”的骆驼道上，行人都认识他。遇上商队，他就交换香料和水，然后跋涉于绿洲和水边的营地之间。他穿着这件挂满了小瓶子的大衣走 出暴风沙，耳朵塞着另外两个小木塞，所以他看来似乎就是一个容器，这个行商的医生，这个油膏、香水和灵丹妙药之王，这个施洗礼者。他会走进营地，在任何—个伤员面前架起这道瓶帘。     他在这个烧伤患者旁边蹲下，盘腿而坐，仰身向后，连看都没看就抓了某些瓶子。打开每一个小瓶子以后，香味散发了出来。这是海的气息、铁锈的气味。墨水、沙泥、箭木、甲醛、石蜡、乙醚……杂乱的气味搅在一起。远处的骆驼闻到了，于是尖叫起来。他开始往他的胸部揉擦着黑绿色的药膏。这是磨碎的孔雀骨头，是从西边或南边的阿拉伯居住区换来 的——是治疗皮肤伤口的最佳药材。     在厨房和被炸毁的小教堂之间，有个门通往椭圆形的书房。那里似乎是个安全的地方，只是在悬挂肖像的墙壁上有一个大洞，那是炮弹炸的——两个月前迫击炮对别墅炸了一阵。 房间其余的地方已习惯了这个大大的“伤口”，承受着天气的转换，星光的照耀，还有小鸟的歌唱。里面放着一张沙发，一架套了灰色布罩的钢琴，一个制成了标本的黑熊脑袋。高高的书架靠着墙壁，上面堆着无数本书。最靠近这个墙壁的书架饱经了风雨的欺凌，书的重量增加了一倍。闪电一再闯进屋子，照亮了钢琴和地毯。 对面是已被木板钉死的落地窗。如果落地窗开着，她就可以从书房走到凉亭，然后带着一颗忏悔的心迈出三十六步，经过小教堂，来到—一片已被炸得千疮百孔而不存在昔日青翠模样的草地。撤离的时候，德军在许多房子里埋了地雷，所以闲置不用的房间—就像这一间——为了安全起见都被封了，房门与门框被钉在一起。     她蹑手蹑脚溜进屋里，走进了午后的幽暗之中。她心中清楚存在着危险。她站住不动，突然意识到自己的重量正压在木质地板上，心想这份重量很可能引发某个机关。她的双脚踏在尘土之中。惟一的光亮从迫击炮炸出的窟窿照了进来，那个锯齿般的圆洞直对天空。     哐啷一声，像是拆卸金属的声音。她抽出了《大地英豪》，在半明半暗中，看到封面上的蔚蓝天空、湖泊，以及前景的那个印第安人，她的心中一阵激动。然后，仿佛屋里有个人不能惊动，她倒着往回走，为了安全起见踩着自己的脚印—这也是一个不为人知的游戏。从这些脚步来看，似乎她进了房间之后，整个血肉之躯就不知去向了。她关上房门，重新弄好警告的封条。     她来到英国病人的房间，坐到窗台上面，一边是绘画的墙壁，一边是山谷。她打开书本，书已紧紧地贴在——起。她觉得自己像是鲁滨逊，找到一本沉人海中以后被冲到了岸上而晾干的书。一七五七年的叙事小说，N·C·韦思插图。如同所有最好的书一样，这本书有一页插图目录，每——幅插图都有—行文字说明。     她走进了故事之中，知道当自己从那里出来的时候，会感到像是体验了别人的生活。随着情节的推展回到二十年前，她的身子浮沉在句子和片段之中，仿佛一觉醒来，—时想不起来做了什么梦而觉得头重脚轻。     这个意大利小镇是西北通道的要塞，曾被围困了一个多月，轰炸集中于周围分布着果园的两座别墅和修道院。果园种着苹果和李子。麦迪奇别墅住着将军们。上面—点就是圣吉洛拉莫别墅，这里从前是一个女修道院，像城堡般的城垛建筑使它成了德军的最后一个据点一百多名士兵住在这里。随着山镇开始受到炮火的袭击，这里被炸得土崩瓦解，像海上的战舰一样摇摇欲沉。那些士兵从果园的帐篷里搬到昔日的女修道院，住进了拥挤的房间。小教堂的一部分已被炸毁，别墅顶楼的一部分也被炸坍。盟军最后接收了这个房子，把它改成了医院，封死了通往三楼的楼梯。一截烟囱和屋顶在战火中逃过了一劫。     其他的护士和伤员都搬到南面一个较安全的地点去了，而她和英国人则坚持留了下来。在这一段时间里，他们因为断了电觉得很冷——有些面朝山谷的房间还没了墙壁。她只要打开一道门，就可能会看到墙边放着一张潮湿的床，上面盖着树叶。房门大开，户外景致清晰可见，有些房间已经成了敞门的鸟舍。     土兵们撤走时放了一把火，楼梯的下半截已在大火中烧掉了。她去了书房，取来了二十本书，把它们钉在地板上，一本叠着一本，重新修好了楼梯最底端的两阶。大多数的椅子被拿来生火。书房的安乐椅仍在那里，它总是湿的，夜间的暴风雨总透过迫击炮弹炸出的窟窿淋得它透湿。湿透的东西在一九四五年的四月都没有被烧毁。     床只剩下几张。她本人喜欢在房子里面居无定所，打地铺睡吊床，有时睡在英国病人的房间，有时睡在走廊，一切取决于气温、风向和光线。到了清晨，她卷起被褥，用绳子绑好。现在的天气暖和了些，她打开了更多的房间，好让黑暗的角落通风，并让阳光照在潮湿的地方。有时到了夜间，她打开房门，睡在墙壁倒塌的房间。她睡在房间边缘的小床上，面对飘移的星辰和移动的云彩，在雷电的怒吼声中醒来。她年方二十，年少轻狂，毫不顾及安危，毫不惧怕书房可能埋着地雷，也不在意夜晚把她惊醒的雷声。严冬过后，她有许多事要忙，因此时常待在黑暗的屋里。她走进了曾被士兵们弄脏的房间，里面的家具已被烧掉了。她清走了树叶、粪便和烧焦的桌子。她生活得像一个流浪汉，而在另一个地方，英国病人却像一个国王，安睡在床上。     从外观看来，这个地方似乎已被炸毁了。室外的楼梯被炸掉了半截，栏杆悬挂在半空。他们过着饱一顿饥一顿的生活，时刻都有危险。到了夜里，他们不会多点上一支蜡烛，害怕土匪途经这里毁坏了一切。他们安然无恙，仅仅因为别墅似乎已经成了废墟。经历了这场战争，她给自己立下了几条原则。她再也不会听任别人发号施令，也不会为任何伟大的目的尽什么义务。她只打算照顾那位烧伤患者。     她在花园和果园里工作。她从炸毁的小教堂搬来了六英尺高的十字架，把它竖在苗床上，挂上沙丁鱼的空罐头，装扮成二个稻草人。每当起风的时候，空罐头就会叮当作响。当她置身于别墅之中时，她会从废墟旁走到被烛火照亮的壁龛，那里放着收拾整齐的皮箱，皮箱里除了—些信件、几件折叠好的衣服和一个装了医疗用品的铁匣子之外，没有多少其它东西。她已清出了别墅的一小部分。如果愿意的话，她可以把这些东西全都烧掉。     她在黑暗的走廊划起一根火柴，点燃了蜡烛。烛光照亮了她的双肩。她跪了下来，双手放在大腿上，吸进了硫磺的气味。她想象着自己吸进了光明。     她退后几步，拿出一根粉笔在木质地板上画了一个方格。接着继续后退，又画了几个方格，画出了一个塔—先是一个方格，然后是两个方格，然后又是一个方格。她的左手撑在地板上，低着头，一本正经的样子。她离开烛光越来越远。最后，她仰起了身子蹲坐着。     她把粉笔装进裙子的口袋，撩起裙子的下摆系在腰间。她又从另一个口袋里摸出一块金属，扔到前面，正好落在最远的那个方格外侧。     她往前一跳，重重地踩了下去，她的身影在身后弯曲，延伸到走廊的尽头。她动作敏捷，网球鞋踩着画在每个方格里的数字。一只脚着地、两只脚着地，然后又是一只脚着地，直到她跳进最后一个方格。     她弯腰捡起金属块，停在那里一动不动，她的裙摆仍然系在腰间，双手下垂，大口喘着气。她吸了一口·气，然后吹熄了蜡烛。 现在她陷入黑暗之中，只能闻到一股烟味。 她起身一跃，在半空中转身，落地的时候面朝另一边，然后狂野地跳向远处，停在漆黑的那头，仍然落在她知道就在那里的方格里。她的网球鞋踩响了黑暗的地板——因而在这座废弃的意大利别墅的深处响起了回声，回声传向了月亮，传到了溪谷的峭壁之上。溪谷半绕着房子。         有时到了夜里，那个烧伤患者会听到别墅里有微弱的颤动声。他调大助听器，听到了砰的一声，却无法明白那是什么声音，也不知道那声音来自何方。     她拿起放在床头柜上的笔记本。这是他从火中带出来的，上面抄了希罗多德的《历史》，还加上了一些别的内容，有的是从别的书上剪贴下来的，有的是他写的读后感——全都塞进了希罗多德的文中。     她开始阅读他那潦草的小字。     摩洛哥南部的旋风叫阿捷治，阿拉伯的农民拿着刀子与之搏斗。阿非里可风有时会刮到罗马城。阿尔姆风是自南斯拉夫吹来的—种秋风。阿利非风又叫阿里夫风或里非风，它吹干了众多人的舌头。现在常刮这些风。     还有其它不常刮的风，它们改变方向，它们可以刮倒马匹和行人，还能集聚力量逆向大刮一番。从阿富汗兴起的比斯特罗兹风狂刮一百七十天——可以埋没村庄人家。来自突尼斯的吉勃利风炎热干燥，这种风一旦席卷而来，着实让人慌神。哈布风——苏丹的一种沙暴，可以卷起千尺高黄澄澄的沙墙，并在随后带来暴雨。哈麦丹风呼呼地吹过大地，直刮到大西洋才消踪匿迹。伊姆巴特风是北非一种轻微的海风。有些风只是叹息着刮向天空。夜间的沙暴刮来寒意。喀新风是埃及境内一种挟带着沙尘的风，从三月刮到五月，它是用阿拉伯语中的“五十”来命名的，因为它肆虐五十天——埃及第九大天灾。直布罗陀海峡刮出的达突风则吹送着芳香。     还有就是一种沙漠的神秘风——纳夫哈特风——它的名字已被一个国王抹去，因为他的儿子死在风中，这是起自阿拉伯半岛的狂风。梅萨——伊伏鲁森风——一种猛烈而寒冷的西南风，柏柏尔人说它是“拔去飞禽羽毛的风”。贝沙巴尔风，来自高加索一种乌黑而干燥的东北风，又叫“黑风”。萨米尔风来自土耳其，又叫“毒风”，常在战斗中被人利用。还有别的“毒风”，来自北非的西蒙风，以及索兰诺风，它们的沙尘摧残珍贵的花瓣，让人头昏目眩。     还有其它鲜为人知的风，像洪流一样扫过大地。刮去油漆，掀倒电线杆，吹掉石头和雕像的头部。哈麦丹风吹过撒哈拉沙漠，挟带着红色的沙尘，沙尘如火，如粉，刮进了步熗的熗栓，并且凝结在上面。水手们把这种红色风暴叫作“黑暗之海”。撒哈拉的红色沙尘向北可以吹到康沃尔郡和德文郡，下阵雨时雨水中也会含有大量的红泥，被人当成是血。“据说在一九O一年，葡萄牙和西班牙多处下了血雨。”     空气中总是悬着几百万吨的沙尘，就像地球上几百万立方米的空气一样，就像土壤里的生物(蚯蚓、甲虫和地下生物)多于在土壤上生存的生物一样。希罗多德记录了众多的大军被西蒙风吞没，再也没有人见到过他们的奇闻。有一个民族“被这种邪恶的狂风激怒了，于是他们对它宣战，摆开阵势冲了进去，结果被迅速而彻底地埋葬了。”     沙暴分为三种。旋风沙暴、柱体沙暴、横面沙暴。起了第一种沙暴时，地平线消失了踪影。起了第二种沙暴时，便被“跳着华尔兹的魔鬼”围在当中。第三种沙暴——即横面沙暴——“呈黄铜色，自然界似乎着了火。”     她从书上抬起头，看见他的眼光落在她的身上。他开始在黑暗之中讲话。     “贝都因人留我活着是有原因的。我很有用。飞机在沙漠坠毁时我没有死，那时有人断定我拥有某种技术。我可以根据地图上的轮廓，识别一个不知名的城镇。我似乎已掌握了浩瀚的知识。当我独自一人在家中时，我会走到书架前，取下一本书来，然后迫不及待地读着。所以我熟知历史。我看得懂海底地图，也看得懂地表薄弱地带的地图，以及绘有十字军纷杂行军路线的兽皮图形。     “所以当飞机坠毁在他们那里之前，我就知道他们那个地方，知道古时候亚历山大大帝为丁贪婪的原因，曾君临该地。我知道游牧民族迷恋丝绸和水井的习俗。有一个部落为了促进空气对流、增加降雨的可能，把整个山谷涂成了黑色，并且筑起了高台，刺穿云彩的底部。有些部落在起风的时候，会朝着风亮出他们的手心。他们相信只要在恰当的时机这么做，就可以转移风向，引导沙暴刮向沙漠中的邻近地区，刮向另一个不大讨人喜欢的部落!有人被沙暴吞没，有的部落突然消失在风尘之中，成为历史。     “在沙漠中容易丧失界域感。我从空中落下，摔进了沙漠，落人这些黄色的沙海里，当时我一心想着，我得做个木筏……我得做个木筏。     “在这里，虽然我在干燥的细沙之中，但我知道我是身处在渔民之中。 “在塔西里，我曾见过远古的岩画，上面画着撒哈拉人划着芦苇筏子猎杀水马。在苏拉干涸河道，我曾见过洞壁画着人们游泳情景的岩洞。这里曾有一个湖泊。我可以为他们在墙上画出湖泊的模样，我可以领着他们前往六千年前的湖边。     “问一个水手什么是已知最古老的船帆，他会描绘在阿拉伯半岛见过的船帆——一叶芦苇舟的桅杆扬着梯形船帆。在建立王朝之前，沙漠里仍能发现鱼叉。时至今日，商队看上去就像一条河。可是，今天这里已经没有水了。水已远走他乡了，必须用铁罐和瓶子装运回来，它成了游荡在手和嘴之间的鬼魂。     “当我迷失在他们之中，浑然不知身在何方时，我只需要一座小桥的名字、一种当地的风俗、一个当地人作为线索，就可以知道那张世界地图上的坐标。     “我们大多数人对非洲这些地方有多少了解?尼罗河的大军往返于南北之间——战场深入沙漠八百英里。快速轻型战车，布伦亨中程轰炸机，斗士式双翼战斗机，八千名战士。但谁是敌人?谁是这个地方——昔兰尼加富饶的土地，阿盖拉的盐沼——的盟军?所有的欧洲国家都在北非打仗，在西迪雷兹格打仗，在巴古奥打仗。”     他躺在滑板上面，跟在贝都因人后面走了五个晚上，身上被罩得紧紧的，他的身子裹着浸了油的布。随后气温突然起了变化。他们到达了那个山谷，山谷的四周是高耸的红色岩壁。他们与散落在沙子和岩石上的其他渔民部落会合在一起，他们的蓝色袍子像洒落的牛奶或振动的翅膀般飘动。他们从他身上揭去那块软布，但软布已紧粘在他的身上。他置身于大峡谷的怀抱之中。空中的小虫飞人这个石缝，它们在这里安身扎营已有千年之久。     到了早晨，他们把他带到了一个地方。他们在他的周围高谈阔论。他突然听懂了这种方言，他被带到这里，因为这里埋了熗。         他被抬到什么东西跟前，被蒙住了眼睛的脸面对前方，有人拉着他的手，领着他走出了二码开外。经过几天的旅途，他就走了这一码远。倾身向前，碰到了什么东西，有人仍然抓着他的手臂，张开手掌，掌心向下。他摸到了司登轻型机熗的熗管，那双手放开丁他。众人停止说话。他到这里是要解释这些熗支。     “十二毫米口径布瑞达机熗。意大利制造的。”     他拉回熗机，探进他的手指，没有发现子弹。他推回熗机，扣动了扳机。砰!“名熗。”他含混地说。有人又拉着他向前。     “法国七点五毫米口径查特洛轻型机熗。一九二四年制造。”     “德国七点九毫米MG一15空用机熗。”     他被带到每——支熗前。这些武器好像属于不同的时期，来自许多不同的国家，这是沙漠中的一个博物馆。他擦着弹盒的外壳和熗托，或者摸着瞄准具。他说出熗的名字，然后又被带到另一支熗前。八件武器被正式递到他的手里。他大声地说出熗的名字，先用法语，然后用这个部落的语言。但是这对他们有何重要?也许他们并不需要了解熗的名字，而是需要了解他知道这是什么熗。     有人又抓住了他的手腕，把他的手探进弹药盒。右边的弹药盒装有更多的子弹，这一次是七毫米口径的子弹。然后是别的炮弹。     他是姑姑带大的。姑姑在草坪上摊了一层面朝下的纸牌，教会了他玩牌，来训练他的记忆力。每个人依次翻开两张牌，然后凭着记忆配对子。这里是另一片天地，他从片段的记忆中，可以辨认出潺潺流水和鸟鸣。—个有名有实的世界。现在，他的脸被草编的面罩蒙住了。他捡起了一颗子弹，指引抬他的人走到一支熗前，装进了子弹，拉上了熗栓，举熗对着空中射击。熗声在峡谷的四周回荡，响得很。“因为回声是空谷中灵魂活跃的声音。”一个被认为是疯疯癫癫的人，在一家英国医院里写下了这句话。他现在虽然置身于沙漠之中，却是理智的，思维清晰，捡起纸牌轻易地把它们放在一起，冲着姑姑笑得合不拢嘴，冲着天空成功地打出一组组子弹，身边看不见的人逐渐对每一熗报以欢呼。他转身面对另一方向，由众人扛着他回到那挺布瑞达机熗跟前，后面跟着一个拿刀的人。那人在子弹盒和熗托做上对应的记号。他对此饶有兴趣——在被禁闭一段时间以后可以活动身体，并且听到别人的欢呼。为了报答救他命的人，他展现了自己的技艺。     他随他们进人的那个村子没有女人。他的知识像一个有用的筹码，从一个部落传至另一个部落——代表八万人的部落。他接触了独特的风俗和音乐。大部分的时候，他是在蒙住眼睛的情况下听着密兹纳部落喜气洋洋唱起了汲水歌，跳起了达希亚舞，吹起了情况紧急时用来通风报信的风笛，就是马克鲁纳双排风笛(一排风笛老是奏着一种低沉的乐声)。接着陶醉在五弦竖琴的音域当中。他们拍着手应和，轮流歌唱起舞。乐声在村子、绿洲中回荡着。 只有在过了黄昏，他才得到允许可以看看四周，这时，他可以看见俘获他的人，和拯救他的人。现在他知道了自己身在何处。他为一些部落绘制了他们疆界外的地图，也为其它的部落讲解了熗械的结构。乐师们坐在营火对面，一阵微风吹落了西姆西姆亚竖琴的乐谱，或者说乐谱飘过跳跃的火焰，飘向他这个方向。火光中，有个男孩在跳舞，男孩是最令人赏心悦目的景物。他那瘦削的肩膀像纸一样白，火光映出了肚子上的汗水。肌肤在蓝亚麻布袍子的开口间若隐若现，他穿的袍子上起脖子下到脚踝都有开口，因而他的身子像是一道黄色的闪电。     夜晚的沙漠包围了他们，偶尔会有沙暴和商队经过。他的周围充满了神秘和危险，要是在被蒙住眼睛的时候，动了一下手，他就会被沙子中的一把双层刮胡刀片给割伤。有时他不知道这些是不是梦，伤口那么干净，没有一点痛楚，他必须擦去头上的血(他的脸仍然碰不得)，向俘获他的人示意他受了伤。他被带进了这个没有女人的村子，村里鸦雀无声，有时整整—个月见不到月亮。这是杜撰的吗?抑或是他在被裹进油膏、毛毡和黑暗中时的梦境?他们经过了曾遭诅咒的水井。在某些空旷的地方，那里有隐没的城镇。在他们挖起沙子发掘淹没的房屋时，他在一旁等着、或者在他们挖出水洼时，他在一旁看着。那个天真的舞童展现了纯洁的美，就像一个唱诗班男孩的歌声，在他的记忆中，那是最纯洁的声音，最明净的河水，最清澈的大海深处。这片沙漠在远古时期曾有一个大海。没有什么永久不变，…—切都漂移不定——像在那个男孩身上抖动的亚麻布袍子。他似乎是在拥抱自己，或者是在摆脱大海的束缚，或者从蓝色的袍衣中破茧而出。火光映照着一个孩子的生殖器。     接着营火被沙子埋没了，余烟在他们身边缭绕，乐器的乐声像是脉搏或雨点。那个男孩伸出手臂，伸过埋没的营火，止住了风笛。男孩不见了，在他离去以后，没有留下脚印，只有腊来的破衣破衫。一个人爬上前去，拾起掉在沙子上的精液。他拿给讲解熗械的白人，递到他的手里。在沙漠里，你只会赞美水。     她俯身靠近水槽，抓住它，看着石灰墙。她取走了所有的镜子，把它们堆在一个空房间里。她抓住水槽，左右摇着脑袋，她的影子随之摇动。她双手沾了水梳着头发，一直梳到头发完全湿了。她喜欢这样，这样令她感到凉快。她走到外面，微风迎面吹来，消去了雷声。

II In Near Ruins THE MAN WITH BANDAGED HANDS had been in the military hospital in Rome for more than four months when by accident he heard about the burned patient and the nurse, heard her name. He turned from the doorway and walked back into the clutch of doctors he had just passed, to discover where she was. He had been recuperating there for a long time, and they knew him as an evasive man. But now he spoke to them, asking about the name, and startled them. During all that time he had never spoken, communicating by signals and grimaces, now and then a grin. He had revealed nothing, not even his name, just wrote out his serial number, which showed he was with the Allies. His status had been double-checked, and confirmed in messages from London. There was the cluster of known scars on him. So the doctors had come back to him, nodded at the bandages on him. A celebrity, after all, wanting silence. A war hero. That was how he felt safest. Revealing nothing. Whether they came at him with tenderness or subterfuge or knives. For more than four months he had not said a word. He was a large animal in their presence, in near ruins when he was brought in and given regular doses of morphine for the pain in his hands. He would sit in an armchair in the darkness, watching the tide of movement among patients and nurses in and out of the wards and stockrooms. But now, walking past the group of doctors in the hall, he heard the woman’s name, and he slowed his pace and turned and came up to them and asked specifically which hospital she was working in. They told him that it was in an old nunnery, taken over by the Germans, then converted into a hospital after the Allies had laid siege to it. In the hills north of Florence. Most of it torn apart by bombing. Unsafe. It had been just a temporary field hospital. But the nurse and the patient had refused to leave. Why didn’t you force the two of them down? She claimed he was too ill to be moved. We could have brought him out safely, of course, but nowadays there is no time to argue. She was in rough shape herself. Is she injured? No. Partial shell shock probably. She should have been sent home. The trouble is, the war here is over. You cannot make anyone do anything anymore. Patients are walking out of hospitals. Troops are going AWOL before they get sent back home. Which villa? he asked. It’s one they say has a ghost in the garden. San Girolamo. Well, she’s got her own ghost, a burned patient. There is a face, but it is unrecognizable. The nerves all gone. You can pass a match across his face and there is no expression. The face is asleep. Who is he? he asked. We don’t know his name. He won’t talk? The clutch of doctors laughed. No, he talks, he talks all the time, he just doesn’t know who he is. Where did he come from? The Bedouin brought him into Siwa Oasis. Then he was in Pisa for a while, then... One of the Arabs is probably wearing his name tag. He will probably sell it and we’ll get it one day, or perhaps they will never sell it. These are great charms. All pilots who fall into the desert—none of them come back with identification. Now he’s holed up in a Tuscan villa and the girl won’t leave him. Simply refuses. The Allies housed a hundred patients there. Before that the Germans held it with a small army, their last stronghold. Some rooms are painted, each room has a different season. Outside the villa is a gorge. All this is about twenty miles from Florence, in the hills. You will need a pass, of course. We can probably get someone to drive you up. It is still terrible out there. Dead cattle. Horses shot dead, half eaten. People hanging upside down from bridges. The last vices of war. Completely unsafe. The sappers haven’t gone in there yet to clear it. The Germans retreated burying and installing mines as they went. A terrible place for a hospital. The smell of the dead is the worst. We need a good snowfall to clean up this country. We need ravens. Thank you. He walked out of the hospital into the sun, into open air for the first time in months, out of the green-lit rooms that lay like glass in his mind. He stood there breathing everything in, the hurry of everyone. First, he thought, I need shoes with rubber on the bottom. I need gelato. He found it difficult to fall asleep on the train, shaking from side to side. The others in the compartment smoking. His temple banging against the window frame. Everyone was in dark clothes, and the carriage seemed to be on fire with all the lit cigarettes. He noticed that whenever the train passed a cemetery the travellers around him crossed themselves. She’s in rough shape herself. Gelato for tonsils, he remembered. Accompanying a girl and her father to have her tonsils out. She had taken one look at the ward full of other children and simply refused. This, the most adaptable and genial of children, suddenly turned into a stone of refusal, adamant. No one was ripping anything out of her throat though the wisdom of the day advised it. She would live with it in, whatever “it” looked like. He still had no idea what a tonsil was. They never touched my head, he thought, that was strange. The worst times were when he began to imagine what they would have done next, cut next. At those times he always thought of his head. A scurry in the ceiling like a mouse. He stood with his valise at the far end of the hall. He put the bag down and waved across the darkness and the intermittent pools of candlelight. There was no clatter of footsteps as he walked towards her, not a sound on the floor, and that surprised her, was somehow familiar and comforting to her, that he could approach this privacy of hers and the English patient’s without loudness. As he passed the lamps in the long hall they flung his shadow forward ahead of him. She turned up the wick on the oil lamp so it enlarged the diameter of light around her. She sat very still, the book on her lap, as he came up to her and then crouched beside her like an uncle. “Tell me what a tonsil is.” Her eyes staring at him. “I keep remembering how you stormed out of the hospital followed by two grown men.” She nodded. “Is your patient in there? Can I go in?” She shook her head, kept shaking it until he spoke again. “I’ll see him tomorrow, then. Just tell me where to go. I don’t need sheets. Is there a kitchen? Such a strange journey I took in order to find you.” When he had gone along the hall she came back to the table and sat down, trembling. Needing this table, this half-finished book in order to collect herself. A man she knew had come all the way by train and walked the four miles uphill from the village and along the hall to this table just to see her. After a few minutes she walked into the Englishman’s room and stood there looking down on him. Moonlight across the foliage on the walls. This was the only light that made the trompe 1’oeil seem convincing. She could pluck that flower and pin it onto her dress. The man named Caravaggio pushes open all the windows in the room so he can hear the noises of the night. He undresses, rubs his palms gently over his neck and for a while lies down on the unmade bed. The noise of the trees, the breaking of moon into silver fish bouncing off the leaves of asters outside. The moon is on him like skin, a sheaf of water. An hour later he is on the roof of the villa. Up on the peak he is aware of the shelled sections along the slope of roofs, the two acres of destroyed gardens and orchards that neighbour the villa. He looks over where they are in Italy. In the morning by the fountain they talk tentatively. “Now you are in Italy you should find out more about Verdi.” “What?” She looks up from the bedding that she is washing out in the fountain. He reminds her. “You told me once you were in love with him.” Hana bows her head, embarrassed. Caravaggio walks around, looking at the building for the first time, peering down from the loggia into the garden. “Yes, you used to love him. You used to drive us all mad with your new information about Giuseppe. What a man! The best in every way, you’d say. We all had to agree with you, the cocky sixteen-year-old.” “I wonder what happened to her.” She spreads the washed sheet over the rim of the fountain. “You were someone with a dangerous will.” She walks over the paved stones, grass in the cracks. He watches her black-stockinged feet, the thin brown dress. She leans over the balustrade. “I think I did come here, I have to admit, something at the back of my mind made me, for Verdi. And then of course you had left and my dad had left for the war.... Look at the hawks. They are here every morning. Everything else is damaged and in pieces here. The only running water in this whole villa is in this fountain. The Allies dismantled water pipes when they left. They thought that would make me leave.” “You should have. They still have to clear this region. There are unexploded bombs all over the place.” She comes up to him and puts her fingers on his mouth. “I’m glad to see you, Caravaggio. No one else. Don’t say you have come here to try and persuade me to leave.” “I want to find a small bar with a Wurlitzer and drink without a fucking bomb going off. Listen to Frank Sinatra singing. We have to get some music,” he says. “Good for your patient.” “He’s still in Africa.” He is watching her, waiting for her to say more, but there is nothing more about the English patient to be said. He mutters. “Some of the English love Africa. A part of their brain reflects the desert precisely. So they’re not foreigners there.” He sees her head nod slightly. A lean face with hair cut short, without the mask and mystery of her long hair. If anything, she seems calm in this universe of hers. The fountain gurgling in the background, the hawks, the ruined garden of the villa. Maybe this is the way to come out of a war, he thinks. A burned man to care for, some sheets to wash in a fountain, a room painted like a garden. As if all that remains is a capsule from the past, long before Verdi, the Medicis considering a balustrade or window, holding up a candle at night in the presence of an invited architect—the best architect in the fifteenth century—and requesting something more satisfying to frame that vista. “If you are staying,” she says, “we are going to need more food. I have planted vegetables, we have a sack of beans, but we need some chickens.” She is looking at Caravaggio, knowing his skills from the past, not quite saying it. “I lost my nerve,” he says. “I’ll come with you, then,” Hana offers. “We’ll do it together. You can teach me to steal, show me what to do.” “You don’t understand. I lost my nerve.” “Why?” “I was caught. They nearly chopped off my rucking hands.” At night sometimes, when the English patient is asleep or even after she has read alone outside his door for a while, she goes looking for Caravaggio. He will be in the garden lying along the stone rim of the fountain looking up at stars, or she will come across him on a lower terrace. In this early-summer weather he finds it difficult to stay indoors at night. Most of the time he is on the roof beside the broken chimney, but he slips down silently when he sees her figure cross the terrace looking for him. She will find him near the headless statue of a count, upon whose stub of neck one of the local cats likes to sit, solemn and drooling when humans appear. She is always made to feel that she is the one who has found him, this man who knows darkness, who when drunk used to claim he was brought up by a family of owls. Two of them on a promontory, Florence and her lights in the distance. Sometimes he seems frantic to her, or he will be too calm. In daylight she notices better how he moves, notices the stiffened arms above the bandaged hands, how his whole body turns instead of just the neck when she points to something farther up the hill. But she has said nothing about these things to him. “My patient thinks peacock bone ground up is a great healer.” He looks up into the night sky. “Yes.” “Were you a spy then?” “Not quite.” He feels more comfortable, more disguised from her in the dark garden, a flicker of the lamp from the patient’s room looking down. “At times we were sent in to steal. Here I was, an Italian and a thief. They couldn’t believe their luck, they were falling over themselves to use me. There were about four or five of us. I did well for some time. Then I was accidentally photographed. Can you imagine that? “I was in a tuxedo, a monkey suit, in order to get into this gathering, a party, to steal some papers. Really I was still a thief. No great patriot. No great hero. They had just made my skills official. But one of the women had brought a camera and was snapping at the German officers, and I was caught in mid-step, walking across the ballroom. In mid-step, the beginning of the shutter’s noise making me jerk my head towards it. So suddenly everything in the future was dangerous. Some general’s girlfriend. “All photographs taken during the war were processed officially in government labs, checked by the Gestapo, and so there I would be, obviously not part of any list, to be filed away by an official when the film went to the Milan laboratory. So it meant having to try and steal that film back somehow.” She looks in on the English patient, whose sleeping body is probably miles away in the desert, being healed by a man who continues to dip his fingers into the bowl made with the joined soles of his feet, leaning forward, pressing the dark paste against the burned face. She imagines the weight of the hand on her own cheek. She walks down the hall and climbs into her hammock, giving it a swing as she leaves the ground. Moments before sleep are when she feels most alive, leaping across fragments of the day, bringing each moment into the bed with her like a child with schoolbooks and pencils. The day seems to have no order until these times, which are like a ledger for her, her body full of stories and situations. Caravag-gio has for instance given her something. His motive, a drama, and a stolen image. He leaves the party in a car. It crunches over the slowly curving gravel path leading out of the grounds, the automobile purring, serene as ink within the summer night. For the rest of the evening during the Villa Cosima gathering he had been looking at the photographer, spinning his body away whenever she lifted the camera to photograph in his direction. Now that he knows of its existence he can avoid it. He moves into the range of her dialogue, her name is Anna, mistress to an officer, who will be staying here in the villa for the night and then in the morning will travel north through Tuscany. The death of the woman or the woman’s sudden disappearance will only arouse suspicion. Nowadays anything out of the ordinary is investigated. Four hours later, he runs over the grass in his socks, his shadow curled under him, painted by the moon. He stops at the gravel path and moves slowly over the grit. He looks up at the Villa Cosima, at the square moons of window. A palace of war- women. A car beam—like something sprayed out of a hose—lights up the room he is in, and he pauses once again in mid-step, seeing that same woman’s eyes on him, a man moving on top of her, his fingers in her blonde hair. And she has seen, he knows, even though now he is naked, the same man she photographed earlier in the crowded party, for by accident he stands the same way now, half turned in surprise at the light that reveals his body in the darkness. The car lights sweep up into a corner of the room and disappear. Then there is blackness. He doesn’t know whether to move, whether she will whisper to the man fucking her about the other person in the room. A naked thief. A naked assassin. Should he move—his hands out to break a neck—towards the couple on the bed? He hears the man’s lovemaking continue, hears the silence of the woman—no whisper—hears her thinking, her eyes aimed towards him in the darkness. The word should be think-ering. Caravaggio’s mind slips into this consideration, another syllable to suggest collecting a thought as one tinkers with a half-completed bicycle. Words are tricky things, a friend of his has told him, they’re much more tricky than violins. His mind recalls the woman’s blonde hair, the black ribbon in it. He hears the car turning and waits for another moment of light. The face that emerges out of the dark is still an arrow upon him. The light moves from her face down onto the body of the general, over the carpet, and then touches and slides over Caravaggio once more. He can no longer see her. He shakes his head, then mimes the cutting of his throat. The camera is in his hands for her to understand. Then he is in darkness again. He hears a moan of pleasure now from her towards her lover, and he is aware it is her agreement with him. No words, no hint of irony, just a contract with him, the morse of understanding, so he knows he can now move safely to the verandah and drop out into the night. Finding her room had been more difficult. He had entered the villa and silently passed the half-lit seventeenth-century murals along the corridors. Somewhere there were bedrooms like dark pockets in a gold suit. The only way he could get past guards was to be revealed as an innocent. He had stripped completely and left his clothes in a flower bed. He ambles naked up the stairs to the second floor, where the guards are, bending down to laugh at some privacy, so his face is almost at his hip, nudging the guards about his evening’s invitation, alfresco, was that it? Or seduction a cappella~? One long hall on the third floor. A guard by the stair and one at the far end twenty yards away, too many yards away. So a long theatrical walk, and Caravaggio now having to perform it, watched with quiet suspicion and scornfully by the two bookended sentries, the ass-and-cock walk, pausing at a section of mural to peer at a painted donkey in a grove. He leans his head on the wall, almost falling asleep, then walks again, stumbles and immediately pulls himself together into a military gait. His stray left hand waves to the ceiling of cherubs bum-naked as he is, a salute from a thief, a brief waltz while the mural scene drifts haphazardly past him, castles, black-and-white duomos, uplifted saints on this Tuesday during the war, in order to save his disguise and his life. Caravaggio is out on the tiles looking for a photograph of himself. He pats his bare chest as if looking for his pass, grabs his penis and pretends to use it as a key to let him into the room that is being guarded. Laughing, he staggers back, peeved at his woeful failure, and slips into the next room humming. He opens the window and steps out onto the verandah. A dark, beautiful night. Then he climbs off it and swings onto the verandah one level below. Only now can he enter the room of Anna and her general. Nothing more than a perfume in their midst. Printless foot. Shadowless. The story he told someone’s child years ago about the person who searched for his shadow—as he is now looking for this image of himself on a piece of film. In the room he is immediately aware of the beginnings of sexual movement. His hands within her clothing thrown onto chair backs, dropped upon the floor. He lies down and rolls across the carpet in order to feel anything hard like a camera, touching the skin of the room. He rolls in silence in the shape of fans, finding nothing. There is not even a grain of light. He gets to his feet and sways his arms out slowly, touches a breast of marble. His hand moves along a stone hand—he understands the way the woman thinks now—off which the camera hangs with its sling. Then he hears the vehicle and simultaneously as he turns is seen by the woman in the sudden spray of car light. Caravaggio watches Hana, who sits across from him looking into his eyes, trying to read him, trying to figure the flow of thought the way his wife used to do. He watches her sniffing him out, searching for the trace. He buries it and looks back at her, knowing his eyes are faultless, clear as any river, unimpeachable as a landscape. People, he knows, get lost in them, and he is able to hide well. But the girl watches him quizzically, tilting her head in a question as a dog would when spoken to in a tone or pitch that is not human. She sits across from him in front of the dark, blood-red walls, whose colour he doesn’t like, and in her black hair and with that look, slim, tanned olive from all the light in this country, she reminds him of his wife. Nowadays he doesn’t think of his wife, though he knows he can turn around and evoke every move of her, describe any aspect of her, the weight of her wrist on his heart during the night. He sits with his hands below the table, watching the girl eat. He still prefers to eat alone, though he always sits with Hana during meals. Vanity, he thinks. Mortal vanity. She has seen him from a window eating with his hands as he sits on one of the thirty-six steps by the chapel, not a fork or a knife in sight, as if he were learning to eat like someone from the East. In his greying stubble-beard, in his dark jacket, she sees the Italian finally in him. She notices this more and more. He watches her darkness against the brown-and-red walls, her skin, her cropped dark hair. He had known her and her father in Toronto before the war. Then he had been a thief, a married man, slipped through his chosen world with a lazy confidence, brilliant in deceit against the rich, or charm towards his wife Giannetta or with this young daughter of his friend. But now there is hardly a world around them and they are forced back on themselves. During these days in the hill town near Florence, indoors during the days of rain, daydreaming in the one soft chair in the kitchen or on the bed or on the roof, he has no plots to set in motion, is interested only in Hana. And it seems she has chained herself to the dying man upstairs. During meals he sits opposite this girl and watches her eat. Half a year earlier, from a window at the end of the long hall in Santa Chiara Hospital in Pisa, Hana had been able to see a white lion. It stood alone on top of the battlements, linked by colour to the white marble of the Duomo and the Camposanto, though its roughness and naive form seemed part of another era. Like some gift from the past that had to be accepted. Yet she accepted it most of all among the things surrounding this hospital. At midnight she would look through the window and know it stood within the curfew blackout and that it would emerge like her into the dawn shift. She would look up at five or five- thirty and then at six to see its silhouette and growing detail. Every night it was her sentinel while she moved among patients. Even through the shelling the army had left it there, much more concerned about the rest of the fabulous compound—with its mad logic of a tower leaning like a person in shell shock. Their hospital buildings lay in old monastery grounds. The topiary carved for thousands of years by too careful monks was no longer bound within recognizable animal forms, and during the day nurses wheeled patients among the lost shapes. It seemed that only white stone remained permanent. Nurses too became shell-shocked from the dying around them. Or from something as small as a letter. They would carry a severed arm down a hall, or swab at blood that never stopped, as if the wound were a well, and they began to believe in nothing, trusted nothing. They broke the way a man dismantling a mine broke the second his geography exploded. The way Hana broke in Santa Chiara Hospital when an official walked down the space between a hundred beds and gave her a letter that told her of the death of her father. A white lion. It was sometime after this that she had come across the English patient—someone who looked like a burned animal, taut and dark, a pool for her. And now, months later, he is her last patient in the Villa San Girolamo, their war over, both of them refusing to return with the others to the safety of the Pisa hospitals. All the coastal ports, such as Sorrento and Marina di Pisa, are now filled with North American and British troops waiting to be sent home. But she washed her uniform, folded it and returned it to the departing nurses. The war is not over everywhere, she was told. The war is over. This war is over. The war here. She was told it would be like desertion. This is not desertion. I will stay here. She was warned of the uncleared mines, lack of water and food. She came upstairs to the burned man, the English patient, and told him she would stay as well. He said nothing, unable even to turn his head towards her, but his fingers slipped into her white hand, and when she bent forward to him he put his dark fingers into her hair and felt it cool within the valley of his fingers. How old are you? Twenty. There was a duke, he said, who when he was dying wanted to be carried halfway up the tower in Pisa so he could die looking out into the middle distance. A friend of my father’s wanted to die while Shanghai-dancing. I don’t know what it is. He had just heard of it himself. What does your father do? He is ... he is in the war. You’re in the war too. She does not know anything about him. Even after a month or so of caring for him and allotting him the needles of morphine. There was shyness at first within both of them, made more evident by the fact that they were now alone. Then it was suddenly overcome. The patients and doctors and nurses and equipment and sheets and towels—all went back down the hill into Florence and then to Pisa. She had salted away codeine tablets, as well as the morphine. She watched the departures, the line of trucks. Good-bye, then. She waved from his window, bringing the shutters to a close. Behind the villa a rock wall rose higher than the house. To the west of the building was a long enclosed garden, and twenty miles away was the carpet of the city of Florence, which often disappeared under the mist of the valley. Rumour had it one of the generals living in the old Medici villa next door had eaten a nightingale. The Villa San Girolamo, built to protect inhabitants from the flesh of the devil, had the look of a besieged fortress, the limbs of most of the statues blown off during the first days of shelling. There seemed little demarcation between house and landscape, between damaged building and the burned and shelled remnants of the earth. To Hana the wild gardens were like further rooms. She worked along the edges of them aware always of unexploded mines. In one soil-rich area beside the house she began to garden with a furious passion that could come only to someone who had grown up in a city. In spite of the burned earth, in spite of the lack of water. Someday there would be a bower of limes, rooms of green light. Caravaggio came into the kitchen to find Hana sitting hunched over the table. He could not see her face or her arms tucked in under her body, only the naked back, the bare shoulders. She was not still or asleep. With each shudder her head shook over the table. Caravaggio stood there. Those who weep lose more energy than they lose during any other act. It was not yet dawn. Her face against the darkness of the table wood. “Hana,” he said, and she stilled herself as if she could be camouflaged by stillness. “Hana.” She began to moan so the sound would be a barrier between them, a river across which she could not be reached. He was uncertain at first about touching her in her nakedness, said “Hana,” and then lay his bandaged hand on her shoulder. She did not stop shaking. The deepest sorrow, he thought. Where the only way to survive is to excavate everything. She raised herself, her head down still, then stood up against him as if dragging herself away from the magnet of the table. “Don't touch me if you're going to try and fuck me.” The skin pale above her skirt, which was all she wore in this kitchen, as if she had risen from the bed, dressed partially and come out here, the cool air from the hills entering the kitchen doorway and cloaking her. Her face was red and wet. “Hana.” “Do you understand?” “Why do you adore him so much?” “I love him.” “You don't love him, you adore him.” “Go away, Caravaggio. Please.” “You've tied yourself to a corpse for some reason.” “He is a saint. I think. A despairing saint. Are there such things? Our desire is to protect them.” “He doesn't even care!” “I can love him.” “A twenty-year-old who throws herself out of the world to love a ghost!” Caravaggio paused. “You have to protect yourself from sadness. Sadness is very close to hate. Let me tell you this. This is the thing I learned. If you take in someone else's poison— thinking you can cure them by sharing it—you will instead store it within you. Those men in the desert were smarter than you. They assumed he could be useful. So they saved him, but when he was no longer useful they left him.” “Leave me alone.” When she is solitary she will sit, aware of the nerve at her ankle, damp from the long grasses of the orchard. She peels a plum from the orchard that she has found and carried in the dark cotton pocket of her dress. When she is solitary she tries to imagine who might come along the old road under the green hood of the eighteen cypress trees. As the Englishman wakes she bends over his body and places a third of the plum into his mouth. His open mouth holds it, like water, the jaw not moving. He looks as if he will cry from this pleasure. She can sense the plum being swallowed. He brings his hand up and wipes from his lip the last dribble, which his tongue cannot reach, and puts his finger in his mouth to suck it. Let me tell you about plums, he says. When I was a boy... After the first nights, after most of the beds had been burned for fuel against the cold, she had taken a dead man’s hammock and begun to use it. She would bang spikes into whatever walls she desired, whichever room she wanted to wake in, floating above all the filth and cordite and water on the floors, the rats that had started to appear coming down from the third storey. Each night she climbed into the khaki ghostline of hammock she had taken from a dead soldier, someone who had died under her care. A pair of tennis shoes and a hammock. What she had taken from others in this war. She would wake under the slide of moonlight on the ceiling, wrapped in an old shirt she always slept in, her dress hanging on a nail by the door. There was more heat now, and she could sleep this way. Before, when it had been cold, they had had to burn things. Her hammock and her shoes and her frock. She was secure in the miniature world she had built; the two other men seemed distant planets, each in his own sphere of memory and solitude. Caravaggio, who had been her father’s gregarious friend in Canada, in those days was capable of standing still and causing havoc within the caravan of women he seemed to give himself over to. He now lay in his darkness. He had been a thief who refused to work with men, because he did not trust them, who talked with men but who preferred talking to women and when he began talking to women was soon caught in the nets of relationship. When she would sneak home in the early hours of the morning she would find him asleep on her father’s armchair, exhausted from professional or personal robberies. She thought about Caravaggio—some people you just had to embrace, in some way or another, had to bite into the muscle, to remain sane in their company. You needed to grab their hair and clutch it like a drowner so they would pull you into their midst. Otherwise they, walking casually down the street towards you, almost about to wave, would leap over a wall and be gone for months. As an uncle he had been a disappearer. Caravaggio would disturb you by simply enfolding you in his arms, his wings. With him you were embraced by character. But now he lay in darkness, like her, in some outpost of the large house. So there was Caravaggio. And there was the desert Englishman. Throughout the war, with all of her worst patients, she survived by keeping a coldness hidden in her role as nurse. I will survive this. I won’t fall apart at this. These were buried sentences all through her war, all through the towns they crept towards and through, Urbino, Anghiari, Monterchi, until they entered Florence and then went farther and finally reached the other sea near Pisa. In the Pisa hospital she had seen the English patient for the first time. A man with no face. An ebony pool. All identification consumed in a fire. Parts of his burned body and face had been sprayed with tannic acid, that hardened into a protective shell over his raw skin. The area around his eyes was coated with a thick layer of gentian violet. There was nothing to recognize in him. Sometimes she collects several blankets and lies under them, enjoying them more for their weight than for the warmth they bring. And when moonlight slides onto the ceiling it wakes her, and she lies in the hammock, her mind skating. She finds rest as opposed to sleep the truly pleasurable state. If she were a writer she would collect her pencils and notebooks and favourite cat and write in bed. Strangers and lovers would never get past the locked door. To rest was to receive all aspects of the world without judgement. A bath in the sea, a fuck with a soldier who never knew your name. Tenderness towards the unknown and anonymous, which was a tenderness to the self. Her legs move under the burden of military blankets. She swims in their wool as the English patient moved in his cloth placenta. What she misses here is slow twilight, the sound of familiar trees. All through her youth in Toronto she learned to read the summer night. It was where she could be herself, lying in a bed, stepping onto a fire escape half asleep with a cat in her arms. In her childhood her classroom had been Caravaggio. He had taught her the somersault. Now, with his hands always in his pockets, he just gestures with his shoulders. Who knew what country the war had made him live in. She herself had been trained at Women’s College Hospital and then sent overseas during the Sicilian invasion. That was in 1943. The First Canadian Infantry Division worked its way up Italy, and the destroyed bodies were fed back to the field hospitals like mud passed back by tunnellers in the dark. After the battle of Arezzo, when the first barrage of troops recoiled, she was surrounded day and night by their wounds. After three full days without rest, she finally lay down on the floor beside a mattress where someone lay dead, and slept for twelve hours, closing her eyes against the world around her. When she woke, she picked up a pair of scissors out of the porcelain bowl, leaned over and began to cut her hair, not concerned with shape or length, just cutting it away—the irritation of its presence during the previous days still in her mind— when she had bent forward and her hair had touched blood in a wound. She would have nothing to link her, to lock her, to death. She gripped what was left to make sure there were no more strands and turned again to face the rooms full of the wounded. She never looked at herself in mirrors again. As the war got darker she received reports about how certain people she had known had died. She feared the day she would remove blood from a patient’s face and discover her father or someone who had served her food across a counter on Danforth Avenue. She grew harsh with herself and the patients. Reason was the only thing that might save them, and there was no reason. The thermometer of blood moved up the country. Where was and what was Toronto anymore in her mind? This was treacherous opera. People hardened against those around them—soldiers, doctors, nurses, civilians. Hana bent closer to the wounds she cared for, her mouth whispering to soldiers. She called everyone “Buddy,” and laughed at the song that had the lines Each time I chanced to see Franklin D. He always said “Hi, Buddy” to me. She swabbed arms that kept bleeding. She removed so many pieces of shrapnel she felt she’d transported a ton of metal out of the huge body of the human that she was caring for while the army travelled north. One night when one of the patients died she ignored all rules and took the pair of tennis shoes he had with him in his pack and put them on. They were slightly too big for her but she was comfortable. Her face became tougher and leaner, the face Caravaggio would meet later. She was thin, mostly from tiredness. She was always hungry and found it a furious exhaustion to feed a patient who couldn’t eat or didn’t want to, watching the bread crumble away, the soup cool, which she desired to swallow fast. She wanted nothing exotic, just bread, meat. One of the towns had a bread-making section attached to the hospital and in her free time she moved among the bakers, inhaling the dust and the promise of food. Later, when they were east of Rome, someone gave her a gift of a Jerusalem artichoke. It was strange sleeping in the basilicas, or monasteries, or wherever the wounded were billeted, always moving north. She broke the small cardboard flag off the foot of the bed when someone died, so that orderlies would know glancing from a distance. Then she would leave the thick-stoned building and walk outside into spring or winter or summer, seasons that seemed archaic, that sat like old gentlemen throughout the war. She would step outside whatever the weather. She wanted air that smelled of nothing human, wanted moonlight even if it came with a rainstorm. Hello Buddy, good-bye Buddy. Caring was brief. There was a contract only until death. Nothing in her spirit or past had taught her to be a nurse. But cutting her hair was a contract, and it lasted until they were bivouacked in the Villa San Gi-rolamo north of Florence. Here there were four other nurses, two doctors, one hundred patients. The war in Italy moved farther north and they were what had been left behind. Then, during the celebrations of some local victory, somewhat plaintive in this hill town, she had said she was not going back to Florence or Rome or any other hospital, her war was over. She would remain with the one burned man they called “the English patient,” who, it was now clear to her, should never be moved because of the fragility of his limbs. She would lay belladonna over his eyes, give him saline baths for the keloided skin and extensive burns. She was told the hospital was unsafe—the nunnery that had been for months a German defence, barraged with shells and flares by the Allies. Nothing would be left for her, there would be no safety from brigands. She still refused to leave, got out of her nurse’s uniform, unbundled the brown print frock she had carried for months, and wore that with her tennis shoes. She stepped away from the war. She had moved back and forth at their desire. Till the nuns reclaimed it she would sit in this villa with the Englishman. There was something about him she wanted to learn, grow into, and hide in, where she could turn away from being an adult. There was some little waltz in the way he spoke to her and the way he thought. She wanted to save him, this nameless, almost faceless man who had been one of the two hundred or so placed in her care during the invasion north. In her print dress she walked away from the celebration. She went into the room she shared with the other nurses and sat down. Something flickered in her eye as she sat, and she caught the eye of a small round mirror. She got up slowly and went towards it. It was very small but even so seemed a luxury. She had refused to look at herself for more than a year, now and then just her shadow on walls. The mirror revealed only her cheek, she had to move it back to arm’s length, her hand wavering. She watched the little portrait of herself as if within a clasped brooch. She. Through the window there was the sound of the patients being brought out into the sunlight in their chairs, laughing and cheering with the staff. Only those who were seriously ill were still indoors. She smiled at that. Hi Buddy, she said. She peered into her look, trying to recognize herself. Darkness between Hana and Caravaggio as they walk in the garden. Now he begins to talk in his familiar slow drawl. “It was someone’s birthday party late at night on Danforth Avenue. The Night Crawler restaurant. Do you remember, Hana? Everyone had to stand and sing a song. Your father, me, Giannetta, friends, and you said you wanted to as well— for the first time. You were still at school then, and you had learned the song in a French class. “You did it formally, stood on the bench and then one more step up onto the wooden table between the plates and the candles burning. “ ‘Alonson fon!’ “You sang out, your left hand to your heart. Alonson fon! Half the people there didn’t know what the hell you were singing, and maybe you didn’t know what the exact words meant, but you knew what the song was about. “The breeze from the window was swaying your skirt over so it almost touched a candle, and your ankles seemed fire-white in the bar. Your father’s eyes looking up at you, miraculous with this new language, the cause pouring out so distinct, flawless, no hesitations, and the candles swerving away, not touching your dress but almost touching. We stood up at the end and you walked off the table into his arms.” “I would remove those bandages on your hands. I am a nurse, you know.” “They’re comfortable. Like gloves.” “How did this happen.” “I was caught jumping from a woman’s window. That woman I told you about, who took the photograph. Not her fault.” She grips his arm, kneading the muscle. “Let me do it.” She pulls the bandaged hands out of his coat pockets. She has seen them grey in daylight, but in this light they are almost luminous. As she loosens the bandages he steps backwards, the white coming out of his arms as if he were a magician, till he is free of them. She walks towards the uncle from childhood, sees his eyes hoping to catch hers to postpone this, so she looks at nothing but his eyes. His hands held together like a human bowl. She reaches for them while her face goes up to his cheek, then nestles in his neck. What she holds seems firm, healed. “I tell you I had to negotiate for what they left me.” “How did you do that?” “All those skills I used to have.” “Oh, I remember. No, don’t move. Don’t drift away from me.” “It is a strange time, the end of a war.” “Yes. A period of adjustment.” “Yes.” He raises his hands up as if to cup the quarter-moon. “They removed both thumbs, Hana. See.” He holds his hands in front of her. Showing her directly what she has glimpsed. He turns one hand over as if to reveal that it is no trick, that what looks like a gill is where the thumb has been cut away. He moves the hand towards her blouse. She feels the cloth lift in the area below her shoulder as he holds it with two fingers and tugs it softly towards him. “I touch cotton like this.” “When I was a child I thought of you always as the Scarlet Pimpernel, and in my dreams I stepped onto the night roofs with you. You came home with cold meals in your pockets, pencil cases, sheet music off some Forest Hill piano for me.” She speaks into the darkness of his face, a shadow of leaves washing over his mouth like a rich woman’s lace. “You like women, don’t you? You liked them.” “I like them. Why the past tense?” “It seems unimportant now, with the war and such things.” He nods and the pattern of leaves rolls off him. “You used to be like those artists who painted only at night, a single light on in their street. Like the worm-pickers with their old coffee cans strapped to their ankles and the helmet of light shooting down into the grass. All over the city parks. You took me to that place, that cafe” where they sold them. It was like the stock exchange, you said, where the price of worms kept dropping and rising, five cents, ten cents. People were ruined or made fortunes. Do you remember?” “Yes.” “Walk back with me, it’s getting cold.” “The great pickpockets are born with the second and third fingers almost the same length. They do not need to go as deep into a pocket. The great distance of half an inch!” They move towards the house, under the trees. “Who did that to you?” “They found a woman to do it. They thought it was more trenchant. They brought in one of their nurses. My wrists handcuffed to the table legs. When they cut off my thumbs my hands slipped out of them without any power. Like a wish in a dream. But the man who called her in, he was really in charge—he was the one. Ranuccio Tommasoni. She was an innocent, knew nothing abou^me, my name or nationality or what I may have done.” When they came into the house the English patient was shouting. Hana let go of Caravaggio and he watched her run up the stairs, her tennis shoes flashing as she ascended and wheeled around with the banister. The voice filled the halls. Caravaggio walked into the kitchen, tore off a section of bread and followed Hana up the stairs. As he walked towards the room the shouts became more frantic. When he stepped into the bedroom the Englishman was staring at a dog—the dog’s head angled back as if stunned by the screaming. Hana looked over to Caravaggio and grinned. “I haven’t seen a dog for years. All through the war I saw no dog.” She crouched and hugged the animal, smelling its hair and the odour of hill grasses within it. She steered the dog towards Caravaggio, who was offering it the heel of bread. The Englishman saw Caravaggio then and his jaw dropped. It must have seemed to him that the dog—now blocked by Hana’s back —had turned into a man. Caravaggio collected the dog in his arms and left the room. I have been thinking, the English patient said, that this must be Poliziano’s room. This must have been his villa we are in. It is the water coming out of that wall, that ancient fountain. It is a famous room. They all met here. It was a hospital, she said quietly. Before that, long before that a nunnery. Then armies took it over. I think this was the Villa Bruscoli. Poliziano—the great protege of Lorenzo. I’m talking about 1483. In Florence, in Santa Trinita Church, you can see the painting of the Med-icis with Poliziano in the foreground, wearing a red cloak. Brilliant, awful man. A genius who worked his way up into society. It was long past midnight and he was wide awake again. Okay, tell me, she thought, take me somewhere. Her mind still upon Caravaggio’s hands. Caravaggio, who was by now probably feeding the stray dog something from the kitchen of the Villa Bruscoli, if that was what its name was. It was a bloody life. Daggers and politics and three-decker hats and colonial padded stockings and wigs. Wigs of silk! Of course Savonarola came later, not much later, and there was his Bonfire of the Vanities. Poliziano translated Homer. He wrote a great poem on Simonetta Vespucci, you know her? No, said Hana, laughing. Paintings of her all over Florence. Died of consumption at twenty-three. He made her famous with Le Stanze per la Gios-tra and then Botticelli painted scenes from it. Leonardo painted scenes from it. Poliziano would lecture every day for two hours in Latin in the morning, two hours in Greek in the afternoon. He had a friend called Pico della Mirandola, a wild socialite who suddenly converted and joined Savonarola. That was my nickname when I was a kid. Pico. Yes, I think a lot happened here. This fountain in the wall. Pico and Lorenzo and Poliziano and the young Michelangelo. They held in each hand the new world and the old world. The library hunted down the last four books of Cicero. They imported a giraffe, a rhinoceros, a dodo. Toscanelli drew maps of the world based on correspondence with merchants. They sat in this room with a bust of Plato and argued all night. And then came Savonarola’s cry out of the streets: “Repentance! The deluge is coming!” And everything was swept away —free will, the desire to be elegant, fame, the right to worship Plato as well as Christ. Now came the bonfires—the burning of wigs, books, animal hides, maps. More than four hundred years later they opened up the graves. Pico’s bones were preserved. Poliziano’s had crumbled into dust. Hana listened as the Englishman turned the pages of his commonplace book and read the information glued in from other books—about great maps lost in the bonfires and the burning of Plato’s statue, whose marble exfoliated in the heat, the cracks across wisdom like precise reports across the valley as Poliziano stood on the grass hills smelling the future. Pico down there somewhere as well, in his grey cell, watching everything with the third eye of salvation. He poured some water into a bowl for the dog. An old mongrel, older than the war. He sat down with the carafe of wine the monks from the monastery had given Hana. It was Hana’s house and he moved carefully, rearranging nothing. He noticed her civilisation in the small wildflowers, the small gifts to herself. Even in the overgrown garden he would come across a square foot of grass snipped down with her nurse’s scissors. If he had been a younger man he would have fallen in love with this. He was no longer young. How did she see him? With his wounds, his unbalance, the grey curls at the back of his neck. He had never imagined himself to be a man with a sense of age and wisdom. They had all grown older, but he still did not feel he had wisdom to go with his aging. He crouched down to watch the dog drinking and he rebalanced himself too late, grabbing the table, upsetting the carafe of wine. Your name is David Caravaggio, right? They had handcuffed him to the thick legs of an oak table. At one point he rose with it in his embrace, blood pouring away from his left hand, and tried to run with it through the thin door and falling. The woman stopped, dropping the knife, refusing to do more. The drawer of the table slid out and fell against his chest, and all its contents, and he thought perhaps there was a gun that he could use. Then Ranuccio Tommasoni picked up the razor and came over to him. Caravaggio, right? He still wasn’t sure. As he lay under the table, the blood from his hands fell into his face, and he suddenly thought clearly and slipped the handcuff off the table leg, flinging the chair away to drown out the pain and then leaning to the left to step out of the other cuff. Blood everywhere now. His hands already useless. For months afterwards he found himself looking at only the thumbs of people, as if the incident had changed him just by producing envy. But the event had produced age, as if during the one night when he was locked to that table they had poured a solution into him that slowed him. He stood up dizzy above the dog, above the red wine-soaked table. Two guards, the woman, Tommasoni, the telephones ringing, ringing, interrupting Tommasoni, who would put down the razor, caustically whisper Excuse me and pick up the phone with his bloody hand and listen. He had, he thought, said nothing of worth to them. But they let him go, so perhaps he was wrong. Then he had walked along the Via di Santo Spirito to the one geographical location he had hidden away in his brain. Walked past Brunelleschi’s church towards the library of the German Institute, where he knew a certain person would look after him. Suddenly he realized this was why they had let him go. Letting him walk freely would fool him into revealing this contact. He arced into a side street, not looking back, never looking back. He wanted a street fire so he could stanch his wounds, hang them over the smoke from a tar cauldron so black smoke would envelop his hands. He was on the Santa Trinita Bridge. There was nothing around, no traffic, which surprised him. He sat on the smooth balustrade of the bridge, then lay back. No sounds. Earlier, when he had walked, his hands in his wet pockets, there had been the manic movement of tanks and jeeps. As he lay there the mined bridge exploded and he was flung upwards and then down as part of the end of the world. He opened his eyes and there was a giant head beside him. He breathed in and his chest filled with water. He was underwater. There was a bearded head beside him in the shallow water of the Arno. He reached towards it but couldn’t even nudge it. Light was pouring into the river. He swam up to the surface, parts of which were on fire. When he told Hana the story later that evening she said, “They stopped torturing you because the Allies were coming. The Germans were getting out of the city, blowing up bridges as they left.” “I don’t know. Maybe I told them everything. Whose head was it? There were constant phone calls into that room. There would be a hush, and the man would pull back from me, and all of them would watch him on the phone listening to the silence of the other voice, which we could not hear. Whose voice? Whose head?” “They were leaving, David.” She opens The Last of the Mohicans to the blank page at the back and begins to write in it. There is a man named Caravaggio, a friend of my father’s. I have always loved him. He is older than I am, about forty-five, 1 think. He is in a time of darkness, has no confidence. For some reason I am cared for by this friend of my father. She closes the book and then walks down into the library and conceals it in one of the high shelves. The Englishman was asleep, breathing through his mouth as he always did, awake or asleep. She got up from her chair and gently pulled free the lit candle held in his hands. She walked to the window and blew it out there, so the smoke went out of the room. She disliked his lying there with a candle in his hands, mocking a deathlike posture, wax falling unnoticed onto his wrist. As if he was preparing himself, as if he wanted to slip into his own death by imitating its climate and light. She stood by the window and her fingers clutched the hair on her head with a tough grip, pulling it. In darkness, in any light after dusk, you can slit a vein and the blood is black. She needed to move from the room. Suddenly she was claustrophobic, untired. She strode down the hall and leapt down the stairs and went out onto the terrace of the villa, then looked up, as if trying to discern the figure of the girl she had stepped away from. She walked back into the building. She pushed at the stiff swollen door and came into the library and then removed the boards from the French doors at the far end of the room, opening them, letting in the night air. Where Caravaggio was, she didn’t know. He was out most evenings now, usually returning a few hours before dawn. In any case there was no sign of him. She grabbed the grey sheet that covered the piano and walked away to a corner of the room hauling it in after her, a winding- cloth, a net of fish. No light. She heard a far grumble of thunder. She was standing in front of the piano. Without looking down she lowered her hands and started to play, just chording sound, reducing melody to a skeleton. She paused after each set of notes as if bringing her hands out of water to see what she had caught, then continued, placing down the main bones of the tune. She slowed the movements of her fingers even more. She was looking down as two men slipped through the French doors and placed their guns on the end of the piano and stood in front of her. The noise of chords still in the air of the changed room. Her arms down her sides, one bare foot on the bass pedal, continuing with the song her mother had taught her, that she practised on any surface, a kitchen table, a wall while she walked upstairs, her own bed before she fell asleep. They had had no piano. She used to go to the community centre on Saturday mornings and play there, but all week she practised wherever she was, learning the chalked notes that her mother had drawn onto the kitchen table and then wiped off later. This was the first time she had played on the villa’s piano, even though she had been here for three months, her eye catching its shape on her first day there through the French doors. In Canada pianos needed water. You opened up the back and left a full glass of water, and a month later the glass would be empty. Her father had told her about the dwarfs who drank only at pianos, never in bars. She had never believed that but had at first thought it was perhaps mice. A lightning flash across the valley, the storm had been coming all night, and she saw one of the men was a Sikh. Now she paused and smiled, somewhat amazed, relieved anyway, the cyclorama of light behind them so brief that it was just a quick glimpse of his turban and the bright wet guns. The high flap of the piano had been removed and used as a hospital table several months earlier, so their guns lay on the far side of the ditch of keys. The English patient could have identified the weapons. Hell. She was surrounded by foreign men. Not one pure Italian. A villa romance. What would Poliziano have thought of this 1945 tableau, two men and a woman across a piano and the war almost over and the guns in their wet brightness whenever the lightning slipped itself into the room filling everything with colour and shadow as it was doing now every half-minute thunder crackling all over the valley and the music antiphonal, the press of chords, When I take my sugar to tea ... Do you know the words? There was no movement from them. She broke free of the chords and released her fingers into intricacy, tumbling into what she had held back, the jazz detail that split open notes and angles from the chestnut of melody. When 1 take my sugar to tea All the boys are jealous of me, So 1 never take her where the gang goes When I take my sugar to tea. Their clothes wet while they watched her whenever the lightning was in the room among them, her hands playing now against and within the lightning and thunder, counter to it, filling up the darkness between light. Her face so concentrated they knew they were invisible to her, to her brain struggling to remember her mother’s hand ripping newspaper and wetting it under a kitchen tap and using it to wipe the table free of the shaded notes, the hopscotch of keys. After which she went for her weekly lesson at the community hall, where she would play, her feet still unable to reach the pedals if she sat, so she preferred to stand, her summer sandal on the left pedal and the metronome ticking. She did not want to end this. To give up these words from an old song. She saw the places they went, where the gang never went, crowded with aspidistra. She looked up and nodded towards them, an acknowledgement that she would stop now. Caravaggio did not see all this. When he returned he found Hana and the two soldiers from a sapper unit in the kitchen making up sandwiches.

2. 在濒临荒芜的废墟之中 卡拉瓦焦手上缠着绷带，已在罗马的军队医院里住了四个多月。他偶然听到了那个烧伤的病人和护士，知道了她的名字。他从门口转过身，走到刚刚经过的那群医生跟前，打听她在什么地方。他在那里修养了很长一段时间，他们知道他是一个不爱说话的人。但是现在他先对他们开了口，询问那名护士。他们着实吓了一跳。这么长的时间，他从不说话，只用手势和脸上表情与人沟通，不时还咧嘴一笑。他不发一言，甚至连他的名字都不告诉别人，只是写下了他的军号，表示他是盟军的成员。 他们对他进行调查，而伦敦发来的函件证实了他的身份，他满身都是伤疤，医生们回到他的眼前，冲着他身上的绷带点点头，原来他是个名人，难怪想图个安静。一个战斗英雄。 他觉得这样最安全，一言不发——不管他们是带着柔情、借口或是刀子来到他的跟前，四个多月以来，他没有说过一个字。在他们面前，他是一个巨兽，刚被送进来时几乎快要没命了，为了止住手上的疼痛不得不定时注射吗啡。他会坐在一个安乐椅中，在黑暗中望着川流不息的伤员和进出病房及贮藏室的护士。 但是现在，他在走廊上经过那群医生的身旁时，听到了那个女人的名字，于是他放慢了脚步，转过身来，只为了询问她在哪家医院工作。他们告诉他是在一个昔日的女修道院，那里曾被德军占领，盟军围困了那个地方，把它当成了一个医院。是在佛罗伦萨北部的山区。那里曾是一个临时的野战医院，几乎被炸毁了，很不安全，但是那个护士和伤员拒绝离开。 “你们为什么不强迫他俩撤走呢?” “她说他的伤势太重，不能转移。我们当然可以平安地把他运出来，但是目前不是争辩这个问题的时候。她本人的身体状态很差。” “她受了伤吗?” “没有。很可能受到点炮弹的惊吓，应该把她送回家。问题是战争已经结束了，你再也不能命令人家做这做那了。伤员们自己离开了医院。军人在被遣送回家之前就擅离了职守。” “哪个别墅”?他问。 “据说是花园里闹鬼的别墅。圣吉洛拉莫。哎，她自己眼前就有一个鬼，一个烧伤的病人。他的脸还在，却已辨认不出模样。神经系统都烧坏了。即使你划亮一根火柴照着他的脸，也看不到他脸上的任何表情。那张脸已经沉睡了。” “他是谁?”他问。 “我们不知道他的名字。” “他不说话吗?” 那群医生大笑起来：“不，他倒是说话，他说个没完，他只是不知道自己是谁。” “他是从哪里来的?” “贝都因人把他送进了锡瓦绿洲。接着他在比萨待了一段时间，然后……很可能有一个阿拉伯人拿了他的名片。他很可能会卖了它，有一天我们会买到它，也许他们永远都不会卖。 那些玩意儿可是很好的护身符。坠落在沙漠里的所有飞行员——生还者都没有可以证明身分的物品。现在他被困在托斯卡纳地区的一幢别墅里，那个女孩不愿离开他，一口拒绝我们的 建议。盟军曾在那里安置了一百多名伤病员。在此之前，德军派了一小支军队守在那里，那是他们最后一个据点。别墅里有些房间绘有图画，每个房间绘有不同季节的风景。别墅外是一个峡谷。这个地方离佛罗伦萨约二十英里，是在山区。你当然需要一张通行证，我们大概可以找个人开车送你去。那里的情况仍然相当恶劣，到处是死牛和被熗杀的马匹，尸体被吃掉了大牛，人的尸体悬挂在桥上——战争最后的罪恶。到处都不安全，因为工兵并没有前往那里扫雷。撤退的时候，德军一路埋了地雷。医院设在那里实在不妥，死尸的气味最让人受不了要下一场大雪才能把这个国家清理干净。如果这时出现鸦群就好了。”     “谢谢。”     卡拉瓦焦走出医院，来到阳光底下。几个月来，他还是第一次走出户外，走出了亮着绿光的房间，那些房间在他的心中像是玻璃。他站在那里，感受一切新鲜的事物，打量忙碌的人们。他想：“我首先需要橡胶底的鞋，我需要胶鞋。” 卡拉瓦焦发现在摇摇晃晃的火车上很难入睡。车厢里有人抽着烟。他的太阳穴撞击着窗框。人人都穿着深色的衣服。这么多人在抽烟，使得聿厢好像着了火。他注意到每当火车经过墓地时，周围的旅客就划着十字。 割扁桃腺要穿胶鞋去才行，他想了起来，以前他曾陪着一个女孩和她的父亲割除她的扁桃腺。女孩看了一眼病房，里面挤满了孩子。女孩一个劲儿拒绝。这个最听话、最乖巧的孩子突然变得不听话，怎么说都不听。没有人从她的喉咙里取出什么来，尽管那天应该那么做。她要留着它，不管“它”长得什么样子。他仍不清楚扁桃腺到底是什么东西。 那些医生从没有碰过我的脑袋，他想，这真是奇怪的事。最糟糕的莫过于他开始想象他们随后会对他做什么事，或切掉他身体的某个部位。在这样的情况下，他总是想起他的脑袋。 一阵骚动，像是有只老鼠跑过天花板。     卡拉瓦焦拿着旅行袋站在走廊的另一头。他放下袋子，挥手走过黑暗的地方，走过蜡烛照亮的地方。他朝她走去，没有劈啪作响的脚步声，地板无声无息。她吃了一惊，感到有些熟悉，又有些欣慰。他可以如此静悄悄地走近她和英国病人身旁。 当他经过长长的走廊时，那一盏盏灯把他的影子投向身前。她抬起头，挑起油灯的灯芯，这样身边的灯光照亮的范围就更大了。她静静地坐着，膝上放着一本书。这时他走到她的跟前，蹲在她的身边，就像她的叔叔似的。 "告诉我什么是扁桃腺。”     她的眼睛瞪着他。     “我老是想起你冲出医院时，后面有两个大人在追的样子。” 她点点头。     “你的病人在这里吗?我可以进去吗?”     她摇摇头，一直摇个不停，直到他又开口说话。     “那我就明天再见他吧。只要告诉我，我可以待在哪儿。我并不需要床单。这里有厨房吗?为了找你，我经历了一趟奇怪的旅程。” 在他朝走廊那头走去以后，她回到桌旁，坐了下来，浑身战栗。她需要这张桌子，需要这本读了一半的书，来稳定自己的情绪。一个她认识的人搭了火车过来，从那个村子走了四英里的山路，沿着走廊来到这张桌前，只是为了看看她。过了几分钟，她走进了英国人的房间，站在那里，俯视着他。月光照亮了墙上的树叶，这惟一的光源使得原本已栩栩如生的绘画显得更逼真。她几乎要摘下那朵画中的花，把它别到衣服上。 那个叫卡拉瓦焦的人打开了房间所有的窗户，这样他就可以听到夜晚的声籁。他脱了衣服，用掌心按摩着脖子，在没有铺好的床上躺了一会儿。树木在叹息不止，月亮的碎光像银白色的鱼，在房外的菊花上跳跃着。     月光映照在他的皮肤上，就像一汪清水。一个小时以后，他上了别墅的楼顶。站在最高处，他看清楚了楼顶的斜面有些部分被炸毁了，别墅周围被毁的花园和果园有两英亩大。他俯视着意大利的这片土地。     清晨，他们在喷水池边勉强地聊了起来。     “现在你是在意大利，你应该多多了解威尔地  。”     “什么?”她正在喷水池里洗着被褥，听到这话抬起了头。     他提醒她一句：“你曾告诉过我你喜爱他。”     哈纳低下了头，觉得很难为情。·     卡拉瓦焦走了过去，第一次打量这座别墅，站在凉亭张望花园。     “是，你曾喜爱过他。你曾大谈你所知道的有关威尔地的最新消息，直让我们大家如痴如醉。那人真了不起!各方面都是最出色的，你曾这样说过。我们大家只得附和你这个自以为是的十六岁黄毛丫头。”     “我也不知道那个黄毛丫头那时候是怎么回事。”她在喷水池边摊开了洗好的床单。     “你曾是一个有危险倾向的人。”     她跨过了石子路，石头缝里长着青草。他望着她那穿了黑色长袜的双脚，那件单薄的褐色洋装。她俯身探过栏杆。     “我得承认，我想到这里来，我的内心深处确实对威尔地情有独钟。后来，你走了，我爸爸打仗去了……看看那些老鹰，它们每天早上都会飞到这儿来。这儿的一切都毁了，被炸得面目全非。整个别墅的自来水都断了，只有喷水池的水仍在流淌。盟军在撤走时毁坏了水管。他们认为这样我就会离开。”     “你应该离开。他们仍得清理这个地区，这里到处都是没有引爆的炸弹。”     她走到他的跟前，用手指按住他的嘴巴：     “我很高兴见到你，卡拉瓦焦。除了你，没有其他人会让我觉得这样开心。所以，别告诉我你到这儿来是为了要劝我离开。”     “我想找间有管风琴的小酒吧，喝酒的时候不会有炸弹爆炸。听一听弗兰克·西纳特拉@的歌。我们必须听点音乐，”他说，“对你的病人有好处。”     “他的心仍在非洲。”     他注视着她，等着她说点别的，但是关于英国病人，已没有什么事可说。他喃喃自语：“有些英国人喜爱非洲，他们的脑海中常浮现沙漠的景象，所以他们到了那里并不陌生。”     他看到她略微点点头。一张瘦削的脸，一头短发，没有了长发的掩饰和神秘。要说有什么不同，便是她泰然自若，似乎进入了忘我的境界。身后是汩汩流淌的喷水池、老鹰、毁坏的别墅花园。     也许这是人们走出战争的方法，他想。一个需要照顾的烧伤患者，一些要在喷水池里洗涤的床单，一间绘有花园景致的房间。仿佛现在的一切都只是过去的一个缩影，麦迪奇家族端详过的一道栏杆或一扇窗户，在夜里举起蜡烛，当着一位应邀而来的建筑师——十五世纪最杰出的建筑师—的面，请他提出令人激赏的奇思妙想，为这个景致增添颜色。     “如果你留下来，”她说，“我们就需要更多的食物。我种了蔬菜，我们有一袋豆子，但是我们需要一些肉。”她看着卡拉瓦焦，了解他以前的本事，但没有完全挑明了说。     “我下不了手。”他说。     “那我跟你去，”哈纳提议，  “我们一起干。你可以教我偷东西，告诉我怎么做就行。”     “你不懂，我办不到。”     “为什么?”     “我被抓过。他们几乎砍掉了这双该死的手。”     到了夜里，有时，等到英国病人睡着，或者等她在他的房门外独自读了一会儿书以后，哈纳就去找卡拉瓦焦。卡拉瓦焦会在花园里，躺在喷水池的石沿上面仰望星星。有时她会在一个低矮的阳台上找到他。在初夏的季节，他发现夜里很难待在室内。大部分的时候，他会待在楼顶，靠近那堆坍塌的烟囱。但是，看到她的身影穿过阳台找他，他就会悄无声息地溜下去。哈纳会在那个无头的公爵雕像附近找到他。当地的一只猫就喜欢坐在石像的脖子上，见到有人过来，就会露出庄重而兴奋的样子。他总让她相信是她找到了他。这个熟知黑暗的人，从前喝醉了酒便会说自己是被一个猫头鹰家族养大的。     他们俩站在山岬上面，远处可见佛罗伦萨的灯光闪烁。有时，她觉得他疯疯癫癫，有时又觉得他太安静了。白天，她会更加清楚地看见他的一举一动，注意到缠了绷带的双手上面僵硬的手臂，以及在她遥指山上远处的某个东西时，他是如何转动整个身体，而不是只转动一下脖子。但是她没有对他提起这些。     “我的病人认为碾碎的孔雀骨头是种好药。”     他抬头眺望夜空：“没错。”     “那时你是个间谍吗?”     “不完全是。”     在黑暗的花园里，他觉得更自在，更容易在她面前掩饰自己。 “有时我们奉命去偷东西。那个时候，我是个意大利人，一个小偷。他们无法相信自己有多好运，他们拼命地利用我。我们约有四五个人，有一段时间我干得挺好，后来偶然间我被人拍了照。你能想象吗?    —    “我穿上英国式的无尾晚礼服，混进一个聚会，为了能偷取一些文件。其实我的本质就是一个小偷，不是了不起的爱国志士，不是了不起的英雄。他们只是以官方的名义，利用我的一技之长而已。但是有个女人带了一架照相机，她正给德国军官拍照，当时我正迈步朝舞厅对面走，恰好被摄人镜头之中。我听到了按快门的声音，顺着声音方向转过去，所以突然之间，未来的一切都变得危机四伏。那是一个将军的女友。     “战时拍下的照片全都在政府实验室冲洗，交由盖世太保检查。在胶卷被送到米兰实验室冲洗时，他们就会发现我显然不在受邀之列，然后会有官员立案调查我的身分。所以我必须铤而走险，想法子把胶卷偷回来。”     她探进头看了一眼英国病人，他那熟睡的身躯可能已神游到了沙漠深处，正在接受某人的治疗，那人的手指不断探人碗里，蘸上用脚底板的老茧做成的药膏，凑上前去，把黑色的药膏涂到他的脸上。她想象着那只手抚在她脸上的重量。     她走向走廊的那头，爬进了她的吊床，离开地面时，摇晃了它一下。     她在睡前思路最清楚，白天的情景一幕幕跃入眼帘，就像一个拿着课本和铅笔的小孩重温每一件事。只有在这个时候，白天的情景才变得有序，对她来说白天像是一张纸，她在纸上记下了满满的故事。例如，卡拉瓦焦所讲的他的一出戏，一幕偷窃的景象。     卡拉瓦焦坐上一辆汽车离开聚会。汽车嘎吱嘎吱，行驶在弯度较小的碎石路上，夜色是那样安详。那天晚上，他混进科西麦别墅的聚会时，一直在注意那个拍照的女子，每当她朝他这个方向拍照时，他就转过身子回避。他凑到了这名女子附近偷听谈话，知道她叫安娜，是一位将军的情人，将军晚上会在别墅留宿，并在第二天早上取道托斯卡纳前往北方。那个女人的死亡或是突然失踪一定会引起怀疑。目前任何异常的情况都会受到调查。     四个小时以后，卡拉瓦焦穿着袜子跑过草地，月光在地上映出他弯曲的身影。他在碎石路前停下脚步，缓慢地走过碎石路。他抬头看着科西麦别墅，看着透出灯光的窗户——战争中女人的宫殿。     一道汽车的灯光——像是从水管喷射出来似的——照亮了他所在的房间，他停了下来，看到那个女人的眼睛盯着他—个男人在她的身上起伏，他的手指隐没在她的金发之间。他知道她已看到了，尽管他现在光着身子，但是她知道这是她先前在人头攒动的聚会时拍下的那人，因为碰巧他摆出了同样的站姿——在灯光照亮了他隐没在黑暗中的身子时，他吃惊地半 转过身子。汽车的灯光上扬，扫向房间的一角，然后消失了。     接着屋里暗了下来。卡拉瓦焦既不知道该不该动，也不知道她会不会悄声告诉正在与她交欢的男人，房里还有别人。一个赤身裸体的小偷、一个赤身裸体的刺客。他该扑向床上那一对男女，伸手扭断他们的脖子吗? 他听到那个男人继续做爱，听到了那个女人默不作声—没有耳语—听到了她的想法，她的眼睛望着黑暗中的他。那个词应该是“想法”。卡拉瓦焦忽然想到了这一点。词汇使入迷惑，他的一位朋友告诉他，它们比小提琴更微妙。他回想起那个女人的金发，以及束发的黑带。 他听到了汽车转弯的声音，又等了一会儿。那张在黑暗中一闪而过的脸，仍让他感到心有余悸。灯光从她的脸上移到将军的身上，掠过了地毯，又照亮了卡拉瓦焦。他再也看不见她了。他摇摇头，比划一下割喉的姿势。他拿着照相机，好让那女人明白。然后他又隐没在黑暗中。他现在听到她对她的爱人发出了一声愉悦的低吟，他明白那是她对他表示同意的方式。没有说话，没有嘲弄，只是一个与他联络的信号，一种深刻的理解，所以他知道现在可以顺利溜到阳台，然后潜入夜色之中。 那时，他是花了很大的工夫，才找到她的房间的。他走进别墅，悄然穿过走廊，在半明半暗的灯光中，可以看见两旁的十七世纪壁画。卧室像是一件金装的黑色口袋。从卫兵身边走过的惟一办法，是装成一个无辜的人。他剥光身上的衣服，把衣服留在花圃里。 他赤身上了楼梯，登上二楼。二楼的卫兵看到他，以为窥见了他人的隐私，正在弯腰偷笑，所以哨兵的脸几乎贴着他的屁股。他用手肘轻轻推着卫兵，暗示自己是来赴某人晚上的邀约。这样真凉快，不是吗?这样的“武装”较易攻破最后防线，不是吗? 三楼的走廊。一个卫兵在楼梯旁，一个在二十码开外，是在走廊的那一头。所以他得蹑手蹑脚走上一段路。卡拉瓦焦现在必须这样。两个站得笔直的哨兵暗自怀疑，带着鄙视的目光监视着。他走路的样子笨拙滑稽，在一段壁画前停下脚步，偷看画中果园的毛驴。一会儿他把头抵着墙壁，．几乎酣然入睡，一会儿往前走去，跌跌撞撞，一会儿又直起身子，迈着军人的步伐。松开的左手朝天花板挥了一下，上面绘有像他一样光着屁股的小天使。一个小偷的致意，一曲简短的华尔兹。壁画的场景任意从他身边溜过，城堡，黑白相间的大教堂，吊高的圣徒。在这个战时的星期二。为了掩饰他的伪装，为了挽救他的性命。卡拉瓦焦铤而走险，想要找到自己的照片。 他拍拍赤裸的胸膛，仿佛在找他的通行证，又抓住他的那个地方，假装把它当成钥匙，好让他走进那个有人守卫的房间。他哈哈大笑，摇摇晃晃往回走，恨自己犯下这个可怜的错误，哼着小曲溜进了隔壁的房间。 他打开窗户，来到阳台上。一个黑暗而美丽的夜晚。接着他翻身出去，荡到二楼的阳台上。现在，他终于可以进入安娜及将军的房间。多年以前，他曾对谁家的孩子讲过一个人找自己影子的故事——现在他就在寻找自己留在一卷胶卷上的影子。 进了房间，他立即明白他们正在做爱。她的衣服有的扔到椅背上，有的丢在地上。他的双手探进她的衣服。他趴了下来，打算从地毯上滚过去，看看是否能摸到像照相机那样的硬物。他碰到了房间的地砖。他悄无声息，慢慢地滚了过去，什么也没有发现。屋里甚至没有一丝光亮。 他站了起来，慢慢伸出胳膊，碰到了大理石像的乳房。他顺着石臂摸去，照相机挂在上面，他现在明白那个女人的想法了。接着他听到汽车的声响，就在他本能地转过身时，那个女人借着汽车突然射进屋内的灯光看见了他。 卡拉瓦焦望着哈纳，坐在对面的哈纳直视他的眼睛，想知道他在想什么，像他以前的妻子那样，想了解他的思绪。他望着她，知道她正在寻找蛛丝马迹。他深藏不露，知道他的眼神没有露出什么破绽，像河水一样清澈，像大地一样无可挑剔。他知道别人会迷失在那里，而且他很会掩饰自己的情感。但是那个女孩望着他，神情古怪，带着疑问，歪着脑袋。当你用怪腔怪调对小狗说话时，小狗就会这样。她坐在他的对面，身后是黑暗的血红色墙壁，他不喜欢这种颜色。她那一头黑发，那种目光，那种幽幽的褐色目光。她让他想起了他的妻子。 在这一段时间里，他并不想他的妻子，尽管他知道可以转身，引她展现万种风情，描绘她的每一个部位，说出夜晚搭在他胸前的纤手有多重。 他把手放在桌下，坐在那里看着那个女孩吃饭。他仍然喜欢独自吃饭，不过，他三餐总是与哈纳坐在一起。虚荣，他想。致命的虚荣心。她曾透过窗户，看见他坐在小教堂的三十六级台阶上用手吃饭，看不到刀叉，仿佛学着东方人的样子吃饭。看着他那灰色的短须，看着他穿的深色甲克，她最后在他身上看见一个意大利人。她越来越注意到这一点。 卡拉瓦焦望着她映在暗红色墙壁上的黑影、她的皮肤，还有她那一头剪短的黑发。早在战争开始之前，他就在多伦多认识了哈纳和她的父亲。后来他成了一个小偷，一个已婚的男人，带着懒洋洋的自信混迹于他所选择的世界，精于欺骗富人，以及奉承妻子齐安妮塔和他朋友的小女儿。 但是，现在他们周围的世界几乎消失得荡然无存，他们只能依靠自己了。在佛罗伦萨附近这个山镇生活的这些日子里，雨天待在室内，或坐在厨房那张软椅上，或睡在床上，或睡在楼顶上，胡思乱想，无所事事，一心想着哈纳。可是，哈纳似乎已把自己与楼上那个将死之人锁在一起了。 三餐的时间，他坐在这个女孩的对面，看着她吃饭。 半年以前，透过比萨的圣齐亚拉医院走廊尽头的窗户，哈纳能看到一只白狮子。狮子独自站在城垛顶端，颜色与大教堂和墓地的白色大理石一致，但它的粗壮和质朴的形态似乎属于另外一个时代。她把白狮子当作来自过去的礼物接受。医院周围的一切景物，她最能接受的就是那只白狮子。在半夜里，她会从窗户往外观望，知道它就站在宵禁灯火管制范围之内，知道它会在黎明出现，像她在黎明时要起身交班一样。她会在五点或五点三十分抬头仰望，然后在六点看见它的轮廓越来越清晰。每天晚上，当她在巡视病人时，它就是她的哨兵。尽管军队进行了轰炸，它仍屹立在那里，关心着这不可思议的建筑物的别处——那个已无法辨识，不合逻辑的塔，像战火中饱受惊吓的人歪斜地站立着。 他们的医院设在昔日的修道院里。数千年来，一板一眼的修道士们一直修剪这些树林的形状，而如今它们的形状已代表某些动物了。护士们在白天推着坐在轮椅里的病人，穿过这片树林。只有白色的石头一成不变。 见到周围的死亡的人们，护士们受到了惊吓，就连信件这样的小东西都会吓坏她们。她们会在走廊那头捡起一只被炸断的手臂，擦洗止不住的血。伤口似乎是一口流不干的水井，她们开始什么都不相信，什么都不信任。她们身心俱碎，就像一个正在扫雷的人发现地图被炸飞了，以致于精神崩溃。哈纳在圣齐亚拉医院曾经痛不欲生，当时一名军官挤过一百多张病床，送给她一封告知她父亲已死的信。 一头白狮子。 过了一段时间，她遇见那个英国病人——看起来像是一只受伤的动物，神情紧张，身体焦黑——他成了她的精神寄托。 过了几个月以后，现在他成了她在圣吉洛拉莫别墅照顾的最后一名伤员。他们的战争已经结束了，两人拒绝与别人一起返回比萨的医院。所有的海岸港口，如索伦托和比萨的马里纳，现在都挤满了北美和英国的军人，等待上船回国。但是她洗净了自己的制服，叠了起来，把它交给离去的护士。别人告诉她并不是所有的地方战争都结束了。战争结束了。这场战争结束了。这里的战争结束了。别人对她说她这是擅离职守。这不是擅离职守，我要留在这里。别人告诫她当心那些没有清除的地雷，这里会缺水、缺食物。她走到楼上，来到那名烧伤的英国人跟前，告诉他她会留下来。     英国人什么也没说，他甚至无法朝她转过头来，但是他的手指滑进了她白净的手中。她俯过身去，他伸出乌黑的手指，探进了她的发问。她觉得他的指间凉飕飕的。     “你多大?”     “二十。”     他说有个公爵，在他快死的时候，想让人抬他到比萨斜塔的中间楼层，那样他死去的时候，就能看到不远不近的地方。     “我父亲的一个朋友想在死的时候跳着上海舞。我不知道那是什么意思。他只是这么听人说过。”     “你父亲是干什么的?”     “他是…他参加了战争。”     “你也参加了战争。”     她已照顾他一个多月左右，还帮他注射吗啡，但却对他一无所知。起初两人的心中都有一丝羞涩感，现在别人都走了，他们更是如此。后来，他们突然克服了羞涩感。伤员、医生、护士、设备、床单、毛巾——全都下了山，转道佛罗伦萨去了比萨。她私藏了可卡因药片和吗啡。她望着一辆辆卡车开走。她从他的窗户挥挥手，随后关上了百叶窗。     别墅后面是一堵比房子还高的石墙。西边是一个四周修了 围墙的花园，花园挺大。二十英里外是佛罗伦萨城，常常会隐没在从山谷升起的大雾之中。谣传曾有一个将军住在旁边那个古老的麦迪奇别墅，此人曾吃了一只夜莺。     圣吉洛拉莫别墅坚不可摧，看起来像是一个受困的城堡。 大多数的雕像在炮击的头几天，就被炸得缺胳膊断腿。房子与大地之间没有界限，毁坏的楼房与遭到焚烧轰炸的地面没有多少区别。对哈纳来说，荒芜的花园就是延伸的房间。她沿着花园的四周工作，留意有没有引爆的地雷。在房子旁边一块土壤肥沃的地上，她开始开垦播种，带着只在城市里长大的人才有的热情。尽管土地被烧焦了，尽管缺水，但总有二天；这里会果木成荫，屋里灯光通明。   卡拉瓦焦走进厨房，发现哈纳伏在桌旁。他看不见她的脸，也看不见压在身下的手臂，只能看见裸露的后背和光滑的肩膀。   她并非闻风不动，她没有睡着。每抽动一下，她都摇一下脑袋。     卡拉瓦焦站在那里。人在哭泣时比做别的事情更耗精力。黎明仍没有到来。她的脸抵着隐没在黑暗之中的桌子。   “哈纳。”他说。她冷静了下来，仿佛平静下来就能掩饰她的哭泣。         “哈纳。”     她开始呻吟起来，呻吟声成了他们之间的障碍，一条无法涉过的河。       他起先不知道该不该摸她裸露的肌肤。他叫了声“哈纳”，然后把缠了绷带的手搭在她的肩上。她没有停止颤抖。他沉浸于最痛心的悲哀之中，他想，生存的惟一途径是道出心中的一切。     她抬起身子，低垂着头，然后靠着他站了起来，仿佛挣脱了桌子的磁力。     “你别想引诱我和你睡觉。”     洋装上方露出苍白的皮肤。她在厨房里只穿了洋装，仿佛她刚起床，衣衫不整就来到这里，从山上刮来的冷风吹进了厨房的门，将她团团裹住。     她的脸又红又湿。     “哈纳。”     “你听清楚了吗?”     “你为什么这么喜欢他呢?”     “我爱他。”     “你不是爱他，你是迷恋他。”     “走开，卡拉瓦焦。请你走开。”     “你为了什么原因把自己与一具尸体绑在一起?”         “他是个圣徒。我想他是。一个绝望的圣徒。世上有这些东西吗?我们的愿望是保护他们。”     “他根本就不在乎你!”     “我可以爱他。”         “一个二十岁的人抛下了一切，爱上了一个鬼魂：卡拉瓦焦顿了一下：“你必须把自己从悲伤的深渊中拯救出来。悲哀接近仇恨。听我说，这是我吸取的教训。如果你吸了别人中的毒，以为你分享了毒性就能治愈他们——你自己就会中毒而死。生活在沙漠的人比你明白。他们以为他会有用，所以他们救了他，但是等他没有用了，他们就会丢下他。”     当她独自一人时，她会坐下来，留意脚踝神经的跳动，脚踝已被果园中长高的野草打湿了。她在果园找到了一个李子，装进黑口袋里，以便于剥去李子的皮。当她独自一人时，她试图想象有谁会在十八棵柏树的绿荫下，踩着那条古道走来。     当英国人醒来时，她弯腰凑近他的身子，把三分之一的李子放进他的嘴里。他那张开的嘴巴接住它，像喝了水似的，下巴没有动弹。他看起来好像高兴得快哭出声来。她可以感觉到李子正被他吞下。   他抬起手，擦去唇边最后一滴口水，他的舌头够不着。她把他的手指塞进他的嘴里吮吸。  “让我对你讲一讲李子的故事”，他说，“在我小的时候……”     过了最初的几夜以后，大多数的床板已被烧了用来御寒，于是她拿走一个死人的吊床，准备自己睡在上面。她可以随心所欲，想将吊床钉在哪个房间，就钉在哪个房间，想在哪个房间睡觉，就在哪个房间睡觉，或躺在垃圾、火药和积水之上。每天晚上，她爬进幽灵般的帆布吊床，吊床原本属于一名已死的士兵，是她曾经照料过的人。     一双网球鞋和一张吊床。在这场战争中，她只从别人那里拿来了这些东西。她在夜里醒来时，会看见一抹月光洒在天花板上。她总是穿着一件旧衬衫睡觉，裙子挂在门旁的铁钉上。现在暖和多了，所以她可以这样睡觉。天冷之前，他们必须生火。     这里只有她的吊床、球鞋和衣服。她安身于她所建立的这个小世界里。另外两个男人似乎身在遥远的星球，生活在各自的记忆与孤独之中。卡拉瓦焦曾是她父亲的知己，从前在加拿大意气风发，可以在他所交往的那群女人当中呼风唤雨。他现在躺在自己的黑暗世界里。他曾是一个拒绝与男人一同工作的小偷，因为他不信任他们。他与男人说话，但他更喜欢与女说话，而只要他一与女人说话，他就会陷入亲密关系的网中。 当她在清晨溜回家时，她会发现他睡在她父亲的安乐椅里——由于夜间外出偷盗而疲惫不堪。     她想着卡拉瓦焦——有些人你就是得和他们拥抱，但必须咬紧牙关，才能在他们面前保持理智。你需要抓住他们的头发，就像一个落水的人死死揪住任何可抓的东西，这样他们才会把你放在心上。否则，他们会漫不经心地从街道那头朝你走来，眼看就要挥手打个招呼，却又立刻跳过墙上，让你几个月见不到他们的身影。虽然他就像哈纳的叔叔一样，但他难得与她见上一面。     只要卡拉瓦焦将你拥入怀里，就能扰乱你的思绪。他的双臂是他的羽翼。被他抱在怀里，你就会感染他的性格。但是，现在他睡在黑暗之中，像她一样，待在这座深宅大院的某个前哨阵地。卡拉瓦焦就在这儿，还有那个从沙漠来的英国人。     她在战争期间负责照顾病情最重的伤员时，一向只是冷漠地履行护士的职责，否则她就要精神失常了。我会挺下去。我不会倒下去的。在战争期间，她曾辗转众多的小镇，到过乌尔比诺、安吉亚里和蒙特奇，随后开赴佛罗伦萨，继续前进，最后到达了比萨的海边。     在比萨的医院里，她第一次见到了这个英国病人——一个面目全非的人，一具焦黑的躯体。身上和脸上烧伤的部位涂上了丹宁酸，丹宁酸在他那粗糙的皮肤上结成了一层有保护效果的硬壳。眼睛周围覆盖了厚厚一层紫药水。他的身分没有办法辨认出来。     有时她会找几条毯子盖在身上，不是为了取暖，而是为了感受它们的重量。当月光洒在天花板上时，她醒了过来。她躺在吊床里面，思绪起伏不定。她得到了休息，但并不是舒舒服服地睡上一觉。如果她是作家，她会拿起铅笔和笔记本，带着心爱的小猫，躺在床上写作。陌生人和爱人永远都不会穿过那扇上锁的房门。         休息就是不评判地接受世界的一切。在海中洗澡，与一个永远都不会知道你名字的士兵睡上一觉。与陌生和不知名的人温存一番，也使自己得到安慰。     她的双腿在军用毛毯下面挪动。她在羊毛之中挪动，而英国病人则在盖了棉被的床上挪动。     她在这里见不到渐浓的夜幕，以及那片熟悉的树木所发出的沙沙声响。幼年时一直住在多伦多，这使她学会了观察夏夜。在那里她才会觉得自由自在，躺在床上，或在半睡半醒之间抱着小猫走到安全梯上。     在她童年的时候，卡拉瓦焦就是她的老师。他教会了她翻筋斗。现在，他总是把手插在口袋里，只能扭动肩膀做个样子。谁知道战争迫使他住在哪个国家。她在女子医学院接受过训练，然后在入侵西西里时被派到海外。那是一九四三年。加拿大第一步兵师一路远征到意大利，不停地有伤员被送到野战医院，像是在黑暗之中挖掘隧道的工人运回的泥巴。在阿雷佐战役打响以后，当第一批部队撤下时，她日夜照料那些伤员。整整三天没有休息，最后她躺在地上，一个人死在身旁的席子上。她睡了十二个小时，闭上眼睛，无视周围的一切。     等她醒来时，她从瓷碗里拿出一把剪刀，弯腰剪下她的头发，不在乎式样和长短，只想剪掉头发。想到前几天头发飘来荡去，她的心中就气恼不已。那时，当她伏下身时，她的头发就会碰到伤口流出的血。她绝不愿把自己与死亡连在一起，锁在一起。她抓抓剩下的头发，确信再也没有散发，然后转身面对满是伤员的病房。     她后来再也没有照过镜子。随着战事更加激烈，她获悉认识的人相继死去的消息。她害怕有一天，等她揩去一个伤员脸上的血后，她会发现那是她的父亲，或者曾在丹福斯大街的饭店替她服务过的侍者。她变得严厉，对自己、对伤员都是这样。理由是惟一可能救赎他们的东西，但却没有理由。国家的血压升高了起来，多伦多在她的心目中是什么?多伦多在哪儿?这是一出丑剧。人们对周围的人冷若冰霜——士兵、医生、护士、平民。哈纳凑近她在治疗的伤口，冲着士兵耳语一番。     她对任何人都叫“哥儿们”，而且嘲笑有一首歌歌词中的这两句：     “每次我碰巧遇见富兰克林·D，     他总是对我说声‘你好，哥儿们。”     她擦净血流不止的手臂。她取出了数不清的弹片，她认为自己从所照料的伤员身上取出的弹片重达一吨。那时军队正在往北推进。有一天晚上，一个伤员死了，她不顾所有的规定，拿走了那人行囊里的网球鞋，并且穿到自己的脚上。它们略微大了一点，但她觉得穿起来很舒服。     她的脸越发变得严厉而瘦削，就是卡拉瓦焦后来见到的那张脸。她身体单薄，主要是因为太累。她总是觉得饿，因而发现喂不能吃或不想吃的伤员，是又累又惹人生气的事。望着面包碎裂，热汤冷却，她真想大口吞下。她并不想吃什么稀奇的东西，只想吃面包和肉。有一个小镇的医院旁开了一间面包店，闲暇的时候，她在面包师傅中间走动，想得到一点面粉和食物。后来，在他们搬到罗马东面以后，有人给了她一个礼物，那是耶路撒冷产的朝鲜蓟。     在大教堂或修道院或其它地方都有伤员，睡在这里感觉实在奇怪。他们总是往北推进。有人死了，她就把插在床脚的小旗撕碎，那是用硬纸板做的。这样的话，远处的看护兵就知道有人死了。然后她会离开巨石砌成的建筑，走到外面，不管是酷夏还是严冬，季节似乎十分古老，就像挨过战争的老人。她会走到外面，不管天气如何。她想呼吸不含一丝人味的空气，想见一见月光，即使是下着倾盆大雨。     你好，哥儿们。再见，哥儿们。看护的时间不长，这是到死便解除的契约。她的精神或她的过去没有教会她如何成为一名护士，但是剪去头发就是一个契约，它一直生效，直到他们搬进了佛罗伦萨以北的圣吉洛拉莫别墅。除了她，这里另有四位护士、两位医生和一百多名伤员。在意大利进行的战斗再次北移，他们已被抛在后面。     后来，在当地某次战斗获胜的庆祝期间——在这个山镇举行这样的活动有些令人感到哀伤——她说她不会返回佛罗伦萨，不会返回罗马，或其它的医院，她的战争已经结束了。她会和英国病人一同留下来。她后来明白，那人四肢几乎不能动，因而永远无法被移动。她会把颠茄  放在他的眼上，用生理食盐水帮他清洗长了瘢痕瘤的皮肤和多处的烧伤。有人告诉她医院不安全——这座女修道院曾被德军占领了数月，遭受过盟军的炮击。不会给她留下什么东西，也许还会受到土匪的打劫。她仍然拒绝离开，脱下了护士服，取出褐色印花洋装换上穿上网球鞋。她离开了战争。她曾听从他们的意愿搬来搬去。她会和那个英国人住在这座别墅里，直到修女们把它索回。她想了解他，融进他的思绪，深藏其中，那样她就可以逃避成人的世界。他对她说话的方式和他思维的方式有一种飘忽的感觉。她想救他，这个无名无姓，几乎面目全非的人，在军队往北进攻时，他曾是她所照料的两百来人当中的一个。     她穿着印花洋装，离开庆祝的场地，走进与其他护士合住的房间，坐了下来。在她坐下的时候，有什么东西在她的眼里一闪。她从小圆镜里看到了眼睛。她缓慢地站了起来，朝它走过去。尽管镜子很小，但它似乎是个奢侈品。一年多来，她一直没有照过镜子，只偶尔打量一下自己映在墙上的影子。镜子只照出了她的面颊，她必须拿着镜子放到一臂开外。她的手晃动不已。她望着自己这幅袖珍肖像，仿佛嵌在一个胸针之中。是她。喧闹声从窗户传了过来，伤员们坐在椅子上，被抬到了阳光普照的户外，与医护人员一起大笑欢呼。只有那些重伤员仍然留在室内。想到这里，她微微一笑。你好，哥儿们，她说。她端详自己的眼神，试图辨认自己。     哈纳和卡拉瓦焦在花园里散步，黑暗笼罩了他们。这会儿他开始用他熟悉的语调，慢吞吞地拖长了声音说话。     “不知道是在谁的生日聚会上，到了深夜，在丹福斯大街。夜爬虫餐厅。哈纳，你记得吗?每个人都得站着唱歌。你的父亲、我、齐安妮塔和朋友们都一样，你说你也想唱歌——那还是破天荒第一次。你那时还在上学，你在上法语课时学会了那首歌。     “你一本正经，站到板凳上，然后一脚踩到桌子上，旁边有着盘子、碟子和燃烧的蜡烛。     “  A10nSon fon!’     “你放声歌唱，左手按着胸前。Alonson fon!那里有一半的人不知道你到底在唱些什么。也许你不知道歌词的确切含义，但是你了解那首歌。     “从窗口刮来的轻风吹起你的裙子，裙子几乎碰到了蜡烛，你的脚踝在酒吧里好像变得炽白。你的父亲抬头注视着你，惊叹你会用另一种语言唱歌，而且吐字那么清楚，挑不出一点毛病，没有口吃。你的裙子在烛光中摇曳。等你唱完歌的时候，我们站了起来。你走下桌子，投入了他的怀抱。”     “我帮你取下手上的绷带吧。我是护士，这你知道。”     “这些绷带挺舒服的，就像手套一样。”     “发生了什么事?”     “我跳下女人的窗口，当场就被抓了。我跟你提过她，就是那个拍照的女人。可是不能怪她。”     哈纳抓住卡拉瓦焦的手臂，抚摸手臂的肌肉。  “让我来吧。”她从他的外套口袋里拉出了缠着绷带的手，白日里她曾见过它们呈现灰色，但在这样的光线下，它们几乎发出荧荧的光亮。     她松开绷带，他退后几步，白色的绷带自手臂上盘旋而出，似乎他是个魔术师。绷带完全解开了。她走近他，想寻找儿时记忆中的叔叔。她看见他的眼睛希望捕捉到她的目光，为了延迟这一刻的到来，所以她直视他的眼睛。    他的双手捧在一起，像是一只血肉做成的碗。她迎了上去，抬起脸，贴上他的面颊，然后依偎在他的肩上。她抓住了那双手，它们似乎结实、痊愈了。     “我告诉你，为了留下这一双手，我只得与他们讲和。”     “怎么讲成的?”     “用我以前的技艺交换。”     “噢，我想起来了。不，别动。别从我身边溜走。”     “这期间真是奇怪，战争结束了。”     “是。一个过渡期。”     “是。”     他举起双手，仿佛准备捧起一轮弦月。     “他们砍下了两个大拇指，哈纳，瞧!”     他当着她的面抬起了双手，让她看清已经瞥见的双手。他翻过一只手，似乎要显示他没有耍魔术，大拇指被砍去的地方看起来像是长了肉垂。他伸手摸向她的上半身。     她感到腋下的衣服撑了起来。他用两根手指抓住她的肩膀，轻轻地把她抱人怀中。     “我就像这样触摸棉花。”     “在我小的时候，我总是在梦中与你一起登上夜色下的楼顶。你回到家，口袋装着给我的冷饭和铅笔盒，还有钢琴上取下的乐谱。”     她对着他那张隐没在黑暗中的脸说话，树叶的阴影像一个有钱女人的饰带，拂过了他的嘴巴：  “你喜欢女人，对吗?你以前喜欢她们。”     “我喜欢她们。为什么说以前喜欢呢?”     “现在似乎已不重要了，经历了这场战争，经历了这些事。”       他点点头，树叶的影子掠过他脸上。     “你曾经像那些只在夜里作画的画家一样，整条街上只亮着他那盏灯。就像挖蚯蚓的人，脚踝系着旧咖啡罐，头盔上的灯照着草丛，在城里的公园乱窜。你带我去了那个地方，就是他们兜售蚯蚓的咖啡店。那里像是一个证券交易所，你说过，那里的蚯蚓价格老是涨涨跌跌，—会儿五分，一会儿一毛。有人一贫如洗，有人大发横财。你记得吗?”     “记得。”     “跟我往回走吧，天凉了。”         “伟大的小偷的食指和中指天生几乎一样长，他们用不着探到口袋底。成败与否就在半寸之间!”     他们朝屋子走去，走在树下。     “谁对你下的手?”     “他们找了一个女人干的。他们带来了一个护士，我的手腕被绑在桌脚。他们砍下了我的大拇指，我的手无力地滑了出来。像是梦中许了一个愿。但是召她来的那个男人，才是真正主掌一切的人——他叫拉努齐奥·托马索尼。她是无辜的，对我一无所知，并不知道我的姓名、国籍和我干了什么。”     他们走进房子，英国病人正在大呼小叫。哈纳放开了卡拉瓦焦，他望着她跑上楼梯，扶着栏杆快步上楼，那双网球鞋分外抢眼。     声音在走廊里回荡。卡拉瓦焦走进厨房，撕下一片面包，然后跟着哈纳上了楼。他朝那个房间走去，叫声越发疯狂。他走进卧室，看见英国人正瞪眼看着一只狗——狗往后扬起了头，仿佛被尖叫声吓着。哈纳望着卡拉瓦焦，咧嘴大笑。     “我有好多年没看见狗了。在战争期间，我始终没有见过狗。”     她蹲了下来，抱住那只狗，闻着狗毛。小狗带着一股山间的青草味。她引着狗去找卡拉瓦焦，卡拉瓦焦给了它碎面包。 这时，英国人看见了卡拉瓦焦，吃惊得嘴都合不拢。在他看来，一定是那只狗——现在被哈纳挡在身后——变成了一个人。卡拉瓦焦抱起狗，转身离开房间。     “我一直在想”，英国病人说道，  “这一定是波利齐亚诺的房间。我们肯定是住在他的别墅里。是水渗出了墙壁，那个古老的喷水池。著名的房间。他们全都在这里碰面。”     “这是医院，”她平静地说，“之前，很久以前是一座女修道院。后来军队占领了它。”     “我看这是勃鲁斯科利别墅。波利齐亚诺——洛伦佐名下伟大的门客。我说的是一四八三年。在佛罗伦萨，在圣三一教堂，可以看见麦迪奇家族的画像，波利齐亚诺站在远处，穿着一件红色的斗篷。一个精明而威严的人。一个天才，经过一番奋斗，从底层爬进了上流社会。”     现在早已过了半夜，他又醒了，没有一丝睡意。     好的，告诉我，她想，带我走吧。她仍然在想着卡拉瓦焦的手。卡拉瓦焦现在很可能拿了一些食物，正在喂着那只无家可归的小狗，大概是从勃鲁斯科利别墅的厨房里拿的。     “那是一种血腥的生活。匕首、政治、三层的礼帽、带有衬垫的长统袜和假发。丝绸假发!之后没过多久，就来了萨伏那洛拉，还有他的“焚烧虚妄”运动。波利齐亚诺翻译过荷马史诗。他写了一首关于西蒙奈达·韦斯普奇的诗，是传世巨作，你知道韦斯普奇吗?”     “不知道。”哈纳说道，不禁笑了起来。     “佛罗伦萨到处都是她的画像。她死于肺结核时，年仅二十三岁。波利齐亚诺写的<比武篇)使她出了名，后来波提切利据此作了画。达·芬奇据此作了画。波利齐亚诺每天上午用拉丁语讲两个小时的课，每天下午用希腊语讲两个小时的课。他有个朋友叫皮科·德拉·米兰多拉，一个放荡不羁的社交人士。他突然改变主意，转而投向萨伏那洛拉。”     “我小的时候外号就叫皮科。”     “对，我想这里发生了许多事情。墙上这个喷水池。皮科、洛伦佐、波利齐亚诺和那个年轻的米开朗基罗。他们一手托着旧世界，一手托着新世界。书房中找到了西塞罗的最后四本书。他们进口了一头长颈鹿、一头犀牛和一只渡渡鸟。托斯卡内利根据商人的来函绘出世界地图。他们坐在这里整夜争论不休，屋里摆着柏拉图的半身像。     “接着从街上传来萨伏那洛拉的叫声：  ‘悔悟吧!洪水来了!’一切都被冲走了——自由意志、追求风雅的欲望、名声、把柏拉图当成耶稣一样崇拜的权利。现在烈火烧了过来——燃烧的假发、书籍、动物的藏身场所、地图。四百多年后，他们挖开了坟墓。皮科的骨头保存完好。波利齐亚诺的骨头已经化成了尘土。”     哈纳听着，英国人翻着他那本札记，读着从别的书上剪下的文字——有关在那场焚烧中损失的地图和柏拉图雕像的燃烧。大理石在火中剥落，超越智慧的劈啪作响声，有如越过山谷传来的准确报告，而这时波利齐亚诺正站在长满了青草的山上，向往着未来。皮科也在下面某个地方，在灰蒙蒙的斗室里，睁开救赎的第三只眼，望着一切。     卡拉瓦焦往一个碗里倒了一些水给狗喝。一只生于这场战争之前的杂种老狗。     他拿着那瓶葡萄酒坐了下来，酒是修道院的修道士给哈纳的。这是哈纳的房子，他在里面走动时蹑手蹑脚，避免更动任何摆设。他注意到她重视那些小朵的野花，那些给她自己的小礼物。在这杂草横生的花园，他有时会走过那一英尺见方的草地——那里曾被她修剪过。如果他的年纪轻一些，他会爱上这一切。         他已不再年轻了。她怎么看他呢?他受了伤，走路摇摇晃晃，颈后长着灰白色的卷发。他从没有想过自己会是一个年高睿智的人，他们全都上了年纪，但他仍然没有感到他的智慧随着年龄增长。     他蹲下身来，望着狗喝水。他没来得及稳住身体，一把抓住桌子，打翻了那瓶葡萄酒。     “你叫大卫·卡拉瓦焦，对吗?”     他们把他铐到橡木桌子的粗桌脚上。他曾抱住桌脚站起来，血从左手汩汩流出。他想带着桌子跑出房门，结果摔倒了。那个女人住了手，扔下刀子，拒绝再干了。桌子的抽屉和里面的东西滑了出来，砸在他的胸前。他以为也许有把熗，这样他就可以派上用场。这时拉努齐奥·托马索尼捡起一把刮胡刀，走到他的跟前：“卡拉瓦焦，对吗?”     他躺在桌下，从手上流出的血落在他的脸上。他突然清醒过来，把手铐从桌脚上褪下，痛得一脚踹开椅子，然后往左一歪，扯下另一只手铐。到处都是血。他的双手已经没用了。几个月后，他发现自己常呆看着别人的大拇指，心中充满妒意。 这一事件使他变老了，似乎在他们把他与桌子铐在一起时，同时给他灌了一种药水，使他变得动作迟缓。     他站了起来，感到一阵晕眩。身下是那只狗和洒了红葡萄酒的桌子。两名卫兵，那个女人，托马索尼。电话叮铃作响，打断了托马索尼。他放下刮胡刀，挖苦地说声对不起，用那只沾满鲜血的手拿起话筒。他觉得自己并没对他们说出什么有用的话。但是他们放了他，也许他搞错了。     随后他沿着圣斯皮里托大道，朝着脑中默记的那个地点走去。经过布鲁内莱斯基的教堂，走向德意志学院的书房。他知道那里会有人照料他。他突然明白他们为什么放了他。就为了让他自由走动，等他迷糊地暴露这个联络点。他拐进一个小巷，没有回头，一直没有回头。他想在街上找一处生火的地方，那样就能治疗伤口了。他可以在焦油锅冒出的烟上熏伤口，让黑烟裹住他的双手。他来到了圣三一桥上。周围什么都没有，没有行人车辆，这让他吃了一惊。他坐在光滑的桥栏杆上，躺下身来。没有声响。起先，在他把双手放在湿漉漉的口袋里，走在路上的时候，还有着战车和吉普车大肆移动的声响。     当他躺在那里时，埋了地雷的桥爆炸了，他被掷到空中，然后又落回地面，似乎世界已不复存在了。他睁开眼睛，身边有一个巨大的脑袋。他吸了一口气，胸中立刻涌进大量的水。 他在水里。在阿尔诺河的浅水区里，他的身边有一个长了胡子的脑袋。他摸了过去，但推不动那个脑袋。亮光照进河里。他游到水面，火势已在部分的水面蔓延开来。     那天傍晚，他告诉哈纳这个故事。她听了以后，说：“他们不再折磨你，是因为盟军快到了。德军当时正在撤出城去，离开的时候炸毁了桥梁。”     “我不知道。也许我把一切都告诉他们了。那会是谁?老是有人打电话到房间来。那个人在发出嘘的一声后，从我身边走开，而其他的人全都望着他听着那个我们听不见的声音讲话。那是谁的声音?那会是谁?”     “他们当时正在撤离，大卫。”     她打开<大地英豪》，翻到了书后的空白页，拿笔写了一段话：     有个人叫卡拉瓦焦，是我父亲的一个朋友。我一     向敬爱他。他比我大，我想大概有四十五岁了。他现     在正是失意的时候，丧失了自信。由于某种原因，我     得到了我父亲这位朋友的照料。     她合上书，走进书房，把它藏在一排高高的书架上。     英国人睡着了，张着嘴巴呼吸。他总是这样呼吸，不管是醒了，还是睡着了。她起身从椅子里站了起来，轻轻地拿下正在燃烧的蜡烛。哈纳走到窗前，吹灭蜡烛，让蜡烛的余烟飘出房间。她不喜欢他手中拿着蜡烛躺在那里，模仿着死人的姿态，任凭蜡烛油滴到他的手腕上。好像他自己正在迎接死亡的来临，好像他想借模仿死亡的姿态，悄悄地走进他的死期。     她站在窗边，一把抓住自己的头发。在黑暗里，在黄昏过后的微光下，你可以切开一条动脉，血是黑的。     她需要从这间屋子走开。她突然变得害怕独处一室，不是因为疲倦。她大步朝走廊那头走去，跳下楼梯，来到别墅的阳台上，然后抬起头，仿佛要试着看清楚她自己在前一刻的身影。她返身走进屋里，推开那扇严实的门，走进书房，拆下钉在落地窗上的木板，打开落地窗，好让夜晚的空气吹进书房。 她不知道卡拉瓦焦在哪里。他现在一到晚上就出去，通常在黎明前几小时才回来。不管怎样，她都看不到他的身影。     她掀起盖在钢琴上的灰色布罩，走到屋子的—角，把它挂在墙上。一块裹尸布，一张鱼网。     没有光亮。她听到远处传来低沉的雷声。     她站在钢琴前面。她没有低头，只是垂下手，开始弹奏起来，只是弹些和音，只是弹出了大致的旋律。每弹一节，她都会停下来，仿佛从水里拿出手来，看一看抓住了什么，然后接着往下弹，弹出曲子的主旋律。她更加放慢手指的动作。她低下头，这时有两个人溜进落地窗，把熗放在钢琴的那头，然后站到她的前面。琴声仍然回荡在这间起了变化的屋子里。     她的手臂贴着身体两侧，一只赤脚踩在铜踏板上，继续弹奏她母亲教她的这首歌。她曾在任何光滑的平面上练习弹这首歌，有时在厨房的桌上弹，上楼时在墙上弹，睡觉时就在自己的床上弹。他们没有钢琴。星期六上午，她就到社区中心练琴。但在平时，到了哪里，哪里就成了她练琴的地方，她随时随地都能学习她的母亲用粉笔在饭桌上写下后又擦去的乐谱。 这是她第一次弹奏别墅的钢琴，尽管她已在这里住了三个月，但之前一直未曾弹过。她的眼睛在第一天就透过落地窗看到钢琴的模样。在加拿大，钢琴需要水。打开后盖，放上满满的一杯水，一个月后水就干了。父亲告诉她，那些小矮人只在钢琴里喝水，从不到酒吧去喝酒。她从来不信这个，但是起先认为也许是老鼠喝了水。     一道闪电划过山谷，整夜都是暴风雨。她看到旁边站着的两个人中其中一人是锡克教徒。她停了下来，微微一笑，心中有些吃惊，但却放下了心。在他们身后亮起的闪光转瞬即逝，她只看到他的头巾，以及明亮而潮湿的熗支。高高的琴盖被人卸了，在几个月前被拿去作医院的手术台，所以他们的熗是放在键槽的那一头。英国病人可以认出这是什么熗。她被外国人包围了。没有一个真正的意大利人。一段别墅恋情。波利齐亚诺会怎么看待一九四五年这幅静止的画面?两个男人和一个女人在钢琴的两头，战争几乎结束了，还有湿漉漉的熗支，每当闪电的光射进屋里，熗支就被闪电照得通亮，就像现在这样为一切注人光和影。每隔半分钟，雷声响彻整个山谷，音乐和着歌声，琴键流畅地按压着。我带着我的宝贝参加茶会……     你们知道歌词吗7    ．     他们没有动静。她摆脱了和音的约束，放开手指，纵情弹奏深藏在心中的音符，在断开的音乐节拍中加进爵士味道的唱腔，融人旋律之中。     我带着我的宝贝参加茶会，     男孩子嫉妒我。     所以我从不带她到大伙去的地方，     我带着我的宝儿参加茶会。     他们望着她，身上的衣服被雨淋透了。闪电不时照亮了房间，她伴着闪电和雷声弹奏，在闪电消失时填补黑暗。她全神贯注，他们知道她已看到他们。她想起母亲撕碎报纸，在厨房的水龙头下淋上水，然后拿去擦拭画在饭桌上的乐谱和琴键。 后来她前往社区的礼堂上课，一星期一次。她在那里学琴，坐下来时脚仍踩不到踏板，所以她情愿站着，穿了凉鞋的脚踩着左踏板，节拍器嘀嗒作响。     她不想停下来，不想停下这首老歌。她看到他们去的地方，大伙从不去那里——种满了叶兰的地方。她抬起头，冲着他们点点头，表示她现在就要停下琴声。 卡拉瓦焦并没有看见这一切。等他回来以后，他发现哈纳和工兵部队的两名士兵正在厨房里做三明治。

III Sometime a Fire THE LAST MEDIAEVAL WAR was fought in Italy in 1943 and 1944. Fortress towns on great promontories which had been battled over since the eighth century had the armies of new kings flung carelessly against them. Around the outcrops of rocks were the traffic of stretchers, butchered vineyards, where, if you dug deep beneath the tank ruts, you found blood-axe and spear. Monterchi, Cortona, Urbino, Arezzo, Sanse-polcro, Anghiari. And then the coast. Cats slept in the gun turrets looking south. English and Americans and Indians and Australians and Canadians advanced north, and the shell traces exploded and dissolved in the air. When the armies assembled at Sansepolcro, a town whose symbol is the crossbow, some soldiers acquired them and fired them silently at night over the walls of the untaken city. Field Marshal Kesselring of the retreating German army seriously considered the pouring of hot oil from battlements. Mediaeval scholars were pulled out of Oxford colleges and flown into Umbria. Their average age was sixty. They were billeted with the troops, and in meetings with strategic command they kept forgetting the invention of the airplane. They spoke of towns in terms of the art in them. At Monterchi there was the Madonna del Parto by Piero della Francesca, located in the chapel next to the town graveyard. When the thirteenth-century castle was finally taken during the spring rains, troops were billeted under the high dome of the church and slept by the stone pulpit where Hercules slays the Hydra. There was only bad water. Many died of typhoid and other fevers. Looking up with service binoculars in the Gothic church at Arezzo soldiers would come upon their contemporary faces in the Piero della Francesca frescoes. The Queen of Sheba conversing with King Solomon. Nearby a twig from the Tree of Good and Evil inserted into the mouth of the dead Adam. Years later this queen would realize that the bridge over the Siloam was made from the wood of this sacred tree. It was always raining and cold, and there was no order but for the great maps of art that showed judgement, piety and sacrifice. The Eighth Army came upon river after river of destroyed bridges, and their sapper units clambered down banks on ladders of rope within enemy gunfire and swam or waded across. Food and tents were washed away. Men who were tied to equipment disappeared. Once across the river they tried to ascend out of the water. They sank their hands and wrists into the mud wall of the cliff face and hung there. They wanted the mud to harden and hold them. The young Sikh sapper put his cheek against the mud and thought of the Queen of Sheba’s face, the texture of her skin. There was no comfort in this river except for his desire for her, which somehow kept him warm. He would pull the veil off her hair. He would put his right hand between her neck and olive blouse. He too was tired and sad, as the wise king and guilty queen he had seen in Arezzo two weeks earlier. He hung over the water, his hands locked into the mud-bank. Character, that subtle art, disappeared among them during those days and nights, existed only in a book or on a painted wall. Who was sadder in that dome’s mural? He leaned forward to rest on the skin of her frail neck. He fell in love with her downcast eye. This woman who would someday know the sacredness of bridges. At night in the camp bed, his arms stretched out into distance like two armies. There was no promise of solution or victory except for the temporary pact between him and that painted fresco’s royalty who would forget him, never acknowledge his existence or be aware of him, a Sikh, halfway up a sapper’s ladder in the rain, erecting a Bailey bridge for the army behind him. But he remembered the painting of their story. And when a month later the battalions reached the sea, after they had survived everything and entered the coastal town of Cattolica and the engineers had cleared the beach of mines in a twenty- yard stretch so the men could go down naked into the sea, he approached one of the mediaevalists who had befriended him— who had once simply talked with him and shared some Spam—and promised to show him something in return for his kindness. The sapper signed out a Triumph motorbike, strapped a crimson emergency light onto his arm, and they rode back the way they had come—back into and through the now innocent towns like Urbino and Anghiari, along the winding crest of the mountain ridge that was a spine down Italy, the old man bundled up behind him hugging him, and down the western slope towards Arezzo. The piazza at night was empty of troops, and the sapper parked in front of the church. He helped the mediaevalist off, collected his equipment and walked into the church. A colder darkness. A greater emptiness, the sound of his boots filling the area. Once more he smelled the old stone and wood. He lit three flares. He slung block and tackle across the columns above the nave, then fired a rivet already threaded with rope into a high wooden beam. The professor was watching him bemused, now and then peering up into the high darkness. The young sapper circled him and knotted a sling across his waist and shoulders, taped a small lit flare to the old man’s chest. He left him there by the communion rail and noisily climbed the stairs to the upper level, where the other end of the rope was. Holding onto it, he stepped off the balcony into the darkness, and the old man was simultaneously swung up, hoisted up fast until, when the sapper touched ground, he swung idly in midair within three feet of the frescoed walls, the flare brightening a halo around him. Still holding the rope the sapper walked forward until the man swung to the right to hover in front of The Flight of Emperor Maxentius. Five minutes later he let the man down. He lit a flare for himself and hoisted his body up into the dome within the deep blue of the artificial sky. He remembered its gold stars from the time he had gazed on it with binoculars. Looking down he saw the mediaevalist sitting on a bench, exhausted. He was now aware of the depth of this church, not its height. The liquid sense of it. The hollowness and darkness of a well. The flare sprayed out of his hand like a wand. He pulleyed himself across to her face, his Queen of Sadness, and his brown hand reached out small against the giant neck. The Sikh sets up a tent in the far reaches of the garden, where Hana thinks lavender was once grown. She has found dry leaves in that area which she has rolled in her fingers and identified. Now and then after a rain she recognizes the perfume of it. At first he will not come into the house at all. He walks past on some duty or other to do with the dismantling of mines. Always courteous. A little nod of his head. Hana sees him wash at a basin of collected rainwater, placed formally on top of a sundial. The garden tap, used in previous times for the seedbeds, is now dry. She sees his shirtless brown body as he tosses water over himself like a bird using its wing. During the day she notices mostly his arms in the short-sleeved army shirt and the rifle which is always with him, even though battles seem now to be over for them. He has various postures with the gun—half-staff, half a crook for his elbows when it is over his shoulders. He will turn, suddenly realizing she is watching him. He is a survivor of his fears, will step around anything suspicious, acknowledging her look in this panorama as if claiming he can deal with it all. He is a relief to her in his self-sufficiency, to all of them in the house, though Caravaggio grumbles at the sapper’s continuous humming of Western songs he has learned for himself in the last three years of the war. The other sapper, who had arrived with him in the rainstorm, Hardy he was called, is billeted elsewhere, nearer the town, though she has seen them working together, entering a garden with their wands of gad-getry to clear mines. The dog has stuck by Caravaggio. The young soldier, who will run and leap with the dog along the path, refuses to give it food of any kind, feeling it should survive on its own. If he finds food he eats it himself. His courtesy goes only so far. Some nights he sleeps on the parapet that overlooks the valley, crawling into his tent only if it rains. He, for his part, witnesses Caravaggio’s wanderings at night. On two occasions the sapper trails Caravaggio at a distance. But two days later Caravaggio stops him and says, Don’t follow me again. He begins to deny it, but the older man puts his hand across his lying face and quiets him. So the soldier knows Caravaggio was aware of him two nights before. In any case, the trailing was simply a remnant of a habit he had been taught during the war. Just as even now he desires to aim his rifle and fire and hit some target precisely. Again and again he aims at a nose on a statue or one of the brown hawks veering across the sky of the valley. He is still very much a youth. He wolfs down food, jumps up to clear away his plate, allowing himself half an hour for lunch. She has watched him at work, careful and timeless as a cat, in the orchard and within the overgrown garden that rises behind the house. She notices the darker brown skin of his wrist, which slides freely within the bangle that clinks sometimes when he drinks a cup of tea in front of her. He never speaks about the danger that comes with his kind of searching. Now and then an explosion brings her and Caravaggio quickly out of the house, her heart taut from the muffled blast. She runs out or runs to a window seeing Cara-vaggio too in the corner of her vision, and they will see the sapper waving lazily towards the house, not even turning around from the herb terrace. Once Caravaggio entered the library and saw the sapper up by the ceiling, against the trompe 1’oeil—only Caravaggio would walk into a room and look up into the high corners to see if he was alone—and the young soldier, his eyes not leaving their focus, put out his palm and snapped his fingers, halting Caravaggio in his entrance, a warning to leave the room for safety as he unthreaded and cut a fuze wire he had traced to that corner, hidden above the valance. He is always humming or whistling. “Who is whistling?” asks the English patient one night, having not met or even seen the newcomer. Always singing to himself as he lies upon the parapet looking up at a shift of clouds. When he steps into the seemingly empty villa he is noisy. He is the only one of them who has remained in uniform. Immaculate, buckles shined, the sapper appears out of his tent, his turban symmetrically layered, the boots clean and banging into the wood or stone floors of the house. On a dime he turns from a problem he is working on and breaks into laughter. He seems unconsciously in love with his body, with his physicalness, bending over to pick up a slice of bread, his knuckles brushing the grass, even twirling the rifle absent-mindedly like a huge mace as he walks along the path of cypresses to meet the other sappers in the village. He seems casually content with this small group in the villa, some kind of loose star on the edge of their system. This is like a holiday for him after the war of mud and rivers and bridges. He enters the house only when invited in, just a tentative visitor, the way he had done that first night when he had followed the faltering sound of Hana’s piano and come up the cypress-lined path and stepped into the library. He had approached the villa on that night of the storm not out of curiosity about the music but because of a danger to the piano player. The retreating army often left pencil mines within musical instruments. Returning owners opened up pianos and lost their hands. People would revive the swing on a grandfather clock, and a glass bomb would blow out half a wall and whoever was nearby. He followed the noise of the piano, rushing up the hill with Hardy, climbed over the stone wall and entered the villa As long as there was no pause it meant the player would not lean forward and pull out the thin metal band to set the metronome going. Most pencil bombs were hidden in these—the easiest place to solder the thin layer of wire upright. Bombs were attached to taps, to the spines of books, they were drilled into fruit trees so an apple falling onto a lower branch would detonate the tree, just as a hand gripping that branch would. He was unable to look at a room or field without seeing the possibilities of weapons there. He had paused by the French doors, leaned his head against the frame, then slid into the room and except for moments of lightning remained within the darkness. There was a girl standing, as if waiting for him, looking down at the keys she was playing. His eyes took in the room before they took her in, swept across it like a spray of radar. The metronome was ticking already, swaying innocently back and forth. There was no danger, no tiny wire. He stood there in his wet uniform, the young woman at first unaware of his entrance. Beside his tent the antenna of a crystal set is strung up into the trees. She can see the phosphorus green from the radio dial if she looks over there at night with Caravaggio’s field glasses, the sapper’s shifting body covering it up suddenly if he moves across the path of vision. He wears the portable contraption during the day, just one earphone attached to his head, the other loose under his chin, so he can hear sounds from the rest of the world that might be important to him. He will come into the house to pass on whatever information he has picked up that he thinks might be interesting to them. Oie afternoon he announces that the bandleader Glenn Miller has died, his plane having crashed somewhere between England and France. So he moves among them. She sees him in the distance of a defunct garden with the diviner or, if he has found something, unravelling that knot of wires and fuzes someone has left him like a terrible letter. He is always washing his hands. Caravaggio at first thinks he is too fussy. “How did you get through a war?” Caravaggio laughs. “I grew up in India, Uncle. You wash your hands all the time. Before all meals. A habit. I was born in the Punjab.” “I’m from Upper America,” she says. He sleeps half in and half out of the tent. She sees his hands remove the earphone and drop it onto his lap. Then Hana puts down the glasses and turns away. They were under the huge vault. The sergeant lit a flare, and the sapper lay on the floor and looked up through the rifle’s telescope, looked at the ochre faces as if he were searching for a brother in the crowd. The cross hairs shook along the biblical figures, the light dousing the coloured vestments and flesh darkened by hundreds of years of oil and candle smoke. And now this yellow gas smoke, which they knew was outrageous in this sanctuary, so the soldiers would be thrown out, would be remembered for abusing the permission they received to see the Great Hall, which they had come to, wading up beachheads and the one thousand skirmishes of small wars and the bombing of Monte Cassino and then walking in hushed politeness through the Raphael Stanze till they were here, finally, seventeen men who had landed in Sicily and fought their way up the ankle of the country to be here— where they were offered just a mostly dark hall. As if being in the presence of the place was enough. And one of them had said, “Damn. Maybe more light, Sergeant Shand?” And the sergeant released the catch of the flare and held it up in his outstretched arm, the niagara of its light pouring off his fist, and stood there for the length of its burn like that. The rest of them stood looking up at the figures and faces crowded onto the ceiling that emerged in the light. But the young sapper was already on his back, the rifle aimed, his eye almost brushing the beards of Noah and Abraham and the variety of demons until he reached the great face and was stilled by it, the face like a spear, wise, unforgiving. The guards were yelling at the entrance and he could hear the running steps, just another thirty seconds left on the flare. He rolled over and handed the rifle to the padre. “That one. Who is he? At three o’clock northwest, who is he? Quick, the flare is almost out.” The padre cradled the rifle and swept it over to the corner, and the flare died. He returned the rifle to the young Sikh. “You know we shall all be in serious trouble over this lighting of weapons in the Sistine Chapel. I should not have come here. But I also must thank Sergeant Shand, he was heroic to do it. No real damage has been done, I suppose.” “Did you see it? The face. Who was it?” “Ah yes, it is a great face.” “You saw it.” “Yes. Isaiah.” When the Eighth Army got to Gabicce on the east coast, the sapper was head of night patrol. On the second night he received a signal over the shortwave that there was enemy movement in the water. The patrol sent out a shell and the water erupted, a rough warning shot. They did not hit anything, but in the white spray of the explosion he picked up a darker outline of movement. He raised the rifle and held the drifting shadow in his sights for a full minute, deciding not to shoot in order to see if there would be other movement nearby. The enemy was still camped up north, in Rimini, on the edge of the city. He had the shadow in his sights when the halo was suddenly illuminated around the head of the Virgin Mary. She was coming out of the sea. She was standing in a boat. Two men rowed. Two other men held her upright, and as they touched the beach the people of the town began to applaud from their dark and opened windows. The sapper could see the cream-coloured face and the halo of small battery lights. He was lying on the concrete pillbox, between the town and the sea, watching her as the four men climbed out of the boat and lifted the five-foot-tall plaster statue into their arms. They walked up the beach, without pausing, no hesitation for the mines. Perhaps they had watched them being buried and charted them when the Germans had been there. Their feet sank into the sand. This was Gabicce Mare on May 29, 1944. Marine Festival of the Virgin Mary. Adults and children were on the streets. Men in band uniforms had also emerged. The band would not play and break the rules of curfew, but the instruments were still part of the ceremony, immaculately polished. He slid from the darkness, the mortar tube strapped to his back, carrying the rifle in his hands. In his turban and with the weapons he was a shock to them. They had not expected him to emerge too out of the no-man’s-land of the beach. He raised his rifle and picked up her face in the gun sight —ageless, without sexuality, the foreground of the men’s dark hands reaching into her light, the gracious nod of the twenty small light bulbs. The figure wore a pale blue cloak, her left knee raised slightly to suggest drapery. They were not romantic people. They had survived the Fascists, the English, Gauls, Goths and Germans. They had been owned so often it meant nothing. But this blue and cream plaster figure had come out of the sea, was placed in a grape truck full of flowers, while the band marched ahead of her in silence. Whatever protection he was supposed to provide for this town was meaningless. He couldn’t walk among their children in white dresses with these guns. He moved one street south of them and walked at the speed of the statue’s movement, so they reached the joining streets at the same time. He raised his rifle to pick up her face once again in his sights. It all ended on a promontory overlooking the sea, where they left her and returned to their homes. None of them was aware of his continued presence on the periphery. Her face was still lit. The four men who had brought her by boat sat in a square around her like sentries. The battery attached to her back began to fade; it died at about four-thirty in the morning. He glanced at his watch then. He picked up the men with the rifle telescope. Two were asleep. He swung the sights up to her face and studied her again. A different look in the fading light around her. A face which in the darkness looked more like someone he knew. A sister. Someday a daughter. If he could have parted with it, the sapper would have left something there as his gesture. But he had his own faith after all. Caravaggio enters the library. He has been spending most afternoons there. As always, books are mystical creatures to him. He plucks one out and opens it to the title page. He is in the room about five minutes before he hears a slight groan. He turns and sees Hana asleep on the sofa. He closes the book and leans back against the thigh-high ledge under the shelves. She is curled up, her left cheek on the dusty brocade and her right arm up towards her face, a fist against her jaw. Her eyebrows shift, the face concentrating within sleep. When he had first seen her after all this time she had looked taut, boiled down to just body enough to get her through this efficiently. Her body had been in a war and, as in love, it had used every part of itself. He sneezed out loud, and when he looked up from the movement of his tossed-down head she was awake, the eyes open staring ahead at him. “Guess what time it is.” “About four-oh-five. No, four-oh-seven,” she said. It was an old game between a man and a child. He slipped out of the room to look for the clock, and by his movement and assuredness she could tell he had recently taken morphine, was refreshed and precise, with his familiar confidence. She sat up and smiled when he came back shaking his head with wonder at her accuracy. “I was born with a sundial in my head, right?” “And at night?” “Do they have moondials? Has anyone invented one? Perhaps every architect preparing a villa hides a moondial for thieves, like a necessary tithe.” “A good worry for the rich.” “Meet me at the moondial, David. A place where the weak can enter the strong.” “Like the English patient and you?” “I was almost going to have a baby a year ago.” Now that his mind is light and exact with the drug, she can whip around and he will be with her, thinking alongside her. And she is being open, not quite realizing she is awake and conversing, as if still speaking in a dream, as if his sneeze had been the sneeze in a dream. Caravaggio is familiar with this state. He has often met people at the moondial. Disturbing them at two a.m. as a whole bedroom cupboard came crashing down by mistake. Such shocks, he discovered, kept them away from fear and violence. Disturbed by owners of houses he was robbing, he would clap his hands and converse frantically, flinging an expensive clock into the air and catching it in his hands, quickly asking them questions, about where things were. “I lost the child. I mean, I had to lose it. The father was already dead. There was a war.” “Were you in Italy?” “In Sicily, about the time this happened. All through the time we came up the Adriatic behind the troops I thought of it. I had continued conversations with the child. I worked very hard in the hospitals and retreated from everybody around me. Except the child, who I shared everything with. In my head. I was talking to him while I bathed and nursed patients. I was a little crazy.” “And then your father died.” “Yes. Then Patrick died. I was in Pisa when I heard.” She was awake. Sitting up. “You knew, huh?” “I got a letter from home.” “Is that why you came here, because you knew?” “No.” “Good. I don’t think that he believed in wakes and such things. Patrick used to say he wanted a duet by two women on musical instruments when he died. Squeeze-box and violin. That’s all. He was so damn sentimental.” “Yes. You could really make him do anything. Find him a woman in distress and he was lost.” The wind rose up out of the valley to their hill so the cypress trees that lined the thirty-six steps outside the chapel wrestled with it. Drops of earlier rain nudged off, falling with a ticking sound upon the two of them sitting on the balustrade by the steps. It was long after midnight. She was lying on the concrete ledge, and he paced or leaned out looking down into the valley. Only the sound of the dislodged rain. “When did you stop talking to the baby?” “It all got too busy, suddenly. Troops were going into battles at the Moro Bridge and then into Urbino. Maybe in Urbino I stopped. You felt you could be shot anytime there, not just if you were a soldier, but a priest or nurse. It was a rabbit warren, those narrow tilted streets. Soldiers were coming in with just bits of their bodies, falling in love with me for an hour and then dying. It was important to remember their names. But I kept seeing the child whenever they died. Being washed away. Some would sit up and rip all their dressings off trying to breathe better. Some would be worried about tiny scratches on their arms when they died. Then the bubble in the mouth. That little pop. I leaned forward to close a dead soldier’s eyes, and he opened them and sneered, “Can’t wait to have me dead? You bitchl” He sat up and swept everything on my tray to the floor. So furious. Who would want to die like that? To die with that kind of anger. You bitchl After that I always waited for the bubble in their mouths. I know death now, David. I know all the smells, I know how to divert them from agony. When to give the quick jolt of morphine in a major vein. The saline solution. To make them empty their bowels before they die. Every damn general should have had my job. Every damn general. It should have been a prerequisite for any river crossing. Who the hell were we to be given this responsibility, expected to be wise as old priests, to know how to lead people towards something no one wanted and somehow make them feel comfortable. I could never believe in all those services they gave for the dead. Their vulgar rhetoric. How dare they! How dare they talk like that about a human being dying.” There was no light, all lamps out, the sky mostly cloud-hidden. It was safer not to draw attention to the civilisation of existing homes. They were used to walking the grounds of the house in darkness. “You know why the army didn’t want you to stay here, with the English patient? Do you?” “An embarrassing marriage? My father complex?” She was smiling at him. “How’s the old guy?” “He still hasn’t calmed down about that dog.” “Tell him he came with me.” “He’s not really sure you are staying here either. Thinks you might walk off with the china.” “Do you think he would like some wine? I managed to scrounge a bottle today.” “From?” “Do you want it or not?” “Let’s just have it now. Let’s forget him.” “Ah, the breakthrough!” “Not the breakthrough. I badly need a serious drink.” “Twenty years old. By the time I was twenty ...” “Yes, yes, why don’t you scrounge a gramophone someday. By the way, I think this is called looting.” “My country taught me all this. It’s what I did for them during the war.” He went through the bombed chapel into the house. Hana sat up, slightly dizzy, off balance. “And look what they did to you,” she said to herself. Even among those she worked closely with she hardly talked during the war. She needed an uncle, a member of the family’ She needed the father of the child, while she waited in this hill town to get drunk for the first time in years, while a burned man upstairs had fallen into his four hours of sleep and an old friend of her father’s was now rifling through her medicine chest, breaking the glass tab, tightening a bootlace round his arm and injecting the morphine quickly into himself, in the time it took for him to turn around. At night, in the mountains around them, even by ten o’clock, only the earth is dark. Clear grey sky and the green hills. “I was sick of the hunger. Of just being lusted at. So I stepped away, from the dates, the jeep rides, the courtship’ The last dances before they died—I was considered a snob. I worked harder than others. Double shifts, under fire, did anything for them, emptied every bedpan. I became a snob because I wouldn’t go out and spend their money. I wanted to go home and there was no one at home. And I was sick of Europe. Sick of being treated like gold because I was female. I courted one man and he died and the child died. I mean, the child didn’t just die, I was the one who destroyed it. After that I stepped so far back no one could get near me. Not with talk of snobs. Not with anyone’s death. Then I met him, the man burned black. Who turned out to be, up close, an Englishman-”It has been a long time, David, since I thought of anything to do with a man.” After a week of the Sikh sapper’s presence around the villa they adapted to his habits of eating. Wherever he was—on the hill or in the village—he would return around twelve-thirty and join Hana and Caravaggio, pull out the small bundle of blue handkerchief from his shoulder bag and spread it onto the table alongside their meal. His onions and his herbs— which Caravaggio suspected he was taking from the Franciscans’ garden during the time he spent there sweeping the place for mines. He peeled the onions with the same knife he used to strip rubber from a fuze wire. This was followed by fruit. Caravaggio suspected he had gone through the whole invasion never eating from a mess canteen. In fact he had always been dutifully in line at the crack of dawn, holding out his cup for the English tea he loved, adding to it his own supply of condensed milk. He would drink slowly, standing in sunlight to watch the slow movement of troops who, if they were stationary that day, would already be playing canasta by nine a.m. Now, at dawn, under the scarred trees in the half-bombed gardens of the Villa San Girolamo, he takes a mouthful of water from his canteen. He pours tooth powder onto the brush and begins a ten-minute session of lackadaisical brushing as he wanders around looking down into the valley still buried in the mist, his mind curious rather than awestruck at the vista he happens now to be living above. The brushing of teeth, since he was a child, has always been for him an outdoor activity. The landscape around him is just a temporary thing, there is no permanence to it. He simply acknowledges the possibility of rain, a certain odour from a shrub. As if his mind, even when unused, is radar, his eyes locating the choreography of inanimate objects for the quarter-mile around him, which is the killing radius of small arms. He studies the two onions he has pulled out of the earth with care, aware that gardens too have been mined by retreating armies. At lunch there is Caravaggio’s avuncular glance at the objects on the blue handkerchief. There is probably some rare animal, Caravaggio thinks, who eats the same foods that this young soldier eats with his right hand, his fingers carrying it to his mouth. He uses the knife only to peel the skin from the onion, to slice fruit. The two men take a trip by cart down into the valley to pick up a sack of flour. Also, the soldier has to deliver maps of the cleared areas to headquarters at San Domenico. Finding it difficult to ask questions about each other, they speak about Hana. There are many questions before the older man admits having known her before the war. “In Canada?” “Yes, I knew her there.” They pass numerous bonfires on the sides of the road and Caravaggio diverts the young soldier’s attention to them. The sapper’s nickname is Kip. “Get Kip.” “Here comes Kip.” The name had attached itself to him curiously. In his first bomb disposal report in England some butter had marked his paper, and the officer had exclaimed, “What’s this? Kipper grease?” and laughter surrounded him. He had no idea what a kipper was, but the young Sikh had been thereby translated into a salty English fish. Within a week his real name, Kirpal Singh, had been forgotten. He hadn’t minded this. Lord Suffolk and his demolition team took to calling him by his nickname, which he preferred to the English habit of calling people by their surname. That summer the English patient wore his hearing aid so he was alive to everything in the house. The amber shell hung within his ear with its translations of casual noises—the chair in the hall scraping against the floor, the click of the dog’s claws outside his room so he would turn up the volume and even hear its damn breathing, or the shout on the terrace from the sapper. The English patient within a few days of the young soldier’s arrival had thus become aware of his presence around the house, though Hana kept them separate, knowing they would probably not like each other. But she entered the Englishman’s room one day to find the sapper there. He was standing at the foot of the bed, his arms hung over the rifle that rested across his shoulders. She disliked this casual handling of the gun, his lazy spin towards her entrance as if his body were the axle of a wheel, as if the weapon had been sewn along his shoulders and arms and into his small brown wrists. The Englishman turned to her and said, “We’re getting along famously!” She was put out that the sapper had strolled casually into this domain, seemed able to surround her, be everywhere. Kip, hearing from Caravaggio that the patient knew about guns, had begun to discuss the search for bombs with the Englishman. He had come up to the room and found him a reservoir of information about Allied and enemy weaponry. The Englishman not only knew about the absurd Italian fuzes but also knew the detailed topography of this region of Tuscany. Soon they were drawing outlines of bombs for each other and talking out the theory of each specific circuit. “The Italian fuzes seem to be put in vertically. And not always at the tail.” “Well, that depends. The ones made in Naples are that way, but the factories in Rome follow the German system. Of course, Naples, going back to the fifteenth century ...” It meant having to listen to the patient talk in his circuitous way, and the young soldier was not used to remaining still and silent. He would get restless and kept interrupting the pauses and silences the Englishman always allowed himself, trying to energize the train of thought. The soldier rolled his head back and looked at the ceiling. “What we should do is make a sling,” the sapper mused, turning to Hana as she entered, “and carry him around the house.” She looked at both of them, shrugged and walked out of the room. When Caravaggio passed her in the hall she was smiling. They stood in the hall and listened to the conversation inside the room. Did I tell you my concept ofVirgilian man, Kip? Let me... Is your hearing aid on? What? Turn it— “I think he’s found a friend,” she said to Caravaggio. She walks out into the sunlight and the courtyard. At noon the taps deliver water into the villa’s fountain and for twenty minutes it bursts forth. She removes her shoes, climbs into the dry bowl of the fountain and waits. At this hour the smell of hay grass is everywhere. Bluebottles stumble in the air and bang into humans as if slamming into a wall, then retreat unconcerned. She notices where water spiders have nested beneath the upper bowl of the fountain, her face in the shade of its overhang. She likes to sit in this cradle of stone, the smell of cool and dark hidden air emerging from the still empty spout near her, like air from a basement opened for the first time in late spring so the heat outside hangs in contrast. She brushes her arms and toes free of dust, of the crimp of shoes, and stretches. Too many men in the house. Her mouth leans against the bare arm of her shoulder. She smells her skin, the familiarity of it. One’s own taste and flavour. She remembers when she had first grown aware of it, somewhere in her teens—it seemed a place rather than a time—kissing her forearm to practise kissing, smelling her wrist or bending down to her thigh. Breathing into her own cupped hands so breath would bounce back towards her nose. She rubs her bare white feet now against the brindle colour of the fountain. The sapper has told her about statues he came across during the fighting, how he had slept beside one who was a grieving angel, half male, half female, that he had found beautiful. He had lain back, looking at the body, and for the first time during the war felt at peace. She sniffs the stone, the cool moth smell of it. Did her father struggle into his death or die calm? Did he lie the way the English patient reposes grandly on his cot? Was he nursed by a stranger? A man not of your own blood can break upon your emotions more than someone of your own blood. As if falling into the arms of a stranger you discover the mirror of your choice. Unlike the sapper, her father was never fully comfortable in the world. His conversations lost some of their syllables out of shyness. In any of Patrick’s sentences, her mother had complained, you lost two or three crucial words. But Hana liked that about him, there seemed to be no feudal spirit around him. He had a vagueness, an uncertainty that allowed him tentative charm. He was unlike most men. Even the wounded English patient had the familiar purpose of the feudal. But her father was a hungry ghost, liking those around him to be confident, even raucous. Did he move towards his death with the same casual sense of being there at an accident? Or in fury? He was the least furious man she knew, hating argument, just walking out of a room if someone spoke badly of Roosevelt or Tim Buck or praised certain Toronto mayors. He had never attempted to convert anyone in his life, just bandaging or celebrating events that occurred near him. That was all. A novel is a mirror walking down a road. She had read that in one of the books the English patient recommended, and that was the way she remembered her father—whenever she collected the moments of him— stopping his car under one specific bridge in Toronto north of Pottery Road at midnight and telling her that this was where the starlings and pigeons uncomfortably and not too happily shared the rafters during the night. So they had paused there on a summer night and leaned their heads out into the racket of noise and sleepy chirpings. I was told Patrick died in a dove-cot, Caravaggio said. Her father loved a city of his own invention, whose streets and walls and borders he and his friends had painted. He never truly stepped out of that world. She realizes everything she knew about the real world she learned on her own or from Caravaggio or, during the time they lived together, from her stepmother, Clara. Clara, who had once been an actress, the articulate one, who had articulated fury when they all left for the war. All through the last year in Italy she has carried the letters from Clara. Letters she knows were written on a pink rock on an island in Georgian Bay, written with the wind coming over the water and curling the paper of her notebook before she finally tore the pages out and put them in an envelope for Hana. She carried them in her suitcase, each containing a flake of pink rock and that wind. But she has never answered them. She has missed Clara with a woe but is unable to write to her, now, after all that has happened to her. She cannot bear to talk of or even acknowledge the death of Patrick. And now, on this continent, the war having travelled elsewhere, the nunneries and churches that were turned briefly into hospitals are solitary, cut off in the hills of Tuscany and Umbria. They hold the remnants of war societies, small moraines left by a vast glacier. All around them now is the holy forest. She tucks her feet under her thin frock and rests her arms along her thighs. Everything is still. She hears the familiar hollow churn, restless in the pipe that is buried in the central column of the fountain. Then silence. Then suddenly there is a crash as the water arrives bursting around her. The tales Hana had read to the English patient, travelling with the old wanderer in Kim or with Fabrizio in The Charterhouse of Parma, had intoxicated them in a swirl of armies and horses and wagons—those running away from or running towards a war. Stacked in one corner of his bedroom were other books she had read to him whose landscapes they have already walked through. Many books open with an author’s assurance of order. One slipped into their waters with a silent paddle. I begin my work at the time when Servius Galba was Consul.... The histories of Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius and Nero, while they were a power, were falsified through terror and after their death were written under a fresh hatred. So Tacitus began his Annals. But novels commenced with hesitation or chaos. Readers were never fully in balance. A door a lock a weir opened and they rushed through, one hand holding a gunnel, the other a hat. When she begins a book she enters through stilted doorways into large courtyards. Parma and Paris and India spread their carpets. He sat, in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam-Zammah on her brick platform opposite the old Ajaib-Gher— the Wonder House, as the natives called the Lahore Museum. Who hold Zam-Zammah, that “fire-breathing dragon,” hold the Punjab; for the great green-bronze piece is always first of the conqueror’s loot. “Read him slowly, dear girl, you must read Kipling slowly. Watch carefully where the commas fall so you can discover the natural pauses. He is a writer who used pen and ink. He looked up from the page a lot, I believe, stared through his window and listened to birds, as most writers who are alone do. Some do not know the names of birds, though he did. Your eye is too quick and North American. Think about the speed of his pen. What an appalling, barnacled old first paragraph it is otherwise.” That was the English patient’s first lesson about reading. He did not interrupt again. If he happened to fall asleep she would continue, never looking up until she herself was fatigued. If he had missed the last half-hour of plot, just one room would be dark in a story he probably already knew. He was familiar with the map of the story. There was Benares to the east and Chilianwallah in the north of the Punjab. (All this occurred before the sapper entered their lives, as if out of this fiction. As if the pages of Kipling had been rubbed in the night like a magic lamp. A drug of wonders.) She had turned from the ending of Kirn, with its delicate and holy sentences—and now clean diction—and picked up the patient’s notebook, the book he had somehow managed to carry with him out of the fire. The book splayed open, almost twice its original thickness. There was thin paper from a Bible, torn out and glued into the text. King David was old and stricken in years and they covered him with clothes but he received no heat. Whereupon his servants said, Let there be sought for the King a young virgin: and let her cherish him, and let her lie in this bosom, that our King may have heat. So they sought for a fair damsel throughout all the coasts of Israel, and found Abishag a Shunammite. And the damsel cherished the King, and ministered to him: but the King knew her not. The ———— tribe that had saved the burned pilot brought him into the British base at Siwa in 1944. He was moved in the midnight ambulance train from the Western Desert to Tunis, then shipped to Italy. At that time of the war there were hundreds of soldiers lost from themselves, more innocent than devious. Those who claimed to be uncertain of their nationalities were housed in compounds in Tirrenia, where the sea hospital was. The burned pilot was one more enigma, with no identification, unrecognizable. In the criminal compound nearby they kept the American poet Ezra Pound in a cage, where he hid on his body and pockets, moving it daily for his own image of security, the propeller of eucalyptus he had bent down and plucked from his traitor’s garden when he was arrested. “Eucalyptus that is for memory.” “You should be trying to trick me,” the burned pilot told his interrogators, “make me speak German, which I can, by the way, ask me about Don Bradman. Ask me about Marmite, the great Gertrude Jekyll.” He knew where every Giotto was in Europe, and most of the places where a person could find convincing trompe 1’oeil. The sea hospital was created out of bathing cabins along the beach that tourists had rented at the turn of the century. During the heat the old Campari umbrellas were placed once more into their table sockets, and the bandaged and the wounded and the comatose would sit under them in the sea air and talk slowly or stare or talk all the time. The burned man noticed the young nurse, separate from the others. He was familiar with such dead glances, knew she was more patient than nurse. He spoke only to her when he needed something. He was interrogated again. Everything about him was very English except for the fact that his skin was tarred black, a bogman from history among the interrogating officers. They asked him where the Allies stood in Italy, and he said he assumed they had taken Florence but were held up by the hill towns north of them. The Gothic Line. “Your division is stuck in Florence and cannot get past bases like Prato and Fiesole for instance because the Germans have barracked themselves into villas and convents and they are brilliantly defended. It’s an old story—the Crusaders made the same mistake against the Saracens. And like them you now need the fortress towns. They have never been abandoned except during times of cholera.” He had rambled on, driving them mad, traitor or ally, leaving them never quite sure who he was. Now, months later in the Villa San Girolamo, in the hill town north of Florence, in the arbour room that is his bedroom, he reposes like the sculpture of the dead knight in Ravenna. He speaks in fragments about oasis towns, the later Medicis, the prose style of Kipling, the woman who bit into his flesh. And in his commonplace book, his 1890 edition of Herodotus’ Histories, are other fragments—maps, diary entries, writings in many languages, paragraphs cut out of other books. All that is missing is his own name. There is still no clue to who he actually is, nameless, without rank or battalion or squadron. The references in his book are all pre-war, the deserts of Egypt and Libya in the 19305, interspersed with references to cave art or gallery art or journal notes in his own small handwriting. “There are no brunettes,” the English patient says to Hana as she bends over him, “among Florentine Madonnas.” The book is in his hands. She carries it away from his sleeping body and puts it on the side table. Leaving it open she stands there, looking down, and reads. She promises herself she will not turn the page. May 1936. I will read you a poem, Clifton’s wife said, in her formal voice, which is how she always seems unless you are very close to her. We were all at the southern campsite, within the firelight. I walked in a desert. And I cried: “Ah, God, take me from this place!” A voice said: “It is no desert.” I cried: “Well, but— The sand, the heat, the vacant horizon.” A voice said: “It is no desert.” No one said anything. She said, That was by Stephen Crane, he never came to the desert. He came to the desert, Madox said. July 1936. There are betrayals in war that are childlike compared with our human betrayals during peace. The new lover enters the habits of the other. Things are smashed, revealed in new light. This is done with nervous or tender sentences, although the heart is an organ of fire. A love story is not about those who lose their heart but about those who find that sullen inhabitant who, when it is stumbled upon, means the body can fool no one, can fool nothing—not the wisdom of sleep or the habit of social graces. It is a consuming of oneself and the past. It is almost dark in the green room. Hana turns and realizes her neck is stiff from stillness. She has been focused and submerged within the crabbed handwriting in his thick-leaved sea-book of maps and texts. There is even a small fern glued into it. The Histories. She doesn’t close the book, hasn’t touched it since she laid it on the side table. She walks away from it. Kip was in a field north of the villa when he found the large mine, his foot—almost on the green wire as he crossed the orchard—twisting away, so he lost his balance and was on his knees. He lifted the wire until it was taut, then followed it, zigzagging among the trees. He sat down at the source with the canvas bag on his lap. The mine shocked him. They had covered it with concrete. They had laid the explosive there and then plastered wet concrete over it to disguise its mechanism and what its strength was. There was a bare tree about four yards away. Another tree about ten yards away. Two months’ grass had grown over the concrete ball. He opened his bag and with scissors clipped the grass away. He laced a small hammock of rope around it and after attaching a rope and pulley to the tree branch slowly lifted the concrete into the air. Two wires led from the concrete towards the earth. He sat down, leaned against the tree and looked at it. Speed did not matter now. He pulled the crystal set out of the bag and placed the earphones to his head. Soon the radio was filling him with American music from the AIF station. Two and a half minutes average for each song or dance number. He could work his way back along “A String of Pearls,” “C-Jam Blues” and other tunes to discover how long he had been there, receiving the background music subconsciously. Noise did not matter. There would be no faint tickings or clickings to signal danger on this kind of bomb. The distraction of music helped him towards clear thought, to the possible forms of structure in the mine, to the personality that had laid the city of threads and then poured wet concrete over it. The tightening of the concrete ball in midair, braced with a second rope, meant the two wires would not pull away, no matter how hard he attacked it. He stood up and began to chisel the disguised mine gently, blowing away loose grain with his mouth, using the feather stick, chipping more concrete off. He stopped his focus only when the music slipped off the wavelength and he had to realign the station, bringing clarity back to the swing tunes. Very slowly he unearthed the series of wires. There were six wires jumbled up, tied together, all painted black. He brushed the dust off the mapboard the wires lay on. Six black wires. When he was a child his father had bunched up his fingers and, disguising all but the tips of them, made him guess which was the long one. His own small finger would touch his choice, and his father’s hand would unfold, blossoming, to reveal the boy’s mistake. One could of course make a red wire negative. But this opponent had not just concreted the thing but painted all the characters black. Kip was being pulled into a psychological vortex. With the knife he began to scrape the paint free, revealing a red, a blue, a green. Would his opponent have also switched them? He’d have to set up a detour with black wire of his own like an oxbow river and then test the loop for positive or negative power. Then he would check it for fading power and know where the danger lay. Hana was carrying a long mirror in front of her down the hall. She would pause because of the weight of it and then move forward, the mirror reflecting the old dark pink of the passageway. The Englishman had wanted to see himself. Before she stepped into the room she carefully turned the reflection upon herself, not wanting the light to bounce indirectly from the window onto his face. He lay there in his dark skin, the only paleness the hearing aid in his ear and the seeming blaze of light from his pillow. He pushed the sheets down with his hands. Here, do this, pushing as far as he could, and Hana flicked the sheet to the base of the bed. She stood on a chair at the foot of the bed and slowly tilted the mirror down at him. She was in this position, her hands braced out in front of her, when she heard the faint shouts. She ignored them at first. The house often picked up noise from the valley. The use of megaphones by the clearance military had constantly unnerved her when she was living alone with the English patient. “Keep the mirror still, my dear,” he said. “I think there is someone shouting. Do you hear it?” His left hand turned up the hearing aid. “It’s the boy. You’d better go and find out.” She leaned the mirror against the wall and rushed down the corridor. She paused outside waiting for the next yell. When it came she took off through the garden and into the fields above the house. He stood, his hands raised above him as if he were holding a giant cobweb. He was shaking his head to get free of the earphones. As she ran towards him he yelled at her to circle to the left, there were mine wires all over the place. She stopped. It was a walk she had taken numerous times with no sense of danger. She raised her skirt and moved forward, watching her feet as they entered the long grass. His hands were still up in the air as she came alongside him. He had been tricked, ending up holding two live wires he could not put down without the safety of a descant chord. He needed a third hand to negate one of them and he needed to go back once more to the fuze head. He passed the wires carefully to her and dropped his arms, getting blood back into them. “I’ll take them back in a minute.” “It’s okay.” “Keep very still.” He opened up his satchel for the Geiger counter and magnet. He ran the dial up and along the wires she was holding. No swerve to negative. No clue. Nothing. He stepped backwards, wondering where the trick could be. “Let me tape those to the tree, and you leave.” “No. I’ll hold it. They won’t reach the tree.” “No.” “Kip—I can hold them.” “We have an impasse. There’s a joke. I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know how complete the trick is.” Leaving her, he ran back to where he had first sighted the wire. He raised it and followed it all the way this time, the Geiger counter alongside it. Then he was crouched about ten yards from her, thinking, now and then looking up, looking right through her, watching only the two tributaries of wire she held in her hands. I don’t know, he said out loud, slowly, / don’t know. I think I have to cut the wire in your left hand, you must leave. He was pulling the radio earphones on over his head, so the sound came back into him fully, filling him with clarity. He schemed along the different paths of the wire and swerved into the convolutions of their knots, the sudden corners, the buried switches that translated them from positive to negative. The tinderbox. He remembered the dog, whose eyes were as big as saucers. He raced with the music along the wires, and all the while he was staring at the girl’s hands, which were very still holding onto them. “You’d better go.” “You need another hand to cut it, don’t you?” “I can attach it to the tree.” “I’ll hold it.” He picked the wire like a thin adder from her left hand. Then the other. She didn’t move away. He said nothing more, he now had to think as clearly as he could, as if he were alone. She came up to him and took back one of the wires. He was not conscious of this at all, her presence erased. He travelled the path of the bomb fuze again, alongside the mind that had choreographed this, touching all the key points, seeing the X ray of it, the band music filling everything else. Stepping up to her, he cut the wire below her left fist before the theorem faded, the sound like something bitten through with a tooth. He saw the dark print of her dress along her shoulder, against her neck. The bomb was dead. He dropped the cutters and put his hand on her shoulder, needing to touch something human. She was saying something he couldn’t hear, and she reached forward and pulled the earphones off so silence invaded. Breeze and a rustle. He realized the click of the wire being cut had not been heard at all, just felt, the snap of it, the break of a small rabbit bone. Not letting go of her, he moved his hand down her arm and pulled the seven inches of wire out of her still tight grip. She was looking at him, quizzical, waiting for his answer to what she had said, but he hadn’t heard her. She shook her head and sat down. He started collecting various objects around himself, putting them into his satchel. She looked up into the tree and then only by chance looked back down and saw his hands shaking, tense and hard like an epileptic’s, his breathing deep and fast, over in a moment. He was crouched over. “Did you hear what I said?” “No. What was it?” “I thought I was going to die. I wanted to die. And I thought if I was going to die I would die with you. Someone like you, young as I am, I saw so many dying near me in the last year. I didn’t feel scared. I certainly wasn’t brave just now. I thought to myself, We have this villa this grass, we should have lain down together, you in my arms, before we died. I wanted to touch that bone at your neck, collarbone, it’s like a small hard wing under your skin. I wanted to place my fingers against it. I’ve always liked flesh the colour of rivers and rocks or like the brown eye of a Susan, do you know what that flower is? Have you seen them? I am so tired, Kip, I want to sleep. I want to sleep under this tree, put my eye against your collarbone I just want to close my eyes without thinking of others, want to find the crook of a tree and climb into it and sleep. What a careful mind! To know which wire to cut. How did you know? You kept saying I don’t know I don’t know, but you did. Right? Don’t shake, you have to be a still bed for me, let me curl up as if you were a good grandfather I could hug, I love the word ‘curl,’ such a slow word, you can’t rush it...” Her mouth was against his shirt. He lay with her on the ground as still as he had to, his eyes clear, looking up into a branch. He could hear her deep breath. When he had put his arm around her shoulder she was already asleep but had gripped it against herself. Glancing down he noticed she still had the wire, she must have picked it up again. It was her breath that was most alive. Her weight seemed so light she must have balanced most of it away from him. How long could he lie like this, unable to move or turn to busyness. It was essential to remain still, the way he had relied on statues during those months when they moved up the coast fighting into and beyond each fortress town until there was no difference in them, the same narrow streets everywhere that became sewers of blood so he would dream that if he lost balance he would slip down those slopes on the red liquid and be flung off the cliff into the valley. Every night he had walked into the coldness of a captured church and found a statue for the night to be his sentinel. He had given his trust only to this race of stones, moving as close as possible against them in the darkness, a grieving angel whose thigh was a woman’s perfect thigh, whose line and shadow appeared so soft. He would place his head on the lap of such creatures and release himself into sleep. She suddenly let more weight onto him. And now her breathing stretched deeper, like the voice of a cello. He watched her sleeping face. He was still annoyed the girl had stayed with him when he defused the bomb, as if by that she had made him owe her something. Making him feel in retrospect responsible for her, though there was no thought of that at the time. As if that could usefully influence what he chose to do with a mine. But he felt he was now within something, perhaps a painting he had seen somewhere in the last year. Some secure couple in a field. How many he had seen with their laziness of sleep, with no thought of work or the dangers of the world. Beside him there were the mouselike movements within Hana’s breath; her eyebrows rode upon argument, a small fury in her dreaming. He turned his eyes away, up towards the tree and the sky of white cloud. Her hand gripped him as mud had clung along the bank of the Moro River, his fist plunging into the wet earth to stop himself slipping back into the already crossed torrent. If he were a hero in a painting, he could claim a just sleep. But as even she had said, he was the brownness of a rock, the brownness of a muddy storm-fed river. And something in him made him step back from even the naive innocence of such a remark. The successful defusing of a bomb ended novels. Wise white fatherly men shook hands, were acknowledged, and limped away, having been coaxed out of solitude for this special occasion. But he was a professional. And he remained the foreigner, the Sikh. His only human and personal contact was this enemy who had made the bomb and departed brushing his tracks with a branch behind him. Why couldn’t he sleep? Why couldn’t he turn towards the girl, stop thinking everything was still half lit, hanging fire? In a painting of his imagining the field surrounding this embrace would have been in flames. He had once followed a sapper’s entrance into a mined house with binoculars. He had seen him brush a box of matches off the edge of a table and be enveloped by light for the half-second before the crumpling sound of the bomb reached him. What lightning was like in 1944. How could he trust even this circle of elastic on the sleeve of the girl’s frock that gripped her arm? Or the rattle in her intimate breath as deep as stones within a river. She woke when the caterpillar moved from the collar of her dress onto her cheek, and she opened her eyes, saw him crouched over her. He plucked it from her face, not touching her skin, and placed it in the grass. She noticed he had already packed up his equipment. He moved back and sat against the tree, watching her as she rolled slowly onto her back and then stretched, holding that moment for as long as she could. It must have been afternoon, the sun over there. She leaned her head back and looked at him. “You were supposed to hold onto me!” “I did. Till you moved away.” “How long did you hold me?” “Until you moved. Until you needed to move.” “I wasn’t taken advantage of, was I?” Adding, “Just joking,” as she saw him beginning to blush. “Do you want to go down to the house?” “Yes, I’m hungry.” She could hardly stand up, the dazzle of sun, her tired legs. How long they had been there she still didn’t know. She could not forget the depth of her sleep, the lightness of the plummet. A party began in the English patient’s room when Caravaggio revealed the gramophone he had found somewhere. “I will use it to teach you to dance, Hana. Not what your young friend there knows. I have seen and turned my back on certain dances. But this tune, ‘How Long Has This Been Going On,’ is one of the great songs because the introduction’s melody is purer than the song it introduces. And only great jazzmen have acknowledged that. Now, we can have this party on the terrace, which would allow us to invite the dog, or we can invade the Englishman and have it in the bedroom upstairs. Your young friend who doesn’t drink managed to find bottles of wine yesterday in San Domenico. We have not just music. Give me your arm. No. First we must chalk the floor and practise. Three main steps—one-two-three—now give me your arm. What happened to you today?” “He dismantled a large bomb, a difficult one. Let him tell you about it.” The sapper shrugged, not modestly, but as if it was too complicated to explain. Night fell fast, night filled up the valley and then the mountains and they were left once more with lanterns. They were shuffling together in the corridors towards the English patient’s bedroom, Caravaggio carrying the gramophone, one hand holding its arm and needle. “Now, before you begin on your histories,” he said to the static figure in the bed, “I will present you with ‘My Romance.’ “Written in 1935 by Mr. Lorenz Hart, I believe,” muttered the Englishman. Kip was sitting at the window, and she said she wanted to dance with the sapper. “Not until I’ve taught you, dear worm.” She looked up at Caravaggio strangely; that was her father’s term of endearment for her. He pulled her into his thick grizzled embrace and said “dear worm” again, and began the dancing lesson. She had put on a clean but unironed dress. Each time they spun she saw the sapper singing to himself, following the lyrics. If they had had electricity they could have had a radio, they could have had news of the war somewhere. All they had was the crystal set belonging to Kip, but he had courteously left it in his tent. The English patient was discussing the unfortunate life of Lorenz Hart. Some of his best lyrics to “Manhattan,” he claimed, had been changed and he now broke into those verses “We’ll bathe at Brighton; The fish we’ll frighten When we’re in. Your bathing suit so thin Will make the shellfish grin Fin to fin. “Splendid lines, and erotic, but Richard Rodgers, one suspects, wanted more dignity.” “You must guess my moves, you see.” “Why don’t you guess mine?” “I will when you know what to do. At present I’m the only one who does.” “I bet Kip knows.” “He may know but he won’t do it.” “I shall have some wine,” the English patient said, and the sapper picked up a glass of water, flung the contents through the window and poured wine for the Englishman. “This is my first drink in a year.” There was a muffled noise, and the sapper turned quickly and looked out of the window, into the darkness. The others froze. It could have been a mine. He turned back to the party and said, “It’s all right, it wasn’t a mine. That seemed to come from a cleared area.” “Turn the record over, Kip. Now I will introduce you to ‘How Long Has This Been Going On,’ written by—” He left an opening for the English patient, who was stymied, shaking his head, grinning with the wine in his mouth. “This alcohol will probably kill me.” “Nothing will kill you, my friend. You are pure carbon.” “Caravaggio!” “George and Ira Gershwin. Listen.” He and Hana were gliding to that sadness of the saxophone. He was right. The phrasing so slow, so drawn out, she could sense the musician did not wish to leave the small parlour of the introduction and enter the song, kept wanting to remain there, where the story had not yet begun, as if enamoured by a maid in the prologue. The Englishman murmured that the introductions to such songs were called “burdens.” Her cheek rested against the muscles of Caravaggio’s shoulder. She could feel those terrible paws on her back against the clean frock, and they moved in the limited space between the bed and the wall, between bed and door, between the bed and the window alcove that Kip sat within. Every now and then as they turned she would see his face. His knees up and his arms resting on them. Or he would be looking out of the window into darkness. “Do any of you know a dance called the Bosphorus hug?” the Englishman asked. “No such thing.” Kip watched the large shadows slide over the ceiling, over the painted wall. He struggled up and walked to the English patient to fill his empty glass, and touched the rim of his glass with the bottle in a toast. West wind coming into the room. And he turned suddenly, angry. A frail scent of cordite reaching him, a percentage of it in the air, and then he slipped out of the room, gesturing weariness, leaving Hana in the arms of Caravaggio. There was no light with him as he ran along the dark hall. He scooped up the satchel, was out of the house and racing down the thirty-six chapel steps to the road, just running, cancelling the thought of exhaustion from his body. Was it a sapper or was it a civilian? The smell of flower and herb along the road wall, the beginning stitch at his side. An accident or wrong choice. The sappers kept to themselves for the most part. They were an odd group as far as character went, somewhat like people who worked with jewels or stone, they had a hardness and clarity within them, their decisions frightening even to others in the same trade. Kip had recognized that quality among gem-cutters but never in himself, though he knew others saw it there. The sappers never became familiar with each other. When they talked they passed only information along, new devices, habits of the enemy. He would step into the town hall, where they were billeted, and his eyes would take in the three faces and be aware of the absence of the fourth. Or there would be four of them and in a field somewhere would be the body of an old man or a girl. He had learned diagrams of order when he joined the army, blueprints that became more and more complicated, like great knots or musical scores. He found out he had the skill of the three-dimensional gaze, the rogue gaze that could look at an object or page of information and realign it, see all the false descants. He was by nature conservative but able also to imagine the worst devices, the capacity for accident in a room—a plum on a table, a child approaching and eating the pit of poison, a man walking into a dark room and before joining his wife in bed brushing loose a paraffin lamp from its bracket. Any room was full of such choreography. The rogue gaze could see the buried line under the surface, how a knot might weave when out of sight. He turned away from mystery books with irritation, able to pinpoint villains with too much ease. He was most comfortable with men who had the abstract madness of autodidacts, like his mentor, Lord Suffolk, like the English patient. He did not yet have a faith in books. In recent days, Hana had watched him sitting beside the English patient, and it seemed to her a reversal of Kim. The young student was now Indian, the wise old teacher was English. But it was Hana in the night who stayed with the old man, who guided him over the mountains to the sacred river. They had even read that book together, Hana’s voice slow when wind flattened the candle flame beside her, the page dark for a moment. He squatted in a corner of the clanging -waiting-room, rapt from all other thoughts; hands folded in lap, and pupils contracted to pin-points. In a minute—in another half second— he felt he would arrive at the solution of the tremendous puzzle... And in some way on those long nights of reading and listening, she supposed, they had prepared themselves for the young soldier, the boy grown up, who would join them. But it was Hana who was the young boy in the story. And if Kip was anyone, he was the officer Creighton. A book, a map of knots, a fuze board, a room of four people in an abandoned villa lit only by candlelight and now and then light from a storm, now and then the possible light from an explosion. The mountains and hills and Florence blinded without electricity. Candlelight travels less than fifty yards. From a greater distance there was nothing here that belonged to the outside world. They had celebrated in this evening’s brief dance in the English patient’s room their own simple adventures—Hana her sleep, Caravaggio his “finding” of the gramophone, and Kip a difficult defusing, though he had almost forgotten such a moment already. He was someone who felt uncomfortable in celebrations, in victories. Just fifty yards away, there had been no representation of them in the world, no sound or sight of them from the valley’s eye as Hana’s and Caravaggio’s shadows glided across the walls and Kip sat comfortably encased in the alcove and the English patient sipped his wine and felt its spirit percolate through his unused body so it was quickly drunk, his voice bringing forth the whistle of a desert fox bringing forth a flutter of the English wood thrush he said was found only in Essex, for it thrived in the vicinity of lavender and wormwood. All of the burned man’s desire was in the brain, the sapper had been thinking to himself, sitting in the stone alcove. Then he turned his head suddenly, knowing everything as he heard the sound, certain of it. He had looked back at them and for the first time in his life lied—”It’s all right, it wasn’t a mine. That seemed to come from a cleared area”—prepared to wait till the smell of the cordite reached him. Now, hours later, Kip sits once again in the window alcove. If he could walk the seven yards across the Englishman’s room and touch her he would be sane. There was so little light in the room, just the candle at the table where she sat, not reading tonight; he thought perhaps she was slightly drunk. He had returned from the source of the mine explosion to find Caravaggio asleep on the library sofa with the dog in his arms. The hound watched him as he paused at the open door, moving as little of its body as it had to, to acknowledge it was awake and guarding the place. Its quiet growl rising above Caravaggio’s snore. He took off his boots, tied the laces together and slung them over his shoulder as he went upstairs. It had started to rain and he needed a tarpaulin for his tent. From the hall he saw the light still on in the English patient’s room. She sat in the chair, one elbow on the table where the low candle sprayed its light, her head leaning back. He lowered his boots to the floor and came silently into the room, where the party had been going on three hours earlier. He could smell alcohol in the air. She put her fingers to her lips as he entered and then pointed to the patient. He wouldn’t hear Kip’s silent walk. The sapper sat in the well of the window again. If he could walk across the room and touch her he would be sane. But between them lay a treacherous and complex journey. It was a very wide world. And the Englishman woke at any sound, the hearing aid turned to full level when he slept, so he could be secure in his own awareness. The girl’s eyes darted around and then were still when she faced Kip in the rectangle of window. He had found the location of the death and what was left there and they had buried his second-in-command, Hardy. And afterwards he kept thinking of the girl that afternoon, suddenly terrified for her, angry at her for involving herself. She had tried to damage her life so casually. She stared. Her last communication had been the finger to her lips. He leaned over and wiped the side of his cheek against the lanyard on his shoulder. He had walked back through the village, rain falling into pollarded trees of the town square untrimmed since the start of the war, past the strange statue of two men shaking hands on horseback. And now he was here, the candlelight swaying, altering her look so he could not tell what she thought. Wisdom or sadness or curiosity. If she had been reading or if she had been bending over the Englishman, he would have nodded to her and probably left, but he is now watching Hana as someone young and alone. Tonight, gazing at the scene of the mine blast, he had begun to fear her presence during the afternoon dismantling. He had to remove it, or she would be with him each time he approached a fuze. He would be pregnant with her. When he worked, clarity and music filled him, the human world extinguished. Now she was within him or on his shoulder, the way he had once seen a live goat being carried by an officer out of a tunnel they were attempting to flood. That wasn’t true. He wanted Hana’s shoulder, wanted to place his palm over it as he had done in the sunlight when she slept and he had lain there as if in someone’s rifle sights, awkward with her. Within the imaginary painter’s landscape. He did not want comfort but he wanted to surround the girl with it, to guide her from this room. He refused to believe in his own weaknesses, and with her he had not found a weakness to fit himself against. Neither of them was willing to reveal such a possibility to the other. Hana sat so still. She looked at him, and the candle wavered and altered her look. He was unaware that for her he was just a silhouette, his slight body and his skin part of the darkness. Earlier, when she saw that he had left the window alcove, she had been enraged. Knowing that he was protecting them like children from the mine. She had clung closer to Caravag-gio. It had been an insult. And tonight the growing exhilaration of the evening didn’t permit her to read after Caravaggio had gone to bed, stopping to rifle through her medicine box first, and after the English patient had plucked at the air with his bony finger and, when she had bent over, kissed her cheek. She had blown out the other candles, lit just the night stub at the bedside table and sat there, the Englishman’s body facing her in silence after the wildness of his drunken speeches. “Sometime a horse I’ll be, sometime a hound. A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire.” She could hear the spill of the wax into the metal tray beside her. The sapper had gone through town to some reach of the hill where the explosion had taken place, and his unnecessary silence still angered her. She could not read. She sat in the room with her eternally dying man, the small of her back still feeling bruised from an accidental slam against the wall during her dance with Caravaggio. Now if he moves towards her she will stare him out, will treat him to a similar silence. Let him guess, make a move. She has been approached before by soldiers. But what he does is this. He is halfway across the room, his hand sunk to the wrist in his open satchel which still hangs off his shoulder. His walk silent. He turns and pauses beside the bed. As the English patient completes one of his long exhalations he snips the wire of his hearing aid with the cutters and drops them back into the satchel. He turns and grins towards her. “I’ll rewire him in the morning.” He puts his left hand on her shoulder. David Caravaggio—an absurd name for you, of course ...” “At least I have a name.” “Yes.” Caravaggio sits in Hana’s chair. Afternoon sun fills the room, revealing the swimming motes. The Englishman’s dark lean face with its angular nose has the appearance of a still hawk swaddled in sheets. The coffin of a hawk, Caravaggio thinks. The Englishman turns to him. “There’s a painting by Caravaggio, done late in his life. David with the Head of Goliath. In it, the young warrior holds at the end of his outstretched arm the head of Goliath, ravaged and old. But that is not the true sadness in the picture. It is assumed that the face of David is a portrait of the youthful Caravaggio and the head of Goliath is a portrait of him as an older man, how he looked when he did the painting. Youth judging age at the end of its outstretched hand. The judging of one’s own mortality. I think when I see him at the foot of my bed that Kip is my David.” Caravaggio sits there in silence, thoughts lost among the floating motes. War has unbalanced him and he can return to no other world as he is, wearing these false limbs that morphine promises. He is a man in middle age who has never become accustomed to families. All his life he has avoided permanent intimacy. Till this war he has been a better lover than husband. He has been a man who slips away, in the way lovers leave chaos, the way thieves leave reduced houses. He watches the man in the bed. He needs to know who this Englishman from the desert is, and reveal him for Hana’s sake. Or perhaps invent a skin for him, the way tannic acid camouflages a burned man’s rawness. Working in Cairo during the early days of the war, he had been trained to invent double agents or phantoms who would take on flesh. He had been in charge of a mythical agent named “Cheese,” and he spent weeks clothing him with facts, giving him qualities of character—such as greed and a weakness for drink when he would spill false rumours to the enemy. Just as some in Cairo he worked for invented whole platoons in the desert. He had lived through a time of war when everything offered up to those around him was a lie. He had felt like a man in the darkness of a room imitating the calls of a bird. But here they were shedding skins. They could imitate nothing but what they were. There was no defence but to look for the truth in others. She pulls down the copy of Kim from the library shelf and, standing against the piano, begins to write into the flyleaf in its last pages. He says the gun—the Zam-Zammah cannon—is still there outside the museum in Lahore. There were two guns, made up of metal cups and bowls taken from every Hindu household in the city—as jizya, or tax. These were melted down and made into the guns. They were used in many battles in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries against Sikhs. The other gun was lost during a battle crossing in the Chenab River— She closes the book, climbs onto a chair and nestles the book into the high, invisible shelf. She enters the painted bedroom with a new book and announces the title. “No books now, Hana.” She looks at him. He has, even now, she thinks, beautiful eyes. Everything occurs there, in that grey stare out of his darkness. There is a sense of numerous gazes that flicker onto her for a moment, then shift away like a lighthouse. “No more books. Just give me the Herodotus.” She puts the thick, soiled book into his hands. “I have seen editions of The Histories with a sculpted portrait on the cover. Some statue found in a French museum. But I never imagine Herodotus this way. I see him more as one of those spare men of the desert who travel from oasis to oasis, trading legends as if it is the exchange of seeds, consuming everything without suspicion, piecing together a mirage. ‘This history of mine,’ Herodotus says, ‘has from the beginning sought out the supplementary to the main argument.’ What you find in him are cul-de-sacs within the sweep of history—how people betray each other for the sake of nations, how people fall in love.... How old did you say you were?” “Twenty.” “I was much older when I fell in love.” Hana pauses. “Who was she?” But his eyes are away from her now. Birds prefer trees with dead branches,” said Caravaggio. “They have complete vistas from where they perch. They can take off in any direction.” “If you are talking about me,” Hana said, “I’m not a bird. The real bird is the man upstairs.” Kip tried to imagine her as a bird. “Tell me, is it possible to love someone who is not as smart as you are?” Caravaggio, in a belligerent morphine rush, wanted the mood of argument. “This is something that has concerned me most of my sexual life—which began late, I must announce to this select company. In the same way the sexual pleasure of conversation came to me only after I was married. I had never thought words erotic. Sometimes I really do like to talk more than fuck. Sentences. Buckets of this buckets of that and then buckets of this again. The trouble with words is that you can really talk yourself into a corner. Whereas you can’t fuck yourself into a corner.” “That’s a man talking,” muttered Hana. “Well, I haven’t,” Caravaggio continued, “maybe you have, Kip, when you came down to Bombay from the hills, when you came to England for military training. Has anyone, I wonder, fucked themselves into a corner. How old are you, Kip?” “Twenty-six.” “Older than I am.” “Older than Hana. Could you fall in love with her if she wasn’t smarter than you? I mean, she may not be smarter than you. But isn’t it important for you to think she is smarter than you in order to fall in love? Think now. She can be obsessed by the Englishman because he knows more. We’re in a huge field when we talk to that guy. We don’t even know if he’s English. He’s probably not. You see, I think it is easier to fall in love with him than with you. Why is that? Because we want to know things, how the pieces fit. Talkers seduce, words direct us into corners. We want more than anything to grow and change. Brave new world.” “I don’t think so,” said Hana. “Neither do I. Let me tell you about people my age. The worst thing is others assume you have developed your character by now. The trouble with middle age is they think you are fully formed. Here.” Here Caravaggio lifted up his hands, so they faced Hana and Kip. She got up and went behind him and put her arm around his neck. “Don’t do this, okay, David?” She wrapped her hands softly around his. “We’ve already got one crazy talker upstairs.” “Look at us—we sit here like the filthy rich in their filthy villas up in the filthy hills when the city gets too hot. It’s nine in the morning—the old guy upstairs is asleep. Hana’s obsessed with him. I am obsessed with the sanity of Hana, I’m obsessed with my ‘balance,’ and Kip will probably get blown up one of these days. Why? For whose sake? He’s twenty-six years old. The British army teaches him the skills and the Americans teach him further skills and the team of sappers are given lectures, are decorated and sent off into the rich hills. You are being used, boyo, as the Welsh say. I’m not staying here much longer. I want to take you home. Get the hell out of Dodge City.” “Stop it, David. He’ll survive.” “The sapper who got blown up the other night, what was his name?” Nothing from Kip. “What was his name?” “Sam Hardy.” Kip went to the window and looked out, leaving their conversation. “The trouble with all of us is we are where we shouldn’t be. What are we doing in Africa, in Italy? What is Kip doing dismantling bombs in orchards, for God’s sake? What is he doing fighting English wars? A farmer on the western front cannot prune a tree without ruining his saw. Why? Because of the amount of shrapnel shot into it during the last war. Even the trees are thick with diseases we brought. The armies indoctrinate you and leave you here and they fuck off somewhere else to cause trouble, inky-dinky parlez-vous. We should all move out together.” “We can’t leave the Englishman.” “The Englishman left months ago, Hana, he’s with the Bedouin or in some English garden with its phlox and shit. He probably can’t even remember the woman he’s circling around, trying to talk about. He doesn’t know where the fuck he is. “You think I’m angry at you, don’t you? Because you have fallen in love. Don’t you? A jealous uncle. I’m terrified for you. I want to kill the Englishman, because that is the only thing that will save you, get you out of here. And I am beginning to like him. Desert your post. How can Kip love you if you are not smart enough to make him stop risking his life?” “Because. Because he believes in a civilised world. He’s a civilised man.” “First mistake. The correct move is to get on a train, go and have babies together. Shall we go and ask the Englishman, the bird, what he thinks? “Why are you not smarter? It’s only the rich who can’t afford to be smart. They’re compromised. They got locked years ago into privilege. They have to protect their belongings.

接上~~~ No one is meaner than the rich. Trust me. But they have to follow the rules of their shitty civilised world. They declare war, they have honour, and they can’t leave. But you two. We three. We’re free. How many sappers die? Why aren’t you dead yet? Be irresponsible. Luck runs out.” Hana was pouring milk into her cup. As she finished she moved the lip of the jug over Kip’s hand and continued pouring the milk over his brown hand and up his arm to his elbow and then stopped. He didn’t move it away. There are two levels of long, narrow garden to the west of the house. A formal terrace and, higher up, the darker garden, where stone steps and concrete statues almost disappear under the green mildew of the rains. The sapper has his tent pitched here. Rain falls and mist rises out of the valley, and the other rain from the branches of cypress and fir falls upon this half- cleared pocket on the side of the hill. Only bonfires can dry the permanently wet and shadowed upper garden. The refuse of planks, rafters from prior shell-ings, dragged branches, weeds pulled up by Hana during the afternoons, scythed grass and nettles—all are brought here and burned by them during the late afternoon’s pivot into dusk. The damp fires steam and burn, and the plant-odoured smoke sidles into the bushes, up into the trees, then withers on the terrace in front of the house. It reaches the window of the English patient, who can hear the drift of voices, now and then a laugh from the smoky garden. He translates the smell, evolving it backwards to what had been burned. Rosemary, he thinks, milkweed, wormwood, something else is also there, scentless, perhaps the dog violet, or the false sunflower, which loves the slightly acidic soil of this hill. The English patient advises Hana on what to grow. “Get your Italian friend to find seeds for you, he seems capable in that category. What you want are plum leaves. Also fire pink and Indian pink—if you want the Latin name for your Latin friend, it is Silene virginica. Red savory is good. If you want finches get hazel and chokecherries.” She writes everything down. Then puts the fountain pen into the drawer of the small table where she keeps the book she is reading to him, along with two candles, Vesta matches. There are no medical supplies in this room. She hides them in other rooms. If Caravaggio is to hunt them out, she doesn’t want him disturbing the Englishman. She puts the slip of paper with the names of plants into the pocket of her dress to give to Caravaggio. Now that physical attraction has raised its head, she has begun to feel awkward in the company of the three men. If it is physical attraction. If all this has to do with love of Kip. She likes to lay her face against the upper reaches of his arm, that dark brown river, and to wake submerged within it, against the pulse of an unseen vein in his flesh beside her. The vein she would have to locate and insert a saline solution into if he were dying. At two or three in the morning, after leaving the Englishman, she walks through the garden towards the sapper’s hurricane lamp, which hangs off the arm of St. Christopher. Absolute darkness between her and the light, but she knows every shrub and bush in her path, the location of the bonfire she passes, low and pink in its near completion. Sometimes she cups a hand over the glass funnel and blows out the flame, and sometimes she leaves it burning and ducks under it and enters through the open flaps, to crawl in against his body, the arm she wants, her tongue instead of a swab, her tooth instead of a needle, her mouth instead of the mask with the codeine drops to make him sleep, to make his immortal ticking brain slow into sleepiness. She folds her paisley dress and places it on top of her tennis shoes. She knows that for him the world burns around them with only a few crucial rules. You replace TNT with steam, you drain it, you—all this she knows is in his head as she sleeps beside him virtuous as a sister. The tent and the dark wood surround them. They are only a step past the comfort she has given others in the temporary hospitals in Ortona or Monterchi. Her body for last warmth, her whisper for comfort, her needle for sleep. But the sapper’s body allows nothing to enter him that comes from another world. A boy in love who will not eat the food she gathers, who does not need or want the drug in a needle she could slide into his arm, as Caravaggio does, or those ointments of desert invention the Englishman craves, ointments and pollen to reassemble himself the way the Bedouin had done for him. Just for the comfort of sleep. There are ornaments he places around himself. Certain leaves she has given him, a stub of candle, and in his tent the crystal set and the shoulder bag full of the objects of discipline. He has emerged from the fighting with a calm which, even if false, means order for him. He continues his strictness, following the hawk in its float along the valley within the V of his rifle sight, opening up a bomb and never taking his eyes off what he is searching for as he pulls a Thermos towards him and unscrews the top and drinks, never even looking at the metal cup. The rest of us are just periphery, she thinks, his eyes are only on what is dangerous, his listening ear on whatever is happening in Helsinki or Berlin that comes over the shortwave. Even when he is a tender lover, and her left hand holds him above the kara, where the muscles of his forearm tense, she feels invisible to that lost look till his groan when his head falls against her neck. Everything else, apart from danger, is periphery. She has taught him to make a noise, desired it of him, and if he is relaxed at all since the fighting it is only in this, as if finally willing to admit his whereabouts in the darkness, to signal out his pleasure with a human sound. How much she is in love with him or he with her we don’t know. Or how much it is a game of secrets. As they grow intimate the space between them during the day grows larger. She likes the distance he leaves her, the space he assumes is their right. It gives each of them a private energy, a code of air between them when he passes below her window without a word, walking the half-mile to assemble with the other sappers in the town. He passes a plate or some food into her hands. She places a leaf across his brown wrist. Or they work with Caravaggio between them mortaring up a collapsing wall. The sapper sings his Western songs, which Caravaggio enjoys but pretends not to. “Pennsylvania six-five-oh-oh-oh,” the young soldier gasps. She learns all the varieties of his darkness. The colour of his forearm against the colour of his neck. The colour of his palms, his cheek, the skin under the turban. The darkness of fingers separating red and black wires, or against bread he picks off the gunmetal plate he still uses for food. Then he stands up. His self-sufficiency seems rude to them, though no doubt he feels it is excessive politeness. She loves most the wet colours of his neck when he bathes. And his chest with its sweat which her fingers grip when he is over her, and the dark, tough arms in the darkness of his tent, or one time in her room when light from the valley’s city, finally free of curfew, rose among them like twilight and lit the colour of his body. Later she will realize he never allowed himself to be beholden to her, or her to him. She will stare at the word in a novel, lift it off the book and carry it to a dictionary. Beholden. To be under obligation. And he, she knows, never allowed that. If she crosses the two hundred yards of dark garden to him it is her choice, and she might find him asleep, not from a lack of love but from necessity, to be clear-minded towards the next day’s treacherous objects. He thinks her remarkable. He wakes and sees her in the spray of the lamp. He loves most her face’s smart look. Or in the evenings he loves her voice as she argues Caravaggio out of a foolishness. And the way she crawls in against his body like a saint. They talk, the slight singsong of his voice within the canvas smell of their tent, which has been his all through the Italian campaign, which he reaches up to touch with his slight fingers as if it too belonged to his body, a khaki wing he folds over himself during the night. It is his world. She feels displaced out of Canada during these nights. He asks her why she cannot sleep. She lies there irritated at his self-sufficiency, his ability to turn so easily away from the world. She wants a tin roof for the rain, two poplar trees to shiver outside her window, a noise she can sleep against, sleeping trees and sleeping roofs that she grew up with in the east end of Toronto and then for a couple of years with Patrick and Clara along the Skootamatta River and later Georgian Bay. She has not found a sleeping tree, even in the density of this garden. “Kiss me. It’s your mouth I’m most purely in love with. Your teeth.” And later, when his head has fallen to one side, towards the air by the tent’s opening, she has whispered aloud, heard only by herself, “Perhaps we should ask Caravaggio. My father told me once that Caravaggio was a man always in love. Not just in love but always sinking within it. Always confused. Always happy. Kip? Do you hear me? I’m so happy with you. To be with you like this.” Most of all she wished for a river they could swim in. There was a formality in swimming which she assumed was like being in a ballroom. But he had a different sense of rivers, had entered the Moro in silence and pulled the harness of cables attached to the folding Bailey bridge, the bolted steel panels of it slipping into the water behind him like a creature, and the sky then had lit up with shell fire and someone was sinking beside him in mid-river. Again and again the sappers dove for the lost pulleys, grappling hooks in the water among them, mud and surface and faces lit up by phosphorus flares in the sky around them. All through the night, weeping and shouting, they had to stop each other going crazy. Their clothes full of winter river, the bridge slowly eased into a road above their heads. And two days later another river. Every river they came to was bridge-less, as if its name had been erased, as if the sky were starless, homes doorless. The sapper units slid in with ropes, carried cables over their shoulders and spannered the bolts, oil-covered to silence the metals, and then the army marched over. Drove over the prefabricated bridge with the sappers still in the water below. So often they were caught in midstream when the shells came, flaring into mudbanks breaking apart the steel and iron into stones. Nothing would protect them then, the brown river thin as silk against metals that ripped through it. He turned from that. He knew the trick of quick sleep against this one who had her own rivers and was lost from them. Yes, Caravaggio would explain to her how she could sink into love. Even how to sink into cautious love. “I want to take you to the Skootamatta River, Kip,” she said. “I want to show you Smoke Lake. The woman my father loved lives out on the lakes, slips into canoes more easily than into a car. I miss thunder that blinks out electricity. I want you to meet Clara of the canoes, the last one in my family. There are no others now. My father forsook her for a war.” She walks towards his night tent without a false step or any hesitation. The trees make a sieve of moonlight, as if she is caught within the light of a dance hall’s globe. She enters his tent and puts an ear to his sleeping chest and listens to his beating heart, the way he will listen to a clock on a mine. Two a.m. Everyone is asleep but her.

3.有时候是一团火   在一九四三年至一九四四年间，意大利经历了最后一场中世纪的战争。自从八世纪以来，山岬上的城堡小镇即为兵家必争之地，新国王们草率地把军队调到这里。裸露的岩石周围 是川流不息的担架。满目疮痍的葡萄园，在战斗的车辙下深挖几锹，你会找到血迹斑斑的斧头和熗矛。蒙特奇、科尔托纳、乌尔比诺、阿雷佐、圣塞波尔克罗、安吉亚里。还有海岸线。猫睡在朝南的炮塔里，英国人、美国人、印度人、澳大利亚人和加拿大人向北进军，炮弹爆炸之后就消失在空中。军队在圣塞波尔克罗集结，这个小镇的标志是石弓。有些士兵弄来了石弓，晚上默不作声，对着没有攻占的小城城墙开弓。凯塞林元帅指挥撤退的德军，他曾认真考虑过从城垛上倒下热油。     牛津各个学院中研究中世纪的学者们接到通知，他们搭乘飞机来到了翁布里亚。他们的平均年龄是六十岁。他们被编入了部队，与战略指挥官们开会时，老是忘了已经发明了飞机。提起小城、小镇，他们张口不离艺术。蒙特奇有彼埃罗的圣母像，藏在小镇葡萄园旁的小教堂里。在春雨之中，他们最终攻下了那个十三世纪的城堡。部队被安顿在教堂高大的穹顶之下，睡在石砌的神坛旁边。海格立斯曾在这里杀死了九头水蛇海德拉。这里没有干净的水。许多人死于伤寒和高烧。在阿雷佐的哥德式教堂里举起望远镜，士兵们会在彼埃罗的壁画里 找到同代人的面孔。示巴女王正与所罗门国王交谈。附近，善恶树的一条树枝塞进了死掉的亚当嘴里。多年以后，这位女王会知道西罗亚池上的小桥是用这棵圣树造成的。     雨下个不停，天气冷得很，没有下达作战的命令。大幅作战地图揭示了判断、怜悯和牺牲。第八军渡过了一道桥梁已被炸毁的河，工兵部队顺着绳梯爬下河岸，闯入了敌人射程之 内，或游泳过河，或涉水过河。食品和帐篷被冲走了。过了河以后，他们设法上岸。他们将手腕插进岸边悬崖的淤泥中，悬挂在那里。他们希望淤泥变硬，以便支撑住身子。     那个年轻的锡克工兵把脸贴在淤泥上，想到了示巴女王的脸庞，以及她那细腻的肌肤。他会伸出右手，搭在她的脖子和橄榄色上衣之间。他还感到疲惫和忧伤。就像在两个星期前，他在阿雷佐见到那位英明的国王和带罪的女王。     他浮在河上，双手陷入了泥滩。性格，那微妙的艺术，经过了这些昼夜后，已从他们身上消失了，只存在书本和壁画之中。谁比穹顶里的壁画更加忧伤?他往前挪了一下，靠到她娇弱的脖子上。他爱上了她那低垂的眼睛。这个女人总有一天会明白桥梁的忧伤。     夜里倒在行军床上，他的手臂像两支军队一样展开。没有解决或胜利的可能，除了他和绘在壁画上的王者之间所达成的临时契约。他们会忘了他，不承认他的存在，或者根本从未注意到他，一个锡克教徒，在雨中趴在绳梯的中央，为后面的军队架起一座活动便桥。在他想起记录他们那段故事的壁画之后一个月，那些工兵营到达了海边。他们闯过熗林弹雨，开进海边小镇卡托利卡。工兵们清理了二十码长海滩的地雷，这样人们就能赤身裸体地下海。他走到了刚结识的一位中世纪学者跟前——那位学者曾经与他谈了几句，与他分吃——些猪肉罐头，因此他答应给学者看一些东西，来报答他的好心。 工兵签了字，领了一辆摩托车，臂上绑了一盏红色的紧急灯。他们沿着来路骑车，返身经过现在已没有战事的小镇——乌尔比诺和安吉亚里——沿着弯曲的山路行驶，绵延的山脉贯穿整个意大利。老人坐在他的身后，紧紧抱住他。他们下了西坡，驶向阿雷佐。夜晚的广场没有部队，工兵在教堂前面停了车。他帮中世纪学者下车，拿起他的工具，走进了教堂——更冷的黑暗所在，更大的空旷所在。皮靴的声音充斥这个区域，他再次闻到了古老的石头和木头的味道。他点燃了三支火把。他登上凹砖，缠住中殿之上的柱子，然后把系了绳子的铆钉扔上一条高大的横梁。教授饶有兴趣地看着他，不时抬头张望漆黑的高空。年轻的工兵把他捆住，并在他的腰间和肩上系了一条吊带，用胶布把一支点燃的小火把固定在老头的胸前。 他把老人留在圣餐栏杆前，踩着梯子爬到绳子的另一头。他抓住绳子，离开阳台，进入黑暗。老人同时被荡了起来，很快就被拉了上去，直到工兵碰到了地面。老人便荡在半空，距离绘有壁画的墙壁三尺之远，火把在他的周围照出了一道光圈。工兵一边抓住绳子，一边往前走去，直到那人荡到左边，悬在《马克森提皇帝逃亡》的画前。     五分钟以后，他放下那人。他为自己点着火把，吊起自己的身子，进入穹顶之中，四周是绘制的深蓝色天空。他想起了金星，他曾用望远镜观察过天空中的金色星星。他低下头，看到中世纪学者坐在板凳上筋疲力竭。现在他已了解这座教堂的深度，而不是它的高度。流畅的感觉。像井一样深、一样黑。火把像一根魔杖，在他手中闪闪发光。他扯着绳子荡到她的面前，他那忧伤的女王，他伸出棕色的手，差一点就摸到了巨大的脖子。     锡克教徒在花园的那一头搭起了帐篷，哈纳认为那里生长过薰衣草。她曾在那个地方找到干燥的叶子，她用手指捞了起来，认出是薰衣草的叶子。下过雨后，她不时可以闻出它的芳香。 起先，锡克教徒无论如何也不肯搬进房子。负责扫雷执勤工作的时候，他会从旁边经过。他总是彬彬有礼，略微向人点头示意。哈纳看见他洗脸，积了雨水的脸盆放在日晷仪上。花园中从前用来浇灌苗圃的水龙头现在已没水了。她看见他打着赤膊的棕色身子，那时他正把水泼到身上，就像鸟拍打翅膀一样。她总在白天注意他那露出短袖军用衬衫的手臂，他总是随身带着步熗，尽管对他们来说，战争现在似乎已经结束了。 他用各种不同的姿势持熗——握住熗的中央，手臂半弯，熗搭在肩上。他会转过身来，突然发现她在看着他。他会担心受怕，但他挺了过来。他会绕过任何可疑的东西，大模大样地表示知道她在看他，仿佛是在声称他可以应付一切。     他能照料自己——对此她颇感欣慰——从不对屋里的任何人造成负担，尽管卡拉瓦焦嘟哝着，抱怨这个工兵老是哼着他在战争最后三年里学会的西方歌曲。另一名工兵叫哈弟，与他在暴风雨中一同前来，被分配到别处，离小镇更近，哈纳曾见到他们在一起工作，带着扫雷用的工具进了花园。    那只狗黏着卡拉瓦焦不放。年轻的工兵会带着狗，沿着小径又跑又跳，但却拒绝给它食物吃，觉得它应该自谋生路。如果他找到食物，他就独自吃掉。他的礼貌仅此而已。有的时候，夜里他就睡在俯视山谷的扶墙上，只有在下雨的时候才爬进帐篷。     而他则目睹了卡拉瓦焦在夜间游荡。有两次，工兵远远地跟踪卡拉瓦焦。但是两天以后，卡拉瓦焦叫住他，说道：“别再跟我了”。开始时他矢口否认，但是年长的人冲着那张撒谎的脸挥挥手，不让他说话。所以，工兵知道卡拉瓦焦在两个晚上前就发现他了。不管怎么说，他在战争期间学会了跟踪，旧习难改。就像到了现在，他仍想举熗瞄准，命中某个目标—锡克教徒一次次瞄准雕像的鼻子，或在山谷上空盘旋的棕色老鹰。     他仍然年轻得很。他狼吞虎咽地吃下食物，跳起来舔干他的盘子，吃一顿午餐只花半个小时。     哈纳看着他在果园里工作，或在房后杂草丛生的花园里工作，像猫一样谨慎，没有特定时间。她注意到他的手腕皮肤很黑。有时，当他端起杯子喝咖啡时，手镯在腕间滑动，叮当作响。     锡克教徒从不谈论扫雷有多危险。不时传来的爆炸声，常引得哈纳和卡拉瓦焦赶紧跑出房子。沉闷的爆炸声总让她的心为之一紧。她跑出去，或者跑到窗前，眼角可以瞥见卡拉瓦 焦。他们会看见那个工兵懒懒地朝着房子挥手，甚至不从那块种着药草的苗坛转过身来。 有一次卡拉瓦焦走进书房，看到那个工兵在天花板旁，凑近那幅栩栩如生的画——只有卡拉瓦焦才会走进屋里，抬头仰望，看看屋里是否有其他人。那个年轻的工兵没有掉头，张开手掌，弹了弹手指，不让卡拉瓦焦进来，示意他为了安全起见最好离开房间。他卸下了金属线，顺着那条线找到了幕帷上面的屋角，然后切断了导火线。 锡克教徒总是哼着小曲，或者吹着口哨。“谁在吹口哨?” 有一天晚上，英国病人问道，他既没有遇到，也没见过那个新来的人。当锡克教徒躺在扶墙上仰望云朵的变化时，总是自哼自唱。     当他踏进似乎空无一人的别墅时，总是吵吵嚷嚷。他是惟一仍然穿着军装的人。他走出了帐篷，穿着整齐，钮扣闪闪发亮，包头巾包得层次分明而且对称，皮靴锃亮，踩响屋里的木地板或石地板。他会突然放下手边正在处理的问题，放声大笑。他似乎在无意识之中与自己的身子恋爱，与他那健壮的身体恋爱。他弯腰捡起一块面包，他的膝盖扫过野草，甚至心不在焉地挥动步熗，好像挥动一把大锤。他走在柏树小道上，前去迎接村里的其他工兵。     他似乎对别墅里的这几个人还算满意。别墅是他们那个星系里某颗遥远的星星。在尽是与烂泥、河流和桥梁打交道的战争以后，这对他来说就像度假一样。他只在应邀时才走进房里，只是偶尔拜访而已。那天晚上，他就是这样顺着哈纳弹奏的断断续续的琴声，沿着柏树小道，走进了书房。     锡克教徒在那个风雨之夜走进别墅，并不是出于对音乐的好奇，而是因为弹琴的人危在旦夕。撤退的敌军经常把铅笔型炸弹放在乐器里。主人回家后一打开钢琴，便炸断了双手。人们给老爷钟上发条时，炸弹就会炸塌半堵墙，并把附近的人全都炸死。     锡克教徒顺着琴声，与哈弟一起跑上山，翻过那堵石墙进了别墅。只要琴声不停，就表示弹琴的人没有倾身扯出那块薄铁片。以便踩动节拍器。大多数铅笔型炸弹被藏在那里—那个地方最容易垂直焊上那块薄铁片。炸弹被装在水龙头上，以及书脊上。它们被嵌进苹果树上，苹果落到下面的树枝上就会引爆炸弹，就像有只手扯动了树枝，引爆炸弹一样。他怀疑每一个房间或每一块田野都埋设了地雷。     他站在落地窗前，脑袋靠着门框，然后溜了进去，偶尔会有闪电照亮漆黑的房间。有个女孩站在那里，仿佛是在等他。她低头看着琴键，正在弹奏。他的眼光扫过房间，就像雷达波束一样。节拍器已经嘀嗒作响，无辜地摆动着。没有危险，没有金属细线。他站在那里，身上穿着湿漉漉的军装，那个年轻的女人起先并没有发觉他走进来。     在工兵那顶帐篷旁边，有一条架在树上的收音机天线，如果她在夜里拿出卡拉瓦焦的望远镜，便可以看见闪着荧光的无线电设备，工兵晃动的身影有时会出现在视野中，遮住了无线电装置。白天他一身轻装，头上只戴了一边耳机，另一边耳机挂在下巴下面，所以他能听见来自世界别处的声音，听到那些对他来说也许很重要的声音。他会走进屋里，转告他所听到的消息，他认为他们也许会对那些消息感兴趣。有一天下午，他宣布乐队的领队格伦·米勒死了，他的飞机在英国和法国之间某处坠毁了。     所以他在他们之间走动。她看到他在远处一个荒芜的花园里，带着探雷的工具。如果他发现了什么，他就会解开缠结在一起的金属线和导火线，这是别人留给他的，宛若一封潦草的信。     他老是洗手。卡拉瓦焦起先认为他太讲究。“你是怎么熬过这场战争的?”卡拉瓦焦哈哈大笑。 “我在印度长大的，大叔。你要不断地洗手。饭前洗手，这是一个习惯。我是在旁遮普出生的。”   “我来自北美。”她说。   他睡觉时一半身子在帐篷里，一半身子在帐篷外，她看到他的手摘下耳机，放在大腿上。     哈纳随后放下望远镜，转过身去。     他们置身于那个巨大的穹顶之下。中士点燃了一支火把，工兵躺在地上，透过步熗瞄准具，看着黄褐色的面孔，仿佛在人群中寻找兄弟。十字丝沿着圣经人物摇动，火光笼罩着彩绘的衣服和皮肤。经过油灯和蜡烛几百年的烟熏，衣服和皮肤的颜色已经变得黯淡了。这里现在腾起了火把的黄色油烟，他们知道这对圣殿是无礼的，所以士兵们会被赶出去，而后人则会记得他们得到允许进来参观大厅，却不知爱惜。他们涉水攻下了滩头堡，打了不下一千多场的小仗，轰炸了蒙特卡西诺，然后肃然走过拉菲尔斯坦兹，最后到达这里。十七个人登陆西西里，一路杀到这里——他们却被安置在一个漆黑的大厅里。似乎有个地方就够了。     有个人说：“山德中士，能否再亮一点?”中士伸手举起火把，伸长手臂，火光从他的拳头四射开来。他在火把燃烧时一直这样站着。其他的人也站着，抬头望着火把照出那些绘在天花板上的形象和面孔。但是年轻的工兵已经仰面躺在地上，举熗瞄准，他的眼睛几乎擦到诺亚、亚伯拉罕和众神的胡子，直到他碰到那张伟大的面孔，于是静下心来，那张脸像矛一样睿智、严厉。       卫兵在门口喊叫，他可以听到跑动的脚步，火把还能燃烧三十秒。他翻身起来，把步熗送给神父。“他是谁?西北方三点位置。他是谁?快点，火把快灭了。”     神父抱起步熗，大步走到墙角，火把灭了。     他把步熗交还给年轻的锡克教徒。     “你要知道，在西斯廷礼拜堂⑦燃火持杖，我们可是会遇到麻烦的。我不该到这儿来。但我还是感谢山德中土，佩服他有这样做的勇气。我想没有造成真正的破坏。”     “你看见了吗?那张面孔。是谁?”     “啊，看见了，那是一张伟大的面孔。”     “你看见了?”     “对。以赛亚。”     当第八军开往东海岸的加比色时，工兵担任夜间巡逻小队的队长。第二天晚上，他从短波无线电上收到了信号，得知海上发现了敌情。巡逻队发了一炮，击中水面，代表严厉的警告。他们没有击中什么，但是借着炮弹溅起的白色浪花，他看到了一个移动的暗影。他举起步熗，瞄准了足足有一分钟，决定还是不开熗，看看附近是否还有别的动静。敌人仍然驻扎在北面，驻扎在里米尼，就在城边。他的瞄准具捕捉到了那个影子，这时，圣母玛利亚头像周围突然闪出一道光环。她正从海上跃出。     她站在一条小船中。有两个人划桨，另外两个人扶着她，就在他们抵达海滩时，小镇的人们打开了漆黑的窗户，开始鼓起掌来。 工兵可以看见那张奶油色的脸，以及由蓄电池供电而发光的光环。他躺在水泥掩体上，置身于小镇和大海之间，望着她。这时，四个人爬出小船，抱起了五尺高的石膏像。他们走上海滩，没有因为地雷而停步或犹豫。也许他们看见德军埋设地雷，并把地雷标了出来，他们的脚陷入了沙中。这是加比色海，时间是一九四四年五月二十九日。圣母玛利亚的海祭。     成人和小孩到了街上。身穿乐队服装的男人们也走了出来。乐队不演奏了，以免破坏宵禁的规定，但是乐器仍是庆典仪式的组成部分，它们被擦得一尘不染。     他从黑暗处溜走，背后绑着追击炮管，手里拿着步熗。他的包头巾和武器让他们大吃一惊。他们没有料到他也会出现在无人的海滩。     他端起步熗，从瞄准具里捕捉到她的脸——说不清年龄与性别之分，男人黝黑的手挥舞在她的亮光之中，二十盏小灯泡围绕着优雅的头像。石膏像披着一件淡蓝色的外衣，她的左膝略微抬起，像是刻有衣纹。     他们不是性格浪漫的人。他们历经了法西斯、高卢人、哥德人和德国人的侵扰。但是这座蓝色与奶黄色相间的石膏像来自海上，被安放在摆满了鲜花、平时载运葡萄的卡车上，乐队默默地在前面开道。不管他应为小镇提供什么保护，都是毫无意义的。他拿着熗，所以不能走在身穿白衣的小孩中间。     他走过他们南面的一条街道，跟着石膏像移动的速度迈步前进，所以他们同时到达了十字路口。他举起步熗，又透过瞄准具捕捉到她的脸。他们最后来到了俯视大海的海岬，他们放下她，然后回到家中。没有人注意到他在附近。     她的脸仍被灯照亮。搭船搬她来的四个人坐在附近的一个广场，像卫兵一样。石膏像背后的电池电力开始减弱，红光约在清晨四点三十分熄灭。他又看了一眼手表。他的步熗瞄准具捕捉到了那些人。两个人睡着了。他转动瞄准具，捕捉到她的脸，又端详了她一番。在逐渐消退的灯光中，她看起来又有所不同。黑暗之中的脸看来更像他所认识的某个人。一个姐妹。曾是一个女儿。如果他分身有术，他会在那里留下点什么作为奉献。但是他毕竟有自己的信仰。     卡拉瓦焦走进书房。大多数的下午他就待在那里。和以往一样，对他来说，书是那么神秘。他取下一本，翻到扉页。他在屋里待了约五分钟，便听到一声轻微的呻吟。     他转过身，看到哈纳睡在沙发上。他合上书，靠到书架下面高及膝间的壁架。她缩成一团，左脸贴着落满灰尘的织锦，右手臂抬到脸前，拳头顶着下巴。她皱着眉头，尽管睡着了，脸上仍显出聚精会神的神态。     过了那么长的时间，第一次看到她时，她显得紧张，勉强熬过这一切，她已是筋疲力竭。战争，就像恋情一样，榨干了她全身的精力。     他低着头打了几声喷嚏，当他抬起头来时，她已醒了，睁开眼睛看着他。     “猜猜什么时候了?”     “大概四点零五分。不，四点零七分。”她说。     这是大人与小孩之间常玩的游戏。他溜出房间去找时钟，看到他的动作和神态，哈纳就知道他刚打了吗啡，精神焕发，带着常有的那份自信。当他回到屋里，摇头赞叹她的猜测非常准确时，她坐了起来，微微一笑。     “我一生下来脑子里便长了日晷仪，对不对?     “到了晚上呢?     “他们有夜晷仪吗?有人发明了夜晷仪吗?也许每个建造别墅的建筑师，都为小偷藏了一个夜晷仪，就像必须缴纳的什么税一样。”     “这样一来，富人可有得担心的了。”     “在夜晷仪那边等我，大卫。在那个地方，弱者可以占有强者。”     “就像英国病人和你吗?”     “我在一年前差一点生了一个孩子。”     他服了药，正感到飘飘欲仙，所以她可以使性子，他会待在她的身边，附和她的想法。她敞开心房，并不完全明白她正在与人交谈，仿佛仍在梦中说话，仿佛他的喷嚏是梦中的喷嚏。     卡拉瓦焦熟悉这种状态。他曾在夜晷仪旁见过他人。在夜里两点打扰过他们，由于出了差错，整个壁橱轰然倒下。他发现惊吓使他们忘了害怕和反抗。见到他所盗那家的主人，他吓了一跳，拍拍双手，疯狂地说着话，往空中扔出一个名贵的钟，又用双手接住，迅速询问他们把东西藏在什么地方。     “我失去了那个孩子。我是说，我必须拿掉孩子。孩子的父亲已经死了。而战争没有结束。”     “当时你在意大利吗?”     “这事发生的时候，我在西西里。我们跟在部队后面到达亚德里亚海边，一路上我一直在考虑这件事。我不停地与孩子谈话。我在医院努力工作，对周围的人保持冷漠。我只与孩子分享一切——在我的心里。当我帮伤员洗澡的时候，当我护理伤员的时候，我是在跟我的他说话。我有些疯狂。”     “接着你的父亲就死了。”     “对。接着帕特里克死了。我在比萨时听到了消息。” 她清醒了。坐了起来。   “你知道，对吗?”     “我收到了一封家书。”     “你知道了，所以你就来了这里?”     “不是。”         “好。我不认为他相信守夜这些名堂。帕特里克常说等他死了，他希望能有两个女人为他演奏二重奏——手风琴和小提琴。这就够了。他是那么的多愁善感。”     “对。其实你让他做什么都行。给他找个悲痛的女人，他就会六神无主。”     来自山谷的风刮到山上，在小教堂外面三十六级台阶的两旁，柏树随风起舞。雨点落了下来，嘀嘀嗒嗒，打在他们的身上。他们坐在台阶旁的栏杆上。早已过了半夜。她躺在水泥板上，他踱着步，或者探身察看山谷。只有时断时续的雨声。     “你什么时候开始不再对孩子说话?”     “一切突然变得太过心乱。部队就要前往莫罗桥打仗，然后开进乌尔比诺。也许在乌尔比诺时，我就不再对孩子说话丁。你感觉到随时会被子弹射死，尽管你不是一名战士，而是神父或护士。那是一个充满混乱的地方，街道狭窄曲折。当兵的进了医院，身体残缺不全。他们爱上了我，然后不到一小时的光景就死了。记住他们的名字很重要。但是在他们死的时候，我总是看见了那个孩子。有些人会一下子坐起来，撕开身上的绷带，挣扎着呼吸。有些人快死的时候，还为手臂的痒处而烦恼。接着嘴里就冒出了唾沫，断了气。我凑近看台上死者的眼睛。他睁开眼睛，冷笑道：‘等不及我死吗?你这个婊子!’他坐了起来，把我盘子上的东西全都推到地上。谁会想那么死呢?带着那样的愤怒死去。你这个婊子!在这事之后，我总是等着他们的嘴里冒出泡沫。我知道死是怎么回事，大卫。我知道所有的气味，我知道如何引导他们脱离痛苦。什么时候往大静脉快速打一针吗啡。食盐水让他们在死前倒空肠胃。每一个该死的将军都应该干我这份工作。每一个该死的将军。这应该是渡河的一个先决条件。到底是谁给了我们这种职责，希望我们像年老的神父一样睿智，知道如何引导人们向往没人想要的东西，还要使他们觉得舒适!我永远都不会相信他们为死者举行的那些仪式，那些庸俗的言词。他们怎能这样!他们怎能那样谈论一个正在死去的人。”     没有光，灯全部熄了，天空几乎都躲到了云后。不去引起附近住家的注意较为安全。他们习惯摸黑在屋里走动。     “你知道部队为什么不想让你留在这里，不想让你与那个英国病人一起留下，你知道吗?”     “是怕出现一桩令人尴尬的婚姻?还是担心我的恋父情结?”她笑着对他说。     “那个老家伙呢?”   “那只狗的事还没让他平静下来。”   “告诉他，狗跟我走了。”   “他并不清楚你也住在这里。他以为你也许带着瓷器走了。”     “你看他会不会想喝点葡萄酒?我今天想办法弄到了一瓶。”   “从哪儿弄来的?”   “你想不想喝?”   “我们现在就喝。别管他了。”     “啊，这是一大突破!”     “不是突破。我实在需要好好喝一顿。”     “二十岁。我在二十岁时……”     “是，是，也许哪天你可以弄一部留声机来。顺便说一下，我认为这就叫趁火打劫。”     “我的国家教会了我这一切。我在战争中就为他们干趁火打劫的事。”     他穿过被炮弹炸毁的小教堂，走进了屋里。     哈纳坐了起来，感到有些晕眩，身体不太平衡。“看看他们对你干了什么。”她自言自语道。     在战争期间，即使与同事在一起，她也难得说上一句话。她需要一位叔叔，一个家人。她需要孩子的父亲，她在这个山村等待着，她多年来第一次喝醉了，楼上那个烧伤的人已经睡着了，他一觉可以睡上四个小时，而她父亲的一位老朋友正在她的医疗箱里乱翻，打碎了玻璃，用鞋带束紧手臂，迅速给自己打了一针吗啡。打针的同时，他转过了头。     夜里，可能到了十点，群山的周围，只有漆黑一片的大地。灰色的天空没有云朵，放眼可见苍绿的山陵。     “我讨厌挨饿，讨厌成为别人渴望的对象。所以我不和别人约会，不去乘车兜风，拒绝别人的求爱。不肯在他们死前与他们跳舞——大家认为我很势利。我比别人更忙。三班中我轮了两班，在炮火下，为他们料理一切，清理每一个便盆。我成了一个势利的人，因为我不愿出去花他们的钱。我想回家，可是家里已没有人了。我讨厌欧洲。讨厌别人因为我是个女人而把我当成宝贝。我向一个人求了爱，他死了，孩子死了。我是说，孩子不是就这么死了；是我打掉了孩子。后来，我总是走得远远的，不让任何人接近我。不管他们说我有多势利，不管谁死了。然后我遇到了他，那个烧得漆黑的人。结果弄清楚他大概是—个英国人。     “已经很久了，大卫。我已经很久没想过要和男人交往。”     基普在别墅周围出没已有一个星期了，他们适应了他的用餐习惯，，不管他在什么地方——或在山上，或在村里——他都会在十二点三—十分左右回来，与哈纳和卡拉瓦焦一起进食。他会从肩上取下—个用蓝色手帕包成的小包，在他们的食物旁边摊开，手帕包着的是他的洋葱和他的草药——卡拉瓦焦怀疑基普是取自圣方济会修道士的花园，他曾在那里清理地雷。他用刀子削下洋葱皮，这把刀他也用来削去引信的橡皮。然后他就吃了起来。卡拉瓦焦怀疑从登陆意大利以后，基普就没有用饭盒吃过饭。     基普总是天一亮就尽职排队，拿出杯子打算喝他喜爱的英国茶，然后加上—点他自己供应的炼乳。他会慢慢品尝，站在阳光下，望着部队迈步前进，如果哪天军队不需行进，他们在九点的时候便会玩起桥牌。     现在，到了黎明，他站在伤痕累累的树下，圣吉洛拉莫别墅的花园大半已被炸得面目全：非。他喝了—口饭盒里装的水。他把牙粉撒到牙刷亡，然后若有所思地刷子十分钟的牙。他—边散步，一边俯视笼罩在山雾中的山谷，对这样的景色感到好奇。他现在碰巧生活在这山景中。从小时候开始，刷牙对他来说就向是—种户外活动。     他周围的景致是短促的，是无常的。他只是闻到灌木丛散发出的味道，便知道可能要下雨了，仿佛他的大脑是雷达，他的眼睛打量周围四分之—公里内无生命物体的舞姿，这个距离是轻武器的射杀半径。他端详着从地里小心拔出的两个洋葱，意识到花园也被撤退的敌军埋下了地雷。     午餐的时候，卡拉瓦焦以长辈的目光，看了一眼蓝色手帕上的东西。很可能还有什么珍奇动物，卡拉瓦焦心想。他吃的食物与这名年轻的工兵一样。工兵用右手进餐，用手指把食物塞进嘴里。他的刀子只用来削洋葱皮和切洋葱。     两个人坐上马车去了一趟山谷，弄来一袋面粉。此外，士兵们必须前往设在圣多明尼科的总部，送去地雷业已消除区域的地图。他们发现很难讨论彼此，便只好谈论哈纳。谈了许多的问题；年长者才承认在战争之前就认识她。     “在加拿大?”     “对，我在那里认识她的。”     他们经过了公路两旁数不清的营火，卡拉瓦焦把年轻工兵的注意力引向了它们。工兵的绰号是基普。“找基普。”“基普来了。”这个名字与他密不可分，真是奇怪。在英国起草的第一份炸弹清理报告上沾了一些奶油。那名军官叫道：  “这是什么?基普儿(与腌鲑鱼谐音)油吗?”周围的人哄堂大笑。他并不知道什么是腌鲑鱼，但是年轻的基普从此被人当成是—条英国的咸鱼。在一周之内，他真正的名字基帕尔·辛格被人遗忘了。他对此并不在意。萨福克爵士及其拆弹小组直呼他的绰号，他喜欢这样的叫法，不喜欢英国人用姓氏称呼人的习惯。     那年夏天，英国病人戴上了助听器，这样他就听见了屋里的一切声响——走廊的椅子擦着地板，狗的爪子在门外抓着。他调大音量，甚至还能听到那只狗喘着粗气，或者听到工兵在阳台上大叫。在年轻的工兵来了几天以后，英国病人就知道他在房子周围，尽管哈纳没有引见他们，认为他们很可能不会彼此喜欢。     但是有一天，她走进英国人的房间，发现工兵也在里面。他正站在床头，手臂扛着搭在肩上的步熗。她不喜欢他漫不经心持熗的样子，也不喜欢他在她进屋的时候，懒洋洋转身的样子，仿佛他的身子是一个轮子的轴，仿佛他的熗与他的肩膀、手臂和手腕缝在一起。     英国人转头说道：“我们相处得非常好!”     她生气了，工兵随随便便就闯入这个地盘，像是包围了她，像是无所不在。     基普从卡拉瓦焦那里听说英国人熟悉熗支，于是开始跟英国人讨论寻找炸弹的事。他走进房间，发现他对盟军和敌人的武器如数家珍。英国人不仅了解奇怪的意大利引信，而且熟知托斯卡纳这个地区的地形。他们很快就向对方概述了各种炸弹，谈论设计具体线路的理论。     “意大利引信似乎是垂直设置，而且从来不装在尾部。”     “呃，这可不一定。那不勒斯制造的炸弹的确如此，但是罗马的兵工厂却采用德国系统。当然了，那不勒斯早在十五世纪……”     这意味着必须耐心聆听他这样拐弯抹角的说话方式，年轻的工兵却不习惯一声不吭。他会坐立不安，在英国人停顿的时候插话。英国人老是说说停停，试图理清他的思路。那名工兵仰起头，瞪着天花板。     “我们应该做一个吊架，”工兵若有所思地说，在哈纳进屋时转向了她，“以便抬着他在房子附近走一走。”她看着他们，耸耸肩，然后走出了房间。     当卡拉瓦焦在走廊上经过她的身边时，她正面带着微笑。他们站在走廊里，听着房间里面的谈话。     “基普，我跟你讲过维吉尔人的理论吗?让我……”     “你戴上了助听器吗?”     “什么?”     “打开它——”     “我想他找到了一个朋友。”她对卡拉瓦焦说。     她步入阳光之中，走到院子里。中午时分，水龙头往别的喷水池送水，二十分钟后，喷水池就会喷出水。她脱下鞋子，爬进干涸的喷水池里，然后等着。     在这个时候，到处都能闻到干草的气味。矢车菊的花香在空中飘荡，向人的身上扑来，就像是撞到墙上，然后悄然荡开。她注意到水蜘蛛在喷水池上层水槽的下面做窝，她的脸上映着蜘蛛网的阴影。她喜欢坐在这个石砌的摇篮里，可以闻到阴凉的空气，从已断流的喷水口里溢出，就像是晚春时第一次打开地下室，里面的冷空气迎上了外面的热气形成对比。她拍去臂上、脚上和鞋子褶皱上的尘土，然后伸了伸懒腰。     屋里男人太多。她的嘴巴贴着赤裸的肩膀，闻到皮肤上熟悉的气味——自己的体味。她想起第一次意识到自己身上的味道时，只有十几岁——那似乎是在一个地方，而不是一段时间。她亲吻着自己的前臂，练习亲吻，闻着手腕，或者弯腰闻着大腿。她冲着捧在一起的双手呼气，这样呼吸就反弹进她的鼻子，她那洁白的光脚磨蹭着喷水池色泽斑驳的地方。工兵曾经告诉她，他在打仗时一路见过不少的雕像，他曾睡在一个雕像旁边，那是一个忧伤的天使，半男半女，他觉得它挺美的。他睡在地上，往后挪了挪，打量那个雕像的躯体，在战争期间，他第一次感到平静。     她嗅着石头，一种凉爽诱人的味道。     她的父亲是挣扎着还是平静地死去?他曾像英国病人一样体面地躺在行军床上吗?是由陌生人来照顾他吗?一个与你没有血缘关系的人可以听你诉说衷肠，而一个与你有血缘关系的人却不一定做得到。仿佛倒在一个陌生人的怀里，你就能反省自己的抉择正确与否。与工兵不同的是，她的父亲活在这个世界上时从来都不觉得自在。由于害羞，他说话含混不清。她的母亲曾经抱怨说，帕特里克每说一句话，你总会漏掉两三个关键的字。但是哈纳喜欢他这一点，他似乎没有封建思想。由于他的含糊和犹豫，反而形成一种短暂的魅力。他与大多数男人都不相同——甚至连这个英国病人都有那种被人熟悉的封建作风。但是她的父亲是一个饿鬼，像他周围的那些饿鬼一样自信，甚至吵闹。     他是带着那漫不经心的态度在意外中丧生呢子还是带着愤怒迎向死亡呢?她知道他是一个最不容易动怒的人，如果有人批评罗斯福，或赞扬哪个多伦多市长，他就会走出房间。他一生中从未试着去改变任何人，只是回避或庆祝周围发生的事件。一部小说是一个反映现实的镜子。她曾在一本英国病人推荐的书中读过这句话，这就是她回忆父亲的方式。她会想起点滴的小事，想起她的父亲在半夜把车停在多伦多市波特里以北的某一座桥下，告诉她那里就是椋鸟和鸽子在夜里合住的地方。它们挤在椽木上，既不舒服，又不太愉快。在一个夏夜，他们停在那里，探头聆听吵闹的噪音，和鸟儿昏昏欲睡的啁啾。     “我听说帕特里克死在一个鸽棚里。”卡拉瓦焦说。     她父亲热爱自己想象中的城市，那里的街道、墙壁和狭长的花坛，都是他和他的朋友描绘出来的。他从没有真正踏个世界。她明白她对这个真实世界所有的了解来自她自己或卡拉瓦焦，或者她的继母克莱拉——当他们在一起生活时，克莱拉曾经当过演员，能说善道。见到他们都去参战，她发了很大的火。去年在意大利时，她一直带着克莱拉寄来的信。她知道信是在乔治亚湾一个小岛上的一块粉红色岩石上写的，克莱拉顶着海上刮来的风写信，风吹皱了纸张。写完以后，克莱拉撕下信纸，塞进信封寄给哈纳。哈纳把信装进手提箱里。每一封信都装有一小块粉红色的石头，可以闻到海风的气息。但是她从来没有回过信。她思念克莱拉，带着一丝忧伤，但是在经历了这些事之后，她已无法给克莱拉写信了。她无法谈论，或者承认帕特里克死了。     现在，在欧洲大陆，战争已经推进到别处，远离了托斯卡纳及翁布里亚山区里的修道院和教堂，这些地方一度被当作医院?如今又重新陷入孤寂。他们守着战争的遗迹，巨大的冰川留下的小冰碛。他们周围只剩下那片神圣的森林。     她把双脚缩进单薄的裙子里，手臂抱在大腿上。—切是那么安静。她听到了熟悉的、空洞的水流声，流水在埋在喷水池柱下的水管里急着往外淌。然后是一片沉寂。接着水哗啦啦流了出来，溅落在她的四周。     哈纳为英国病人读书，他们与《吉姆》中的老流浪汉，或《巴马修道院》中的法布利斯一起游历，陶醉其中。东征西讨的大军、战马和战车，或逃离战场，或奔赴战场。卧室的一角堆着她给他读过的书，他们已经游历了书中描绘的天地。     大多数的作者在一开始就阐明书中的要点。有本书在他们心中激起了一圈小涟漪。     我的故事始自加尔巴担任执政官时。     ……提比略、卡利古拉、克劳狄和尼禄当权的时候，史学家们心存恐惧，篡改了他们的历史；而在他们死后，史学家们怀着萌发的仇恨重写历史。     塔西佗就这样开始写作他的《编年史》。     但是小说的内容却是随着犹疑或混乱展开，读者在阅读过程中难以保持平衡。一扇门、一把锁、一道堰打开了，他们冲了进去，一手抓住舷边，一手抓住礼帽。     当她开始读一本书时，她就穿过高高的门道，走进大院里。帕尔马、巴黎和印度铺开了它们的地毯。         他无视市政府的命令，骑在参参玛大炮上，它那砖砌的炮台位于古老的“阿贾巴——格尔”——奇迹之家，这是当地人对拉合尔博物馆的称呼——对面。谁掌握了参参玛大炮这个“喷火龙”，谁就掌握了旁遮昔，因为那个绿铜大炮总是率先成为征服者的战利品。     “读慢点，亲爱的小姐，你应该慢慢地读吉卜林的书。留意逗号，这样你就能发现自然停顿的地方，他是一个用笔墨创作的作家。我相信他总是从稿纸上抬起头，眺望窗外，聆听鸟儿的歌唱，大多数作家独处的时候都会这样。有些人不知道鸟儿的名字，但他知道。你的眼睛看得太快，难怪你是北美人。 要考虑到他的运笔速度，否则第一段听来会显得可怕而凝重。”     这是英国病人就阅读所上的第一课。他没有再打断她。如果他碰巧睡着了，她会继续读下去，不再抬头，直到她自己累了。如果他会漏掉最后半个小时的情节，很可能是他已经知道那是故事中较为阴暗悲惨的一部分。他对故事里的地理分布了如指掌。贝拿勒斯在东边．，奇利安瓦拉在旁遮普以北。(这是在工兵进入他们的生活之前所发生的事，小说中的情节仿佛跃出了书外，仿佛吉卜林的书在晚上被擦过，就像一盏神灯，一剂灵丹妙药。)         她读完了《吉姆》，告别了那些细致、神圣的文句——那文句已变成清晰的话语——然后拿起病人的笔记本，那是病人在火中好不容易救出来的。笔记本已经散了，厚度已是原来的两倍。     书上贴着一页薄薄的圣经。     大卫王年纪老迈，虽然盖得很密实，仍不觉得暖。     所以臣仆对他说：“不如为我主我王寻找一个处女，使她伺候王，奉养王，睡在王的怀中，好叫我主我王得暖。”     于是，在以色列全境寻找美貌的童女，寻得一个女子阿彼沙，就带到王那里。这童女极其美貌，她奉养王，伺候王，王却没有与她亲近。     那个部落救了烧伤的飞行员，在一九四四年把他送到英国锡瓦基地，他坐上运送伤员的夜班火车，从西部沙漠到了突尼斯，然后搭船到了意大利。在战争期间，成千上百的士兵不知道自己的身分，与其说是耍什么手段，倒不如说真是如此，那些声称不清楚自己国籍的人，被收容在蒂伦尼亚的海边医院里。这位烧伤的飞行员又是一个谜，没有证件，无法辨认。在附近的监狱里，他们囚禁了美国诗人庞德。他在身上和口袋里藏了油加利树的叶子，带着叶子每天走动，  自以为安然无恙。树叶是他在叛徒的花园里摘的，他在那里被抓了起来。 “纪念用的油加利树。”         “你们应该设法套我的话，”烧伤的飞行员告诉审问他的人，“让我说德语，顺便告诉你，我会说德语。问我唐·布拉德曼，问我马麦特调味晶，问我伟大的格特鲁德·杰基尔。” 他知道乔托的每一幅画都在欧洲，知道大多数可以发现那些几可乱真、以视幻觉法固绘出的作品的地方。      海边医院的房子原先是海滩的淋浴小屋，游客在本世纪初曾经租用它们。天气热的时候，旧的太阳伞再次被插在桌子的洞里，那些轻伤、重伤和昏迷的人会坐在伞下，沐浴着海风，慢慢地聊天，或者大眼瞪小眼，或者一直说个没完。那个烧伤的人注意到了那个年轻的护士，她不与别人待在一起。他熟悉这种没有生气的眼光，知道她特别有耐心。他在需要什么东西时，才会与她说话。     他又受到了盘问。他的一切都说明他是一个英国人，只是他的皮肤像焦油一样黑。在盘问他的军官们看来，他是一个历史怪物。     他们问他盟军到了意大利的什么地方，他说他估计他们攻占了佛罗伦萨，但在北面的山区受阻——哥德防线。“你们的师陷在佛罗伦萨，无法通过像普拉托和菲埃索莱这样的基地，因为德国人驻扎在别墅和女修道院里，并且顽强抵抗。这是一个古老的故事——十字军与萨拉森人作战时犯下了同样的错误。像他们一样，你们需要位于军事要地的小街。它们从未被弃守，除非是在霍乱流行的时候。”     他讲个不停，搞得他们发狂，他们始终没有弄懂他到底是叛徒还是盟友。     现在，在佛罗伦萨以北的山镇，在圣吉洛拉莫别墅住了几个月后，在绘了树林的卧室里，他卧床休养，像拉韦纳那位已故骑士的雕像。他断断续续，谈起绿洲小镇、末代的麦迪奇家族、吉卜林的文笔、和咬破他皮肤的那个女人。在他那本札记里，他那本一八九O年版的希罗多德《历史》也是断断续续——地图、日记、用多种语言写的笔记，和从别的书上剪下的段落。所缺的是他的名字。没有线索可以判断他到底是谁，无名无姓，没有军衔，也不知道军营或编队。他书中记录的全是战前的事，三十年代的埃及和利比亚沙漠，中间插有他写的蝇头小字，介绍岩洞壁画和画廊艺术，以及游记。“佛罗伦萨没有浅黑色头发的女郎。”当哈纳弯下身时，英国病人对她说。     那本书就在他的手里。看见他睡着了，她拿走了书，随手放在床头柜上。她没有把书合上，站在那里低头看了起来。她对自己说不要翻开下一页。     一九三六年五月。     我会为你读一首诗，杰弗里·克利夫顿的妻子说道，腔调一本正经。她似乎总是这样，除非你是她很亲近的人。我们都在南营地，全在火光照及的范围之内。     我走在沙漠里。     我喊道：     “啊，上帝，带我离开这个地方!”     一个声音说道：“这不是沙漠。”     我喊道：“可是——     这沙，这热，这空旷的地平线。”     一个声音说道：“这不是沙漠。”     没有人说话。     她说，这是斯蒂芬·克莱恩写的，他从没有到过沙漠。     他到过沙漠，马多克斯说。     一九三六年七月。     战争时的背叛被幼稚地拿来与和平时期人们的背叛做比较。坠入爱河的人陷入对方的气质之中。或紧张或温柔的话语，粉碎了一切，又创造了新的一切，熊熊的烈火在心中燃烧着。     一个爱情故事与那些失魂落魄的人无关，但是与那些找到那颗郁郁寡欢的心的人有关，在偶然碰到的时候，身体愚弄不了人，愚弄不了一切——他无法入眠，也无法从容应对。它消耗了自己和过去。     那间绿色的屋子几乎一片漆黑。哈纳转过身来，明白她的脖子由于长久不动而僵硬了。她一直聚精会神地阅读潦草的字迹，他那本浩瀚的札记塞满了地图和文章。书中甚至粘了一片小小的羊齿叶。《历史》。她把书放在床头柜上，但没有把书合上，也没有碰它一下。她抽身离去。     基普在别墅以北的一块地里发现了那枚大地雷，他的脚经过果园时，差点踩到了绿色的金属线，一时失去了平衡，跪在地上。他抓起金属线，直到它绷直了，接着顺着它找到树林之中。     他坐在线头处，膝上搁着帆布包。地雷让他吓了—跳，敌人们曾用水泥将它盖住。敌人埋设了地雷，然后浇上了湿水泥来掩护爆炸装置，加大它的威力。约在四码开外，是—棵光秃秃的树，另一棵树在十码开外。长了两个月的野草覆盖了这个水泥球。     他打开帆布包，拿起剪刀除了草。他在地雷周围缠上一个线团，然后在树干上栓了一条绳子和一个滑轮，轻轻地把那块水泥吊到空中。水泥下有两条金属线垂到地上。他坐了下来，靠在树上，瞧着它。现在速度已不重要了。他从包包里取出半导体收音机，戴上耳机。他很快就从收音机里听到了AIF电台播放的美国音乐。每首歌或舞曲的平均长度约两分半钟。他可以一边工作，一边收听《一串珍珠》、《C—Jam蓝调》和其它的曲子。有心无心地听着收音机里的音乐，他就知道他在这里待了多久。     他不是怕噪声，噪音并不重要。重要的是，这样就听不见轻微的嘀嗒声或咔嚓声，因而就不会注意到地雷的危险了。有了音乐，他就能保持头脑清醒，观察地雷的构造，弄清布线和浇下水泥的人有着什么样的性格。     那个水泥球用第二条绳子扯紧了吊在空中，这就意味着不会牵动两条金属线，不管他怎么用力碰它。他站了起来，开始轻轻地剥开那枚经过伪装的地雷，用嘴吹掉细小的颗粒，使用毛刷扫落更多的水泥块。只有在收音机的音乐声不清楚的时候，他才分神，重新调准那个电台，好让爵士乐曲重新变得清晰。他慢慢地拉出一串串的金属线。共有六条金属线缠在一起，全是黑色的漆线。     他把金属线放在地图板上，并刷去金属线上的尘土。     六条黑色的金属线。在他小的时候，他的父亲会聚拢手指，只露出指尖，让他猜哪根是最长的手指。选定了以后，他用自己的小手指碰一碰那根指尖。他的父亲摊开手，小孩这才发现自己猜错了。当然可以使红色的金属线成为负线。但是这个对手不仅给这个东西浇上水泥，还把它们全都涂成黑色。基普开始刮去金属漆，发现了一条红线、一条蓝线和一条绿线。他的对手会不会也在这颜色上玩了花样?他必须取出自己的—条黑色金属线，呈U字形迂回连接起来，测试线圈的正负极。然后检查衰减的电力，那样他就知道哪里有危险。     哈纳抱着一面长镜厂走向走廊的那头。由于镜子挺重，所以她一路上停停走走。镜子反射出走廊古老的暗红色。     英国人想看看自己的模样。在走进那间屋子之前，她小心地把反射面朝向自己，不想让镜子把窗外的光线反射到他的脸上。     他躺在那里，皮肤黝黑，只有耳朵上的助听器显得苍白，似乎在枕头上发光。他用手推下床单。他尽力往下推，哈纳把床单拉到床尾。     她站在床脚边的一张椅子上，缓慢地让镜子朝他倾斜。她就在这个位置，双手朝前撑开抱着镜子，这时她听到了低微的叫声。     她起先没有注意，屋里经常回荡山谷传来的噪音。当她与英国病人住在一起时，清除队使川的扩音器常常让她感到安心。     “抱稳镜子，我亲爱的。”他说。     “似乎有人在叫，你听到了吗?”     他的左手调大了助听器的音量。     “是那个男孩，你最好出去看一下。”     她把镜子靠在墙上，沿着走廊跑了出去。她站在室外，等待着叫声再起。一听到了叫声，她便穿过花园，跑进别墅上方的地区。     他站在那里，高举双手，像是抓着一张巨大的蜘蛛网。他正晃着脑袋，想摔下耳机。见到她跑来，他大声叫她绕到左边去，这里到处都有地雷的金属线。她停下脚步。她曾多次走过这里，从来不知道有危险。她撩起裙子，向前走去，看着自己的双脚踏入高高的草丛中。     当她来到他的身边时，他的双手仍然高举在半空中。他上了当，拿着两条火线。没有另外一条安全线作为保障，他不能丢开。他需要第三只手来拿住其中一条火线，好再次研究引信头。他把金属线小心地交给她，然后垂下手臂，好让血液循环。     “我马上就会接手。”     “不要紧的。”     “别动。”     他打开包包，拿出盖格计数器和磁铁。他旋动指针钮，测试她所持的金属线。没有偏向负极。没有线索。什么都没有。 他退后几步，想找出其中的机关。     “让我把这些东西捆在树上，你走吧。”     “不，我拿着吧。它们够不到树。”     “不行。”    ’     “基普——我可以拿着它们。”     “我们遇到麻烦了。简直是笑话，我不知道下一步该怎么办。我不知道这机关有多巧妙。”     他从她身边走开，跑到发现金属线的地方。他挑起它，这一次用盖格计数器一路沿着金属线测量。接着他在离她约有十码的地方蹲了下来，陷入沉思，不时抬起头来，朝她这个方向张望，眼睛只盯着她手持的两条导线。“我不知道，”他慢慢地大声说道，“我不知道。我想我必须割断你左手的金属线，你必须离开。”他把收音机耳机戴好，耳中只听见电台的声音，如此一来，他便能摒除杂念。他扫视伸向不同方向的金属线，斜视打了结的线团、突兀的拐角，以及埋在地下的电路闭合器——它把金属线从正极转成负极。火绒箱。他想起了那只狗，狗的眼睛像碟子一样大。在音乐的伴奏下，他沿着金属线往前跑，自始至终凝视那位女孩的手。她仍然握着金属线。     “你最好走开。”     “你需要另一只手割线，对吗?”     “我可以把它系在树上。”     “我拿着吧。”     他从她的左手拿起那条金属线，像是拿起了一条细小的蝮蛇，接着又拿起了另一条。她没有走开。他没有再说什么，他现在必须尽量考虑清楚，当作他是独自一人。她走向他，拿回了一条金属线。他根本没有觉察到，似乎已经忘记她的存在。他再次巡视地雷引信的线路，同时转动脑筋，想象着他触摸了所有的关键位置，看穿了线路，乐队的音乐淹没了一切。     他走向她，在灵感消失前，切断了左手握着的金属线，那种声音像是牙齿咬断东西。他看见了她衣服上肩部贴近脖子的深色印花。地雷的引信已被拆除了。他放下截断器，把手放在她的肩上，他需要触摸人体。她正在说话，但他听不见。她上前摘下他的耳机，因而寂静向他袭来。听见微风、树叶的沙沙作响。他明白自己没有听到金属线被咔嗒一声割断，只是感觉到金属线被绞断了，就像一只小兔的骨头断了一样。他没有放开她，他的手／顷着她的手臂移下去，从她仍然握紧的手中，扯出七寸长的金属线。     她正看着他，迷惑不解，等他回答她说的话，但是他没有听到她的话。她摇摇头，坐了下来。他开始收起各种器械，把它们放在工具包里。她抬头看着树，偶尔收回目光，看到他的手在发抖，像癫痫病人的手一样紧张而生硬，他的呼吸沉重而急速，持续了一段时间。他蹲在那里。     “你听到我说的话吗?”     “没有。你说了什么?”     “我以为我会死。我想死。如果我要死，我想要和你一起死。在这一年里，我看过许多像你这样的人，或是和我一样年轻的人在我身边死去。刚才我没有害怕，可我也不勇敢。我心想，我们有这别墅，有这绿草，我们应该一起躺着，我抱着你，然后一起死去。我想摸一摸你脖子上的那块骨头，锁骨，像是你的皮肤下面一个又小又硬的翅膀。我想用手指按住它。我总是喜欢颜色像河水和岩石的皮肤，或者像苏珊花的棕色眼睛，你知道那种花是什么吗?你见过吗?我太累了，基普，我想睡觉。我想睡在这棵树下，我的眼睛抵住你的锁骨。我想闭上眼睛，不去想着别人。我想找一个树杈，爬上去睡上一觉。你的心真细!知道该割断哪条线。你怎么知道的?你老是说我不知道，我不知道，但是你知道。对吗?别摇头，你必须成为一张平稳的床，让我睡觉。让我依偎着你，就仿佛你是一位慈祥的祖父，可以让我拥抱。我喜爱‘依偎’这个字眼，这是一个轻声慢语的词，你不能急着说……”     她的嘴贴着他的衬衫。他与她躺在地上，尽量避免移动。 他那清澈的眼睛望着树枝。他可以听到她深沉的呼吸。当他用手搂住她的肩膀时，她虽然已经睡着了，却还紧紧抓住他的手臂。他低头注意到她仍拿着金属线，她一定是又捡起了它。     最具活力的是她的呼吸。她的体重似乎很轻，她肯定已把大部分的体重从他的身边挪开。他可以这样躺很久——无法移动或工作。他必须保持不动。在那几个月里，他曾像这样睡在雕像旁边。在那段时间里，他们曾经开赴海边，攻打每一座要塞城镇，直到完全占领这些城镇。似曾相识的街道成了流血的沟渠，所以他会梦到自己失去平衡，跌下流着红色液体的山坡，从悬崖掉人山谷。每天晚上，他都走进被占领的教堂，顶着寒风，找到一座雕像，那是替他守夜的哨兵。他只信任那些石头，在黑暗中尽量贴近它们。一位悲伤的天使，雕有绝佳的女人大腿，线条和阴影显得那么柔和。他会把手搭在这些石像的膝上，安然入睡。     她突然往他的身上压上更多的重量。现在她的呼吸拖得更长，像是大提琴声。他打量她那张沉睡的脸。他仍然对这女孩感到恼怒，在他拆除地雷引信时，她留在他的身边。仿佛让他欠了她什么。他突然感到应该对她负责，尽管当时没有这么想。仿佛那样就能正面影响他决定如何排除地雷。     但是他感到现在像是陷人了什么之中，也许是去年在什么地方见到的一幅画。田野里一对闲适的人儿。他见过许多慵懒的人们，毫不在乎工作或者世界的险恶。在他身旁的是哈纳的呼气。她的眉头扬了起来，似是与人争论。她在梦中发了怒。他移开目光，仰头看着树，以及有着白云点缀的天空。她的手抓住他，就像莫罗河岸的泥巴。他的拳头抵在潮湿的土地上，防止自己滑人已形成的山洪之中。     如果他是画中的主人翁，他可以就这么睡着。但是正如她说的，他像岩石一样棕黑，像雨后混浊的河水一样棕黑。尽管这句话毫无恶意，他心中却有一种情感使他退怯。拆除地雷引信的成功已是过去的事了。睿智的白发老人们握握手，算是见了面，然后一瘸一拐走开。为了这特别的时刻，他们被哄着走出了孤寂的住所。但他是干这一行的。他仍然是外国人，锡克教徒。他只与这个敌人打交道，那人制造炸弹，并在走时用树叶扫去他的足迹。     他为什么不能睡?他为什么不能转向这位女孩，不再想那些不明确的事，不再犹豫不决?在他构思的画中，周围的田野成了一片火海。他曾用望远镜，看着一个工兵走进一座埋设了地雷的房子。他曾见过他挥手从桌角拂去一盒火柴，然后被火光围住，半秒钟之后听到炸弹的爆炸声。一九四四年的闪电就像这样。他怎么能信任这女孩上衣袖口那圈松紧带?怎么能信任她的呼吸声?那声音像河里的石头一样沉。     当她衣领上的毛虫开始爬向她的脸颊时，她醒了过来。她睁开双眼，看见他正低头看着她。他拿开她脸上的毛虫，没碰着她的皮肤，把毛虫放到了草地上。她注意到他已收拾好工具。他回来靠着树坐下，看着她坐直了身子，刻意伸了个长长的懒腰。现在一定是下午了，太阳在另一边。她偏过头来看着他。     “你该抱着我!”     “我抱了，直到你移动。”     “你抱了我多久?”         “直到你动了。直到你需要移动。”     “没有占我的便宜吧?”她看见他的脸开始红了起来，又说：“只是开个玩笑。”     “你想进屋吗?”     “想，我饿了。”     她几乎站不起来，太阳刺眼得很，她的双腿疲惫，她仍不知道他们在这里待了多久。她无法忘记自己睡得多沉。     卡拉瓦焦不知从什么地方找来了留声机，舞会便在英国病人的房间开始了。     “我要用它教你跳舞，哈纳。不是你那位年轻朋友熟悉的那种，有些舞我知道，可是不喜欢。但《这已进行了多久》是一首伟大的歌曲，因为序曲的旋律比歌更纯洁，只有杰出的爵士乐家才懂。现在，我们可以在阳台上开舞会，这样我们就可以邀请那只狗，或者我们去打扰那个英国病人，在楼上的卧室举行舞会。你年轻的朋友不喝酒，昨天却在圣多明尼科找到了酒。我们不只有音乐。伸出你的手臂吧。不，首先我们要用粉笔在地板上作记号和练习。基本的步调是一、二、三，伸出你的手臂吧。你今天怎么啦?”     “他刚拆除了—枚巨大的炸弹，一枚很危险的炸弹，让他告诉你吧，，”     工兵有点得意地耸耸肩，好像那太复杂，难以解释。夜幕很快降临了，夜色笼罩着山谷和山峦，他们又一次提着灯笼离开了。     他们在通往英国病人卧室的走廊上曳步而行，卡拉瓦焦扛着留声机，—只手提着它的唱臂和唱针。     “现在，在你开始讲述你的历史之前，”他对床上静卧着人说，“我要放《我的罗曼史》。”     “哈特先生于一九三五年写的，我想。”英国人喃喃道。基普坐在窗户上，而哈纳说她想和工兵跳舞。     “在我尚未教你之前不行，亲爱的小虫。”     她奇怪地抬头望着卡拉瓦焦，小虫是她父亲对她的昵称。卡拉瓦焦把她拉进他的怀抱，又说了声“亲爱的小虫”，便开始上舞蹈课。     她穿上了干净但没熨烫过的衣服。每当他们旋转的时候，她便看见工兵跟着歌词在独自吟唱。如果他们有电，他们就会弄来一部收音机，他们就能得到各地关于战事的消息。他们所拥有的，只是基普的晶体收音机，但他已经谨慎地把它留在他的帐篷里了。英国病人正在谈论哈特不幸的一生。他说在《曼哈顿》剧中有些最好的歌词已经被改过了，他现在插进了那些诗句。     “我们要在布赖顿洗澡，     我们进去之后     准会吓走鱼儿。     你的浴袍这样薄，     虾蟹见状会大笑，     咧着个大嘴。”     “优美的诗行，充满色情，但是罗杰斯会说不够高尚。”     “你必须跟着我跳。”     “为什么你不跟着我跳?”    。     “等你知道该怎么跳的时候，我会的，目前我是惟一知道该怎么跳的人。”     “我打赌基普知道。”     “他也许知道，但他又不跳。”     “我要喝点儿酒。”英国病人说道，工兵拿起一杯水，泼向窗外，倒了一杯酒给英国人。     “这是我今年第一次喝酒。”     这时传来一阵低沉的声音，工兵迅速转身向着窗外的黑暗里张望。其他的人都呆住了。也许有地雷爆炸了。他转过身来，对参加舞会的人说：“不要紧，那不是地雷爆炸，那声音应该是来自已清除过地雷的区域。”     “把唱片翻个面，基普，现在我要向你们介绍《这已进行了多久》，作者是……”他留了个机会给英国病人，可是英国人正在喝酒，他摇摇头，含着酒咧嘴笑道：     “这酒精会要我的命的。”     “没有什么会要你的命的，我的朋友，你是块炭。”     “卡拉瓦焦!”     “听，乔治和艾拉兄弟。”     他和哈纳随着萨克斯风忧伤的音乐跳舞。他是对的，乐曲是如此缓慢，如此冗长，他觉得音乐家陶醉在序曲里，不想进人主旋律，他还想多陶醉一会儿，好像被序曲里的少女迷住了。故事还没有开始。英国人喃喃地说歌曲的这种表现形式叫“重唱句”。     她把脸颊依偎在卡拉瓦焦结实的肩膀上，她能感觉到可怕的手贴着她那干净衣服的后背部分。他们在床和墙之间、床和门之间、床和窗户之间有限的空间里舞着，基普坐在窗台上，他们旋转时，她常常会看见他的脸。他抬起膝盖，双手放在膝盖上面。有时则看着窗外的黑暗。     “谁知道一种叫博斯普鲁斯的拥抱的舞?”英国人问道。     “没有这种玩意儿。”     基普看着巨大的影子滑过天花板和有壁画的墙。他挣扎着起来，走过去替英国病人的杯子斟满酒，用瓶子碰碰他的杯边干杯。西风吹进了房间。他突然转身生气了，他闻到一丝火药味，空气中有着极淡的味道，他做了个不耐烦的手势，悄悄地溜出房间，把哈纳留在卡拉瓦焦的怀里。     他沿着黑暗的走廊跑的时候，没有一丝光亮。他拿出小背包，奔出屋外，冲下三十六级台阶，跑到路上。他一路跑着，没有想到自己的身体己筋疲力竭。     是工兵还是平民百姓受伤了?一路上可以闻到花香和草香，他身上开始觉得刺痛。一场意外还是错误的选择?大抵而言，工兵不善与人交往。从性格方面来说，他们是一种不和谐的族群——就像雕琢宝石或石头的人一样——他们有着坚毅而又决断的特质，他们的决定常使同部队的其他人感到害怕。基普知道宝石工匠有这种特质，可是他不知道自己也具有这种特质，尽管他知道别人会发现。工兵从不与其他人混得太熟，当他们谈话的时候，通常只是交换些讯息——新的装备、敌人的习惯等等。他会走进他们宿营的市政厅，他的眼睛会看到三张脸，并且准会有一个缺席。如果他们四个人都在的话，那么在田野的某处，就会有一具老人或女孩的尸体。     他参军时就学会了识图，那些蓝图变得越来越复杂，像难缠的结或音乐的乐谱。他发现自己具有立体透视的能力，异常的洞察力使他能够将一件事物或一页情报对应起来，看穿一切假象。他生性保守，但是也能想象得出最坏的情况。在房间里也有发生意外的可能性——桌上有颗李子，一个孩子向它走去，坐在那里吃有毒的李核；—个男人走进黑暗的房间，在走 到躺在床上的妻子身边之前，碰翻了灯架上的煤油灯。任何房间都可能出现这样的情景。异常的洞察力使他能够看到埋藏在表象下的线索，能想象事情如何缠结成一团——他恼怒地丢掉悬疑小说，因为他能轻而易举地发现谁是恶棍。他最喜欢那些有着自学者那种狂热的人们，像他的导师萨福克爵士，像英国病人等等。      他不相信书本。最近几天，哈纳看着他坐在英国病人旁边，她觉得此情景与《吉姆》相反。书中年轻的学生现在成了印度人，而聪明的老教师则成了英国人。但是夜晚陪伴在老人身边的是哈纳，引导他游览群山和圣河。他们一起读书，哈纳的声音低柔，当风把她身边烛光吹得摇曳的时候，书被黑暗笼罩了。     在叮当作响的接待室里，他蹲在角落，出神地想这想那，他的双手交叉着在双腿之间，眼睛紧盯在一点上。一分钟过去了，又半秒过去了，他感到他将要找到解决难题的办法……     她猜想，在阅读和听故事中所度过的漫漫长夜，就像是他们为那个年轻工兵的出现所做的准备。男孩长大了，他要加入他们的行列了，但是哈纳才是故事中的那个男孩。如果基普是其中的什么人的话，他会是克赖顿长官。     一本书，一张难懂的地图，一排引信，四个人待在一座废弃的别墅里，只有烛光，有时是暴风雨的闪电，有时可能是爆炸的火光照亮了别墅。因为没有电，群山和佛罗伦萨都陷入黑暗之中——烛光只能照亮不到五十码的范围。从较远处来看， 这里的任何东西都不属于外面的世界。他们在英国病人的房间里开着简短的舞会，来庆祝自己简单的冒险举动。哈纳是为她的睡眠，卡拉瓦焦为他找到’厂留声机，而基普为他拆除了复杂的引信，尽管他已几乎忘记了那一个紧张的时刻，他是那种在庆祝胜利的场合会感觉不自在的人。     仅在五十码外，便没有什么能够向世界显示他们的存在。在山谷的眼中，他们是一群无声无息的人。哈纳和卡拉瓦焦的身影在墙壁上移动，基普舒服地坐在窗台上，英国病人啜着他的酒，感受着酒劲儿在他无用的躯体里扩散，以致于很快就醉了。他的声音引起沙漠里一只狐狸的呼叫，惊动了树林里的英国鸫鸟。他说只有在埃塞克斯郡才能见到这种鸟，它多半生活在有薰衣草和苦艾繁殖的地区。这个烧伤患者所有的愿望都藏在脑海里。工兵想到他自己，他正坐在石砌的阳台上。他突然转过头，当他听到声音的时候，他就明白发生了什么事，而且十分确定。他回头看着他们，撒了生平第一个谎——“不要紧，那不是地雷爆炸，那声音应该是来自己清除过地雷的区域。’——他做好准备，等待着—丝火药味向他飘来。     几个小时之后，基普又坐到窗台上。如果他能走七码远，穿过英国人的房间去触摸她一下，英国病人就会清醒过来。房里只有一点点微弱的光，她坐在桌边，桌上只点着一根蜡烛。她今晚没有读书，他想她也许有点儿醉了。     他从爆炸现场回来，发现卡拉瓦焦搂着那条狗在书房的沙发上睡着了。当他迟疑地站在打开的门口时，那只猎狗看着他。它动了动身子，好像表示它没有睡着，而且正在守护这个地方。它轻轻的吠声盖过了卡拉瓦焦的鼾声。     他脱下靴子，把鞋带系在一起，挂在肩上，蹑手蹑脚地上了楼。开始下雨了，他得找块防水帆布去罩帐篷。从走廊那儿，他看见英国病人的房间还亮着烛光。     她坐在椅子上，一只手臂撑在点着一小节蜡烛的桌子上，蜡烛闪动着微弱的光，她的头斜倚着。他放下靴子，悄悄地走进房间。三个小时前，他们在这里开了舞会。他还能闻到空气中的酒味。当他走进来时，她把手指放在唇边示意，又指了指病人——他不会听见基普轻轻的脚步声。工兵又坐在窗台—上。如果他能穿过房间去触摸她一下，英国病人就会清醒的。但是他们之间横亘着危险又错综复杂的距离。他们之间横亘着非常宽广的世界。任何声响都能使那个英国人醒过来，当他睡觉时，他总是把助听器开到最大，他觉得这样比较安全。女孩向四周瞥了一眼，当她面对坐在窗台—上的基普时，她的目光又静止了。     他已经找到死亡的地区和遗留在那儿的东西，他们在那儿埋葬了他的副队长哈弟。     他又继续想着那天下午的那个女孩，突然为她感到害怕，为她把自己卷进来而生气，她差点就陪上了生命。她蹬着眼睛。她最后的示意动作，就是把手指放在唇边。他斜倚着头，用肩亡的勋带摩擦脸颊。     他已经从村子里走回来，雨点落在小镇广场上那些断裂的树上。战争开始以后，树就没有修剪过，他走过那奇怪的雕像，雕像是两个骑在马上的人正在握手的姿态。而现在他在这儿，烛光摇曳，看不清她的模样，以致于他说不出她在想什么，说不出那表情是睿智，是忧伤，还是好奇。     如果她在读书，或者正俯身照料那位英国人，他或许就会对她点点头而后离去，但是现在他看着哈纳，她是如此年轻，如此孤单。今晚，看过地雷爆炸的情景之后，他开始为她在下午拆弹时的出现感到害怕，他得不去想它，否则他每次接近引信时，就会想到她，他的脑中会充满她的影子。当他工作的时候，他的世界总是充满着清晰和谐的音乐，而人类世界都消失了。但现在，她会在他的怀里，或倚在他的肩上，使他想起有次他们正往坑道里灌水，—位长官背着一头活山羊爬出坑道的样子。     不对。     那不是真的。他向往哈纳的肩膀，想把手放在她的肩上，就像白天她睡觉的时候一样。在阳光下，他躺在那里望着她，心里局促不安，仿佛自己成了被瞄准的靶心似的。在无名画家所描绘的风景里，他并不指望有多么舒适，他只是想和她在一起，在这间屋子里守候着她。他不再承认自己的缺点，和她在—起，他再也找不到自身的缺点，他们淮电不愿意将自己的缺点暴露给对方。哈纳如此安静地坐着，她看着他，她的模样在摇曳的烛光中显得变幻不定。他不知道对她来说，他只是个侧影，他瘦小的身影隐人—片黑暗之中。     早些时候，她看见他离开窗台，因而感到生气。她知道他像保护孩子一样保护他们免遭地雷危害。她更紧紧地搂着卡拉瓦焦。这是一种侮辱。今天晚上她心情兴奋，卡拉瓦焦睡觉了，她先检查了药箱，英国病人敲着他瘦骨嶙峋的手指，当她俯身照料他时，他吻了她的脸颊，今晚上她不能阅读了。     她吹灭了其它的蜡烛，只点了一小节蜡烛放在床边的桌子上。她坐在那里。英国人在说了一阵胡言乱语之后，面朝着她睡了。“有时我是一匹马，有时我是一条猎狗，一头猪，一只没有头的鹿，有时候是一团火。”她能听见熔化的蜡油滴进身边的金属托盘里的声音。工兵已经穿过小镇，到山谷里看过爆炸现场了，他无谓的沉默使她生气。     她不能读书。她坐在房间里，和她行将就木的病人待在一起。她和卡拉瓦焦跳舞时不小心撞在墙上，背上的—小块仍然感到肿痛。     如果他向前移动，她会瞪着他，直到他走出去。她会以同样的沉默对待他，让他猜测，采取行动。以前就有些工兵向她献过殷勤了。     但是他现在就是这样。他就要穿过房间了，肩上始终背着小背包，手伸进打开的背包里。他的脚步寂静无声。他转过身，在床边逗留了一下，就在这时，英国病人长长呼了口气，他用截断器割断了助听器，然后把截断器放进小背包里。他转过身，对她咧嘴一笑。     “我早上再帮他接上。”     他把左手放到了她的肩上。     “大卫·卡拉瓦焦—对你来说是个滑稽可笑的名字，当然……”     “至少我有个名字。”     “是的。”     卡拉瓦焦坐在哈纳的椅子上。午后的阳光照亮整个房间，阳光中有灰尘在漂浮着，阳光洒在英国人黝黑瘦削的脸和鼻尖上，使他看起来像一只静止的老鹰，一只包裹在床单里的老鹰。床单是老鹰的棺木，卡拉瓦焦想道。     英国人转向他。     “有——幅卡拉瓦焦的画，他下半生画的，叫《大卫和歌利亚的头》，年轻的勇士提着歌利亚的头，又老又丑。但这不是这幅画里真正的悲哀。在这幅画上，大卫的脸是年轻的卡拉瓦焦的肖像，而歌利亚的头是他年老时的肖像。从他伸出的手臂来看，他是个青年，因此可以看到—个人有生之年的变化。当我看见基普站在我的床边时，我想他就是我的大卫。”         卡拉瓦焦默默地坐在那儿，思绪随着尘埃飘落。战争使他的个性丕变，他的四肢因为注射吗啡的关系而变得麻木，他无法再回到其它的世界。他是个中年男子，从来不曾习惯家庭生活。在他的一生当中，他始终在逃避长久的亲密关系。在战争爆发之前，他是个好情人，而不是好丈夫，他已经成了一个逃避责任的人，就像情人离开混乱，就像小偷离开已掠夺过的屋子。     他注视着躺在床上的那个人。他要知道这个从沙漠里来的英国人是谁。为了哈纳，他要揭开他的身分。也许为他披上一层伪装，就像丹宁酸能掩饰一个烧伤患者的伤口一样。     战争初期，在开罗工作的时候，他接受如何伪装双面间谍的训练，使瘦得像幽灵的人胖起来。他曾经负责伪装一个代号叫“起司”的神秘间谍，他花了几个星期的时间，为他制造假身分，赋予他各种性格——比如贪婪和贪杯。然后他把假情报泄露给敌人，就像他在开罗效劳的那些人能凭空捏造沙漠里有整队人马一样。整个战争时期他都经历过，他周围发生的每件事都是谎言。他觉得就像一个待在屋子里学鸟叫的人。     但是在这里，他们都卸去了伪装，他们除了自己，什么也模仿不了。这里没有防卫，只有从别人身上找寻真相。     她把那本《吉姆》从书架上拿下来，靠着钢琴站着，开始在最后几页的空白页上写字。     他说这门炮——参参玛炮——仍在拉合尔博物馆外的老地方。那儿有两门炮，用城里印度人家里的金属茶杯和碗造的——作为税品收缴来的，这些金属器具被熔化做成了炮。他们在十八世纪和十九世纪打击锡克教徒的战斗中使用过这两门炮。另一门炮在渡过杰纳布河的一场战斗中丢失了。     她合上书，爬上椅子，把这本书安稳地放在书架高处隐蔽的地方。     她带着一本新书，走进绘有壁画的卧室，让他看了一下书名。     “现在不读书，哈纳。”     她看着他。他有一双即使是现在她都认为很漂亮的眼睛。他烧焦的躯体上，只有灰色的眼眸能传递一切感情。那双眼眸像是一座灯塔，在她身上扫过无数次的眼光。     “不要再找别的书了，只要给我那本希罗多德的书就行了。”     她把那本又厚又脏的书放到他手里。     “我曾经看过一些《历史》的版本，封面上有尊雕像。那是法国博物馆收藏的一个雕像，但是我从没想过希罗多德是这样的。我看他更像沙漠里的闲人，从一个绿洲旅行到另一个绿洲，像交换种子一样交流传说。毫不怀疑地吸收一切，拼凑成海市蜃楼。‘这就是我的历史，’希罗多德说，‘搜集旁据，来证明一个主要论点。’——人们如何为了民族互相背叛，人们如何坠人情网——你说过你有多大?”     “二十岁。”    ．     “我坠人情网时比你要大得多。”     哈纳沉默了一会儿：“她是谁?”     但是他已经把目光移开了。     “鸟儿喜欢有枯枝的树。”卡拉瓦焦说，“它们从栖身的树枝上可以眺望全景，可以往任何方向展翅飞翔。”     “如果你是在说我，”哈纳说，“我可不是只鸟儿，楼上那位才真是只鸟儿呢!”     基普试图把她想成一只鸟儿。     “告诉我，你有没有可能爱上一个没有你那么聪明的人?”卡拉瓦焦像犯了毒瘾似的激动起来，他渴望一种争论的气氛，“在我的性生活中，这个问题常使我感到不安——我的性生活开始得很晚，我得向这群杰出的朋友们说明。同样关于性问题的闲谈，也只是在婚后才使我感到愉快。我从未想过谈话也能引起性欲。有时我对谈话的兴趣真的大于做爱。问题是，谈话过多会使人陷入困境，而自慰却不会使人陷入困境。”     “那是男人的说法。”哈纳嘟哝着。     “好吧，我不是这个意思。”卡拉瓦焦继续说道，“也许你是这么想的，基普，当你从山上来到孟买，当你到英国去接受军事训练的时候，你也许会这样想，我想知道是否有人因自慰而陷入困境。你多大，基普?”     “二十六岁。”     “比我大。”     “比哈纳大。如果她没有你聪明，你会爱上她吗?我的意思是，她也许没有你聪明。但是你是不是会为了要爱她，而把她想象得比你聪明?你想想，她之所以被那个英国人迷住了，是因为他懂得更多。我们和那家伙谈话时，就像置身于广阔的战场上。我们甚至不知道他是不是英国人。也许他不是。我认为对于她来说，爱上他比爱上你更容易。为什么?因为我们想了解一些事情，想要把前因后果搞清楚，谈话者引诱我们，用浯言引我们人瓮。我们迫切想成长和改变，我们想探索未知的世界。”     “我不这么认为。”哈纳道。     “我也不这么认为。让我告诉你一些像我这年纪的人的事情。最糟糕的事情，是现在别人认为你的人格已大致定型。人到中年，人们会认为你不会再改变了。你们瞧。”说到这，卡拉瓦焦抬起双手，指着哈纳和基普。哈纳站起来，走到他身后，搂着他的脖子。     “别这样，好吗?大卫?”     她的双手轻轻地握住他的手。     “我们楼上已经有一位说疯话的人了。”     “看看我们——我们就坐在这里，就像那些肮脏的阔佬，在城里太热时，他们就上了肮脏的山，住进肮脏的破别墅里。现在是早上九点钟——楼上的老家伙在睡觉。哈纳被他迷住了，我被哈纳的通情达理迷住了，我被我的平衡迷住了，而基普有一天也许会被炸死。为什么?为了谁?他才二十六岁。英国军队教给他这种技能，而美国人教给他更多的技术，工兵部队受训后，被授军衔，被派往山里。你被利用于，小伙子，就像威尔斯人说的。我在这里待不久了，我要带你回家，离开倒楣的道奇城。”     “住口，大卫，他会活下去的。”     “那天被炸死的那个工兵，叫什么名字?”     基普没有作声。 “他叫什么名字？” “山姆哈弟。”基普走到窗边，看着窗外，不去管他们谈什么。     “我们的问题在于我们待在不该待的地方。我们在非洲干什么?我们在意大利干什么?基普为什么要在果园里拆炸弹?为了上帝吗?他为何要卷入英国的战争?当—个西部前线的农夫修剪一棵树时，将会毁坏他的锯子，为什么?因为在上—场战役中，有大堆的炸弹碎片扎进了树干。我们甚至给树木带来了灾难。军队给你灌输信仰，然后把你扔在这儿，然后他们又到别的地方作孽去了。你只是个微不足道的小东西。我们都应该离开这儿。”     “我们不能扔下英国人不管。”     “那个英国人几个月前就走了，哈纳，他现在正和贝都因人在—起，或待在开满草夹竹桃和狗屎的英国花园里。他甚至可能记不住他所迷恋的女人、想谈论的女人是谁，他连自己在哪里都不知道。     “你认为我在生你的气，对吗?因为你坠人情网了，是吗?你把我当作一个嫉妒的叔叔。我是在为你担心。我要杀掉那个英国人，因为这是惟一能拯救你，使你离开这里的办法。但我开始喜欢他了。抛开你的包袱，如果你不聪明点儿，说服基普结束他的冒险生涯，他怎么会爱你?”     “因为他对文明世界有着坚定的信念，他是个文明人。”     “你错了。正确的行动应该是坐上火车离去，一起生养孩子。我们要不要去问问那个英国人，那个怪人，他是怎么想的?     “为什么你不能更聪明点儿?只有富人不敢耍聪明，他们有所羁绊，他们在多年前就被享有的特权所束缚。他们必须保护自己的财产。没有人比富人更卑鄙了。相信我。但是他们必须遵守文明世界的一些规矩。他们发动战争。他们要面子，所以他们不能离开，但是你们俩，我们三个，我们是自由的。有多少工兵死了?为什么你还没有死?别负什么责任了。好运不会长久的。”    ．     哈纳往她的杯子里倒牛奶，当她倒满了，她便把壶嘴放在基普手上，继续把牛奶倒进他棕色的手掌里，再往上沿着他的手臂到他的手肘，然后停在那儿，他没有挪开。     房子西侧狭长的花园可区分成两部分：一方形整齐的花坛，再往上一点是较幽暗的花园。阴雨湿润下蓬勃繁殖的绿苔，几乎吞噬了石阶和水泥雕像原来的面目。工兵在这儿搭起了帐篷。雨下个不停，山谷里升腾起薄薄的迷雾，柏木和枞树枝上的雨水掉落到山边这块未清理完的小土地上。     只有营火才能使长期阴冷潮湿、晒不到太阳的花园变得干爽。他们把废木板、炮击遗下的椽木、枯枝、哈纳下午拔的杂草和用长柄大镰刀割的野草、荨麻堆在一起燃烧。从昨天下午一直烧到黄昏。潮湿的火堆冒着浓烟和蒸汽。植物的气味随着烟飘向灌木丛，又袅袅地升上树梢。烟雾飘到花园里，又传了过来。他闻着烟味，猜测是哪种植物在燃烧。他想到迷迭香、马利筋、苦艾，还有其它的植物——没有香味的植物，也许像野生紫罗兰或者假向日葵，山里微酸的土壤适合它们生长。     英国病人建议哈纳种点儿什么：“让你的意大利朋友帮你找种子，他似乎能在这方面帮助你。你需要李子叶，火红石竹花和印度石竹花——如果你想告诉你的拉丁朋友它的拉丁名字，就叫它Silene virginica。红色的香薄荷也不错。如果你喜欢小鸟，就找些榛树和野樱桃。”     她把这些记下来，然后把钢笔放进小桌子的抽屉里。这张小桌子是她放书用的，还放着两根蜡烛和火柴。这间屋子里没有医药用品，她把它们藏到别的房间去了。如果卡拉瓦焦要找那些药，她不希望他因而骚扰到英国人。她把写了植物名称的纸放进衣服口袋，准备拿给卡拉瓦焦。她现在已经朦胧地感到肉体的诱惑，她开始感觉到在这三个男人中间，她的处境很尴尬。     如果那真是肉体的诱惑，如果这一切与她对基普的爱有关，她愿意把她的脸贴在他的手臂——那条暗棕色的河流，她愿意沉溺其中。她愿意靠在他身上，感觉那看不见的静脉在他的身体里跳动。     早上两三点钟，离开英国人后，她穿过花园，朝着工兵的防风灯走去，他把防风灯挂在圣克里斯托弗毋雕像的手臂上。黑暗横亘在她与灯光之间，但她熟悉小径上的一草一木。她路过烧营火的地方，仍有淡红色的火苗在燃烧。她有时把手拱成杯状，吹着火焰，有时则离开它，让它烧着。她低着头，进了帐篷，爬近基普的身体，那是她渴望的手臂。她用舌头代替棉花，用牙齿代替针，用嘴巴代替可卡因面罩使他人睡，使他慢慢沉睡下来。她把有着印花的衣服对折起来，放在网球鞋上。 她知道世界上所发生的事对于他来说，只是遵循着几条重要的规律。你全神贯注地拆除烈性炸药，销毁它——当她像个纯洁的妹妹睡在他身边时，她知道的这些念头都在他的脑海中出现。     帐篷和黑暗的树林围绕着他们。     和奥托纳或蒙特奇临时医院里那些伤员比较起来，这不过是多了一点安慰。她的体温，她安慰的耳语，她催眠的药剂。但是工兵拒绝来自外界的东西进入他的身体。恋爱中的男孩不吃她找来的食物，不需要也不要她往他的手臂里注射药剂，像她为卡拉瓦焦所做的—样，也不要英国病人所迫切需要的那些沙漠民族发明的药膏。这种油膏和花粉能够像贝都因人所做的那样，使他振作精神。他要的只是睡眠带来的舒适感。     他在身边放—些物品：她给他的一些树叶，—截蜡烛，他帐篷里的半导体收音机和装满训练工具的背包。他冷静地迎接战斗，即使那是错误的，对他来说也意味着命令。他继续严格地训练自己，追踪瞄准沿着山谷飞翔的老鹰。拆开炸弹，一边目不转睛地盯着目标，—边伸手取过热水瓶，打开瓶盖喝水，甚至没有对金属杯子瞧一眼。     她想，对他来说，我们这些人是无关紧要的。他的眼里只看得见危险，他的耳朵只关心透过短波传来的赫尔辛基和柏林的消息。甚至当他扮演温柔阶晴人，当她的左手抚摸着他的衣袖，感到他前臂紧绷的肌肉时，她也感觉到那茫然若失的眼睛里根本没有她，直到他的头贴近她的脖子，发出一声呻吟。除了危险，其它的一切都是次要的。她已经告诉过他要出点儿声，并要求他这么做。自从这场战争发生之后，如果说他有机会放松一下，那就是在这样的情况下，就好像他终于愿意承认他置身在黑暗里，只能用人类的声音来表达他的快乐。     我们不知道她或他有多爱对方，也不知道这里面有多少秘密游戏的成分。当他们日渐亲密时，他们在白天的空间却拉开了。她喜欢他与她保持距离，他所假定的空间是他们的权利。它赋予彼此一种活力。当他不发—语地路过她的窗下，步行半里路去和镇上别的工兵们集合时，他们彼此间似有默契存在。他会把盘子或食物递到她手中。她会在他棕色的手腕放上一片树叶。或者他们会和卡拉瓦焦一起修补那堵快要倒塌的墙。工兵唱着那首西部歌曲，卡拉瓦焦很喜欢听，却假装不喜欢。     “宾夕法尼亚，六、五，噢，噢，噢。”年轻的工兵喘着气唱道。          她熟悉他身上不同程度的暗淡肤色，他手臂的颜色和脖子的颜色不同。他手掌的颜色，他的脸颊，头下的皮肤。分离着红线和黑线的深色手指。他从青铜盘里取了面包，他的肤色衬着面色的颜色。然后他站了起来，他的独立自足在别人眼中看来是无礼的，尽管他觉得这是十分礼貌的。     她喜欢他洗澡时湿漉漉的脖子上的肤色。在他的帐篷里，当他俯在她身上时，她的手抵着他汗湿的胸膛。那深色的、坚实的手臂。有一次在她的房间，宵禁解除了，山谷里城市的灯光照进房内，就像夕阳照亮了他的肤色。     后来她明白了，他不希望自己感激她，也不愿她感激他。她在小说里看到“感激”这个词，把它抄下来，然后去查字典。那字眼有受人恩惠的意思。而他和她都明白，绝不能允许这种事情发生。如果她愿意穿过二百码黑暗的花园来到他身边，这是她的选择。也许她会发现他已经睡着，不是由于缺乏爱情，而是因为需要睡眠，以便清醒地面对明天的危险。     他认为她十分出色。他醒着看着她站在灯影里，他最喜欢她脸上那种伶俐的表情。有时他喜欢在晚上听她傻乎乎地和卡拉瓦焦争吵的声音，也喜欢她像个圣徒似的爬进他的帐篷，紧靠在身边。     他们聊着，散发着帆布味的帐篷里充满着他轻柔的声音。这个帐篷已经跟随着他经历了意大利的所有战役。他伸手抚摸着帐篷，仿佛它是他身体的一部分。一只他在夜里可以藏身的卡其布羽翼。这是他的世界。这几夜她觉得像被放逐到加拿大一样。他问她为什么睡不着。她躺在那里，被他的独立所激怒，生气他能如此轻易地远离这个世界。她需要一个能够遮雨的铁皮屋顶，两株在她窗前枝叶婆娑的白杨树，她能在听这种声音的情况下睡去。在多伦多东部，有能使她入睡的树，能使她入睡的屋顶，此后几年她跟着帕特里克和克莱拉顺着斯古特麦特河而下，而后到达乔治湾，她都拥有那样的树和屋顶。但是在这个花木茂盛的花园里，她还没找到一棵能使她入睡的树。     “吻我，我最爱你的嘴和你的牙齿。”当他的头歪向一边，向着从帐篷门口吹进来的风时，她低语，不只是说给自己听：“也许我们该问问卡拉瓦焦。我爸爸曾对我说，卡拉瓦焦是那种经常坠人情网的人，不只是‘坠入’情网，而是经常沉溺其中，永远糊里糊涂的，但永远开心。基普，你听见我说话吗?我和你在一起的时候是那么快乐，就像现在。”    她最希望能有一条河让他们游泳。她猜想在河里游泳应该像在舞厅里跳舞一样。但是他对河流有另一种感觉。他曾悄悄地进入莫罗河，把绳索系在行将倒塌的贝利桥上，那些精选的钢板在他身后像生物般滑入河中，炮火染红了天空。在河中央，有人沉了下去。工兵们一次又一次地潜入水中寻找丢失的滑轮。他们一起努力寻找滑轮，并抓紧钩子，空中的磷火照亮了烂泥、水面和人们的脸孔。     他们彻夜哭泣和喊叫，最后不得不互相制止，使自己不致于发疯。他们的衣衫被冬天的河水浸透，桥在他们头顶慢慢地连成一条路。他们经过的每一条河流都没有桥，好像河的名字已经消失，好像天空已不再有星星，家里也不再有门一样。工兵部队带着绳索滑入水中，他们用肩膀扛来缆绳，用扳手拧紧螺栓，涂上润滑油，使桥体不发出吱嘎声，而在部队通过之后，建造桥梁的工兵们还泡在水里。     当炮弹飞来的时候，他们经常身处在河流中，毫无掩护。炮弹投向河岸，把钢铁炸得粉碎，没有什么掩体能保护他们，褐色的河像丝带一样薄，被钢铁切断了。     他从回忆中回到现实。他知道要快快入睡，不要去管她，她已沉醉在自己想象的河流当中。     是的。卡拉瓦焦会向她解释怎样才能坠人情网，甚至怎样才能陷入谨慎的爱。“我想带你到斯古特麦特河去，基普，”她说，“我想带你去看烟波湖。我爸爸曾爱过的女人住在湖边。她坐进独木舟比坐进小汽车里容易。我怀念停电时的雷声和闪电。我希望你去见见坐独木舟的克莱拉。她是我们家的最后一个人。现在没有别人了，我爸爸为了战争抛弃了她。”     她径直向他的帐篷走去，既没有迈错脚步，也没有一丝迟疑。月光透过树枝洒在她身上，仿佛舞厅里旋转的霓虹灯。她走进他的帐篷，俯身将耳朵贴在他的胸膛上，听着他的心跳，就像他听着一枚炸弹的定时器一样。凌晨两点钟，除了她之外，所有的人 都睡了。

IV South Cairo 1930-1938 THERE is, after Herodotus, little interest by the Western world towards the desert for hundreds of years. From 425 B.C. to the beginning of the twentieth century there is an averting of eyes. Silence. The nineteenth century was an age of river seekers. And then in the 19205 there is a sweet postscript history on this pocket of earth, made mostly by privately funded expeditions and followed by modest lectures given at the Geographical Society in London at Kensington Gore. These lectures are given by sunburned, exhausted men who, like Conrad’s sailors, are not too comfortable with the etiquette of taxis, the quick, flat wit of bus conductors. When they travel by local trains from the suburbs towards Knightsbridge on their way to Society meetings, they are often lost, tickets misplaced, clinging only to their old maps and carrying their lecture notes—which were slowly and painfully written—in their ever present knapsacks which will always be a part of their bodies. These men of all nations travel at that early evening hour, six o’clock, when there is the light of the solitary. It is an anonymous time, most of the city is going home. The explorers arrive too early at Kensington Gore, eat at the Lyons Corner House and then enter the Geographical Society, where they sit in the upstairs hall next to the large Maori canoe, going over their notes. At eight o’clock the talks begin. Every other week there is a lecture. Someone will introduce the talk and someone will give thanks. The concluding speaker usually argues or tests the lecture for hard currency, is pertinently critical but never impertinent. The main speakers, everyone assumes, stay close to the facts, and even obsessive assumptions are presented modestly. My journey through the Libyan Desert from Sokum on the Mediterranean to El Obeid in the Sudan was made over one of the few tracks of the earth’s surface which present a number and variety of interesting geographical problems.... The years of preparation and research and fund-raising are never mentioned in these oak rooms. The previous week’s lecturer recorded the loss of thirty people in ice in Antarctica. Similar losses in extreme heat or windstorm are announced with minimal eulogy. All human and financial behaviour lies on the far side of the issue being discussed—which is the earth’s surface and its “interesting geographical problems.” Can other depressions in this region, besides the much-discussed Wadi Rayan, be considered possible of utilization in connection with irrigation or drainage of the Nile Delta? Are the artesian water supplies of the oases gradually diminishing? Where shall we look for the mysterious “Zerzura”? Are there any other “lost” oases remaining to be discovered? Where are the tortoise marshes of Ptolemy? John Bell, director of Desert Surveys in Egypt, asked these questions in 1927. By the 19305 the papers grew even more modest. “/ should like to add a few remarks on some of the points raised in the interesting discussion on the ‘Prehistoric Geography of Kharga Oasis.’ “ By the mid-19305 the lost oasis of Zerzura was found by Ladislaus de Almasy and his companions. In 1939 the great decade of Libyan Desert expeditions came to an end, and this vast and silent pocket of the earth became one of the theatres of war. In the arboured bedroom the burned patient views great distances. The way that dead knight in Ravenna, whose marble body seems alive, almost liquid, has his head raised upon a stone pillow, so it can gaze beyond his feet into vista. Farther than the desired rain of Africa. Towards all their lives in Cairo. Their works and days. Hana sits by his bed, and she travels like a squire beside him during these journeys. In 1930 we had begun mapping the greater part of the Gilf Kebir Plateau, looking for the lost oasis that was called Zerzura. The City of Acacias. We were desert Europeans. John Bell had sighted the Gilf in 1917. Then Kemal el Din. Then Bagnold, who found his way south into the Sand Sea. Madox, Walpole of Desert Surveys, His Excellency Wasfi Bey, Casparius the photographer, Dr. Kadar the geologist and Bermann. And the Gilf Kebir— that large plateau resting in the Libyan Desert, the size of Switzerland, as Madox liked to say—was our heart, its escarpments precipitous to the east and west, the plateau sloping gradually to the north. It rose out of the desert four hundred miles west of the Nile. For the early Egyptians there was supposedly no water west of the oasis towns. The world ended out there. The interior was waterless. But in the emptiness of deserts you are always surrounded by lost history. Tebu and Senussi tribes had roamed there possessing wells that they guarded with great secrecy. There were rumours of fertile lands that nestled within the desert’s interior. Arab writers in the thirteenth century spoke of Zerzura. “The Oasis of Little Birds.” “The City of Acacias.” In The Book of Hidden Treasures, the Kitab al Kanuz, Zerzura is depicted as a white city, “white as a dove.” Look at a map of the Libyan Desert and you will see names. Kemal el Din in 1925, who, almost solitary, carried out the first great modern expedition. Bagnold 1930-1932. Almasy-Madox 1931-1937. Just north of the Tropic of Cancer. We were a small clutch of a nation between the wars, mapping and re-exploring. We gathered at Dakhla and Kufra as if they were bars or cafes. An oasis society, Bagnold called it. We knew each other’s intimacies, each other’s skills and weaknesses. We forgave Bagnold everything for the way he wrote about dunes. “The grooves and the corrugated sand resemble the hollow of the roof of a dog’s mouth.” That was the real Bagnold, a man who would put his inquiring hand into the jaws of a dog. 1930. Our first journey, moving south from Jaghbub into the desert among the preserve of Zwaya and Majabra’s tribes. A seven-day journey to El Taj. Madox and Bermann, four others. Some camels a horse and a dog. As we left they told us the old joke. “To start a journey in a sandstorm is good luck.” We camped the first night twenty miles south. The next morning we woke and came out of our tents at five. Too cold to sleep. We stepped towards the fires and sat in their light in the larger darkness. Above us were the last stars. There would be no sunrise for another two hours. We passed around hot glasses of tea. The camels were being fed, half asleep, chewing the dates along with the date stones. We ate breakfast and then drank three more glasses of tea. Hours later we were in the sandstorm that hit us out of clear morning, coming from nowhere. The breeze that had been refreshing had gradually strengthened. Eventually we looked down, and the surface of the desert was changed. Pass me the book... here. This is Hassanein Bey’s wonderful account of such storms— “It is as though the surface were underlaid with steam-pipes, with thousands of orifices through which tiny jets of steam are puffing out. The sand leaps in little spurts and whirls. Inch by inch the disturbance rises as the wind increases its force. It seems as though the whole surface of the desert were rising in obedience to some upthrusting force beneath. Larger pebbles strike against the shins, the knees, the thighs. The sand-grains climb the body till it strikes the face and goes over the head. The sky is shut out, all but the nearest objects fade from view, the universe is filled.” We had to keep moving. If you pause sand builds up as it would around anything stationary, and locks you in. You are lost forever. A sandstorm can last five hours. Even when we were in trucks in later years we would have to keep driving with no vision. The worst terrors came at night. Once, north of Kufra, we were hit by a storm in the darkness. Three a.m. The gale swept the tents from their moorings and we rolled with them, taking in sand like a sinking boat takes in water, weighed down, suffocating, till we were cut free by a camel driver. We travelled through three storms during nine days. We missed small desert towns where we expected to locate more supplies. The horse vanished. Three of the camels died. For the last two days there was no food, only tea. The last link with any other world was the clink of the fire-black tea urn and the long spoon and the glass which came towards us in the darkness of the mornings. After the third night we gave up talking. All that mattered was the fire and the minimal brown liquid. Only by luck did we stumble on the desert town of El Taj. I walked through the souk, the alley of clocks chiming, into the street of barometers, past the rifle-cartridge stalls, stands of Italian tomato sauce and other tinned food from Benghazi, calico from Egypt, ostrich-tail decorations, street dentists, book merchants. We were still mute, each of us dispersing along our own paths. We received this new world slowly, as if coming out of a drowning. In the central square of El Taj we sat and ate lamb, rice, badawi cakes, and drank milk with almond pulp beaten into it. All this after the long wait for three ceremonial glasses of tea flavoured with amber and mint. Sometime in 1931 I joined a Bedouin caravan and was told there was another one of us there. Fenelon-Barnes, it turned out. I went to his tent. He was out for the day on some small expedition, cataloguing fossil trees. I looked around his tent, the sheaf of maps, the photos he always carried of his family, et cetera. As I was leaving I saw a mirror tacked up high against the skin wall, and looking at it I saw the reflection of the bed. There seemed to be a small lump, a dog possibly, under the covers. I pulled back the djellaba and there was a small Arab girl tied up, sleeping there. By 1932, Bagnold was finished and Madox and the rest of us were everywhere. Looking for the lost army of Cambyses. Looking for Zerzura. 1932 and 1933 and 1934. Not seeing each other for months. Just the Bedouin and us, crisscrossing the Forty Days Road. There were rivers of desert tribes, the most beautiful humans I’ve met in my life. We were German, English, Hungarian, African—all of us insignificant to them. Gradually we became nationless. I came to hate nations. We are deformed by nation-states. Madox died because of nations. The desert could not be claimed or owned—it was a piece of cloth carried by winds, never held down by stones, and given a hundred shifting names long before Canterbury existed, long before battles and treaties quilted Europe and the East. Its caravans, those strange rambling feasts and cultures, left nothing behind, not an ember. All of us, even those with European homes and children in the distance, wished to remove the clothing of our countries. It was a place of faith. We disappeared into landscape. Fire and sand. We left the harbours of oasis. The places water came to and touched... Ain, Bir, Wadi, Foggara, Khottara, Shaduf. I didn’t want my name against such beautiful names. Erase the family name! Erase nations! I was taught such things by the desert. Still, some wanted their mark there. On that dry watercourse, on this shingled knoll. Small vanities in this plot of land northwest of the Sudan, south of Cyrenaica. Fenelon-Barnes wanted the fossil trees he discovered to bear his name. He even wanted a tribe to take his name, and spent a year on the negotiations. Then Bauchan outdid him, having a type of sand dune named after him. But I wanted to erase my name and the place I had come from. By the time war arrived, after ten years in the desert, it was easy for me to slip across borders, not to belong to anyone, to any nation. 1933 or 1934. I forget the year. Madox, Casparius, Ber-mann, myself, two Sudanese drivers and a cook. By now we travel in A-type Ford cars with box bodies and are using for the first time large balloon tires known as air wheels. They ride better on sand, but the gamble is whether they will stand up to stone fields and splinter rocks. We leave Kharga on March 22. Bermann and I have theorized that three wadis written about by Williamson in 1838 make up Zerzura. Southwest of the Gilf Kebir are three isolated granite massifs rising out of the plain—Gebel Arkanu, Gebel Uweinat, and Gebel Kissu. The three are fifteen miles apart from each other. Good water in several of the ravines, though the wells at Gebel Arkanu are bitter, not drinkable except in an emergency. Williamson said three wadis formed Zerzura, but he never located them and this is considered fable. Yet even one rain oasis in these crater-shaped hills would solve the riddle of how Cambyses and his army could attempt to cross such a desert, of the Senussi raids during the Great War, when the black giant raiders crossed a desert which supposedly has no water or pasture. This was a world that had been civilised for centuries, had a thousand paths and roads. We find jars at Abu Ballas with the classic Greek amphora shape. Herodotus speaks of such jars. Bermann and I talk to a snakelike mysterious old man in the fortress of El Jof—in the stone hall that once had been the library of the great Senussi sheik. An old Tebu, a caravan guide by profession, speaking accented Arabic. Later Bermann says “like the screeching of bats,” quoting Herodotus. We talk to him all day, all night, and he gives nothing away. The Senussi creed, their foremost doctrine, is still not to reveal the secrets of the desert to strangers. At Wadi el Melik we see birds of an unknown species. On May 5, I climb a stone cliff and approach the Uweinat plateau from a new direction. I find myself in a broad wadi full of acacia trees. There was a time when mapmakers named the places they travelled through with the names of lovers rather than their own. Someone seen bathing in a desert caravan, holding up muslin with one arm in front of her. Some old Arab poet’s woman, whose white-dove shoulders made him describe an oasis with her name. The skin bucket spreads water over her, she wraps herself in the cloth, and the old scribe turns from her to describe Zerzura. So a man in the desert can slip into a name as if within a discovered well, and in its shadowed coolness be tempted never to leave such containment. My great desire was to remain there, among those acacias. I was walking not in a place where no one had walked before but in a place where there were sudden, brief populations over the centuries—a fourteenth-century army, a Tebu caravan, the Senussi raiders of 1915. And in between these times—nothing was there. When no rain fell the acacias withered, the wadis dried out... until water suddenly reappeared fifty or a hundred years later. Sporadic appearances and disappearances, like legends and rumours through history. In the desert the most loved waters, like a lover’s name, are carried blue in your hands, enter your throat. One swallows absence. A woman in Cairo curves the white length of her body up from the bed and leans out of the window into a rainstorm to allow her nakedness to receive it. Hana leans forward, sensing his drifting, watching him, not saying a word. Who is she, this woman? The ends of the earth are never the points on a map that colonists push against, enlarging their sphere of influence. On one side servants and slaves and tides of power and correspondence with the Geographical Society. On the other the first step by a white man across a great river, the first sight (by a white eye) of a mountain that has been there forever. When we are young we do not look into mirrors. It is when we are old, concerned with our name, our legend, what our lives will mean to the future. We become vain with the names we own, our claims to have been the first eyes, the strongest army, the cleverest merchant. It is when he is old that Narcissus wants a graven image of himself. But we were interested in how our lives could mean something to the past. We sailed into the past. We were young. We knew power and great finance were temporary things. We all slept with Herodotus. “For those cities that were great in earlier times must have now become small, and those that were great in my time were small in the time before.... Man’s good fortune never abides in the same place.” In 1936 a young man named Geoffrey Clifton had met a friend at Oxford who mentioned what we were doing. He contacted me, got married the next day, and two weeks later flew with his wife to Cairo. The couple entered our world—the four of us, Prince Kemal el Din, Bell, Almasy and Madox. The name that still filled our mouths was Gilf Kebir. Somewhere in the Gilf nestled Zerzura, whose name occurs in Arab writings as far back as the thirteenth century. When you travel that far in time you need a plane, and young Clifton was rich and he could fly and he had a plane. Clifton met us in El Jof, north of Uweinat. He sat in his two-seater plane and we walked towards him from the base camp. He stood up in the cockpit and poured a drink out of his flask. His new wife sat beside him. “I name this site the Bir Messaha Country Club,” he announced. I watched the friendly uncertainty scattered across his wife’s face, her lionlike hair when she pulled off the leather helmet. They were youth, felt like our children. They climbed out of the plane and shook hands with us. That was 1936, the beginning of our story.... They jumped off the wing of the Moth. Clifton walked towards us holding out the flask, and we all sipped the warm alcohol. He was one for ceremonies. He had named his plane Rupert Bear. I don’t think he loved the desert, but he had an affection for it that grew out of awe at our stark order, into which he wanted to fit himself—like a joyous undergraduate who respects silent behaviour in a library. We had not expected him to bring his wife, but we were I suppose courteous about it. She stood there while the sand collected in her mane of hair. What were we to this young couple? Some of us had written books about dune formation, the disappearance and reappearance of oases, the lost culture of deserts. We seemed to be interested only in things that could not be bought or sold, of no interest to the outside world. We argued about latitudes, or about an event that had happened seven hundred years earlier. The theorems of exploration. That Abd el Melik Ibra-him el Zwaya who lived in Zuck oasis pasturing camels was the first man among those tribes who could understand the concept of photographs. The Cliftons were on the last days of their honeymoon. I left them with the others and went to join a man in Kufra and spent many days with him, trying out theories I had kept secret from the rest of the expedition. I returned to the base camp at El Jof three nights later. The desert fire was between us. The Cliftons, Madox, Bell and myself. If a man leaned back a few inches he would dis appear into darkness. Katharine Clifton began to recite something, and my head was no longer in the halo of the camp’s twig fire. There was classical blood in her face. Her parents were famous, apparently, in the world of legal history. I am a man who did not enjoy poetry until I heard a woman recite it to us. And in that desert she dragged her university days into our midst to describe the stars—the way Adam tenderly taught a woman with gracious metaphors. These then, though unbeheld in deep of night, Shine not in vain, nor think, though men were none, That Heav’n would want spectators, God want praise; Millions of spiritual Creatures walk the Earth Unseen, both when we -wake, and when we sleep: All these with ceaseless praise his works behold Both day and night: how often from the steep Of echoing Hill or Thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to other’s note Singing their great Creator... That night I fell in love with a voice. Only a voice. I wanted to hear nothing more. I got up and walked away. She was a willow. What would she be like in winter, at my age? I see her still, always, with the eye of Adam. She had been these awkward limbs climbing out of a plane, bending down in our midst to prod at a fire, her elbow up and pointed towards me as she drank from a canteen. A few months later, she waltzed with me, as we danced as a group in Cairo. Though slightly drunk she wore an unconquerable face. Even now the face I believe that most revealed her was the one she had that time when we were both half drunk, not lovers. All these years I have been trying to unearth what she was handing me with that look. It seemed to be contempt. So it appeared to me. Now I think she was studying me. She was an innocent, surprised at something in me. I was behaving the way I usually behave in bars, but this time with the wrong company. I am a man who kept the codes of my behaviour separate. I was forgetting she was younger than I. She was studying me. Such a simple thing. And I was watching for one wrong move in her statue-like gaze, something that would give her away. Give me a map and I’ll build you a city. Give me a pencil and I will draw you a room in South Cairo, desert charts on the wall. Always the desert was among us. I could wake and raise my eyes to the map of old settlements along the Mediterranean coast—Gazala, Tobruk, Mersa Matruh—and south of that the hand-painted wadis, and surrounding those the shades of yellowness that we invaded, tried to lose ourselves in. “My task is to describe briefly the several expeditions which have attacked the Gilf Kebir. Dr. Bermann will later take us back to the desert as it existed thousands of years ago...” That is the way Madox spoke to other geographers at Kensington Gore. But you do not find adultery in the minutes of the Geographical Society. Our room never appears in the detailed reports which chartered every knoll and every incident of history. In the street of imported parrots in Cairo one is hectored by almost articulate birds. The birds bark and whistle in rows, like a plumed avenue. I knew which tribe had travelled which silk or camel road carrying them in their petite palanquins across the deserts. Forty-day journeys, after the birds were caught by slaves or picked like flowers in equatorial gardens and then placed in bamboo cages to enter the river that is trade. They appeared like brides in a mediaeval courtship. We stood among them. I was showing her a city that was new to her. Her hand touched me at the wrist. “If I gave you my life, you would drop it. Wouldn’t you?” I didn’t say anything. 4.开罗南部  一九三○年至一九三八年     仕希罗多德之后，几百年来，西方世界的人对沙漠一直没有多大兴趣，从公元前四二五年到二十世纪初，人们的看法才慢慢地有所改变。十九世纪是个河流探寻者的时代。而后到 一九二○年，又出现一部引人人胜的后继史书，来介绍地球上的这一地区。这部历史的内容大部分得自私人资助的勘探，而后地理协会在伦敦肯辛顿区举办的演讲又丰富了它的内容。演讲者皮肤晒得黑黝黝的，满脸疲惫，看起来就像康拉德小说里的水手。他们对出租车司机的彬彬有礼和公车查票员敏捷无味的幽默机智不太习惯。     在他们搭乘当地火车从近郊到骑士桥去出席协会会议的路上，经常迷路或找不到车。他们只是紧紧地抱住他们的破地图，背包里面放着他们字斟句酌，费劲写好的讲稿，那背包常被看作是他们身体的一部分。这些来自各国的人士早在晚上六点钟便出发了，当时只有孤零零的一盏灯。这是一个百无聊赖的时间。城市中大多数人都回家了。探险家们到达肯辛顿区的时间太早了，他们在莱昂街角餐厅吃了饭，然后进入地理协会，坐在楼上走廊一艘毛利人的大独木舟旁边，复习着他们的讲稿。八点钟，发言开始了。     每个星期都有一场演讲。有人介绍发言内容，有人表示感谢。作总结的人常常会争辩，论证发言内容和观点。这些人爱批评论断，可是从来不会无理取闹。每个人都相信主要发言者的陈述忠于事实，就算有任何大胆的假设，大家也会平静地提出来讨论。     我的旅行，从地中海的索卡姆开始，穿过利比亚沙漠，到达苏丹的埃尔欧贝德，是沿着地面的一些踪迹走的，这些踪迹显示出许多有趣的地理问题……     在这间橡木屋子里，人们从未谈论年复一年的准备研究及基金的募集。上周的演讲者陈述了在南极大陆的雪地中失去三十人的消息。同样地，在宣布沙漠中和风暴里的人员损失时， 大家也并未大肆歌功颂德。人力和财力的问题很少会纳入讨论的范围。目前讨论的问题是地球表面和它“有趣的地理问题”。     除了已多次讨论过的赖延河道，尼罗河三角洲的灌溉和排水是否还有可能利用这个地区的其它洼地来进行?供给这些绿洲的自流水会渐渐减少吗?我们到哪里去寻找神奇的“泽祖拉”?是否有其它“失落”的绿洲会被发现?托勒密的龟类沼泽在哪里?     埃及“国际沙漠勘探协会”的约翰·贝尔于一九二七年提出这些问题。到了二十世纪三十年代，报纸的用词变得谦虚了。“对于哈尔绿洲的史前地理所引起的有趣讨论，我想补充一点意见。”到了三十年代中期，失落的泽祖拉绿洲被拉斯洛·奥尔马希和他的勘探队队员们找到了。     利比亚沙漠的勘探十年来成就非凡，却不得不在一九三九年告终，地球上这块广阔宁静的土地变成了战场。     在树木围绕的卧室里，烧伤的病人凝视着远方，就像拉韦纳那个死去的骑士一样，他的大理石雕像栩栩如生，身躯几乎显出温润之感，那骑士仿佛从石枕上抬起头，凝视着脚下的远景。英国病人想得很远。他想到的不只是非洲令人渴望的甘霖，他还想到他们在开罗的生活，还有他们的工作和所有的一切。     哈纳坐在他的床边，像个侍女一样待在他的身边，随着他的思绪，像他一样遨游远方。“一九三O年，我们已开始绘制基尔夫·克尔比尔高地更重要的部分，寻找着那块叫作泽祖拉的绿洲——刺槐之城。     “我们是来自欧洲的沙漠人。约翰·贝尔曾于一九一七年发现了基尔夫，之后是凯摩尔·艾尔·丁。再往后是巴格诺尔德，他曾发现了向南通往沙海的道路。然后是马多克斯、国际沙漠勘探协会的沃尔波、瓦斯非·贝阁下、摄影师加斯巴利厄斯、地质学家卡达尔博土和伯曼。而基尔夫·克尔比尔——那沉睡在利比亚沙漠中的广大高地，据马多克斯说，有瑞士那么大——是我们的心脏，它的悬崖峭壁从东到西都是陡峭的，高地渐渐地向北倾斜。它突出于尼罗河西部四百里外的沙漠之中。     “早期埃及人推测在这些绿洲小镇的西边是没有水的，那儿是世界的尽头。整片内陆均是无水之境。但是，在这片沙漠中，不知流传着多少失落的历史。德布和塞努西的部落在此徜徉，守护着他们的水井，不让外人知道。传说沙漠里有着肥沃的土地。十三世纪的阿拉伯作家说到泽祖拉，说它是‘小鸟的绿洲’、‘刺槐之城’，在《藏宝书》中，小鸟的绿洲被描绘成一座白色的城市——像鸽子一样洁白。 “看看利比亚沙漠的地图，你可以看到这些名字，凯摩尔·艾尔·丁于一九二五年，几乎是独自进行了首次伟大的现代化探索，巴格诺尔德从一九三○年到一九三二年，奥尔马希和马多克斯从一九三一年到一九三七年，仅到了北回归线北部。     “我们这一小群人，身处在战火中的异国，不断地绘制地图和重新勘探。我们聚集在达卡拉和库法，好像那儿就是酒吧或咖啡馆。一个绿洲协会——巴格诺尔德就是这样称呼它的。我们彼此熟悉，知道彼此的能力和弱点。我们原谅巴格诺尔德所写的那些乱七八糟的东西。‘沟壑和沙脊就像狗嘴上的皮毛一样。’这就是真正的巴格诺尔德，他就是这样一个人，他探索的手甚至会伸向狗的下巴。     “一九三○年，我们首次勘探，向南从加格布进入沙漠，沿着祖耶和马加布拉人的区域走。要花七天的时间才能到厄塔吉。除了马多克斯和伯曼外，还有另外四位成员，几匹骆驼， 一匹马和一条狗。我们离开时，他们和我们开了个老玩笑。在沙暴中出发旅行会有好运气。     “第一夜我们宿营在南部二十里的地方。第二天清晨五点，我们醒来，走出帐篷。天气太冷了，无法人眠。我们向营火走去，坐在火光前，周围一片漆黑，头顶上的天空点缀着星光。距离日出至少还要两个小时。我们传递着热茶。骆驼已经喂过了，半睡半醒，正咀嚼着枣子，连枣核也嚼烂了。我们用了早餐，又多喝了三杯茶。     “几个小时后，遇上了沙暴，在晴朗的早晨，沙暴突然无情地扑向我们。原先清新的和风，此刻逐渐变得强劲。后来我们向下望去，沙漠的表面改变了。给我这本书……这儿。这是哈赛因·贝对这类沙暴的描绘——     ‘地表下好像布满了蒸汽管，无数的管中都喷着蒸汽。沙尘跳跃着，旋转着，随着风势加强，沙尘肆虐更甚。好像沙漠的整个表面正听凭一股推动的力量向上抬起。偌大的卵石碰击着人的胫骨、膝盖和大腿。沙粒铺天盖地地打在人们的脸上和头上。天空一片乌黑，所有的景物，除了身边的物体一切都看不见了，天地万物间充满了沙砾。’     “我们必须继续前进。如果你稍一犹豫，沙子便会在你周围形成一个固定的障碍物，把你困在里面，你就会永远消失了。一场沙暴可持续五个钟头。甚至数年后，当我们的汽车在 沙漠里行驶时，遇到沙暴也不得不盲目地继续行驶。最可怕的情况往往发生在晚上。有一次在库法北部，我们在黑夜中遭到风暴的袭击。凌晨三点钟，大风把固定帐篷的缆绳吹断，我们裹着帐篷被一起吹走，沉入沙漠。就像小船沉入水里一样，我们被压在底下，感到窒息，直到十一位赶骆驼的人解救了我们。         “我们在九天的旅行中遭遇了三次沙暴。我们找不到能够提供补给品的沙漠小镇。马丢了，有三匹骆驼死了。最后两天我们除了茶，已经没有任何食物了，与其它世界的最后联系，声。第三夜之后，我们连话都不说了。所有的东西都不见了，只剩下一堆火和一点点褐色的液体。     惟一值得庆幸的是，我们碰巧到了沙漠小镇厄塔吉。我走过露天市场，穿过传出钟响的小巷，走过有气压计的大街，路过了卖步熗子弹的摊位，经过了卖意大利蕃茄酱和罐头的摊位，蕃茄酱和罐头都是从班加西运来的。有卖埃及白棉布、鸵鸟尾饰品的摊位，还有街头牙医和书商的摊子。我们仍然保持沉默。一路上我们零零落落地走着，我们要慢慢接受这个新世界——就像溺水的人刚刚死里逃生。我们坐在厄塔吉的中心广场，吃着小羊肉、米饭，喝着加了碎杏仁的牛奶。按照当地的礼仪，这些是在等了很久、喝了三杯放了薄荷香料的茶之后才吃到的。 “一九三一年，我偶尔参加贝都因人的旅行队，人们告诉我还有一个像我这样的人在他们队里，后来知道那是芬纳龙·巴恩思。我到他的帐篷去，他这天正巧出去做一些研究，替树木化石编目录。我环视他的帐篷，看见捆着的地图卷和他时常带在身边的家人照片等等。当我正要离去时，我看见皮墙上方有一面镜子，从镜子里，我看到了那张床。被子下好像有一团东西，也许是条狗。我一把拉开那件阿拉伯带帽斗篷，一个阿拉伯小姑娘被捆着，睡在那里。     “到了一九三二年，巴格诺尔德完成了他的研究工作，而马多克斯和其余成员分散到四处，寻找冈比西斯的失踪军队，寻找泽祖拉。一九三二、一九三三年和一九三四年都过去了，有几个月的时间互相没有见面。只有贝都因人和我们在四十天的路程上往返奔波。那儿有沙漠部落的河流，那儿有我今生所遇见最美丽的人们。我们是德国人、英国人、匈牙利人、非洲人——我们对他们来说都是微不足道的。渐渐地，我们变成了没有国籍的人。我开始憎恨国家。国家与疆域似乎使我们变得畸形。马多克斯就是因国家而死的。     “没有人能对沙漠予取予求或拥有它——它是风披的一件衣裳，从不会被石头镇住，早在坎特伯雷存在之前，便被赋予了上百个不断变化的名字，远在欧洲与东方战争签定条约之前便存在了。它的旅行队，那奇怪而又杂乱的盛宴和文化，没有给后人留下任何东西，连一点儿余烬火花也没有。我们所有人，甚至包括那些还有家室，远在欧洲的人，都想脱‘下我们国家的外衣。这是一个信仰之地。我们消失在火与沙的景色中。我们离开了这绿洲的港湾——那些水流到达的地方……井、河道、暗梁、桔槔。我不想用我的名字亵渎这些美丽的名字。抹去家族的名字!抹去国家的概念!这就是沙漠教给我的东西。     “有些人仍然想给那里做记号——在那条干涸的河道上，在这个孤零零的土墩上。小小的虚荣心表现在这一小块位于苏丹西北部，昔兰尼加南面的土地上。芬纳龙·巴恩思想用他的名字为他发现的化石命名。他甚至想用他的名字命名一个部落，为此他花了一年的时间去谈判。然而鲍汉却胜过他，有一种沙丘是用他的名字命名的。但是我不想说出我的姓名和我来自何方。战争爆发的时候，我已在沙漠里待了十年，对我来说，溜过边境易如反掌，我不属于任何国家，任何人。     “一九三三年或一九三四年，我已不记得是哪一年了，马多克斯、加斯巴利厄斯、伯曼、我自己、两个苏丹司机和一个厨子开始了我们的旅程。我们乘着福特厢型车，第一次使用充气轮胎，它们在沙地上跑得很好，但是令人担忧的是，它们是否经得起岩石堆的考验。     “我们在三月二十二日离开哈尔加。我和伯曼推断威廉森于一九三八年所写的三条干河谷就是泽祖拉。     基尔夫·克尔比尔西南部有三座独立的花岗岩山丘坐落在平原上——阿喀纳山、乌怀拿德山和基苏山。这三座山相互间隔十五里——许多沟壑里积满了水。阿喀纳山的井水是苦的，只有在迫不得已的情况下人们才勉强喝的。威廉森说三条干河道形成了泽祖拉，但是他从未指明过它们的位置，因此这一直被视为是传说。然而，在这些火山口形状的小山上，只要有一个有雨的绿洲，就能解开冈比西斯和他的军队如何穿过沙漠之谜，也能解开圣战中的塞努西教徒袭击之谜，因为，这已足以解释这些巨人般的黑色袭击者是如何通过一片被认为没有水也没有牧草的沙漠。这是一个开发了几个世纪的世界，有一千条大路和小路。     “我们在阿布贝拉斯找到一些有古希腊双耳细颈椭圆土罐风格的罐子。希罗多德曾提到这种罐子。     “伯曼和我在艾乔夫的要塞里，在一个曾是伟大的塞努西酋长书室的石洞里，与一个像蛇一样的神秘老人谈话。一个老德布人，也是一个专业的向导，正说着口音浓重的阿拉伯语。后来伯曼引用希罗多德的话说‘像蝙蝠的尖叫’。我们一整天昼夜不停地和他谈话，而他没露半点口风。塞努西教徒的教义，也是他们最初的教义，是不要把沙漠的秘密泄漏给陌生人。     “在怀地尔马利克，我们看到了一种不知名的小鸟。     “五月五日，我爬上一座岩石的悬崖，从一个新的方向接近乌怀拿德高地，我发现自己身处在一条长满刺槐树的宽阔干河道上。     “曾有段时间，绘制地图的人热衷于用他们情人的名字来命名一个他们经过的地方，而不用自己的名字。一个女人在沙漠旅行队里洗澡被人看见了，用一支手臂抓了衣裳挡在身前——某个阿拉伯老诗人的老婆，她洁白的臂膀使他用她的名字命名一座绿洲——皮桶里的水浇在她的身上，她用布裹住身躯，而老绘图者从她身上得到灵感来描绘泽祖拉。     “所以一个在沙漠里的人可以进入名字之中，就好像落人了一口他发现的井中，井中的阴凉使他不愿离开。我最大的愿望就是待在那儿，和那些刺槐树在一起。我现在漫步之处，并不是人迹从未涉足之地，数个世纪以来，不时有人群匆匆地造访此地——一支十四世纪的军队，一支德布人的旅行队，一九一五年一队塞努西袭击者，他们使这里出了名。而在这短暂的热闹之间——那儿什么也没有——刺槐树没有雨水浇灌，干枯了，河谷干涸了……直到五十年或一百年以后，河水才突然间涨满。时断时续地出现和消失，就像历史上流传的各种传说和谣言。     “在沙漠里，最令人喜爱的流水，就像情人的名字，是掌中捧着的一盈绿水，吞人了喉间——有人却是吞人了空虚。开罗的一个女人从床上蜷缩着起来，她倾身向前，迎向窗外的暴风雨，任凭雨水冲刷着她赤裸的身体。”     哈纳倾身向前，感觉到他游离的思绪，看着他，不发一言。这个女人是谁?     “地球的尽头不是标在地图上的那些点，殖民者不断将它们向前推移，借以扩大他们的势力范围。一方面是佣人、奴隶，与权力的浪潮和地理协会的转变，另一方面是第一步，是白人第一次过了伟大的河流，也是第一眼(从白人的眼光来说)，白人看见了不老的高山。     “我们年轻的时候，不照镜子。只有当我们老了，为自己的名声而忧虑，关心起我们的传说和我们的生命对未来的意义，我们才会顾影自怜。我们变得沽名钓誉，我们想宣称自己是最先的发现者，最强大的军队，最精明的商人。只有当那喀索斯老了，他才会想要一座自己的雕像。     “但是我们所感兴趣的是，如何才能使我们的生命对过去发生意义。我们徜徉在过去的时光里。我们是年轻人。我们知道权力和巨大的财富只是过眼云烟。我们曾与希罗多德同眠。早期的大城市到了现在一定会变小，现代伟大的东西在从前是渺小的……男人的好运气不会永远待在同一个地方。     “一九三六年，一个叫杰弗里·克利夫顿的年轻人在牛津遇到了一位朋友，他的朋友向他提到我们正在做的事。他与我联系的第二天他结了婚，两个星期后，他和他的太太飞到了开罗。     “这对夫妻加入了我们的世界——我们四个人，凯摩尔·丁王子、贝尔、奥尔马希和马多克斯。我们的嘴上成天挂着那个名字——基尔夫·克尔比尔。在基尔夫的某个地方，有个泽祖拉。泽祖拉出现在阿拉伯作品里的时间可以追溯到十三世纪。当你在那么远的地方旅行时，你会需要一架飞机，而年轻的杰弗里·克利夫顿很富有，他拥有一架飞机，而且也会驾驶。     “杰弗里·克利夫顿在乌怀拿德北部的艾乔夫与我们相会。他坐在他的双人座飞机里，我们从营地向他走去。他站在驾驶舱里，倒了一杯酒。新婚妻子则坐在他身边。     “‘我给这儿取个名字，叫比尔·麦斯色哈乡村俱乐部。’他宣布道。     “我看见一丝友好的怀疑神情从他妻子脸上一闪而过，当她脱下皮头盔时，露出她那像狮毛一样金黄色的头发。     “他们是年轻人，感觉上他们就像我们的孩子。他们爬出飞机，和我们握手。     “那是一九三六年，我们的故事这才开始……     “他们从蛾式飞机的机翼上跳下来。杰弗里·克利夫顿拎着那小瓶酒向我们走来。我们都小口地喝着那温热的酒。他是个讲究繁文缛节的人。他给他的飞机取了个名字叫‘鲁珀特’。我不认为他真的热爱沙漠，但是他对我们的坚定决心十分敬畏，使他对沙漠也产生一种感情。他想使自己和这里的一切相称，就像一个快乐的大学生遵守图书馆要保持安静的规定似的。我们并没有想到他会带妻子来，但是我想我们表现得还算礼貌。她在那儿站了没多久，那头长而茂密的头发就积满了沙子。     “在这对年轻夫妇的眼中，我们是什么样子的人呢?我们当中有的人已经写了一些书，讨论沙丘的形成、绿洲的消失以及重新出现和沙漠失传的文化等等问题。我们似乎只对那些不以买卖的东西感兴趣，丝毫不关心外面的世界。我们为纬度或七百年前发生的事而争吵。我们讨论勘探的法则，研究那个在祖克绿洲里放牧骆驼的阿布杜·马立克·易卜拉希姆·祖耶是不是那些部落里第一个能够明白照片的概念的人。     “杰弗里·克利夫顿夫妇还在度蜜月。我离开了他们和其他同伴，去库法找另一个人共同进行研究，并和他在一起待了几天，试行我对队里其他人保密的理论。我待了三个晚上之后，又回到艾乔夫的基地。     “沙漠营火在我们之间燃烧。有杰弗里·克利夫顿夫妇、马多克斯、贝尔和我，如果有人向后挪动几英寸，他的身影将会被黑暗吞噬。凯瑟琳·杰弗里·克利夫顿开始背诵着什么，而营火的火光已照不到我的头了。     “由她的容貌，看得出她出身高贵，她的父母似乎在法律史界很有名望。我是个不喜欢诗歌的男人，可是这次我听到一个女人向我们背诵诗歌，心里却有了不同的感觉。在沙漠里，她忆起了大学时代的生活。她描绘那些星星——就像亚当用优美的隐喻来温柔地教导一个女人。     “‘群星，没有平白无故地闪烁，     虽然夜里没有人能看见它们，     也不会想天上需要人间的观望者，     或上帝想听见颂扬它至高无上。     在我们醒着的时候，或熟睡的时候，     千百万生灵在地球上行走，     只是没有被看见，     所有的人仰望上帝的业绩，     日日夜夜，心里充满敬爱，         我们常常在深夜里听见群山和森林里回荡     神圣的声音，     单独的或互相呼应，       歌颂伟大的造物主。     “那一夜，我爱上了一个声音，我再也不想听到别的声音了，我站起身走开了。     “她是棵柳树。到了我这个年纪，她在冬天里会像什么呢?我仍然用亚当那样的眼神看着她。她笨手笨脚地从飞机里爬出来，在我们中间俯身拨弄营火。她举着水壶喝水时，朝着我扬了扬眉毛。     “几个月后，我们在开罗，她和我跳华尔兹。尽管有些微醺，她的脸上依然带着那副不可征服的神情。直到现在我仍相信，最能呈现她自己的容颜，就是她那时的容颜。当时我们都醉了，还不是情人。     “这些年以来，我始终想弄明白的是，她用那种目光看我究竟是什么意思。这看起来是一种轻蔑——在我看来似乎是蔑视。现在我想她是在端详我，她是天真无邪的人，对我身上的某种特质感到吃惊。我像平时在酒吧里那样做，但是这次却找错了对象。我忘记了自己的行为准则，我忘记了她比我年轻。     “她只是在端详我，就是如此单纯。而我却想在她雕塑般的凝视中发现一种异样的表白，一种能暴露她内心世界的东西。       “给我一张地图，我将为你建造一座城市；给我一枝铅笔，我要给你画开罗南部的一个房间，房间的墙上绘着沙漠的地图。沙漠总是介于我们之间，我能在醒来张开眼就看到地中海沿岸的古老村落——加萨拉、多布鲁克、马特鲁——看见村落南部的河道，还有我们在河道周围入侵的黄色阴影地带，我们曾想在那儿抛弃自己。‘我的任务是描述在基，尔夫·克尔比尔所进行的几次考察活动。伯曼将带我们再回到那几千年前就形成的沙漠里去。     “马多克斯在肯辛顿区时就是那样对其他的地理学家们讲的，但是你在地理协会的聚会上看不到奸情。我们的房间从来没有出现在专门描述每一个土丘和每一件历史事件的详细报道里。     “在开罗专售进口鹦鹉的大街上，争鸣的鸟儿吵得人受不了。成排的鸟儿在争吵中又叫又唱，让人看来像是一条用羽毛装饰起来的街。我知道是哪一个部落沿着哪一条丝路或骆驼路，载运坐在小巧轿子内的它们穿越沙漠。四十天的旅行，在鸟儿或被奴隶逮到，或在热带花园里像花朵似的被采集起来，放进竹笼，来到贸易活动所赖以进行的河流中之后，它们出现时的姿态就像中世纪接受求爱的新娘一样。     “我们站在他们中间，我正指给她看一座对她来说是新的城市。         “她的手碰到了我的手腕。     “‘如果我把一生交给你，你不会好好珍惜的，对吗?’ “我什么也没说。

V
Katharine


THE FIRST TIME she dreamed of him she woke up beside her husband screaming.

In their bedroom she stared down onto the sheet, mouth open. Her husband put his hand on her back.

“Nightmare. Don’t worry.”

“Yes.”

“Shall I get you some water?”

“Yes.”

She wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t lie back into that zone they had been in.

The dream had taken place in this room—his hand on her neck (she touched it now), his anger towards her that she had
sensed the first few times she had met him. No, not anger, a lack of interest, irritation at a married woman being among them.
They had been bent over like animals, and he had yoked her neck back so she had been unable to breathe within her arousal.

Her husband brought her the glass on a saucer but she could not lift her arms, they were shaking, loose. He put the glass


awkwardly against her mouth so she could gulp the chlorinated water, some coming down her chin, falling to her stomach.
When she lay back she hardly had time to think of what she had witnessed, she fell into a quick deep sleep.

That had been the first recognition. She remembered it sometime during the next day, but she was busy then and she refused
to nestle with its significance for long, dismissed it; it was an accidental collision on a crowded night, nothing more.

A year later the other, more dangerous, peaceful dreams came. And even within the first one of these she recalled the hands
at her neck and waited for the mood of calmness between them to swerve to violence.

Who lays the crumbs of food that tempt you? Towards a person you never considered. A dream. Then later another series of
dreams.

He said later it was propinquity. Propinquity in the desert. It does that here, he said. He loved the word—the propinquity of
water, the propinquity of two or three bodies in a car driving the Sand Sea for six hours. Her sweating knee beside the gearbox
of the truck, the knee swerving, rising with the bumps. In the desert you have time to look everywhere, to theorize on the
choreography of all things around you.

When he talked like that she hated him, her eyes remaining polite, her mind wanting to slap him. She always had the desire
to slap him, and she realized even that was sexual. For him all relationships fell into patterns. You fell into propinquity or
distance. Just as, for him, the histories in Herodotus clarified all societies. He assumed he was experienced in the ways of the
world he had essentially left years earlier, struggling ever since to explore a half-invented world of the desert.

At Cairo aerodrome they loaded the equipment into the vehicles, her husband staying on to check the petrol lines of the
Moth before the three men left the next morning. Madox went off to one of the embassies to send a wire. And he was going
into town to get drunk, the usual final evening in

Cairo, first at Madame Badin’s Opera Casino, and later to disappear into the streets behind the Pasha Hotel. He would pack
before the evening began, which would allow him to just climb into the truck the next morning, hung over.

So he drove her into town, the air humid, the traffic bad and slow because of the hour.

“It’s so hot. I need a beer. Do you want one?”

“No, I have to arrange for a lot of things in the next couple of hours. You’ll have to excuse me.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “I don’t want to interfere.”

“I’ll have one with you when I come back.”

“In three weeks, right?”

“About that.”

“I wish I were going too.”

He said nothing in answer to that. They crossed the Bulaq Bridge and the traffic got worse. Too many carts, too many
pedestrians who owned the streets. He cut south along the Nile towards the Semiramis Hotel, where she was staying, just
beyond the barracks.

“You’re going to find Zerzura this time, aren’t you.”

“I’m going to find it this time.”

He was like his old self. He hardly looked at her on the drive, even when they were stalled for more than five minutes in one
spot.

At the hotel he was excessively polite. When he behaved this way she liked him even less; they all had to pretend this pose
was courtesy, graciousness. It reminded her of a dog in clothes. To hell with him. If her husband didn’t have to work with him
she would prefer not to see him again.

He pulled her pack out of the rear and was about to carry it into the lobby.

“Here, I can take that.” Her shirt was damp at the back when she got out of the passenger seat.

The doorman offered to take the pack, but he said, “No, she wants to carry it,” and she was angry again at his assumption.
The doorman left them. She turned to him and he passed her the bag so she was facing him, both hands awkwardly carrying the
heavy case in front of her.

“So. Good-bye. Good luck.”

“Yes. I’ll look after them all. They’ll be safe.”

She nodded. She was in shadow, and he, as if unaware of the harsh sunlight, stood in it.

Then he came up to her, closer, and she thought for a moment he was going to embrace her. Instead he put his right arm
forward and drew it in a gesture across her bare neck so her skin was touched by the whole length of hisdamp forearm.

“Good-bye.”

He walked back to the truck. She could feel his sweat now, like blood left by a blade which the gesture of his arm seemed to
have imitated.

She picks up a cushion and places it onto her lap as a shield against him. “If you make love to me I won’t lie about it. If I
make love to you I won’t lie about it.”

She moves the cushion against her heart, as if she would suffocate that part of herself which has broken free.

“What do you hate most?” he asks.

“A lie. And you?”

“Ownership,” he says. “When you leave me, forget me.”

Her fist swings towards him and hits hard into the bone just below his eye. She dresses and leaves.

Each day he would return home and look at the black bruise in the mirror. He became curious, not so much about the bruise,
but about the shape of his face. The long eyebrows he had never really noticed before, the beginning of grey in his sandy hair.
He had not looked at himself like this in a mirror for years. That was a long eyebrow.


Nothing can keep him from her.

When he is not in the desert with Madox or with Bermann in the Arab libraries, he meets her in Groppi Park—beside the
heavily watered plum gardens. She is happiest here. She is a woman who misses moisture, who has always loved low green
hedges and ferns. While for him this much greenery feels like a carnival.

From Groppi Park they arc out into the old city, South Cairo, markets where few Europeans go. In his rooms maps cover the
walls. And in spite of his attempts at furnishing there is still a sense of base camp to his quarters.

They lie in each other’s arms, the pulse and shadow of the fan on them. All morning he and Bermann have worked in the
archaeological museum placing Arabic texts and European histories beside each other in an attempt to recognize echo, coincidence,
name changes—back past Herodotus to the Kitab al Kanuz, where Zerzura is named after the bathing woman in a
desert caravan. And there too the slow blink of a fan’s shadow. And here too the intimate exchange and echo of childhood
history, of scar, of manner of kiss.

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do! How can I be your lover? He will go mad.”

A list of wounds.

The various colours of the bruise—bright russet leading to brown. The plate she walked across the room with, flinging its
contents aside, and broke across his head, the blood rising up into the straw hair. The fork that entered the back of his shoulder,
leaving its bite marks the doctor suspected were caused by a fox.

He would step into an embrace with her, glancing first to see what moveable objects were around. He would meet her with
others in public with bruises or a bandaged head and explain about the taxi jerking to a halt so that he had hit the open side
window. Or with iodine on his forearm that covered a welt. Madox worried about his becoming suddenly accident-prone. She
sneered quietly at the weakness of his explanation. Maybe it’s his age, maybe he needs glasses, said her husband, nudging
Madox. Maybe it’s a woman he met, she said. Look, isn’t that a woman’s scratch or bite?

It was a scorpion, he said. Androctonus australis.

A postcard. Neat handwriting fills the rectangle.

Half my days 1 cannot bear not to touch you.

The rest of the time I feel it doesn’t matter

if I ever see you again. It isn’t the morality,

it is how much you can bear.

No date, no name attached.

Sometimes when she is able to spend the night with him they are wakened by the three minarets of the city beginning their
prayers before dawn. He walks with her through the indigo markets that lie between South Cairo and her home. The beautiful
songs of faith enter the air like arrows, one minaret answering another, as if passing on a rumour of the two of them as they
walk through the cold morning air, the smell of charcoal and hemp already making the air profound. Sinners in a holy city.

He sweeps his arm across plates and glasses on a restaurant table so she might look up somewhere else in the city hearing
this cause of noise. When he is without her. He, who has never felt alone in the miles of longitude between desert towns. A
man in a desert can hold absence in his cupped hands knowing it is something that feeds him more than water. There is a plant
he knows of near El Taj, whose heart, if one cuts it out, is replaced with a fluid containing herbal goodness. Every morning one
can drink the liquid the amount of a missing heart. The plant continues to flourish for a year before it dies from some lack or
other.

He lies in his room surrounded by the pale maps. He is without Katharine. His hunger wishes to burn down all social rules,
all courtesy.

Her life with others no longer interests him. He wants only her stalking beauty, her theatre of expressions. He wants the
minute and secret reflection between them, the depth of field minimal, their foreignness intimate like two pages of a closed
book.

He has been disassembled by her.

And if she has brought him to this, what has he brought her to?

When she is within the wall of her class and he is beside her in larger groups he tells jokes he doesn’t laugh at himself.
Uncharacteristically manic, he attacks the history of exploration. When he is unhappy he does this. Only Madox recognizes the
habit. But she will not even catch his eye. She smiles to everyone, to the objects in the room, praises a flower arrangement,
worthless impersonal things. She misinterprets his behaviour, assuming this is what he wants, and doubles the size of the wall
to protect herself.

But now he cannot bear this wall in her. You built your walls too, she tells him, so I have my wall. She says it glittering in a
beauty he cannot stand. She with her beautiful clothes, with her pale face that laughs at everyone who smiles at her, with the
uncertain grin for his angry jokes. He continues his appalling statements about this and that in some expedition they are all
familiar with.

The minute she turns away from him in the lobby of Grop-pi’s bar after he greets her, he is insane. He knows the only way
he can accept losing her is if he can continue to hold her or be held by her. If they can somehow nurse each other out of this.


Not with a wall.

Sunlight pours into his Cairo room. His hand flabby over the Herodotus journal, all the tension in the rest of his body, so he
writes words down wrong, the pen sprawling as if without spine. He can hardly write down the word sunlight. The words in
love.

In the apartment there is light only from the river and the desert beyond it. It falls upon her neck her feet the vaccination scar
he loves on her right arm. She sits on the bed hugging nakedness. He slides his open palm along the sweat of her shoulder. This
is my shoulder, he thinks, not her husband’s, this is my shoulder. As lovers they have offered parts of their bodies to each
other, like this. In this room on the periphery of the river.

In the few hours they have, the room has darkened to this pitch of light. Just river and desert light. Only when there is the
rare shock of rain do they go towards the window and put their arms out, stretching, to bathe as much as they can of
themselves in it. Shouts towards the brief downpour fill the streets.

“We will never love each other again. We can never see each other again.”

“I know,” he says.

The night of her insistence on parting.

She sits, enclosed within herself, in the armour of her terrible conscience. He is unable to reach through it. Only his body is
close to her.

“Never again. Whatever happens.”

“Yes.”

“I think he will go mad. Do you understand?”

He says nothing, abandoning the attempt to pull her within him.

An hour later they walk into a dry night. They can hear the gramophone songs in the distance from the Music for All cinema,
its windows open for the heat. They will have to part before that closes up and people she might know emerge from there.

They are in the botanical garden, near the Cathedral of All Saints. She sees one tear and leans forward and licks it, taking it
into her mouth. As she has taken the blood from his hand when he cut himself cooking for her. Blood. Tear. He feels
everything is missing from his body, feels he contains smoke. All that is alive is the knowledge of future desire and want. What
he would say he cannot say to this woman whose openness is like a wound, whose youth is not mortal yet. He cannot alter
what he loves most in her, her lack of compromise, where the romance of the poems she loves still sits with ease in the real
world. Outside these qualities he knows there is no order in the world.

This night of her insistence. Twenty-eighth of September. The rain in the trees already dried by hot moonlight. Not one cool
drop to fall down upon him like a tear. This parting at Groppi Park. He has not asked if her husband is home in that high square
of light, across the street.

He sees the tall row of traveller’s palms above them, their outstretched wrists. The way her head and hair were above him,
when she was his lover.

Now there is no kiss. Just one embrace. He untugs himself from her and walks away, then turns. She is still there. He comes
back within a few yards of her, one finger raised to make a point.

“I just want you to know. I don’t miss you yet.” His face awful to her, trying to smile. Her head sweeps away from him and
hits the side of the gatepost. He sees it hurt her, notices the wince. But they have separated already into themselves now, the
walls up at her insistence. Her jerk, her pain, is accidental, is intentional. Her hand is near her temple.

“You will,” she says.

From this point on in our lives, she had whispered to him earlier, we will either find or lose our souls.

How does this happen? To fall in love and be disassembled.

I was in her arms. I had pushed the sleeve of her shirt up to the shoulder so I could see her vaccination scar. I love this, I
said. This pale aureole on her arm. I see the instrument scratch and then punch the serum within her and then release itself, free
of her skin, years ago, when she was nine years old, in a school gymnasium.
5.凯瑟琳
  她第一次梦见他，惊叫着在丈夫身边醒来。
  在他们的卧室里，她两眼紧盯着床单，张大着嘴，她丈夫把手放在她的背上。    
  “是个噩梦，别怕。”    
  “是的。”
  “我去倒点水给你喝?”
  “好吧。”
  她无法动弹，她不能再躺回到他们曾经躺过的那块地方了。    ．
    这个梦就发生在这间屋里——他的手放在她的脖子上(此刻她正抚摸着自己的脖子)。在她最初几次约会的时候，她能感觉到他的怒气。不，不是怒气，是对他们当中有个有夫之妇感到无趣和恼怒。他们像野兽一样纠缠在一起，他扼住她的脖子，以致于她被自己的激情燃烧得不能呼吸。
    她的丈夫倒来一杯水，放在茶托上，但是她的手臂抬不起来，只是无力地垂着，颤抖着。他手脚笨拙地把水递到她的唇边，使她能喝下一点这氯化过的水。有一些水流到她的下巴
上，淌到她的身上。她又躺下，还没来得及想想她梦见了什么，就又沉沉睡去了。
    那是他们初次在梦中相见。她第二天似乎还能记起些什么，但是她太忙了，所以不愿花太多时间去想那个梦有什么意义。不再去想它了，它不过是在一个夜晚偶然做的一个梦，仅
此而已。    
    一年多以后，她又做了些更危险而又平静的梦。在这些梦境之初，她都能回忆起那双手放在她脖子上的感觉，等待着他们之间的情绪平静下来之后，再突然燃起激情。
    是谁用诱饵诱惑你?对于一个你从未在意过的人，一个梦，而后是一连串的梦。
他后来说这是一种接近，一种在沙漠里的接近。他说，它就是存在于此。他喜欢那个词——跟水的那种接近，与两三个人同车在沙海里奔驰六个小时的那种接近。她汗湿的膝盖靠着卡车的齿轮箱，随着汽车的颠簸而摆动起伏。在沙漠里，你有的是时间观察一切，为周围一切事物的跳动建立合理的解释。
    当他以那种姿态和她说话的时候，她恨透了他。她的眼神还是保持着礼貌，内心却想要掴他一记耳光。她经常想着要给他一记耳光。她甚至认为那样做是性感的。对他而言，所有的关系都变成了种种模式——不是接近就是保持距离。就像他对希罗多德的认识一样，他认为，希罗多德的历史著作阐明了所有的社会形态。他以为从这个本质上他多年来早已离开了这个世界，他已看透了其中的人情世故。多年来，他一直在挣扎着，努力探索沙漠中的半虚幻世界。
    在开罗机场，他们把仪器设备装上飞机。在第二早上他们三个男人离开之前，她的丈夫将忙着检查那架蛾式飞机的巡逻路线。马多克斯到一个大使馆去拍电报，而他正打算到城里去喝一杯。通常他们在开罗的最后一顿晚餐，往往是先到葆琳太太的歌剧赌场，然后消失在帕夏饭店后面的街道。他要在夜晚来临之前离开，第二天早上才能爬进那辆卡车。
    于是他开车带她去城里。空气潮湿，加上这个时间的交通状况很差，车子开得很慢。
    “天气这么热，我想喝点儿啤酒，你想要吗?”
    “不，剩下的时间里我还得安排许多事呢，你可别见怪。”
    “那好吧，”她说，“我不想干涉你。”
    “我回来后再跟你喝一杯吧。”    
    “三个星期后，对吗?”
    “差不多。”  
    “我希望我也能去。”
    他没有答话。他们驶过布莱克桥后，交通状况变得更糟。道路上挤满了运货车和行人。他取道向南沿着尼罗河，驶向塞米拉米斯饭店，她住在那里，就在营地的对岸。
    “这次你要去找泽祖拉，是吗?”
    “这次我要找到它。”
    他还是老样子，开车的时候几乎不看她一眼，甚至当他们因车子引擎熄火而在一个地方待了五分钟时，他仍然这样。
    在饭店里，他特别客气。当他这样做时，她对他的喜欢便少了几分。他们都得假装礼貌优雅，这使她想到一只穿了衣服的狗。见他的鬼。要不是因为她的丈夫得和他一起工作，她才不要再见到他。
    他从车厢把她的行李拎出来，打算帮她扛进大厅去。
    “放这儿吧，我拿得动。”当她从乘客座上下来时，她背苦的上衣已经湿了。门口服务生想帮她拎行李，但是他说：‘‘不她想自己拿。”因此她对他的自以为是感到很生气。服务生灵开了。她转向他，他递给她一个袋子。她现在面对着他了。她笨拙地拎起两件沉重的行李。
    “再见，祝你好运。”
    “好的，我会照顾他们的，他们会平安无事的。”
    她点点头。她站在阴凉处，他则站在太阳下，仿佛不觉得阳光酷热。
    他走向她，靠得更近了，她几乎以为他就要拥抱她了。但是他没有这样做，而是向她伸出右臂，擦过她的颈间。他整个汗湿的前臂掠过了她的肌肤。
    “再见。”
    他走向那辆卡车。她现在仍能感觉到他的汗。他的手臂像是在模仿劈刀的姿势，而他的汗就像刀劈之后，流出的鲜血一样。    
    
    她拎起一个垫子，把它放在大腿上，像是防御他的盾牌：“如果你和我做爱，我不会对此撒谎。如果我和你做爱，我也不会撒谎。”
    她把垫子挪到胸口，好像要让她那已经解放的部位感到窒息。
  “你最恨什么?”他问。    
  “谎言，你呢?”
  “占有，”他说，“当你离开时，就把我忘了吧。”
    她的拳头挥向他，重重地打在他的颧骨上。她穿上衣服，离开了他。
    每天他都要回家，从镜子里看那块瘀青。他变得好奇了，不是对那块瘀青，而是对自己的脸感到好奇。他以前从未注意过那长长的眉毛，沙褐色的头发开始有些发白了。他已有好多年没有像这样在镜子里端详自己了。那是两道长眉毛。
    没有什么事能阻止他到她这来。
    当他不与马多克斯一起待在沙漠里，或不与伯曼待在阿拉伯的图书馆时，他就会在格罗皮公园和她碰面。格罗皮公园就位于一座受到充分灌溉的李子园旁。她最喜欢这里，她是个喜欢潮湿空气的女人，酷爱绿色的树篱和蕨类植物。他则觉得太多的绿色植物看起来像是嘉年华会。
    他们从格罗皮公园绕进了旧城。开罗南面的市场上很少有欧洲人会光顾。他房间里的墙壁贴满了地图。尽管他想把房间布置得更好，但还是摆脱不了基地的那种感觉。
    他们相拥而卧，躺在扇叶转动的阴影下。整个早上他都和伯曼在博物馆里工作，他们对照阿拉伯文本和欧洲史，试图发现它们的共鸣、巧合及名字的变化。他们从希罗多德追溯到克塔博。阿尔卡努兹的时代。有个在沙漠篷车里洗澡的女人名叫泽祖拉，那个地方后来就以此为名。而那儿也有扇叶缓缓转动。他们无拘无束的交流，回忆童年往事，诉说着疤痕的缘由和亲吻的方式。
    “我不知道怎么办。我不知道该怎么办!我怎么能够做你的情人?他会发疯的。”
    一份记载伤势的资料。
    各种瘀青的颜色，由明显的红褐色转为黄棕色。她端着盘子走过房间，把盘子盛的东西倒在一边，将盘子连同叉子向他的头丢去，血便从头发里流出来。叉子插进了他的肩膀。叉子留下的伤痕，连医生都以为是被狐狸咬的。
    他要向前和她拥抱时，还会先看看周围的动静。他要带着瘀青和扎着绷带的头，和她在大庭广众下见面，并对别人解释头的伤是搭出租车时，遇到紧急刹车，撞上窗户造成的。或者在前臂上擦上碘酒掩饰伤痕。马多克斯为他突然间常遇到意外而感到担心。他笨拙的解释使她暗自窃笑。也许他上了年纪了，也许他需要戴副眼镜，她丈夫一边说，一边用手肘轻推了马多克斯一下。也许他遇见了女人，她说。看，那不是被一个女人抓伤或咬伤的吗?
  “是蝎子。”他说。    
  一张明信片，长方形的卡片上字迹整齐。
  在我一半的日子里，我不能忍受没有你。
  在另一半日子里，我又觉得无所谓。    
    只要我能再次见到你。
    这与道德无关，
    而在于你能够忍受多少。
    没有日期，没有署名。
    当她可以整夜和他待在一起时，他们会在拂晓前被城里三座清真寺尖塔里的钟声唤醒。他和她走过设在开罗南部和她家之间的市场。他们走在清晨清冷的空气里，美妙动听的宗教歌声像弓箭一般直人云霄。一座尖塔应和着另一座的歌声，仿佛是在传播着关于他们的流言蜚语。木炭和大麻的气味浓浓地飘散在空气中。他们是圣城内的罪人。
    他用手臂扫落餐馆桌上的盘子和玻璃杯，希望待在城里的她，会抬头看看，寻找噪音的来源。当她不在身边的时候，他是个一向独自来去沙漠和小镇之间，却从不感到．孤独的人。一个在沙漠里的男人会用双手捧着空虚，心里明白这对他来说比水还珍贵。他知道厄塔吉附近有一种植物，如果有人把它的心挖去，原来长着心的地方，便会流出具有草药疗效的汁液。每天早上他就可以从这棵植物上喝到相当分量的汁液。这种植物即使缺少了某个部分，也还能枝繁叶茂地活上一年。
    他躺在他的房间里，被四面墙上苍白无力的地图包围着。凯瑟琳不在他身边。他强烈地想要烧毁一切社会规则和所有的繁文缛节。
    他不再在乎她与别人在一起生活的事实。他只是想着她的纤细优美，她的风情妩媚。他向往那个时刻，他们之间心有灵犀，在心灵深处有一小块共同的天地，他们是如此不同，却又像合上的两张书页般亲密交融。
    他已经被她拆散了。
    而如果她带给他的是破碎的心灵，那么他又带给她什么呢?
    当她待在她生活圈的藩篱中，他待在她身边的人群中说着笑话时，自己却不笑。他抨击勘探史是不可理喻的疯狂行径——当他心情不好时就会这样。只有马多克斯了解他这种习惯。但是她根本不理睬他的目光。她对每一个人微笑，对房间的每一件东西微笑，她赞美插花，或一些无关紧要的东西。她误解了他的意思，以为这就是他想要的，因而她在心里建立起双重的藩篱。
    但是现在她不能忍受她心里的这道藩篱。你也建立了你的藩篱，她对他说，所以我才建起了我的。她说这些事的时候，身上那耀人眼目的美丽令他不能自持。她穿着漂亮的衣服，她那张苍白的脸上堆着笑，回应每一个对她微笑的人，对他的笑话不置可否地露齿一笑。他继续对他们讲述一些危险的经历，而那些勘探故事是他们早巳熟悉的。
    他和她在格罗皮酒吧的大厅打过招呼以后，她就不再理睬他。他发疯了。他知道如果他不能继续控制她，他就会被她所控制。也许他会失去她，这是他能够接受的惟一方式。如果他们能彼此互相照顾，摆脱困境，那该有多好。而不是在彼此之间砌起一道藩篱，把彼此隔开。    
    阳光照进他在开罗的房间，他的手无力地摊在希罗多德的笔记上，所有的精力都积聚在身体的其它部位，因而不断地写错字。他只是拿着钢笔潦草地在纸上乱画。他几乎写不出那些词语——“阳光”和“恋爱”。
    在这间套房里，仅有的光线是来自河水和河对岸沙漠的反光。光照在她的颈上、脚上和他喜欢的右臂的牛痘疤上。她赤裸裸地坐在床上，他张开的手滑过她满是汗水的肩头。这是我的肩膀，他想着，不是她丈夫的，这是我的。他们待在这河边的房间里，情人们往往像这样把身体的一部分许诺给对方。
    几小时之后，房里已经暗了下来，只有河水和沙漠的光亮。天上下起了一阵罕见的大雨，他们走到窗前，向窗外伸出手臂，让雨水尽情地冲刷着。他们对着街上短暂的暴雨大喊。
    “我们不要再相爱了，我们不要再相见了。”
    “我知道。”他说。
    这一夜她坚持要分手。
    她坐下来，用她可怕的良心盔甲把自己包裹起来。他无法穿透它，只有身体能贴近她。
    “无论发生什么事，再也不要见面了。”
    “好。”
    “我想他会发疯的，你明白吗?”
    他什么也没说，放弃了拥抱她的念头。
    一个小时之后，他们走进雨后的夜，他们能听见不远处的大众音乐电影院传出留声机播放的歌声。因为天气热，电影院的窗户敞开着。他们必须在电影散场前离开，以免碰上她认识的人从电影院里面出来。
    他们待在圣徒大教堂附近的植物园里，那里长满了各种植物。她看见叶子上有一滴泪水，于是倾身向前，用舌头将它舔进嘴里。就像他做饭时切伤了手，她为他舔去伤口的血。鲜血、泪水……他觉得他身上所有的一切都流失了，只剩下一缕青烟。脑子里只在想未来的欲望和需要。他想说的不能说给这个女人听，她的坦荡像一种伤害，她的青春还没有衰败。他无法改变她，但这也是他最爱她的一点，她珍爱的浪漫情意仍得以安然地留存于这个真实世界中。除了这些特质之外，他知道这世界已没有秩序可言。
    她坚持要分手的那一夜是九月二十八日。树上的雨点已被月光蒸发了，没有任何冰冷的雨滴像泪水一样落在他脸上。那天他们在格罗皮公园分手。对面有亮光的窗子就是她的家，他已不再问她的丈夫是否在家。
    他看见他们上方一排排旅人蕉的掌叶，枝叶向外延伸交叠在一起。当她是他的情人时，她的头和秀发就是这样靠在他身上。
    他们没有吻，只有一次拥抱。他轻易地从她的怀抱里摆脱出来，走开，然后转身。她仍然站在那儿。他往回走了几步，离她只有几码远，然后用手指指着她说：
    “我只是想让你知道，我再也不会想你。”    ．
    他努力想强颜欢笑，她却觉得他的神色恐怖。她猛然转过头去，撞到了门柱上。他看见她碰伤了，注意到她脸部肌肉因疼痛而抽搐。但是现在他们已经分手了——在她的坚持下。她的抽搐，她的痛苦，是偶然的，是刻意的。她将手放在太阳穴边。
    “你会的。”她说。
   她早已低声告诉过他了。从我们生命中的这一点开始，如果我们找不到我们的灵魂，就会失去它。
    
    这是怎么发生的?坠入情网却又被拆散。
    “我躺在她的臂弯里。我已经把她的衣袖卷到肩膀上，这样我就能看见她的牛痘疤痕了。我喜欢这个，我说。她手臂上这个白色的圆圈。我看见种牛痘的针在她的手臂上轻扎了一下，然后打进免疫血清，再离开她的手臂，让她的皮肤得到解脱。这是多年以前的事了，当她还是个九岁的小姑娘，在学校的体育馆里种牛痘。”

VI

A Buried Plane

HE GLARES OUT, each eye a path, down the long bed at the end of which is Hana. After she has bathed him she breaks the tip
off an ampoule and turns to him with the morphine. An effigy. A bed. He rides the boat of morphine. It races in him, imploding
time and geography the way maps compress the world onto a two-dimensional sheet of paper.

The long Cairo evenings. The sea of night sky, hawks in rows until they are released at dusk, arcing towards the last colour
of the desert. A unison of performance like a handful of thrown seed.

In that city in 1936 you could buy anything—from a dog or a bird that came at one pitch of a whistle, to those terrible
leashes that slipped over the smallest finger of a woman so she was tethered to you in a crowded market.

In the northeast section of Cairo was the great courtyard of religious students, and beyond it the Khan el Khalili bazaar.
Above the narrow streets we looked down upon cats on the corrugated tin roofs who also looked down the next ten feet to the
street and stalls. Above all this was our room. Windows open to minarets, feluccas, cats, tremendous noise. She spoke to me of
her childhood gardens. When she couldn’t sleep she drew her mother’s garden for me, word by word, bed by bed, the
December ice over the fish pond, the creak of rose trellises. She would take -my wrist at the confluence of veins and guide it
onto the hollow indentation at her neck.


March 1937, Uweinat. Madox is irritable because of the thinness in the air. Fifteen hundred feet above sea level and he is
uncomfortable with even this minimal height. He is a desert man after all, having left his family’s village of Marston Magna,
Somerset, altered all customs and habits so he can have the proximity to sea level as well as regular dryness.

“Madox, what is the name of that hollow at the base of a woman’s neck? At the front. Here. What is it, does it have an
official name? That hollow about the size of an impress of your thumb?”

Madox watches me for a moment through the noon glare.

“Pull yourself together,” he mutters.

Let me tell you a story,” Caravaggio says to Hana. “There was a Hungarian named Almasy, who worked for the Germans
during the war. He flew a bit with the Afrika Korps, but he was more valuable than that. In the 19305 he had been one of the
great desert explorers. He knew every water hole and had helped map the Sand Sea. He knew all about the desert. He knew all
about dialects. Does this sound familiar? Between the two wars he was always on expeditions out of Cairo. One was to search
for Zerzura—the lost oasis. Then when war broke out he joined the Germans. In 1941 he became a guide for spies, taking them
across the desert into Cairo. What I want to tell you is, I think the English patient is not English.”

“Of course he is, what about all those flower beds in Gloucestershire?”

“Precisely. It’s all a perfect background. Two nights ago, when we were trying to name the dog. Remember?”

“Yes.”

“What were his suggestions?”

“He was strange that night.”

“He was very strange, because I gave him an extra dose of morphine. Do you remember the names? He put out about eight
names. Five of them were obvious jokes. Then three names. Cicero. Zerzura. Delilah.”

“So?”

“ ‘Cicero’ was a code name for a spy. The British unearthed him. A double then triple agent. He got away. ‘Zerzura’ is more
complicated.”

“I know about Zerzura. He’s talked about it. He also talks about gardens.”

“But it is mostly the desert now. The English garden is wearing thin. He’s dying. I think you have the spy-helper Almasy
upstairs.”

They sit on the old cane hampers of the linen room looking at each other. Caravaggio shrugs. “It’s possible.”

“I think he is an Englishman,” she says, sucking in her cheeks as she always does when she is thinking or considering
something about herself.

“I know you love the man, but he’s not an Englishman. In the early part of the war I was working in Cairo—the Tripoli
Axis. Rommel’s Rebecca spy—”

“What do you mean, ‘Rebecca spy’?”

“In 1942 the Germans sent a spy called Eppler into Cairo before the battle of El Alamein. He used a copy of Daphne du
Maurier’s novel Rebecca as a code book to send messages back to Rommel on troop movements. Listen, the book became bedside
reading with British Intelligence. Even I read it.”

“You read a book?”

“Thank you. The man who guided Eppler through the desert into Cairo on Rommel’s personal orders—from Tripoli all the
way to Cairo—was Count Ladislaus de Almasy. This was a stretch of desert that, it was assumed, no one could cross.

“Between the wars Almasy had English friends. Great explorers. But when war broke out he went with the Germans.
Rommel asked him to take Eppler across the desert into Cairo because it would have been too obvious by plane or parachute.
He crossed the desert with the guy and delivered him to the Nile delta.”

“You know a lot about this.”

“I was based in Cairo. We were tracking them. From Gialo he led a company of eight men into the desert. They had to keep
digging the trucks out of the sand hills. He aimed them towards Uweinat and its granite plateau so they could get water, take
shelter in the caves. It was a halfway point. In the 19305 he had discovered caves with rock paintings there. But the plateau
was crawling with Allies and he couldn’t use the wells there. He struck out into the sand desert again. They raided British
petrol dumps to fill up their tanks. In the Kharga Oasis they switched into British uniforms and hung British army number
plates on their vehicles. When they were spotted from the air they hid in the wadis for as long as three days, completely still.
Baking to death in the sand.

“It took them three weeks to reach Cairo. Almdsy shook hands with Eppler and left him. This is where we lost him. He
turned and went back into the desert alone. We think he crossed it again, back towards Tripoli. But that was the last time he
was ever seen. The British picked up Eppler eventually and used the Rebecca code to feed false information to Rommel about
El Alamein.”

“I still don’t believe it, David.”

“The man who helped catch Eppler in Cairo was named Sansom.”

“Delilah.”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe he’s Sansom.”

“I thought that at first. He was very like Almdsy. A desert lover as well. He had spent his childhood in the Levant and knew
the Bedouin. But the thing about Almasy was, he could fly. We are talking about someone who crashed in a plane. Here is this
man, burned beyond recognition, who somehow ends up in the arms of the English at Pisa. Also, he can get away with
sounding English. Almdsy went to school in England. In Cairo he was referred to as the English spy.”

She sat on the hamper watching Caravaggio. She said, “I think we should leave him be. It doesn’t matter what side he was
on, does it?”


Caravaggio said, “I’d like to talk with him some more. With more morphine in him. Talking it out. Both of us. Do you
understand? To see where it will all go. Delilah. Zerzura. You will have to give him the altered shot.”

“No, David. You’re too obsessed. It doesn’t matter who he is. The war’s over.”

“I will then. I’ll cook up a Brompton cocktail. Morphine and alcohol. They invented it at Brompton Hospital in London for
their cancer patients. Don’t worry, it won’t kill him. It absorbs fast into the body. I can put it together with what we’ve got.
Give him a drink of it. Then put him back on straight morphine.”

She watched him sitting on the hamper, clear-eyed, smiling. During the last stages of the war Caravaggio had become one of
the numerous morphia thieves. He had sniffed out her medical supplies within hours of his arrival. The small tubes of
morphine were now a source for him. Like toothpaste tubes for dolls, she had thought when she first saw them, finding them
utterly quaint. Caravaggio carried two or three in his pocket all day long, slipping the fluid into his flesh. She had stumbled on
him once vomiting from its excess, crouched and shaking in one of the dark corners of the villa, looking up and hardly
recognizing her. She had tried speaking with him and he had stared back. He had found the metal supply box, torn it open with
God knows what strength. Once when the sapper cut open the palm of his hand on an iron gate, Caravaggio broke the glass tip
off with his teeth, sucked and spat the morphine onto the brown hand before Kip even knew what it was. Kip pushing him
away, glaring in anger.

“Leave him alone. He’s my patient.”

“I won’t damage him. The morphine and alcohol will take away the pain.”

(3 CC’s BROMPTON COCKTAIL. 3:00 P.M.)

Caravaggio slips the book out of the man’s hands.

“When you crashed in the desert—where were you flying from?”

“I was leaving the Gilf Kebir. I had gone there to collect someone. In late August. Nineteen forty-two.”

“During the war? Everyone must have left by then.”

“Yes. There were just armies.”

“The Gilf Kebir.”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“Give me the Kipling book... here.”

On the frontispiece of Kirn was a map with a dotted line for the path the boy and the Holy One took. It showed just a portion
of India—a darkly cross-hatched Afghanistan, and Kashmir in the lap of the mountains.

He traces his black hand along the Numi River till it enters the sea at 23°3o’ latitude. He continues sliding his finger seven
inches west, off the page, onto his chest; he touches his rib.

“Here. The Gilf Kebir, just north of the Tropic of Cancer. On the Egyptian-Libyan border.”

What happened in 1942?

I had made the journey to Cairo and was returning from there. I was slipping between the enemy, remembering old maps,
hitting the pre-war caches of petrol and water, driving towards Uweinat. It was easier now that I was alone. Miles from the Gilf
Kebir, the truck exploded and I capsized, rolling automatically into the sand, not wanting a spark to touch me. In the desert one
is always frightened of fire.

The truck exploded, probably sabotaged. There were spies among the Bedouin, whose caravans continued to drift like cities,
carrying spice, rooms, government advisors wherever they went. At any given moment among the Bedouin in those days of the
war, there were Englishmen as well as Germans.

Leaving the truck, I started walking towards Uweinat, where I knew there was a buried plane.

Wait. What do you mean, a buried plane?

Madox had an old plane in the early days, which he had shaved down to the essentials—the only “extra” was the closed
bubble of cockpit, crucial for desert flights. During our times in the desert he had taught me to fly, the two of us walking
around the guy-roped creature theorizing on how it hung or veered in the wind.

When Clifton’s plane—Rupert—flew into our midst, the aging plane of Madox’s was left where it was, covered with a
tarpaulin, pegged down in one of the northeast alcoves of Uweinat. Sand collected over it gradually for the next few years.
None of us thought we would see it again. It was another victim of the desert. Within a few months we would pass the
northeast gully and see no contour of it. By now Clifton’s plane, ten years younger, had flown into our story.

So you were walking towards it?

Yes. Four nights of walking. I had left the man in Cairo and turned back into the desert. Everywhere there was war.
Suddenly there were “teams.” The Bermanns, the Bagnolds, the Slatin Pashas—who had at various times saved each other’s
lives—had now split up into camps.

I walked towards Uweinat. I got there about noon and climbed up into the caves of the plateau. Above the well named Ain
Dua.

“Caravaggio thinks he knows who you are,” Hana said.

The man in the bed said nothing.

“He says you are not English. He worked with intelligence out of Cairo and Italy for a while. Till he was captured. My
family knew Caravaggio before the war. He was a thief. He believed in ‘the movement of things.’ Some thieves are collectors,
like some of the explorers you scorn, like some men with women or some women with men. But Caravaggio was not like that.
He was too curious and generous to be a successful thief. Half the things he stole never came home. He thinks you are not
English.”


She watched his stillness as she spoke; it appeared that he was not listening carefully to what she was saying. Just his
distant thinking. The way Duke Ellington looked and thought when he played “Solitude.”

She stopped talking.

He reached the shallow well named Ain Dua. He removed all of his clothes and soaked them in the well, put his head and
then his thin body into the blue water. His limbs exhausted from the four nights of walking. He left his clothes spread on the
rocks and climbed up higher into the boulders, climbed out of the desert, which was now, in 1942, a vast battlefield, and went
naked into the darkness of the cave.

He was among the familiar paintings he had found years earlier. Giraffes. Cattle. The man with his arms raised, in a plumed
headdress. Several figures in the unmistakable posture of swimmers. Bermann had been right about the presence of an ancient
lake. He walked farther into the coldness, into the Cave of Swimmers, where he had left her. She was still there.

She had dragged herself into a corner, had wrapped herself tight in the parachute material. He had promised to return for her.

He himself would have been happier to die in a cave, with its privacy, the swimmers caught in the rock around them.
Hermann had told him that in Asian gardens you could look at rock and imagine water, you could gaze at a still pool and
believe it had the hardness of rock. But she was a woman who had grown up within gardens, among moistness, with words like
trellis and hedgehog. Her passion for the desert was temporary. She’d come to love its sternness because of him, wanting to
understand his comfort in its solitude. She was always happier in rain, in bathrooms steaming with liquid air, in sleepy
wetness, climbing back in from his window that rainy night in Cairo and putting on her clothes while still wet, in order to hold
it all. Just as she loved family traditions and courteous ceremony and old memorized poems. She would have hated to die
without a name. For her there was a line back to her ancestors that was tactile, whereas he had erased the path he had emerged
from. He was amazed she had loved him in spite of such qualities of anonymity in himself.

She was on her back, positioned the way the mediaeval dead lie.

I approached her naked as I would have done in our South Cairo room, wanting to undress her, still wanting to love her.

What is terrible in what I did? Don’t we forgive everything of a lover? We forgive selfishness, desire, guile. As long as we
are the motive for it. You can make love to a woman with a broken arm, or a woman with fever. She once sucked blood from a
cut on my hand as I had tasted and swallowed her menstrual blood. There are some European words you can never translate
properly into another language. Felhomaly. The dusk of graves. With the connotation of intimacy there between the dead and
the living.

I lifted her into my arms from the shelf of sleep. Clothing like cobweb. I disturbed all that.

I carried her out into the sun. I dressed. My clothes dry and brittle from the heat in the stones.

My linked hands made a saddle for her to rest on. As soon as I reached the sand I jostled her around so her body was facing
back, over my shoulder. I was conscious of the airiness of her weight. I was used to her like this in my arms, she had spun
around me in my room like a human reflection of the fan —her arms out, fingers like starfish.

We moved like this towards the northeast gully, where the plane was buried. I did not need a map. With me was the tank of
petrol I had carried all the way from the capsized truck. Because three years earlier we had been impotent without it.

“What happened three years earlier?”

“She had been injured. In 1939. Her husband had crashed his plane. It had been planned as a suicide-murder by her husband
that would involve all three of us. We were not even lovers at the time. I suppose information of the affair trickled down to him
somehow.”

“So she was too wounded to take with you.”

“Yes. The only chance to save her was for me to try and reach help alone.”

In the cave, after all those months of separation and anger, they had come together and spoken once more as lovers, rolling
away the boulder they had placed between themselves for some social law neither had believed in.

In the botanical garden she had banged her head against the gatepost in determination and fury. Too proud to be a lover, a
secret. There would be no compartments in her world. He had turned back to her, his finger raised, I don’t miss you yet.

You will.

During their months of separation he had grown bitter and self-sufficient. He avoided her company. He could not stand her
calmness when she saw him. He phoned her house and spoke to her husband and heard her laughter in the background. There
was a public charm in her that tempted everyone. This was something he had loved in her. Now he began to trust nothing.

He suspected she had replaced him with another lover. He interpreted her every gesture to others as a code of promise. She
gripped the front of Roundell’s jacket once in a lobby and shook it, laughing at him as he muttered something, and he followed
the innocent government aide for two days to see if there was more between them. He did not trust her last endearments to him
anymore. She was with him or against him. She was against him. He couldn’t stand even her tentative smiles at him. If she
passed him a drink he would not drink it. If at a dinner she pointed to a bowl with a Nile lily floating in it he would not look at
it. Just another fucking flower. She had a new group of intimates that excluded him and her husband. No one goes back to the
husband. He knew that much about love and human nature.

He bought pale brown cigarette papers and glued them into sections of The Histories that recorded wars that were of no
interest to him. He wrote down all her arguments against him. Glued into the book—giving himself only the voice of the
watcher, the listener, the “he.”

During the last days before the war he had gone for a last time to the Gilf Kebir to clear out the base camp. Her husband was
supposed to pick him up. The husband they had both loved until they began to love each other.

Clifton flew up on Uweinat to collect him on the appointed day, buzzing the lost oasis so low the acacia shrubs dismantled
their leaves in the wake of the plane, the Moth slipping into the depressions and cuts—while he stood on the high ridge


signalling with blue tarpaulin. Then the plane pivoted down and came straight towards him, then crashed into the earth fifty
yards away. A blue line of smoke uncoiling from the undercarriage. There was no fire.

A husband gone mad. Killing all of them. Killing himself and his wife—and him by the fact there was now no way out of the
desert.

Only she was not dead. He pulled the body free, carrying it out of the plane’s crumpled grip, this grip of her husband.

How did you hate me? she whispers in the Cave of Swimmers, talking through her pain of injuries. A broken wrist. Shattered
ribs. You were terrible to me. That’s when my husband suspected you. I still hate that about you—disappearing into deserts or
bars.

You left me in Groppi Park.

Because you didn’t want me as anything else.

Because you said your husband was going mad. Well, he went mad.

Not for a long time. I went mad before he did, you killed everything in me. Kiss me, will you. Stop defending yourself. Kiss
me and call me by my name.

Their bodies had met in perfumes, in sweat, frantic to get under that thin film with a tongue or a tooth, as if they each could
grip character there and during love pull it right off the body of the other.

Now there is no talcum on her arm, no rose water on her thigh.

You think you are an iconoclast, but you’re not. You just move, or replace what you cannot have. If you fail at something
you retreat into something else. Nothing changes you. How many women did you have? I left you because I knew I could
never change you. You would stand in the room so still sometimes, so wordless sometimes, as if the greatest betrayal of
yourself would be to reveal one more inch of your character. In the Cave of Swimmers we talked. We were only two latitudes
away from the safety of Kufra.

He pauses and holds out his hand. Caravaggio places a morphine tablet into the black palm, and it disappears into the man’s
dark mouth.

I crossed the dry bed of the lake towards Kufra Oasis, carrying nothing but robes against the heat and night cold, my
Herodotus left behind with her. And three years later, in 1942, I walked with her towards the buried plane, carrying her body as
if it was the armour of a knight.

In the desert the tools of survival are underground—troglodyte caves, water sleeping within a buried plant, weapons, a plane.
At longitude 25, latitude 23, I dug down towards the tarpaulin, and Madox’s old plane gradually emerged. It was night and
even in the cold air I was sweating. I carried the naphtha lantern over to her and sat for a while, beside the silhouette of her
nod. Two lovers and desert—starlight or moonlight, I don’t remember. Everywhere else out there was a war.

The plane came out of the sand. There had been no food and I was weak. The tarp so heavy I couldn’t dig it out but had
simply to cut it away.

In the morning, after two hours’ sleep, I carried her into the cockpit. I started the motor and it rolled into life. We moved and
then slipped, years too late, into the sky.

The voice stops. The burned man looks straight ahead in his morphine focus.

The plane is now in his eye. The slow voice carries it with effort above the earth, the engine missing turns as if losing a
stitch, her shroud unfurling in the noisy air of the cockpit, noise terrible after his days of walking in silence. He looks down
and sees oil pouring onto his knees. A branch breaks free of her shirt. Acacia and bone. How high is he above the land? How
low is he in the sky?

The undercarriage brushes the top of a palm and he pivots up, and the oil slides over the seat, her body slipping down into it.
There is a spark from a short, and the twigs at her knee catch fire. He pulls her back into the seat beside him. He thrusts his
hands up against the cockpit glass and it will not shift. Begins punching the glass, cracking it, finally breaking it, and the oil
and the fire slop and spin everywhere. How low is he in the sky? She collapses—acacia twigs, leaves, the branches that were
shaped into arms uncoiling around him. Limbs begin disappearing in the suck of air. The odour of morphine on his tongue.
Caravaggio reflected in the black lake of his eye. He goes up and down now like a well bucket. There is blood somehow all
over his face. He is flying a rotted plane, the canvas sheetings on the wings ripping open in the speed. They are carrion. How
far back had the palm tree been? How long ago? He lifts his legs out of the oil, but they are so heavy. There is no way he can
lift them again. He is old. Suddenly. Tired of living without her. He cannot lie back in her arms and trust her to stand guard all
day all night while he sleeps. He has no one. He is exhausted not from the desert but from solitude. Madox gone. The woman
translated into leaves and twigs, the broken glass to the sky like a jaw above him.

He slips into the harness of the oil-wet parachute and pivots upside down, breaking free of glass, wind flinging his body
back. Then his legs are free of everything, and he is in the air, bright, not knowing why he is bright until he realizes he is on
fire.

Hana can hear the voices in the English patient’s room and stands in the hall trying to catch what they are saying.

How is it?

Wonderful!

Now it’s my turn.

Ahh! Splendid, splendid.

This is the greatest of inventions.


A remarkable find, young man.

When she enters she sees Kip and the English patient passing a can of condensed milk back and forth. The Englishman sucks
at the can, then moves the tin away from his face to chew the thick fluid. He beams at Kip, who seems irritated that he does not
have possession of it. The sapper glances at Hana and hovers by the bedside, snapping his fingers a couple of times, managing
finally to pull the tin away from the dark face.

“We have discovered a shared pleasure. The boy and I. For me on my journeys in Egypt, for him in India.”

“Have you ever had condensed-milk sandwiches?” xthe sapper asks.

Hana glances back and forth between the two of them.

Kip peers into the can. “I’ll get another one,” he says, and leaves the room.

Hana looks at the man in the bed.

“Kip and I are both international bastards—born in one place and choosing to live elsewhere. Fighting to get back to or get
away from our homelands all our lives. Though

Kip doesn’t recognize that yet. That’s why we get on so well together.”

In the kitchen Kip stabs two holes into the new can of condensed milk with his bayonet, which, he realizes, is now used
more and more for only this purpose, and runs back upstairs to the bedroom.

“You must have been raised elsewhere,” the sapper says. “The English don’t suck it out that way.”

“For some years I lived in the desert. I learned everything I knew there. Everything that ever happened to me that was
important happened in the desert.”

He smiles at Hana.

“One feeds me morphine. One feeds me condensed milk. We may have discovered a balanced diet!” He turns back to Kip.

“How long have you been a sapper?”

“Five years. Mostly in London. Then Italy. With the unexploded-bomb units.” “Who was your teacher?”

“An Englishman in Woolwich. He was considered eccentric.”

“The best kind of teacher. That must have been Lord Suffolk. Did you meet Miss Morden?”

“Yes.”

At no point does either of them attempt to make Hana comfortable in their conversation. But she wants to know about his
teacher, and how he would describe him.

“What was he like, Kip?”

“He worked in Scientific Research. He was head of an experimental unit. Miss Morden, his secretary, was always with him,
and his chauffeur, Mr. Fred Harts. Miss Morden would take notes, which he dictated as he worked on a bomb, while Mr. Harts
helped with the instruments. He was a brilliant man. They were called the Holy Trinity. They were blown up, all three of them,
in 1941. At Erith.”

She looks at the sapper leaning against the wall, one foot up so the sole of his boot is against a painted bush. No expression
of sadness, nothing to interpret.

Some men had unwound their last knot of life in her arms. In the town of Anghiari she had lifted live men to discover they
were already being consumed by worms. In Ortona she had held cigarettes to the mouth of the boy with no arms. Nothing had
stopped her. She had continued her duties while she secretly pulled her personal self back. So many nurses had turned into
emotionally disturbed handmaidens of the war, in their yellow-and-crimson uniforms with bone buttons.

She watches Kip lean his head back against the wall and knows the neutral look on his face. She can read it.
6. 一架被埋葬的飞机
    他睁开眼睛，目光沿着长长的床铺，落到了坐在床脚的哈纳身上。她帮他擦洗之后，打开一支壶眼玻璃管，转向他，帮他打了一针吗啡。他像一个纸糊的人，无力地躺在床上。吗啡使他感到轻飘飘的。他乘上吗啡的小船，药性在他体内奔腾，带着他跨越时间和地理的限制，就像地图把世界压缩在一张平面的图纸上一样。
    “开罗的漫长下午。夜空如海，鹰群成行地飞翔，直到薄暮时分获得释放，它们才朝着沙漠边缘的太阳余晖盘旋而去。那情景就像一把种子迎风飞扬。
    “一九三六年的时候，在那座城里你什么都能买到……一条狗或一只小鸟，只要吹声口哨就来了。还有女人，她们的小拇指上捆着皮绳，你可以拴着她，穿过拥挤的市场。
    “开罗东北区是著名的神学院学生的院子，院子外面是汗阿尔卡里里市场。我们在狭窄的街道上方，向下俯视，看到猫儿待在波浪状的铁皮屋顶上，它们也正在打量下方十英尺处的街道和摊位。我们的房间居高临下。窗外可见清真寺的尖塔、小帆船和猫，不时还会传来扰人的喧嚣。她对我提起儿时的花园。她睡不着的时候，一字一句地对我描述她母亲的花园。我们的床挨着床。十二月的薄冰覆盖了鱼池。玫瑰花架会吱嗄作响。她会捉住我的手腕，把我的手放在血管汇流处，引导着它，把它放在她脖子上的凹处。
    “一九三七年三月，乌怀拿德。因为空气稀薄，马多克斯的脾气变得很暴躁。虽然只是在海拔一千五百英尺处，这样的高度也会使他感到不舒服。他毕竟是个在沙漠里生活的人，离开了位于索美塞得郡马斯顿马格纳村的老家后，改变了所有的习惯，因此海平面的高度可能会和常年的干燥—样，让他觉得较有亲切感。
    “‘马多克斯，女人颈子下面的那个凹处叫什么?在前面。这儿。那叫什么?它有正式的名称吗?那个凹处有没有你的拇指那么大?’
    马多克斯在正午的阳光下看了我一会儿。
    “‘振作点。’他小声地嘟哝着”。
    “我给你讲个故事，”卡拉瓦焦对哈纳说，“有一个叫奥尔马希的匈牙利人，在战争期间为德国人工作。他随非洲军团飞行，但是他的重要性远不止于此。在二十世纪三十年代时，他已经是伟大的沙漠勘探家之一。他知道每一处水坑，协助绘制了沙海的地图。他了解沙漠里的一切，他懂各种土语。这些事你熟悉吗?在两次大战之间的时间里，他经常在开罗附近从事考察：工作，其中之——就是寻找泽祖拉——湮没的绿洲。然后战争爆发了，他加入了德国人的行列。一九四一年，他成了间谍的向导，带领他们穿过沙漠，进入开罗。我想告诉你的就是，我认为这名病人不是个英国人。”
    “他当然是。格洛斯特郡的那些花床怎么解释?”
    “确切地说，这都是完善的背景。还记得两天前，当我们打算给那条狗取名字的时候吗?”
    “记得。”
    “他有什么建议?’’
    “他那天晚上看起来有些奇怪。”
    “他是很奇怪，因为我给他超过剂量的吗啡。你还记得那些名字吗?他大约提出了八个名字，其中五个显然是说着玩的。还有三个名字：西塞罗、泽祖拉、大利拉。”
    “那又怎样?”
    “‘塞罗’曾是个间谍的化名。英国人发现了他的真实身分。他原先是双面间谍，后来又变成三面间谍，他逃跑了。说到‘泽祖拉’，那就更复杂了。”
    “我知道‘泽祖拉’，他谈起过，他还常谈到花园。”
    “但是现在‘泽祖拉’多半已变成沙漠了，英国的花园正在凋零。他快死了。我认为楼上的那个人正是间谍的帮凶——奥尔马希。”
    他们在用麻布隔成的房间里，坐在老藤条吊篮上，互相对视着。卡拉瓦焦耸耸肩：“有可能。”
    “我认为他是个英国人。”她说，吸着两颊。当她在思索或考虑切身相关的问题时，常会这样。  
    “我知道你喜欢这个人，但是他不是个英国人。在战争初期，我在开罗工作——的黎波里轴心，隆美尔的蝴蝶梦间谍
  ．．．．．．”
    “‘蝴蝶梦间谍’是什么意思?”
    “一九四二年，在艾尔阿拉敏会战之前，德国人派了一个叫埃普尔的间谍到开罗。他用一本杜莫里埃的小说《蝴蝶梦》作为密码本，给隆美尔发送有关军队调动的情报。听着，这本书是英国情报人员的床头读物，连我都读过。”
    “你会读书?”
    “谢谢你，你真看得起我。有个男人奉隆美尔个人之命，引导埃普尔穿越沙漠进入开罗，那个人一路引导埃普尔从的黎波里直到开罗——他就是拉斯洛·奥尔马希伯爵。这段沙漠地带，曾被人认为是不能通行的。”
    “在二次大战之间，奥尔马希有些英国朋友，都是伟大的勘探家。但是当战争爆发时，他却投向了德国人。隆美尔请他带埃普尔穿越沙漠进入开罗，是因为如果搭飞机或用降落伞，目标太明显丁。他和那家伙一起穿越沙漠，把他送到尼罗河三角洲。”
    “对这件事你知道得很多。”
    “当时我驻扎在开罗，我们跟踪了他们。他从吉亚洛带领一队八人小组进入沙漠。他们得不断地把陷进沙里的卡车从沙丘中挖出来。他引导他们向乌怀拿德行进，那是一个花岗石高地，所以他们能从那里得到水，还能在山洞里栖身。这是半路上的一个点。三十年代的时候，他就发现了这些里边有岩石壁画的山洞。但是盟军在那个高地活动，所以他不能用那儿的水井。他又制定出一个进入沙漠的计划。他们袭击英国的汽油库，在那里装满油箱。在哈尔加绿洲，他们换上英国军队的军装，车子挂上英军车牌。当他们被人从空中发现时，他们在河谷里藏了三天，毫无动静，在沙漠里被太阳烤得半死。”
    “他们花了三个星期的时间到达开罗。奥尔马希与埃普尔握手后，离开了他。我们就是在这儿失去了他的行踪。他独自一人回到沙漠。我们猜想他可能再度穿越沙漠，回到的黎波里，但那是他最后一次露面。英国人终于抓住了埃普尔，用蝴蝶梦密码把关于艾尔阿拉敏的假情报发给了隆美尔。”
    “我还是不相信，大卫。”
    “那个在开罗帮助英国人抓到埃普尔的人名叫参孙。”
    “大利拉。”
    “对。”
    “也许他就是参孙。”
    “我也这么想。他和奥尔马希很像，也是热爱沙漠的人。他在黎凡特度过童年，因而懂贝都因语。奥尔马希有个特点，就是他会驾驶飞机，而我们所谈论的是个坠机事件的幸存者。这儿的这个人，被烧得认不出来了，他在比瑟最终落到英国军队手里，他可以冒充英国人而逃之天天。奥尔马希是在英国受教育。在开罗，他被认为是英国间谍。”
    她坐在藤条吊篮上看着卡拉瓦焦。她说：“我想我们应该随他去吧，他属于哪一方并不重要，不是吗?”
    卡拉瓦焦说：“我想再和他多谈谈，给他多打点儿吗啡，让他把真话说出来。你和我一起做。你明白吗?看看事情会发展到什么地步。大利拉，泽祖拉。你得给他注射那种药剂。”
    “不，大卫，你太固执了。他是谁并不重要，战争已经结束了。”    
    “我要这么做。我要调一杯布朗普顿鸡尾酒，吗啡加酒精。这是他们在伦敦的布郎普顿医院为癌症病人发明的。别担心，这不会要他的命的。它很快就会被人体吸收。我可以用我们现有的药品，把它们混在一起，给他喝下去，再用纯吗啡把他救醒。”  
    她看着他，双眼炯炯有神地微笑着。在战争末期，卡拉瓦焦成了为数众多的吗啡盗窃者之一。他到这儿几个小时，便嗅出了药品的存量。用药管装着的吗啡成了他的目标。像玩具牙膏的小管子，她第一次看到药管时曾这么想，并发现它们十分有趣。卡拉瓦焦每天带着两、三支，放在口袋里，需要时注射进自己的肌肉。她有次碰巧撞见他因为注射过量而呕吐，蹲在别墅的黑暗角落里颤抖。他抬眼看她的时候，几乎认不出她来。她想和他谈谈，但他只是回瞪着她。他已经找到了那个金属药箱，天晓得哪儿来那么大的劲儿，他竟把它撬开了。有一次，工兵被铁门弄破了手掌，卡拉瓦焦用牙咬开玻璃管，还没等基普搞清那是什么，就吸出一口吗啡，吐在他棕色的手上。基普一把推开他，愤怒地瞪着他。
    “别碰他，他是我的病人。”
    “我不会害他的，吗啡和酒精能够消除痛苦。”
    (3CC布朗普顿鸡尾酒。下午三点钟。)
    卡拉瓦焦从英国病人手里把那本书抽出来。
    “当你在沙漠坠落的时候……你正从哪里飞来?”
    “我正好离开基尔夫·克尔比尔，我去那儿接个人。那是在一九四二年八月底。”
    “在战争时期?那时大家很可能都离开那里了。”
    “是的，那儿全是军队。”
    “基尔夫·克尔比尔。”
    “是的。”      
    “它在哪儿?”
    “给我那本吉卜林的书……这儿。”
    《吉姆)的卷首扉页上有一幅地图，上面标明了那个男孩和圣者所走的那条路。它只是画出了印度的一部分——较黑的一片是阿富汗，山腰上横卧着喀什米尔。
    他伸出黑色的手，在地图上滑动，沿着努米河直到纬度二十三度三十分人海。他的手指继续向西滑了七英寸，滑出了地图，滑到他的胸口上，指着他的肋骨。
    “这儿。基尔夫·克尔比尔，就在北回归线北面。在埃及——利比亚的交界线上。”
    “一九四二年发生了什么事?”
    “我刚从开罗旅行回来，驾车行驶在交战双方之间，凭着记忆，找到战前贮藏的汽油和水，朝着乌怀拿德开去。我独自一人行事容易得多了。出了基尔夫·克尔比尔几英里远，卡车爆炸了，我本能地翻身滚进了沙漠，免得碰到火花。在沙漠，人们总是很怕火。
    “卡车爆炸了，也许有人蓄意破坏。在贝都因人中有很多间谍，他们的大篷车像城市一样，不论去到何处，都会带着香料、房间和政府顾问(间谍)。在战争中的那些日子里，德国人和英国人都混进了贝都因人当中。    
    “离开了卡车，我开始朝着乌怀拿德的方向走去。我知道那儿埋藏着一架飞机。”
    “等等，你这是什么意思，一架被埋藏的飞机?”
    “马多克斯早先有一架老飞机，他已经装上了必要的配件——惟一的特别之处在于驾驶舱的密闭防风罩，这对沙漠飞行是至关重要的。我们在沙漠里共事的时候，他已教会了我飞行，我们俩在这架绑着绳索的玩意儿周围转着，思索着这玩意儿如何在风中盘旋、转向。
    “当杰弗里·克利夫顿的飞机——鲁珀特——飞来时，马多克斯的老飞机就被留在了原地。用防水帆布盖起来，固定在乌怀拿德东北面的一个洼地里。此后几年，沙子覆盖了它。我们都没想到还能再见到它。它是沙漠的另一个受害者。几个月后，我们经过了东北部的峡谷，但已无法看到它的轮廓。当时我们便搭着杰弗里·克利夫顿的飞机——它比马多克斯那架要年轻十岁——继续办我们的事。”
    “于是你就向乌怀拿德走去?”
    “是的，走了四夜。我已经把那个人留在开罗，回到了沙漠，到处都在打仗。突然那儿出现了一些“队伍”——伯曼的队伍，巴格诺尔德的队伍，斯莱廷，帕塞斯的队伍。他们曾多次相互支援，现在已经各自有自己的阵营了。
    “我向乌怀拿德走去。我大约在正午的时候到达那里，爬进那座高地的岩洞，在那口叫爱因·杜阿的水井上方。”
    “卡拉瓦焦认为他知道你是谁!”哈纳说。
    床上的那个男人没有说话。
    “他说你不是英国人。他曾在开罗附近从事情报工作，在意大利也干过一段时间——直到他被俘。我们家在战前就认识卡拉瓦焦。他曾是个小偷。他相信‘东西的流动’。那些小偷是收藏者，就像你所蔑视的某些勘探家一样，就像一些有女人的男人，或是一些有男人的女人一样。但是卡拉瓦焦不是那样的。他太好奇又太慷慨，所以不能成为一名成功的小偷——他偷的东西有一半不会带回家。他认为你不是英国人。”
    当她说话的时候+她看到他无动于衷。看得出来，他并没有用心听她说话。他的思绪已飞到了远方，就像艾灵顿公爵演奏《孤寂)时，脸上所流露出的沉思神情。
  她沉默了下来。
  他到达了那口叫爱因·杜阿的水井。他脱下身上所有的衣服，把它们泡进井里，接着把他的头，然后是他瘦弱的身体浸入蓝色的水中。经过四夜的跋涉，他的四肢已疲惫不堪。他把衣服摊开，晒在岩石上，爬到更高处，爬进卵石堆里，爬出沙漠。现在是一九四二年，在一片广阔的战场上，他赤裸裸地走进黑暗的山洞里。
    他身处于那些他早年发现的熟悉的岩画中。长颈鹿、牛、羊、一个戴着羽毛头饰的人举起手臂。有几幅明白表现出人们游泳的姿态。伯曼的观点是对的，古代湖泊的确存在。他再往里走，走进冰冷的游泳者洞穴，他把她留在那儿。她还在那儿。她自己爬进了一个角落，用降落伞布把自己紧紧地裹起来。他承诺过会回到她身边。
    他自己倒很愿意死在一个不为人知的洞里，与困在岩壁中的泳者为伴。伯曼曾告诉过他，在亚洲的花园里，你可以看着岩石来想象流水，你可以凝视一片静止的湖面，相信它具有岩石坚硬。但是她是在花园里长大的那种女人，在潮湿的空气里，和那些类似“凉亭”、“刺猥”的字眼一起长大的。她对沙漠的激情是暂时的。她是因为他的缘故，才爱上沙漠的严酷，因为她想了解他在沙漠的孤寂中所得到的自在。她更喜欢在雨中，在雾气腾腾的浴室里，在令人昏昏欲睡的湿润里。在开罗的那个雨夜里，她从他的窗子里爬进来，穿上湿衣服，是为了享受那一份潮湿，就像她喜欢家庭传统和礼仪庆典一样。就像以前背熟的诗歌一样，她会痛恨默默无闻而死的。对她来说，祖先的影响在她身上清晰可见，而他却恰恰相反，已经抹去了出身的烙印。她对他的爱使他感到惊喜，尽管他是个默默无闻的人，但她仍然爱他。
    “她仰面躺着，那姿态像中世纪的死人。
    “我光着身子走近她，就像在开罗南部的房间里那样，想脱去她的衣服，想再爱她一次。
    “我做的事有什么可怕呢?难道我们不能原谅情人的一切吗?我们原谅自私、情欲和狡诈。只要我们愿意，你可以和一位断了手臂的女人或发烧的女人做爱。她有一次舔我手上伤口的血，就像我品尝和咽下她的体液一样。有一些欧洲人的用语，你也许永远无法贴切地翻译成另一种语言。Felhomaly。坟墓的黄昏，在生与死之间有着紧密的联系。
    “我将沉睡的她抱起，她身上像蜘蛛网一样包得紧紧地。我扯乱了一切。
    “我抱着她走到了太阳底下，我穿上了衣服。炽热的岩石已经把我的衣服烤得又干又硬。
    “我把手拱成鞍形，让她躺在上面。我一进入沙漠，就把她转过身来，让她的身体靠在我的肩上。我感觉到她身体的轻盈。我曾像这样拥她人怀，在我的房间里，她的身体像扇子一样张开，绕着我旋转——她的手臂向外伸展，手指张开像海星一样。    ．
    “我们就这样向着埋着飞机的东北部山谷走去——我不需要地图。我从翻了的卡车上扛了一箱汽油下来，一路上一直带着，因为在三年前，飞机的汽油已经用完了。”
    “三年前发生了什么事?”
    “她受伤了。一九三九年，她丈夫的飞机坠毁了。那是她丈夫设计的一起自杀……谋杀计划，要我们三人同归于尽。我们那时其实已经分手了。我猜想我们的事还是传到他的耳朵里去了。”
    “然而她受的伤太重，不能跟你走。”
    “是的，对我来说，救她的惟一机会是试试独自去寻找帮助。”
    在岩洞里，在经历了几个月的分离与愤怒之后，他们再次以情人的身份相聚和互诉衷曲，抛开那些他们从不相信的社会法制的约束。
    在植物繁茂的花园里时，她把头撞在门柱上，以表明她的决心和愤怒。她太骄傲，不愿只当他的情人，不愿被当作秘密。她要活得正大光明。他转过身，伸出手指指着她：“我不会想你的。”  
    “你会的。”
    在他们分手的这几个月里，他变得痛苦而又自负。他躲着她。他不能忍受她看见他时所表现的平静。他打电话到她家和她的丈夫说话时，可以听见她的笑声。她那所向披靡的魅力，可以使每一个人动心。这正是他曾为她倾心的原因。现在他什么也不相信了。    
    他怀疑她是另有情人才抛弃他的。在他的眼里，她的一举一动都成了对别人承诺的暗号。她有一次在大厅里抓住朗德尔甲克的前襟，摇晃着，当他嘟哝着什么的时候，她冲着他大笑。于是他花了两天时间跟踪那个无辜的政府助理，观察他们之间是否有更深的关系。他怀疑她最后保留的一点亲昵。她的心是向着他，还是不向着他?她的心已不向着他了。甚至当她试探性地对他微笑时，他也不能忍受。如果她递给他一杯饮料，他是不会喝的。如果在餐桌上，她指着碗里漂浮着的一朵尼罗河莲花，他也不会看上一眼。又一朵该死的花。她有了一群新朋友，把他和她丈夫都疏远了。没有人回到她丈夫身边。他对于爱和人性太了解了。
    他把浅棕色的烟纸贴在《历史》的章节里，遮盖住记录着他不感兴趣的战争的内容。他把她反对他的论点都写下来，贴进这本书里——只给自己留下那个目击者，那个听众，那个“他”的声音。
    在战争最后的日子里，他最后一次到基尔夫·克尔比尔去，清理基地的帐篷。她丈夫会来接他。他和她都曾爱着她的丈夫，直到他们开始相爱。
    杰弗里·克利夫顿在约定的日子飞到乌怀拿德去接他，飞机飞得很低，飞机的尾流震得刺槐树丛落叶纷飞。蛾式飞机低旋着直向洼地冲来，此时，他正站在高处的悬崖边，挥舞着蓝色的防水帆布打信号。然而那架飞机向下盘旋着向他直冲过来，—接着坠落在五十码开外的地上，一条蓝色的烟柱从起落架下散开来。没有着火。
    杰弗里·克利夫顿发疯了，要把他们都杀死。杀死他自己和他的妻子——而他也因而无法离开沙漠。
    但她并没有死。他把她的身体拽出来，把她从一堆飞机残骸里拉出来，她丈夫死前紧紧抓住她。
    “你有多恨我，竟要这样对我?”她在游泳者洞穴里，忍着伤痛轻声地对他说。手腕摔碎了，肋骨也摔断了。“你这样残忍地对待我，而那时我丈夫正在怀疑你。我现在还是恨你——你只会逃避现实，只会躲进沙漠和酒吧里。”
    “是你在格罗皮公园离开我的。”
    “因为你根本不在乎我。”
    “因为你说你丈夫会发疯。的确，他是发疯了。”
    “没过多久。我在他疯之前就发疯了，你毁了我的一切。吻我，好吗?别再禁锢你自己了，叫着我的名字，吻我吧。”
    他们的身体在香水味和汗味中相遇了，他们发疯地纠缠在一起，试图用舌头和牙齿撕开横亘在他们之间的那层薄膜，他们可以把彼此的灵魂揪出对方的躯体。
    现在她手臂上的滑石粉已退掉了，大腿的玫瑰香水也已散去。
    “你认为自己反对崇拜偶像，但你不是的，对于你无法拥有的，你只是逃避，或转移自己的注意。如果你在一件事上失败了，你就拿另一件事当寄托，没有任何事能改变你。你到底有多少女人?我离开你是因为我知道我无法改变你。你站在屋里时，有时是那么漠然，有时又那么沉默，好像只要暴露一点你的个性，就是对你自己最大的背叛。”
    “我们在游泳者洞穴里聊着。我们离安全的库法只有两纬度的距离。”
    他停了下来，伸出手。卡拉瓦焦放了一片吗啡药片在他黑色的手掌里，他把它放进黑色的嘴里，吞了下去。
    “我穿过干涸的湖床向库法绿洲走去，除了一件长袍，什么也没带，我用它抵御白天的酷热和夜晚的寒冷，我把希罗多德的书留给了她。三年后，一九四二年，我和她一起向埋藏在那里的飞机走去。我背着她的身体，好像那是骑士的盔甲。
    “在沙漠里，救生的工具都在地下，包括史前穴居人的洞穴、深植在沙土中的植物所贮藏的水分、武器和飞机。在经度二十五度，纬度二十三度，我朝着防水帆布挖下去，马多克斯的飞机逐渐出现在我眼前。那时正是夜里，即使是在冰冷的夜风中，我仍是汗涔涔的。我提着油灯走到她身边，在她打盹的身影旁坐了一会儿。两个情人待在沙漠里——顶着星光或月光，我已不记得了。除了这儿，到处都是战争。
    “飞机从沙子里被挖出来了。．食物早就没了，我很虚弱。帆布太重了，我挖不出来，只好把它割断。
    “早晨，睡了两个小时之后，我把她抱进了驾驶舱。我启动发动机，而它转动起来了。我们的飞机启动了，一会儿便歪歪扭扭地飞向天空。年代太久了。”
    声音停住了，烧伤的男人眼睛凝视着前方，沉浸在吗啡的虚幻中。
    那架飞机此刻正在他眼里，它随着低沉的声音勉强地飞离地面，但突然，发动机停止了转动，好像少了什么零件。裹在她身上的布在驾驶舱嘈杂的声音中展开。他在沉寂中走了好几天，对一切声音都感到害怕。他低下头，看见汽油洒落在他的膝盖上。树枝从她的衣服上掉下来，那是刺槐和骨头。他离地面有多高?他离天空有多远?
    起落架擦到了树顶，他把它向上转动。汽油流到了座位上，她的身体跌在汽油上。电线短路引起了火花，她膝上的细树枝着了火。他又把她放回他身边的座位上。他用手用力推驾驶舱的玻璃，但它动也不动。他猛击那玻璃，玻璃裂开了，最后被打碎了。汽油和火蔓延得到处都是。他离天空有多远?她倒下了——刺槐树的树叶、树枝都堆积在他的手臂周围，散成一片。空气进来之后，开始看不见四肢了。他的舌头上有一股吗啡的味道。卡拉瓦焦的身影映在他黑潮—般的瞳孔里。他像井里一个装满了水的水桶，忽上忽下。他满脸是血，驾驶着一架烂飞机。因为速度太快，罩在机翼上的帆布被撕破了，它们是堆腐肉。那树在后面多远的地方？多久以前？他从油中抬起腿，但它们竟是那样沉重。他没办法再抬起它们了。突然间，他老了，厌倦了没有她的生活。他不能再躺进她的怀里，在他睡觉的时候，相信她会整天整夜地守护着他。没有人了。他不是因为沙漠而精疲力竭，而是因为孤独。马多克斯走了。那女人变成了树叶和细枝。碎裂的玻璃迎向天空，像一道钳夹。
    他钻进被油浸湿的降落伞的吊带，身体倒悬着，避开了碎玻璃，强劲的风又把他抛回去。然后他的腿从所有羁绊中挣脱出来，他在空中了，身上发着光，他不知道自己为什么会发光，直至他明白他身上着了火。
    哈纳能够听到从英国病人房里传来的声音，她站在走廊上，想听听他们说些什么。
    “怎么样?”
    “太棒了!”
    “现在该我了。”
    “啊哈!好极了，好极了。”
    这是最伟大的发明。
    一个非凡的发现，年轻人。
    
  她走进去，看见基普和英国病人正拿着一罐炼乳转来转去。英国人吸了口炼乳，然后放下罐子，口里咀嚼着那浓厚的滋味。他面对着基普，基普似乎因为没有喝到炼乳而感到很不高兴。基普瞄了哈纳一眼，在床边犹豫不决，弹了好几次手指，决定从那张黑脸前把罐子拿开。
    “我们发现了一种共同的乐趣，这个男孩和我。我在埃及的旅行中得到乐趣，他在印度得到乐趣。”    
    “你吃过炼乳三明治吗?”工兵问道。
    哈纳的目光在他们之间逡巡。
    基普盯着那个罐子看了一会儿。“我再去拿一罐来。”他说着便离开了房间。
    哈纳看着床上的那个男人。
    “基普和我都是浪迹天涯的人——生在一个地方，却选择到另一个地方去生活。一辈子挣扎着想回去，又挣扎着离开。基普还没明白这点。那就是我们在一起相处得那么好的原因。”
    在厨房里，基普用刺刀在一罐新的炼乳上戳了两个洞。他发现这把刺刀现在常用来干这个。他又跑回楼上的卧室。
    “你一定是在别的地方长大的，”基普说，“英国人不会那样吸炼乳。”
    “我在沙漠里住了几年，学会了那儿的一切。我所经历的重要事情都发生在沙漠里。”
    英国病人对哈纳微微一笑。
    “一个喂我吃吗啡，一个喂我吃炼乳。我们也许发现了一种平衡的饮食。”他转向基普。
    “你当工兵多久了?”
    “五年。大多待在伦敦，然后在意大利，在处理未爆炸炸弹的部队里。”
    “你的老师是谁?”
    “是伍尔沃思的一个英国人，人们认为他是个行为古怪的人。”
    “那是最好的老师，想必他一定是瑟福克爵士。你见过莫登小姐吗?”
    “见过。”
    他们谁也没试着要让哈纳在他们的交谈中感到自在。但是她想知道关于他老师的事，想听听他会怎样描述他。
    “他是什么样人，基普?”    
    “他在科学研究所工作，是一个实验小队的负责人，莫登小姐是他的秘书，经常待在他身边，而他的司机是弗雷德·哈茨先生。当他在研究炸弹的时候，莫登小姐会把他口授的东西记录下来，同时哈茨先生会在一旁帮忙递工具。他是个杰出的人物。他们被称做铁三角。一九四一年在厄里斯，他们三个被炸死了。”
    哈纳看着基普斜倚在墙上，抬起一双脚，靴底抵着墙上画的一丛灌木。他的脸上没有悲伤，也看不出有什么表情。
    有些人在她的怀抱里咽下最后一口气。在安吉亚里的小镇里，她抬起活着的人，发现他们正被虫子所噬咬。在奥托纳，她曾经拿着香烟让没有双臂的人抽。什么也不能阻止她。她履行着自己的职责，同时也悄悄地把个人感情隐藏起来。许多护士在战争中变成情绪激动的粗俗女仆，她们身上的制服发黄了，染上鲜血，缝着人骨做的纽扣。她看着基普把头靠在墙上，她已熟悉他脸上的淡然神色。她能读懂它。

VII

In Situ

WESTBURY, ENGLAND, 1940

KIRPAL SINGH STOOD where the horse’s saddle would have lain across its back. At first he simply stood on the back of the
horse, paused and waved to those he could not see but who he knew would be watching. Lord Suffolk watched him through
binoculars, saw the young man wave, both arms up and swaying.

Then he descended, down into the giant white chalk horse of Westbury, into the whiteness of the horse, carved into the hill.
Now he was a black figure, the background radicalizing the darkness of his skin and his khaki uniform. If the focus on the
binoculars was exact, Lord Suffolk would see the thin line of crimson lanyard on Singh’s shoulder that signalled his sapper
unit. To them it would look like he was striding down a paper map cut out in the shape of an animal. But Singh was conscious
only of his boots scuffing the rough white chalk as he moved down the slope.

Miss Morden, behind him, was also coming slowly down the hill, a satchel over her shoulder, aiding herself with a rolled
umbrella. She stopped ten feet above the horse, unfurled the umbrella and sat within its shade. Then she opened up her
notebooks.

“Can you hear me?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s fine.” She rubbed the chalk off her hands onto her skirt and adjusted her glasses. She looked up into the distance
and, as Singh had done, waved to those she could not see.

Singh liked her. She was in effect the first Englishwoman he had really spoken with since he arrived in England. Most of his
time had been spent in a barracks at Woolwich. In his three months there he had met only other Indians and English officers. A
woman would reply to a question in the NAAFI canteen, but conversations with women lasted only two or three sentences.

He was the second son. The oldest son would go into the army, the next brother would be a doctor, a brother after that would
become a businessman. An old tradition in his family. But all that had changed with the war. He joined a Sikh regiment and


was shipped to England. After the first months in London he had volunteered himself into a unit of engineers that had been
set up to deal with delayed-action and unex-ploded bombs. The word from on high in 1939 was naive: “Unexploded bombs are
considered the responsibility of the Home Office, who are agreed that they should be collected by A.R.P. wardens and police
and delivered to convenient dumps, where members of the armed forces will in due course detonate them.”

It was not until 1940 that the War Office took over responsibility for bomb disposal, and then, in turn, handed it over to the
Royal Engineers. Twenty-five bomb disposal units were set up. They lacked technical equipment and had in their possession
only hammers, chisels and road-mending tools. There were no specialists.

A bomb is a combination of the following parts:

1. A container or bomb case.
2. Afuze.
3. An initiating charge, or gaine.
4. A main charge of high explosive.
5. Superstructionalfittings—fins, lifting lugs, kopfrings, etc.
Eighty percent of bombs dropped by airplanes over Britain were thin-walled, general-purpose bombs. They usually ranged
from a hundred pounds to a thousand. A 2,ooo-pound bomb was called a “Hermann” or an “Esau.” A 4,ooo-pound bomb was
called a “Satan.”

Singh, after long days of training, would fall asleep with diagrams and charts still in his hands. Half dreaming, he entered the
maze of a cylinder alongside the picric acid and the gaine and the condensers until he reached the fuze deep within the main
body. Then he was suddenly awake.

When a bomb hit a target, the resistance caused a trembler to activate and ignite the flash pellet in the fuze. The minute
explosion would leap into the gaine, causing the penthrite wax to detonate. This set off the picric acid, which in turn caused the
main filling of TNT, amatol and aluminized powder, to explode. The journey from trembler to explosion lasted a microsecond.

The most dangerous bombs were those dropped from low altitudes, which were not activated until they had landed. These
unexploded bombs buried themselves in cities and fields and remained dormant until their trembler contacts were disturbed—
by a farmer’s stick, a car wheel’s nudge, the bounce of a tennis ball against the casing—and then they would explode.

Singh was moved by lorry with the other volunteers to the research department in Woolwich. This was a time when the
casualty rate in bomb disposal units was appallingly high, considering how few unexploded bombs there were. In 1940, after
France had fallen and Britain was in a state of siege, it got worse.

By August the blitz had begun, and in one month there were suddenly 2,500 unexploded bombs to be dealt with.

Roads were closed, factories deserted. By September the number of live bombs had reached 3,700. One hundred new bomb
squads were set up, but there was still no understanding of how the bombs worked. Life expectancy in these units was ten
weeks.

“This was a Heroic Age of bomb disposal, a period of individual prowess, when urgency and a lack of knowledge and
equipment led to the taking of fantastic risks.... It was, however, a Heroic Age whose protagonists remained obscure, since
their actions were kept from the public for reasons of security. It was obviously undesirable to publish reports that might help
the enemy to estimate the ability to deal with weapons.”

In the car, driving down to Westbury, Singh had sat in front with Mr. Harts while Miss Morden rode in the back with Lord
Suffolk. The khaki-painted Humber was famous. The mudguards were painted bright signal red—as all bomb disposal travel
units were—and at night there was a blue filter over the left sidelight. Two days earlier a man walking near the famous chalk
horse on the Downs had been blown up. When engineers arrived at the site they discovered that another bomb had landed in
the middle of the historic location— in the stomach of the giant white horse of Westbury carved into the rolling chalk hills in
1778. Shortly after this event, all the chalk horses on the Downs—there were seven—had camouflage nets pegged down over
them, not to protect them so much as stop them being obvious landmarks for bombing raids over England.

From the backseat Lord Suffolk chatted about the migration of robins from the war zones of Europe, the history of bomb
disposal, Devon cream. He was introducing the customs of England to the young Sikh as if it was a recently discovered
culture. In spite of being Lord Suffolk he lived in Devon, and until war broke out his passion was the study of Lorna Doone
and how authentic the novel was historically and geographically. Most winters he spent puttering around the villages of
Brandon and Porlock, and he had convinced authorities that Exmoor was an ideal location for bomb-disposal training. There
were twelve men under his command—made up of talents from various units, sappers and engineers, and Singh was one of
them. They were based for most of the week at Richmond Park in London, being briefed on new methods or working on
unexploded bombs while fallow deer drifted around them. But on weekends they would go down to Ex-moor, where they
would continue training during the day and afterwards be driven by Lord Suffolk to the church where Lorna Doone was shot
during her wedding ceremony. “Either from this window or from that back door... shot right down the aisle—into her shoulder.
Splendid shot, actually, though of course reprehensible. The villain was chased onto the moors and had his muscles ripped
from his body.” To Singh it sounded like a familiar Indian fable.

Lord Suffolk’s closest friend in the area was a female aviator who hated society but loved Lord Suffolk. They went shooting
together. She lived in a small cottage in Countisbury on a cliff that overlooked the Bristol Channel. Each village they passed in
the Humber had its exotica described by Lord Suffolk. “This is the very best place to buy blackthorn walking sticks.” As if
Singh were thinking of stepping into the Tudor corner store in his uniform and turban to chat casually with the owners about
canes. Lord Suffolk was the best of the English, he later told Hana. If there had been no war he would never have roused
himself from Countisbury and his retreat, called Home Farm, where he mulled along with the wine, with the flies in the old
back laundry, fifty years old, married but essentially bachelor in character, walking thp cliffs each day to visit his aviator
friend. He liked to fix things—old laundry tubs and plumbing generators and cooking spits run by a waterwheel. He had been


helping Miss Swift, the aviator, collect information on the habits of badgers.

The drive to the chalk horse at Westbury was therefore busy with anecdote and information. Even in wartime he knew the
best place to stop for tea. He swept into Pamela’s Tea Room, his arm in a sling from an accident with guncotton, and
shepherded in his clan—secretary, chauffeur and sapper —as if they were his children. How Lord Suffolk had persuaded the
LJXB Committee to allow him to set up his experimental bomb disposal outfit no one was sure, but with his background in
inventions he probably had more qualifications than most. He was an autodidact, and he believed his mind could read the
motives and spirit behind any invention. He had immediately invented the pocket shirt, which allowed fuzes and gadgets to be
stored easily by a working sapper.

They drank tea and waited for scones, discussing the in situ defusing of bombs.

“I trust you, Mr. Singh, you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” Singh adored him. As far as he was concerned, Lord Suffolk was the first real gentleman he had met in England.

“You know I trust you to do as well as I. Miss Morden will be with you to take notes. Mr. Harts will be farther back. If you
need more equipment or more strength, blow on the police whistle and he will join you. He doesn’t advise but he understands
perfectly. If he won’t do something it means he disagrees with you, and I’d take his advice. But you have total authority on the
site. Here is my pistol. The fuzes are probably more sophisticated now, but you never know, you might be in luck.”

Lord Suffolk was alluding to an incident that had made him famous. He had discovered a method for inhibiting a delayed-
action fuze by pulling out his army revolver and firing a bullet through the fuze head, so arresting the movement of the clock
body. The method was abandoned when the Germans introduced a new fuze in which the percussion cap and not the clock was
uppermost.

Kirpal Singh had been befriended, and he would never forget it. So far, half of his time during the war had taken place in the
slipstream of this lord who had never stepped out of England and planned never to step out of Countisbury once the war ended.
Singh had arrived in England knowing no one, distanced from his family in the Punjab. He was twenty-one years old. He had
met no one but soldiers. So that when he read the notice asking for volunteers with an experimental bomb squad, even though
he heard other sappers speak of Lord Suffolk as a madman, he had already decided that in a war you have to take control, and
there was a greater chance of choice and life alongside a personality or an individual.

He was the only Indian among the applicants, and Lord Suffolk was late. Fifteen of them were led into a library and asked by
the secretary to wait. She remained at the desk, copying out names, while the soldiers joked about the interview and the test.
He knew no one. He walked over to a wall and stared at a barometer, was about to touch it but pulled back, just putting his face
close to it. Very Dry to Fair to Stormy. He muttered the words to himself with his new English pronunciation. “Wery dry. Very
dry.” He looked back at the others, peered around the room and caught the gaze of the middle-aged secretary. She watched him
sternly. An Indian boy. He smiled and walked towards the bookshelves. Again he touched nothing. At one point he put his
nose close to a volume called Raymond, or Life and Death by Sir Oliver Hodge.

He found another, similar title. Pierre, or the Ambiguities. He turned and caught the woman’s eyes on him again. He felt as
guilty as if he had put the book in his pocket. She had probably never seen a turban before. The English! They expect you to
fight for them but won’t talk to you. Singh. And the ambiguities.

They met a very hearty Lord Suffolk during lunch, who poured wine for anyone who wanted it, and laughed loudly at every
attempt at a joke by the recruits. In the afternoon they were all given a strange exam in which a piece of machinery had to be
put back together without any prior information of what it was used for. They were allowed two hours but could leave as soon
as the problem was solved. Singh finished the exam quickly and spent the rest of the time inventing other objects that could be
made from the various components. He sensed he would be admitted easily if it were not for his race. He had come from a
country where mathematics and mechanics were natural traits. Cars were never destroyed. Parts of them were carried across a
village and readapted into a sewing machine or water pump. The backseat of a Ford was reuphol-stered and became a sofa.
Most people in his village were more likely to carry a spanner or screwdriver than a pencil. A car’s irrelevant parts thus entered
a grandfather clock or irrigation pulley or the spinning mechanism of an office chair. Antidotes to mechanized disaster were
easily found. One cooled an overheating car engine not with new rubber hoses but by scooping up cow shit and patting it
around the condenser. What he saw in England was a surfeit of parts that would keep the continent of India going for two
hundred years.

He was one of three applicants selected by Lord Suffolk. This man who had not even spoken to him (and had not laughed
with him, simply because he had not joked) walked across the room and put his arm around his shoulder. The severe secretary
turned out to be Miss Morden, and she bustled in with a tray that held two large glasses of sherry, handed one to Lord Suffolk
and, saying, “I know you don’t drink,” took the other one for herself and raised her glass to him. “Congratulations, your exam
was splendid. Though I was sure you would be chosen, even before you took it.”

“Miss Morden is a splendid judge of character. She has a nose for brilliance and character.”

“Character, sir?”

“Yes. It is not really necessary, of course, but we are going to be working together. We are very much a family here. Even
before lunch Miss Morden had selected you.”

“I found it quite a strain being unable to wink at you, Mr. Singh.”

Lord Suffolk had his arm around Singh again and was walking him to the window.

“I thought, as we do not have to begin till the middle of next week, I’d have some of the unit come down to Home Farm. We
can pool our knowledge in Devon and get to know each other. You can drive down with us in the Humber.”

So he had won passage, free of the chaotic machinery of the war. He stepped into a family, after a year abroad, as if he were
the prodigal returned, offered a chair at the table, embraced with conversations.


It was almost dark when they crossed the border from Somerset into Devon on the coastal road overlooking the Bristol
Channel. Mr. Harts turned down the narrow path bordered with heather and rhododendrons, a dark blood colour in this last
light. The driveway was three miles long.

Apart from the trinity of Suffolk, Morden and Harts, there were six sappers who made up the unit. They walked the moors
around the stone cottage over the weekend. Miss Morden and Lord Suffolk and his wife were joined by the aviatrix for the
Saturday-night dinner. Miss Swift told Singh she had always wished to fly overland to India. Removed from his barracks,
Singh had no idea of his location. There was a map on a roller high up on the ceiling. Alone one morning he pulled the roller
down until it touched the floor. Countisbury and Area. Mapped by R. Fones. Drawn by desire of Mr. James Halliday.

“Drawn by desire ...” He was beginning to love the English.

He is with Hana in the night tent when he tells her about the explosion in Erith. A 250-kilogram bomb erupting as Lord
Suffolk attempted to dismantle it. It also killed Mr. Fred Harts and Miss Morden and four sappers Lord Suffolk was training.
May 1941. Singh had been with Suffolk’s unit for a year. He was working in London that day with Lieutenant Blackler,
clearing the Elephant and Castle area of a Satan bomb. They had worked together at defusing the 4,ooo-pound bomb and were
exhausted. He remembered halfway through he looked up and saw a couple of bomb disposal officers pointing in his direction
and wondered what that was about. It probably meant they had found another bomb. It was after ten at night and he was
dangerously tired. There was another one waiting for him. He turned back to work.

When they had finished with the Satan he decided to save time and walked over to one of the officers, who had at first half
turned away as if wanting to leave.

“Yes. Where is it?”

The man took his right hand, and he knew something was wrong. Lieutenant Blackler was behind him and the officer told
them what had happened, and Lieutenant Blackler put his hands on Singh’s shoulders and gripped him.

He drove to Erith. He had guessed what the officer was hesitating about asking him. He knew the man would not have come
there just to tell him of the deaths. They were in a war, after all. It meant there was a second bomb somewhere in the vicinity,
probably the same design, and this was the only chance to find out what had gone wrong.

He wanted to do this alone. Lieutenant Blackler would stay in London. They were the last two left of the unit, and it would
have been foolish to risk both. If Lord Suffolk had failed, it meant there was something new. He wanted to do this alone, in any
case. When two men worked together there had to be a base of logic. You had to share and compromise decisions.

He kept everything back from the surface of his emotions during the night drive. To keep his mind clear, they still had to be
alive. Miss Morden drinking one large and stiff whisky before she got to the sherry. In this way she would be able to drink
more slowly, appear more ladylike for the rest of the evening. “You don’t drink, Mr. Singh, but if you did, you’d do what I do.
One full whisky and then you can sip away like a good courtier.” This was followed by her lazy, gravelly laugh. She was the
only woman he was to meet in his life who carried two silver flasks with her. So she was still drinking, and Lord Suffolk was
still nibbling at his Kipling cakes.

The other bomb had fallen half a mile away. Another SC-25okg. It looked like the familiar kind. They had defused hundreds
of them, most by rote. This was the way the war progressed. Every six months or so the enemy altered something. You learned
the trick, the whim, the little descant, and taught it to the rest of the units. They were at a new stage now.

He took no one with him. He would just have to remember each step. The sergeant who drove him was a man named

Hardy, and he was to remain by the jeep. It was suggested he wait till the next morning, but he knew they would prefer him
to do it now. The 250-kilogram SC was too common. If there was an alteration they had to know quickly. He made them
telephone ahead for lights. He didn’t mind working tired, but he wanted proper lights, not just the beams of two jeeps.

When he arrived in Erith the bomb zone was already lit. In daylight, on an innocent day, it would have been a field. Hedges,
perhaps a pond. Now it was an arena. Cold, he borrowed Hardy’s sweater and put it on top of his. The lights would keep him
warm, anyway. When he walked over to the bomb they were still alive in his mind. Exam.

With the bright light, the porousness of the metal jumped into precise focus. Now he forgot everything except distrust. Lord
Suffolk had said you can have a brilliant chess player at seventeen, even thirteen, who might beat a grand master. But you can
never have a brilliant bridge player at that age. Bridge depends on character. Your character and the character of your
opponents. You must consider the character of your enemy. This is true of bomb disposal. It is two-handed bridge. You have
one enemy. You have no partner. Sometimes for my exam I make them play bridge. People think a bomb is a mechanical
object, a mechanical enemy. But you have to consider that somebody made it.

The wall of the bomb had been torn open in its fall to earth, and Singh could see the explosive material inside. He felt he was
being watched, and refused to decide whether it was by Suffolk or the inventor of this contraption. The freshness of the
artificial light had revived him. He walked around the bomb, peering at it from every angle. To remove the fuze, he would
have to open the main chamber and get past the explosive. He unbuttoned his satchel and, with a universal key, carefully
twisted off the plate at the back of the bomb case. Looking inside he saw that the fuze pocket had been knocked free of the
case. This was good luck—or bad luck; he couldn’t tell yet. The problem was that he didn’t know if the mechanism was
already at work, if it had already been triggered. He was on his knees, leaning over it, glad he was alone, back in the world of
straightforward choice. Turn left or turn right. Cut this or cut that. But he was tired, and there was still anger in him.

He didn’t know how long he had. There was more danger in waiting too long. Holding the nose of the cylinder firm with his
boots, he reached in and ripped out the fuze pocket, and lifted it away from the bomb. As soon as he did this he began to shake.
He had got it out. The bomb was essentially harmless now. He put the fuze with its tangled fringe of wires down on the grass;
they were clear and brilliant in this light.

He started to drag the main case towards the truck, fifty yards away, where the men could empty it of the raw explosive. As
he pulled it along, a third bomb exploded a quarter of a mile away and the sky lit up, making even the arc lights seem subtle
and human.


An officer gave him a mug of Horlicks, which had some kind of alcohol in it, and he returned alone to the fuze pocket. He
inhaled the fumes from the drink.

There was no longer serious danger. If he were wrong, the small explosion would take off his hand. But unless it was
clutched to his heart at the moment of impact he wouldn’t die. The problem was now simply the problem. The fuze. The new
“joke” in the bomb.

He would have to reestablish the maze of wires into its original pattern. He walked back to the officer and asked him for the
rest of the Thermos of the hot drink. Then he returned and sat down again with the fuze. It was about one-thirty in the morning.
He guessed, he wasn’t wearing a watch. For half an hour he just looked at it with a magnified circle of glass, a sort of monocle
that hung off his buttonhole. He bent over and peered at the brass for any hint of other scratches that a clamp might have made.
Nothing.

Later he would need distractions. Later, when there was a whole personal history of events and moments in his mind, he
would need something equivalent to white sound to burn or bury everything while he thought of the problems in front of him.
The radio or crystal set and its loud band music would come later, a tarpaulin to hold the rain of real life away from him.

But now he was aware of something in the far distance, like some reflection of lightning on a cloud. Harts and Morden and
Suffolk were dead, suddenly just names. His eyes focused back onto the fuze box.

He began to turn the fuze upside down in his mind, considering the logical possibilities. Then turned it horizontal again. He
unscrewed the gaine, bending over, his ear next to it so the scrape of brass was against him. No little clicks. It came apart in
silence. Tenderly he separated the clockwork sections from the fuze and set them down. He picked up the fuze-pocket tube and
peered down into it again. He saw nothing. He was about to lay it on the grass when he hesitated and brought it back up to the
light. He wouldn’t have noticed anything wrong except for the weight. And he would never have thought about the weight if he
wasn’t looking for the joke. All they did, usually, was listen or look. He tilted the tube carefully, and the weight slipped down
toward the opening. It was a second gaine—a whole separate device—to foil any attempt at defusing.

He eased the device out towards him and unscrewed the gaine. There was a white-green flash and the sound of a whip from
the device. The second detonator had gone off. He pulled it out and set it beside the other parts on the grass. He went back to
the jeep.

“There was a second gaine,” he muttered. “I was very lucky, being able to pull out those wires. Put a call in to headquarters
and find out if there are other bombs.”

He cleared the soldiers away from the jeep, set up a loose bench there and asked for the arc lights to be trained on it. He bent
down and picked up the three components and placed them each a foot apart along the makeshift bench. He was cold now, and
he breathed out a feather of his warmer body air. He looked up. In the distance some soldiers were still emptying out the main
explosive. Quickly he wrote down a few notes and handed the solution for the new bomb to an officer. He didn’t fully
understand it, of course, but they would have this information.

When sunlight enters a room where there is a fire, the fire will go out. He had loved Lord Suffolk and his strange bits of
information. But his absence here, in the sense that everything now depended on Singh, meant Singh’s awareness swelled to all
bombs of this variety across the city of London. He had suddenly a map of responsibility, something, he realized, that Lord
Suffolk carried within his character at all times. It was this awareness that later created the need in him to block so much out
when he was working on a bomb. He was one of those never interested in the choreography of power. He felt uncomfortable in
the ferrying back and forth of plans and solutions. He felt capable only of reconnaissance, of locating a solution. When the
reality of the death of Lord Suffolk came to him, he concluded the work he was assigned to and reenlisted into the anonymous
machine of the army. He was on the troopship Macdonald, which carried a hundred other sappers towards the Italian
campaign. Here they were used not just for bombs but for building bridges, clearing debris, setting up tracks for armoured rail
vehicles. He hid there for the rest of the war. Few remembered the Sikh who had been with Suffolk’s unit. In a year the whole
unit was disbanded and forgotten, Lieutenant Blackler being the only one to rise in the ranks with his talent.

But that night as Singh drove past Lewisham and Black-heath towards Erith, he knew he contained, more than any other
sapper, the knowledge of Lord Suffolk. He was expected to be the replacing vision.

He was still standing at the truck when he heard the whistle that meant they were turning off the arc lights. Within thirty
seconds metallic light had been replaced with sulphur flares in the back of the truck. Another bomb raid. These lesser lights
could be doused when they heard the planes. He sat down on the empty petrol can facing the three components he had removed
from the SC-25okg, the hisses from the flares around him loud after the silence of the arc lights.

He sat watching and listening, waiting for them to click. The other men silent, fifty yards away. He knew he was for now a
king, a puppet master, could order anything, a bucket of sand, a fruit pie for his needs, and those men who would not cross an
uncrowded bar to speak with him when they were off duty would do what he desired. It was strange to him. As if he had been
handed a large suit of clothes that he could roll around in and whose sleeves would drag behind him. But he knew he did not
like it. He was accustomed to his invisibility. In England he was ignored in the various barracks, and he came to prefer that.
The self-sufficiency and privacy Hana saw in him later were caused not just by his being a sapper in the Italian campaign. It
was as much a result of being the anonymous member of another race, a part of the invisible world. He had built up defences
of character against all that, trusting only those who befriended him. But that night in Erith he knew he was capable of having
wires attached to him that influenced all around him who did not have his specific talent.

A few months later he had escaped to Italy, had packed the shadow of his teacher into a knapsack, the way he had seen the
green-clothed boy at the Hippodrome do it on his first leave during Christmas. Lord Suffolk and Miss Morden had offered to
take him to an English play. He had selected Peter Pan, and they, wordless, acquiesced and went with him to a screaming
child-full show. There were such shadows of memory with him when he lay in his tent with Hana in the small hill town in
Italy.

Revealing his past or qualities of his character would have been too loud a gesture. Just as he could never turn and inquire of
her what deepest motive caused this relationship. He held her with the same strength of love he felt for those three strange
English people, eating at the same table with them, who had watched his delight and laughter and wonder when the green boy


raised his arms and flew into the darkness high above the stage, returning to teach the young girl in the earth-bound family
such wonders too.

In the flare-lit darkness of Erith he would stop whenever planes were heard, and one by one the sulphur torches were sunk
into buckets of sand. He would sit in the droning darkness, moving the seat so he could lean forward and place his ear close to
the ticking mechanisms, still timing the clicks, trying to hear them under the throb of the German bombers above him.

Then what he had been waiting for happened. After exactly one hour, the timer tripped and the percussion cap exploded.
Removing the main gaine had released an unseen striker that activated the second, hidden gaine. It had been set to explode
sixty minutes later—long after a sapper would normally have assumed the bomb was safely defused.

This new device would change the whole direction of Allied bomb disposal. From now on, every delayed-action bomb
would carry the threat of a second gaine. It would no longer be possible for sappers to deactivate a bomb by simply removing
the fuze. Bombs would have to be neutralized with the fuze intact. Somehow, earlier on, surrounded by arc lights, and in his
fury, he had withdrawn the sheared second fuze out of the booby trap. In the sulphureous darkness under the bombing raid he
witnessed the white-green flash the size of his hand. One hour late. He had survived only with luck. He walked back to the
officer and said, “I need another fuze to make sure.”

They lit the flares around him again. Once more light poured into his circle of darkness. He kept testing the new fuzes for
two more hours that night. The sixty-minute delay proved to be consistent.

He was in Erith most of that night. In the morning he woke up to find himself back in London. He could not remember being
driven back. He woke up, went to a table and began to sketch the profile of the bomb, the gaines, the detonators, the whole
ZUS-40 problem, from the fuze up to the locking rings. Then he covered the basic drawing with all the possible lines of attack
to defuse it. Every arrow drawn exactly, the text written out clear the way he had been taught.

What he had discovered the night before held true. He had survived only through luck. There was no possible way to defuse
such a bomb in situ without just blowing it up. He drew and wrote out everything he knew on the large blueprint sheet. At the
bottom he wrote: Drawn by desire of Lord Suffolk, by his student Lieutenant Kirpal Singh, 10 May 1941.

He worked flat-out, crazily, after Suffolk’s death. Bombs were altering fast, with new techniques and devices. He was
barracked in Regent’s Park with Lieutenant Blackler and three other specialists, working on solutions, blueprinting each new
bomb as it came in.

In twelve days, working at the Directorate of Scientific Research, they came up with the answer. Ignore the fuze entirely.
Ignore the first principle, which until then was “defuse the bomb.” It was brilliant. They were all laughing and applauding and
hugging each other in the officers’ mess. They didn’t have a clue what the alternative was, but they knew in the abstract they
were right. The problem would not be solved by embracing it. That was Lieutenant Blackler’s line. “If you are in a room with a
problem don’t talk to it.” An offhand remark. Singh came towards him and held the statement from another angle. “Then we
don’t touch the fuze at all.”

Once they came up with that, someone worked out the solution in a week. A steam sterilizer. One could cut a hole into the
main case of a bomb, and then the main explosive could be emulsified by an injection of steam and drained away. That solved
that for the time being. But by then he was on a ship to Italy.

“There is always yellow chalk scribbled on the side of bombs. Have you noticed that? Just as there was yellow chalk scribbled
onto our bodies when we lined up in the Lahore courtyard.

“There was a line of us shuffling forward slowly from the street into the medical building and out into the courtyard as we
enlisted. We were signing up. A doctor cleared or rejected our bodies with his instruments, explored our necks with his hands.
The tongs slid out of Dettol and picked up parts of our skin.

“Those accepted filled up the courtyard. The coded results written onto our skin with yellow chalk. Later, in the lineup, after
a brief interview, an Indian officer chalked more yellow onto the slates tied around our necks. Our weight, age, district,
standard of education, dental condition and what unit we were best suited for.

“I did not feel insulted by this. I am sure my brother would have been, would have walked in fury over to the well, hauled up
the bucket, and washed the chalk markings away. I was not like him. Though I loved him. Admired him. I had this side to my
nature which saw reason in all things. I was the one who had an earnest and serious air at school, which he would imitate and
mock. You understand, of course, I was far less serious than he was, it was just that I hated confrontation. It didn’t stop me
doing whatever I wished or doing things the way I wanted to. Quite early on I had discovered the overlooked space open to
those of us with a silent life. I didn’t argue with the policeman who said I couldn’t cycle over a certain bridge or through a
specific gate in the fort—I just stood there, still, until I was invisible, and then I went through. Like a cricket. Like a hidden
cup of water. You understand? That is what my brother’s public battles taught me.

“But to me my brother was always the hero in the family. I was in the slipstream of his status as firebrand. I witnessed his
exhaustion that came after each protest, his body gearing up to respond to this insult or that law. He broke the tradition of our
family and refused, in spite of being the oldest brother, to join the army. He refused to agree to any situation where the English
had power. So they dragged him into their jails.

In the Lahore Central Prison. Later the Jatnagar jail. Lying back on his cot at night, his arm raised within plaster, broken by
his friends to protect him, to stop him trying to escape. In jail he became serene and devious. More like me. He was not
insulted when he heard I had signed up to replace him in the enlistment, no longer to be a doctor, he just laughed and sent a
message through our father for me to be careful. He would never go to war against me or what I did. He was confident that I
had the trick of survival, of being able to hide in silent places.”

He is sitting on the counter in the kitchen talking with Hana. Caravaggio breezes through it on his way out, heavy ropes
swathed over his shoulders, which are his own personal business, as he says when anyone asks him. He drags them behind him
and as he goes out the door says, “The English patient wants to see you, boyo.”

“Okay, boyo.” The sapper hops off the counter, his Indian accent slipping over into the false Welsh of Caravaggio.


49

“My father had a bird, a small swift I think, that he kept beside him, as essential to his comfort as a pair of spectacles or a
glass of water during a meal. In the house, even if he just was entering his bedroom he carried it with him. When he went to
work the small cage hung off the bicycle’s handlebars.”

“Is your father still alive?”

“Oh, yes. I think. I’ve not had letters for some time. And it is likely that my brother is still in jail.”

He keeps remembering one thing. He is in the white horse. He feels hot on the chalk hill, the white dust of it swirling up all
around him. He works on the contraption, which is quite straightforward, but for the first time he is working alone. Miss
Morden sits twenty yards above him, higher up the slope, taking notes on what he is doing. He knows that down and across the
valley Lord Suffolk is watching through the glasses.

He works slowly. The chalk dust lifts, then settles on everything, his hands, the contraption, so he has to blow it off the fuze
caps and wires continually to see the details. It is hot in the tunic. He keeps putting his sweating wrists behind himself to wipe
them on the back of his shirt. All the loose and removed parts fill the various pockets across his chest. He is tired, checking
things repetitively. He hears Miss Morden’s voice. “Kip?” “Yes.” “Stop what you’re doing for a while, I’m coming down.”
“You’d better not, Miss Morden.” “Of course I can.” He does up the buttons on his various vest pockets and lays a cloth over
the bomb; she clambers down into the white horse awkwardly and then sits next to him and opens up her satchel. She douses a
lace handkerchief with the contents of a small bottle of eau de cologne and passes it to him. “Wipe your face with this. Lord
Suffolk uses it to refresh himself.” He takes it tentatively and at her suggestion dabs his forehead and neck and wrists. She
unscrews the Thermos and pours each of them some tea. She unwraps oil paper and brings out strips of Kipling cake.

She seems to be in no hurry to go back up the slope, back to safety. And it would seem rude to remind her that she should
return. She simply talks about the wretched heat and the fact that at least they have booked rooms in town with baths attached,
which they can all look forward to. She begins a rambling story about how she met Lord Suffolk. Not a word about the bomb
beside them. He had been slowing down, the way one, half asleep, continually rereads the same paragraph, trying to find a
connection between sentences. She has pulled him out of the vortex of the problem. She packs up her satchel carefully, lays a
hand on his right shoulder and returns to her position on the blanket above the Westbury horse. She leaves him some
sunglasses, but he cannot see clearly enough through them so he lays them aside. Then he goes back to work. The scent of eau
de cologne. He remembers he had smelled it once as a child. He had a fever and someone had brushed it onto his body.
7.就地拆除
英国韦斯特伯里    一九四○年
    基普·辛格站在马背上放马鞍的位置。刚开始他只是站在马背上，停顿了一下，向着那些虽然看不到，但是知道正在注视着他的人挥挥手。瑟福克爵士透过双筒望远镜，看到这个年轻人伸直双臂挥动着。
    然后他跳下来，走下韦斯特伯里那座已与山陵融为一体的巨大白垩马雕像。此刻他的身影是黑色的。背景衬得他的皮肤和卡其军服更黑了，如果双筒望远镜的焦距准确的话，瑟福
克爵士会看到基普·辛格肩膀上细线般的深红色勋带，那是工兵部队的标志。在他们眼中，他好像正大步从一张剪成动物形状的地图上走下来一样。但是基普·辛格从斜坡上走下来时，
只知道他的皮靴正踩着粗糙的白垩路。
莫登小姐在他身后，也正慢慢地从小山上下来，肩上背着个小背包，手上则拿着一把雨伞支撑着自己。她在离马十英尺的地方停住了，她打开伞，坐在伞的阴影下，接着翻开了笔记本。  
   “你听得见我说话吗?”他问道。
    “是的，听得很清楚。”她在裙子上擦去手上的白垩粉，扶正眼镜。她望向远方，然后像基普·辛格那样对那些她看不见的人挥手。
    基普·辛格喜欢她。实际上她是他到英国后第一次认真交谈过的英国女人。基普把大部分时间都花在伍尔沃思的军营里。在那儿的三个月里，他只遇到过其他的印度人和英国军官。海陆空军贩卖部的女人会回答你的问题，但是和这类女人最多只能谈个两、三句。基普在家里排行第二。大儿子要去当兵，二儿子会成为医生，老三应该做商人，这是他们家的传统。但是这场战争使一切都改变了。他参加了一个锡克兵团，然后被送到英国。到伦敦后的最初几个月，他自愿加入一个工兵部队。建立这支部队是为了对付延迟爆炸和未爆炸的炸弹。一九三九年上级的决定过于天真：“处理未爆炸的炸弹被视为内政部的责任，他们同意由防空警备员和警察共同承担收集炸弹的工作，并将未爆炸的炸弹运送到合适的地方销毁，在那儿，军方有责任进行引爆它们的工作。”  
    直到一九四○年，陆军部才接管了拆弹工作，接着又把它转交给皇家工兵部队。他们成立了二十五个拆弹小组，但是缺乏专业设备、所配备的只有锤子、凿子和修路的工具——那儿没有专家。
    炸弹由以下部分组成：
    1．炸弹壳。
    2．引信。    
    3．起爆器。
    4．炸药。
    5．外部装置——尾翼、挂弹架、挂环等等。
    由飞机投掷到英国的百分之八十的炸弹是薄壳的通用炸弹，约从一百磅到一千磅。两千磅的炸弹叫“赫尔曼”或“以扫”，四千磅的炸弹叫“撒旦”。
    在经过一整天的训练之后，基普常常手里还拿着图表就睡着了。梦中他恍惚走进一个圆筒组成的迷宫，旁边并放着苦味酸、起爆器和电容器。他就这样走下去，直到来到了位于主体深处的引信。然后，他突然醒过来。
    当一颗炸弹命中目标时，撞击引起的震动会触发并点着引信，火星传至起爆器，引爆季戊炸药的封蜡。于是就点燃了苦味酸，转而使黄色炸药的主要成分——阿马图炸药和铝化剂火药——爆炸。从震动到爆炸的全部过程只有百万分之一秒。
    那些从低空投下的炸弹是最危险的，它们着地后经碰撞才爆炸。这些未爆炸的炸弹埋在城市和田野里，一直潜伏在那里，直到受了震动才一触即发。农夫棍子的碰触，或汽车轮子的轻轧，网球弹到弹壳上等等，它们都会爆炸。
    基普和其他志愿者们坐着货车到了伍尔沃思的研究部。此时未爆弹的数目还不算多，可是拆弹小组的伤亡却已高得惊人。一九四○年，法国沦陷了，英国遭到围困，情况变得更糟了。
    到了八月，闪击战开始了，在一个月之内，有两千五百枚未爆弹要拆除，—道路被封锁了，工厂关了门。到了九月，未爆弹的数目达到三千七百枚。虽然新成立了一百个拆弹小组，但是仍然没有人懂得那种炸弹是怎样运作的。进入这些小队的人大概只能活十个星期。
    “这是拆弹组的英雄时代，表现个人英勇行为的时代。在这个时代里，由于情况紧急，加上缺乏知识和设备，人们不得不冒极大的危险……不管怎样，在这英雄的时代，从事此举的人成了无名英雄，因为他们的英勇行为必须保密而不能公开于众。媒体显然不该发表拆弹的报道，因为那样可能有助于敌人估计我们拆除这些武器的能力。”
    在开往韦斯特伯里的小汽车里，基普·辛格和哈茨先生坐在前座，莫登小姐和瑟福克爵士坐在后座。黄褐色的汉布尔是名牌车，挡泥板上涂着鲜明的红色标志——和所有巡迥的拆弹组一样——夜晚左车灯上亮着一个蓝色的滤光器。两天前，有个人走近白垩高地上那匹著名的白垩马雕像时，被炸死了。工兵们到达出事地点时，发现那永垂史册的地点还埋着另一枚炸弹——在巨大的韦斯特伯里白垩马雕像腹部。韦斯特伯里白垩马是一七七八年出现在白垩山上的。在事件发生后不久，白垩高地所有的白垩马雕像——总共有七个——都被罩上了伪装网，主要目的不是为了保护它们不受伤害，而是防止敌机轰炸英国时，利用它们作为明显的地标。
    在后座上，瑟福克爵士谈着知更鸟从欧洲战区迁徒、拆除炸弹的历史和德艾郡的奶油。他向年轻的锡克教徒介绍英国的风俗习惯，好像它是最近才被发现似的。虽然他是显赫的瑟福克爵士，但却住在德文郡，直到战争爆发。他最喜欢做的事是研究《洛娜·杜恩》和怎样从历史及地理的角度验证这部小说。冬季，他大多在布兰登和波洛克的乡村悠闲地度过，他已经使有关当局确信埃克斯穆尔高地是进行拆弹技术训练的理想场所。他手下有十二个人——都是从各个部队里选拔出来的工兵，基普是其中之一。他们大多数时间驻扎在伦敦李奇蒙公园，接受新的操作方法训练，或在未爆弹上实际操作。小鹿就在他们身边游荡。到了周末，他们就前往埃克斯穆尔高地，继续训练一整天，然后，瑟福克爵士开车带他们去一座教堂，那儿是洛娜·杜恩在婚礼中被击倒的地方。“不是从这扇窗户，便是从那个后门——子弹正好射到教堂走道上，射中她的肩膀。事实上，真是绝妙的一射——尽管这应该受到严斥。那个恶棍被迫到沼泽里，他身上的肉被撕下来。”对于基普来说，这个故事听起来像他熟稔的印度寓言一般。
    瑟福克爵士最好的朋友是一个女飞行员，她恨这个社会，却喜欢瑟福克爵士。他们一起去射击。她住在康蒂斯布雷崖上的一座小屋里，能够俯视布里斯托海峡。他们驾车经过每一个村庄时，瑟福克爵士都会为他们介绍那儿的趣事。“这儿卖的黑刺李手杖最好。”他的口气就好像基普想穿着军装、包着头巾走进都铎王朝的街角小店，与店主聊一聊手杖。普基后来告诉哈纳，瑟福克爵士是最好的英国人。如果没有战争，他根本不会离开康蒂斯布雷的家庭农庄，放弃隐居生活。他在农庄里喝得烂醉，与后面洗衣房里的苍蝇为伴。他五十岁了，虽然已婚，但个性像单身汉，每天走到悬崖上去，看望他的飞行员朋友。他喜欢修理东西——旧洗衣盆、发电机和水轮带动的烤肉铁叉。他还帮助飞行员斯威夫特小姐搜集获獾的生活习性资料。
    在开车去韦斯特伯里白垩马雕像的途中，可以听到许多轶事传闻。甚至在战争时期，他也知道在哪儿停下来喝口茶最好。他冲进帕美勒的茶室。他的手臂因一次意外受了伤，正用吊腕带吊着。他率领着他的家庭——秘书、私人司机和工兵——好像他们是他的孩子一样。投有人知道瑟福克爵士是怎样说服未爆弹委员会允许他成立他的拆弹试验小组的，但是从他富于创造的背景来看，他也许比别人更有资格。他是个自学成功的人，他相信他的头脑能洞悉任何发明背后的动机和精髓。他发明了一种有口袋的衬衣，可以让工兵在拆弹时有个放置引信的地方。
    他们边喝茶，边等着烤饼上来，讨论着就地拆除炸弹引信的方案。    
    “我相信你，基普·辛格先生，你是知道的，对吗?”
    “是的，先生。”基普崇拜他。他一直认为，瑟福克爵士是他在英国所遇见的第一位真正的绅士。
    “我相信你会做得像我一样好，莫登小姐会和你一起作记录，哈茨先生要离你远些。如果你需要更多的设备或力量，只要吹响那个警用口哨，他就会去帮你。他不会给你什么建议，但他很内行。如果他没照你的话做，就表示他不同意你的做法，而我会采纳他的建议。但是由你在现场全权处理。这是我的手熗——现在的引信也许更先进了，可是谁知道呢，你也许会有好运气。”
    瑟福克爵士在暗示一件使他声名大噪的事。他发明了一种对付延迟爆炸的炸弹引信的办法，就是拔出左轮手熗，对着引信头开一熗，这样就能使定时器停止了。后来由于德国人使用了一种新的引信，而必须放弃这种方法，因为这种新的引信上部是雷管，不是定时装置。
    瑟福克爵士对他以朋友相待，基普永远不会忘记这点。迄今为止，战争期间他大半追随着瑟福克，这位大人从来没有走出过英国，战后也不打算走出康蒂斯布雷。基普初到英国时，谁也不认识，这儿离他在旁遮普的家太远了。他已经二十一岁了。除了士兵之外，他没有遇到过其他人。所以当他看到拆弹试验小组招募志愿者时，虽然听到别的工兵说瑟福克爵士是个疯子，他仍然下定决心，要在战争中把握时机，抓住这个在一生中追随一位名人或英雄的大好机会。
    在申请者中，基普·辛格是惟一的印度人，而瑟福克爵士来晚了。他们十五个人被带到一间书房里，秘书请他们在那里等着。她坐在桌边，抄着名单，此刻，士兵们正在拿面试和测验开着玩笑。他谁也不认识。他走到墙边，盯着一个气压计看，大概想摸摸它，但却又把手缩了回来，只是把脸贴近了些。干燥转晴朗转暴风雨——他喃喃自语着刚学的英语发音：“‘刚’燥、‘干’燥。”他回头看看其他人，小心翼翼地扫视这个房间。他的目光与那个中年秘书相遇，她严厉地看看他——一个印度男孩。他微微一笑，向书架走去，还是什么也没碰。他把鼻子凑进一本书，书名是《雷蒙德，或生与死》，作者是奥利弗·霍奇爵士。他又找到另一本类似的书名《皮尔，或模棱两可》，他回头又遇到了那个女人的目光。他觉得有一种罪恶感，好像他把书放进了口袋里一样。也许她以前从未见过包头巾的人吧。英国人!他们只希望你为他们打仗，却不想和你交谈。
    他们在中午吃饭的时候见到了热情的瑟福克爵士，他帮每个想喝酒的人斟酒，对应试者所说的笑话报以大笑。下午，他们都进行了一次奇怪的考试——在没有事先得知机器用途的情形下，重新组装一组机器。考试时间是两个小时，但是只要组装完毕，马上就可以离开。基普很快就考完了，在剩下的时间里，他利用那些配件，拼凑别的玩意儿。他觉得如果不是因为种族的关系，他应该很容易被录取的。他来自一个国家，在那儿，数学和机械是一种与生俱来的才能。汽车从来不会被销毁——汽车零件往往被送到另外一个村庄，改装成缝纫机和水泵。福特车的后座重新装饰以后，变成了沙发。大部分村人很可能手拿着扳手和螺丝起子，而很少握着铅笔。一辆汽车上互不相关的零件经拼凑之后，可以变成一个老爷钟，或灌溉滑轮，或使办公椅旋转的机械装置。医治机械毛病的办法不胜枚举。村子里的人冷却一部过热的汽车，不是用新的橡皮水管，而是舀一勺牛粪，把它轻拍在冷凝器上。他在英国看到的多余的零件，足够印度大陆使用两百年。
    他是瑟福克爵士选中的三名招募者之一。这个没和他说过话的人(也没和他笑过，因为他没有说过什么笑话)穿过房间，把他的手放在基普的肩上。后来他才知道那位严厉的秘书是莫登小姐，她托着个盘子急忙走进来，上面放着两杯雪利酒，她递了一杯给瑟福克爵士，然后对基普说：“我知道你不喝酒。”她拿起另一个杯子，对他举杯：“恭喜你，你的考试成绩棒极了，虽然我在考试前就知道你会被选中。”
    “莫登小姐知人善任。她的鼻子能嗅出卓越的才能和良好的性格。”
    “性格，先生?”
    “是的，当然，它并不是真的那么重要，但我们毕竟将一起共事。我们这里就像个家庭，在吃中饭之前，莫登小姐已经选中了你。”
    “我拼命克制自己，才没有对你使眼色，基普·辛格先生。”
    瑟福克爵士又把他的手放在基普的肩膀上，把他带到窗前。
    “我想我们要到下礼拜中才开始，我会有几个小组到家庭农庄来。我们在德文郡学习知识、相互了解。你可以和我们一起乘汉布尔车到德文郡去。”
    就这样他人选了，从战争机器的混乱中解脱出来。在国外待了一年，基普步人了一个家庭。他仿佛是个回头的浪子，重新回到餐桌边，与家人尽情谈笑。
    他们行驶在能俯瞰布里斯托海峡的海边公路上，穿过索美塞得郡的边界，进入德文郡。哈茨先生转入一条狭窄的海边小径，路旁长满了石南属植物和杜鹃花，天边映着一抹暗红色的晚霞。这条车道有三英里长。
    除了瑟福克、莫登和哈茨三人外，这个组还有另外六名工兵。每到周末，他们会在小石室周围的原野散心。莫登小姐、瑟福克爵士和他的妻子，还有那个女飞行员，在周末晚上一起用餐。斯威夫特小姐告诉基普，她曾想在印度的空中翱翔。从营房里搬出来后，基普对他所在的位置一无所知。天花板上挂着一份卷轴式的地图。一天早上，当他独自一人的时候，他把地图拉到地上。“(康蒂斯布雷和周围地区地图)。由R·福斯应詹姆斯·哈利迪先生之请求而绘制。”
    “应请求而绘……”他开始喜欢英国人了。
    晚上他和哈纳在帐篷里时，他给她讲述了在厄里斯的那场爆炸。当瑟福克爵土试图拆除一枚二百五十公斤重的炸弹时，它爆炸了。在这场事故中同时死去的还有弗雷德·哈茨先生、莫登小姐和瑟福克爵土正在训练的四名工兵。那是一九四一年五月的事。基普在瑟福克的小组里待了一年。事情发生当天，他正在伦敦与布莱克中尉一起工作，在“大象与城堡区”清理一枚撒旦炸弹。他们一起拆除了四千磅炸弹的引信，两人都累坏了。他记得他干到一半的时候，抬头看见几个拆弹军官正指着他的方向，他不知道那是什么意思。也许是他们又找到了一枚炸弹。当时已过了晚上十点，他累得要命。又有另一枚炸弹在等着他去拆除了，他转头又投入了工作。
    他们完成了撒旦的拆除工作后，他为了要节省时间，走到一位军官身边，那人正转过身，好像要离开的样子。
    “好吗，那枚炸弹在哪里?”
    那人拉住他的右手，他知道出事了。布莱克中尉在他身后，那位军官告诉他们发生了什么事，布莱克中尉把双手放在基普的肩上，紧紧地拥抱着他。
    他开车去厄里斯。他已经猜出那位军官犹豫再三想请求他做的事了。他知道这个人到这儿来不仅仅是为了告知瑟福克等人的死讯。毕竟，他们是在战争中。在周围地区必定还有一颗炸弹，也许还有着相同的设计，这是他找出出事原因的惟一机会。
    他想独自完成这项任务，布莱克中尉将留在伦敦。他们是这个小组仅剩的两个人了，让两个人都去冒险是愚不可及的。如果连瑟福克爵士都失败了，那就说明炸弹里有新的名堂。不管怎样，他想自己做这事。当两个人一起工作时，就必须有一种合乎逻辑的标准。你必须共同决定，作出妥协。
    夜晚，在行车的过程中，他努力抑制着自己的感情，保持头脑清醒，他们还得活下去。莫登小姐在喝雪利酒之前，都会先喝一大杯烈性的威士忌，这样她就能喝得更慢点，在剩下的时间里表现得更像个淑女。“你不喝酒，基普·辛格先生，但如果你喝，你也会像我这样做的。”接着她发出懒洋洋、低沉的笑声。她是他一生中惟一遇过的一个随身带着两个银制酒瓶的女人。所以，她现在仍在喝酒，瑟福克爵士仍在啃着他的吉卜林饼。  
    另外一枚炸弹落在半英里远处——又是一枚SC——二百五十公斤炸弹，它看起来就像平常所见的那一种。他已经拆除过几百枚这种炸弹的引信了，大多数都是老一套——就像战争发展的方式。敌人每六个月改变一些东西，你要研究这种诡计和技巧，然后把它教给部队里其他的人。他们现在开始了一个-新的阶段。    
    他谁也没带，因此得记住每一个步骤。那位开车送他来的中士叫哈弟，他待在吉普车里。他们建议他明天早上再做，但他明白他们希望他马上行动。SC——二百五十公斤的炸弹是再平常不过了。如果有什么新设计，他们得快些知道。他先给他们打电话，要求准备灯光。他不怕累，但他需要足够的灯光，不只是两辆吉普车的车灯。
    当他到达厄里的时候，炸弹区已被灯光照亮了。在白天，在平常的日子里，这里是一片田野，有矮树丛，也许还有池塘。此刻，这里是个竞技场。天气很冷，他借了哈弟的毛衣套上，不管怎么说，灯光会使他暖和的。当他走向那枚炸弹时，他们依然活在他心中。一场考验来临了。
    在明亮的光线下，炸弹上的小孔成了严密注视的焦点。现在他除了戒惧以外，什么都忘记了。瑟福克爵士说过，你能在十七岁，甚至十三岁的时候成为一名一流的棋手，但是你在那个年龄绝不会成为一名技术高超的桥牌手。桥牌技巧精湛与否取决于个性——你的个性和对手的个性。这对拆弹来说再确切不过了。这是一场二人桥牌游戏，你只有一个敌人，没有伙伴。考试时，我偶尔会叫他们打桥牌。人们认为炸弹是一种机械的东西，一个机器敌人，但是制造它的却是人类。
    这颗炸弹的外壳在落地时已被砸开，基普可以看见里面的爆炸物。他感觉到有人在看着他，他不去想是瑟福克，还是这个新玩意的发明者在注视着他。明亮的灯光使他重新振作起来，他绕着这枚炸弹走着，从各个角度仔细地观察。要拆除引信，就不得不打开主弹膛，避开炸药。他打开小背包，用一把万能钥匙旋下弹壳后面的盖子。他往里看，引信包在弹壳里晃来晃去。这是好运气还是厄运，他还不敢肯定。问题是他不知道机械装置是否已在运作、是否已被引爆。他跪下来，俯身在上面，庆幸自己是独自一人，可以迅速地作出抉择——向左转或向右转，切断这儿或切断那儿。但是他累了。
    他不知道他还有多少时间。等得越久，危险就越大。他用靴子夹住炸弹的圆头，伸进手去揪出引信包。他一着手进行此事，身子就开始颤抖。他把它拆出来了，这枚炸弹现在已经没有危险性了。他把引信和揉成一团的电线扔在草地上——它们在灯光下显得清楚而刺眼。
    他开始拖着主弹壳向五十码外的卡车走去，人们会在那儿把炸药清理出来。他拖着弹壳走着的时候，第三枚炸弹在距此四分之一英里外的地方爆炸了，火光照亮了天空，那弧形的光圈看起来似乎是有生命的。
    一位军官给了他一大杯好立克，里面掺了些酒精，然后他又独自回到引信包那儿，吸了一大口饮料上升腾的热气。
    现在已没有致命的危险了。如果他错了，小规模的爆炸会使他失去一只手。除非在爆炸的那一瞬间，引信紧扣着他的心脏，否则他不会死。引信——一个炸弹里的新“玩笑。”
    他得把那团纠结的电线恢复原状。他走回那位军官那儿，要了点保温瓶里剩下的热饮，然后又回到引信处坐下。此时大约是凌晨一点三十分。他自己没戴手表。他用放大镜又审视了半个小时，那放大镜就像悬在衣服扣眼上的单片眼镜一样。他弯下腰，仔细检查这块黄铜上有没有任何夹钳留下的痕迹——什么也没有。
    稍后他需要分一下心。当个人的往事一幕幕浮现时，他需要一些喧闹的声音来赶走或是埋葬那些画面，以便能专心思考眼前的问题。再等一会儿，收音机和嘈杂的音乐就可以形成一张防水帆布，为他隔开现实生活中的风雨。
    但是现在他突然醒悟远处发生了什么事，就像闪电猛然映照在云层上一样。哈茨、莫登和瑟福克死了，突然间只留下了名字。他的眼睛又回到引信盒上。    
    他正设想把引信倒过来，揣测着符合逻辑的可能性，然后又把它放平。他把起爆器取出来，俯身倾听，黄铜的刮痕抵住了他。没有一点儿嘀嗒声——它分开时也没有发出声音。他轻轻地从引信上把定时装置分开，放下来。他拎起引信包的管子，仔细地往内瞧，什么也没看见。他刚要把它放在草地上，又把它放在灯光下瞧了一下。他没有发现什么不对劲的地方，只觉得它很重。而他如果不是在寻找那个新玩意儿，绝对不会去考虑它的重量。他们所做的，通常只是听一听，看一看。他小心地把管子倾斜了一下，而这个重物从缺口处掉出来了。这是第二个起爆器——完全独立的装置——它的作用是挫败任何卸除引信的企图。
    他把那个装置取出来，旋下起爆器。一道绿白色的光，伴随着一声清脆的响声，第二根雷管已经爆炸了。他把它找出来，放在草地上其它部件的旁边。他走回吉普车。
    “还有第二个起爆器，”他喃喃道，“我真是幸运，能把那些电线找出来。给总部打个电话，找找还有没有其它的炸弹。”
    他叫吉普车边的士兵走开，在那儿建了一个临时工作台，吩咐他们把灯光对准工作台。他弯下腰，捡起三个组成部件，把它们分别放在临时工作台上。他现在觉得冷了，他呼出的热气马上凝结成羽毛状的薄雾。他抬头看了看，在不远处，几个士兵还在陆续清出炸药。他飞快地写了几句话，把这种新式炸弹的拆除方法交给一名军官。当然他还没完全弄明白，但是他们需要这份情报。
    当阳光照进房间的时候，房里的火就要灭了。他喜欢瑟福克爵士和他那些奇怪的见闻。但是他不在这儿了，这表示现在什么都得靠基普了，这就意味着基普对炸弹的警觉要扩展到对整个伦敦各式各样的炸弹。他突然明白自己肩负着责任，也明白那是瑟福克爵士性格中永恒的特质。正是这种领悟，使他以后在处理炸弹时全神贯注，把一切置之度外。他是那种对争权夺势不感兴趣的人——他对公文往来呈报计划和对策的工作感到不舒服。他觉得自己只对侦察和寻求解决办法拿手。当瑟福，克爵士牺牲的现实摆在他面前时，他结束了指派给他的工作，又重新人伍，投入默默无闻的工作中去了。他和另外一百名工兵一起登上了麦克唐纳号运兵船，投入到意大利的战役中。在这儿他们不是被派去拆除炸弹，而是去修建桥梁，清理瓦砾，为装甲列车铺设铁轨。战争时期他都待在那里，几乎没有人记得这个锡克教徒曾经属于瑟福克的小组。一年之内整个小组解散了，并被人们遗忘，布莱克中尉是惟一一个凭着自己的才能得到擢升的。
    但是那天晚上，当基普驾车经过刘易斯哈姆和布莱克希思，往厄里斯去时，他意识到自己掌握的瑟福克传授的知识比其他工兵多，人们希望他能接替瑟福克。
    他站在卡车上，突然听到一声哨声，那意味着他们正在熄灭弧光灯。在三十秒钟里，金属的灯光已经被卡车后面硫磺的火光取代了——又是一次空袭。飞机的轰鸣声使他们暂且忘记了硫磺火光。他坐在空汽油桶上，面对着他从SC——二百五十公斤炸弹上拆下的三个部件。在弧光灯熄灭之后，火光在他
    他坐在那儿看着，听着，等着它们发出“喀嚓”声。其他人静静地待在五十码以外的地方。他知道他现在是个国王，二个木偶操作员，他能够自由发号施令，不管是要一桶沙，还是吃水果馅饼，而那些在下班后本来不愿意穿过并不拥挤的酒吧，走过来和他说话的人，如今竟听他摆布。这时他是陌生的，好像人们给他套上一件过大的衣服，他的袖子拖在身后，整个人好像可以在衣服里转圈似的。但是他知道他并不喜欢这样——他习惯受人忽视的生活。到了英国后，兵营中没人理睬他，但他宁可那样。后来哈纳发现他的独立和隐居的习惯并不是在意大利当工兵时养成的，而是由于他在另一个种族里甘当一个默默无闻的小卒的结果，他惯于扮演看不见的世界里的一分子。他性格谨慎，总是提防着他人。他只相信那些把他视为朋友的人，但是在厄里斯的那个夜晚，他明白他使周围没有他
    几个月后他逃到了意大利。他把他老师的剪影装进背包里，他在杂技场看到一个穿绿衣服的男孩这样做过——那时他在圣诞节期间的第一次休假。瑟福克爵士和莫登小姐答应带他去看英国戏，他选择《彼得·潘》，而他们一句话也没说，默然同意和他一起去看那个大叫大嚷，充满孩子气的戏。当他和哈纳躺在意大利小山城他那顶帐篷里的时候，往事又隐隐浮现。
    暴露他的过去或他性格中的本质将显得太招摇，就像他不会转身问她是什么原因导致了他们这样的关系。他爱那三个奇怪的英国人，他用同样的爱拥有她。他和他们同桌吃饭。当那个穿绿衣服的男孩抬起双臂，向舞台上方的暗处飞去，准备把这些奇事告诉那来自现实家庭的女孩时，他们看见了他的笑容与惊异。
    在厄里斯的火光中，他只要一听到飞机声便停下来，硫磺火点一个接一个地被大量的沙子盖住。他坐在嗡嗡作响的黑暗里。他不断地挪动座椅，侧身倾听装置里的响声，数着喀嚓声的次数。轰炸机在头顶上盘旋，发出可怕的隆隆声。
     然后他就等待着将要发生的事。一个小时后，计时器脱扣自爆，雷管爆炸了，取出主起爆器，就发现一枚暗藏的撞针，是它触发第二个暗藏的起爆器。它被设计为六十分钟后爆炸，通常工兵会以为这颗炸弹已被安全地拆除。
    这个新的装置会改变整个盟军的拆弹方向。从现在开始，每个延迟爆炸的炸弹都会带有一个第二起爆器的威胁。对于工兵来说，拆除一颗炸弹不再是简单地拆掉引信。他们必须要使炸弹失效，同时使引信保持完整。不知怎地，早些时候在弧光灯下，他曾在盛怒下把那个被剪断的第二个引信从诡雷里拔出。在充满硫磺味的黑暗里，在空袭进行之中，他目睹了手掌大小般的绿白闪光。迟了一小时。他没有出事只是因为走运。
他走回军官那里，说：“我还需要另一个引信来确定一下我的结论。”
    他们又打开周围的弧光灯，灯光又一次照进黑暗的圆圈。那天夜里，他又花了两个多小时测试那些新的引信，六十分钟的延迟爆炸证明是一致的。
    他在厄里斯待了大半夜。早上醒来时，他发现自己回到了伦敦。他记不得是怎么被送回来的了。他醒了，走到桌前，开始画那枚炸弹的外形，研究起爆器、雷管、整个ZUS——四○炸弹的问题，从引信开始到锁定电路，然后他在底稿上画出所有可能切断引信的线路。每个箭头都画得很精确，他用所学过的方法清楚地写上正文。
    他前一夜的发现证明是正确的。他得以幸存仅是运气好——在原地拆除这样一枚炸弹而没有引爆是不可能的。他把他所知的一切都写在巨大的蓝图纸上。在底下，他写上：“应瑟福克爵士要求而绘。他的学生基普·辛格中尉绘于一九四一年五月十日。”
    在瑟福克死后，他竭尽全力疯狂地工作。炸弹的装置日新月异，他和布莱克中尉还有另外三个专家驻扎在雷根茨公园里，致力于解决难题的工作，用蓝图画出每一种新炸弹的构造。
    在科学研究所工作了十二天后，他们找到了答案。完全不管引信，完全不理睬那至今通用的第一条原则——“拆除炸弹引信”。这真是棒极了!他们放声大笑，为自己喝彩，在军官餐厅里互相拥抱。他们并不了解炸弹的那种变化，但是他们大概知道自己是对的。“光绕着问题打转并不能解决问题，”布莱克中尉说，“如果你待的房间里有问题，就别去谈论它。”一句随口说出的话。基普走到面前，从另一个角度理解这句话：“那我们就别再碰引信了。”
    他们提出那个方案之后，有人在一周内得出结论——一个蒸汽摧毁器。人们可以在炸弹的主弹壳上开个洞，注入蒸汽使主火药乳化，然后排出去。那个结论需要时间证明，但是那时他已经登上开往意大利的运兵船了。
    “炸弹的一边经常有用黄色粉笔画的痕迹。你注意过吗?就像我们排着队站在拉合尔的院子里时，画在我们身上的黄色粉笔痕迹一样。
    “我们从街上排着队慢慢地挪进医院大楼。如果入伍了，就出来站到院子里。我们正在报名从军，一位医生用他的器械给我们作检查。他用他的手检查我们的脖子，并用钳子钳起我们的皮肤。
    “那些被允许入伍的人站满了院子，有人用黄色粉笔把编好的号码写在我们的皮肤上。经过简短的面试之后，一位印度军官在挂在我们脖子上的牌子上用粉笔写了更多的黄字。我们的体重、年龄、所属区域、教育程度、牙齿情况和我们最适合哪个部队。
    “我并不因此觉得耻辱。我相信我哥哥的看法会和我相反，他会怒不可遏地走到井边，提起一桶水，洗掉粉笔字。我不像他，尽管我爱他、崇拜他。我的天性使我认为凡事都会有其道理。我在学校里是个诚实而严肃的人，他常学我的样子取笑我。但事实上，他比我严肃得多，只是我实在很讨厌与人针锋相对。这阻止不了我做我想做的事，或用我想用的方式做。很早以前我就发现自己常受人监视，当警察对我说我不能在某座桥上骑脚踏车，或告诉我不能穿过某扇门进入堡垒时，我不会与之争辩，我只是静静地站着，等到没人注意我时再通过——像一只蟋蟀，像一个被藏起来的水杯。你明白吗?那就是我哥哥的公开斗争教会我的东西。
    “但是对我来说，我哥哥总是家里的英雄。我像火把一样跟随在他身边，我目睹了他每次抗争后的疲惫——他挺身对抗这种侮辱或那项法律。他打破了我们家的传统，尽管他是长子，却拒绝参军。凡是英国人势力所及之处，他都唱反调，所以他们把他关进监狱。他先被关在拉合尔中央监狱，后来在贾特内吉尔监狱。夜晚躺在行军床上，他的手臂上了石膏，那是他的朋友为了保护他而打伤的，以阻止他越狱。在监狱里，他变得平静而多谋——变得更像我了。当他听说我已报名从军，代替他人伍，不打算做医生时，他并不感到受辱，只是大笑。他让我父亲递个口信叫我小心。他从不反对我和我做的事。他知道我有法子生存下来，我有法子躲在寂静之处。”
    他坐在厨房的长台上，和哈纳说着话。卡拉瓦焦一阵风似的穿过厨房，走出去，肩上扛着沉重的绳子。这是他的事，当有人问起时，他就这么回答。他把绳子拖在身后，走出门时说：“那个英国病人想见你，小伙子。”
    “好的，小伙子。”基普从长台上跳下来，他脱口而出的印度口音里带着卡拉瓦焦不准确的威尔斯语发音。
    “我父亲有一只鸟，我想是只小雨燕。他总是把鸟儿带在身边，就好像一副眼镜或吃饭时的一杯水那样不可或缺。在房间里，哪怕他只是进卧室一下，也要带着那只鸟儿；当他去上班时，就把小鸟笼挂在自行车的把手上。”
    “你父亲还在世吗?”
    “噢，我想是的。我已经有段时间没收到信了，我的哥哥好像还在监狱里。”
    他不断地想起一件事——他在白垩山里。在白垩山他觉得热，风儿扬起白尘绕着他旋转。他正在拆除那个新鲜玩意儿，这玩意儿很简单。但这是他第一次独自操作。莫登小姐坐在他上方二十码外的山坡上，正在记录他所做的事。他知道在下面，山谷的那一边，瑟福克爵士正用望远镜看着他。
    他慢慢地工作着。白垩尘被吹起，落得到处都是，他的手上，那件新鲜玩意儿上，以致于他不得不把它们从引信帽和电线上吹掉，才能继续看清细部。穿着紧身短上衣很热，他得不断地把汗淋淋的手腕伸到背后，在上衣上擦汗。反复检查这些东西使他感到疲累。所有松开和拆下来的零件装满了他胸前的口袋。他听见莫登小姐的声音。“基普。”“什么事?”“把手上的活儿停一会儿，我下来了。”“你最好不要下来，莫登小姐。”“放心，我没问题。”他扣上背心上每个口袋的扣子，在炸弹上放了一块布料。她笨拙地从上面爬下来，走到白垩马雕像旁，坐在他身边，打开小背包，把装在一个小瓶里的古龙香水洒在一块有蕾丝的手绢上，递给他：“用手绢擦擦脸。瑟福克爵士用它提神。”他试着接过它来，照她说的，用手绢轻轻地拍着他的额头、脖子和手腕。她打开保温瓶，给他俩各自倒了点儿茶。然后他又打开油纸，拿出几块吉，、林饼。
    她好像并不急于回到山坡上，回到安全地带，提醒她该回去了似乎有些无礼。她只是谈论着这令人苦恼的酷热，说着至少他们已经在镇上订了带浴室的房间，他们都盼望着能洗个澡。她开始聊起她怎么遇上瑟福克爵士的故事来了。对于他们身边的炸弹，她一个字都没提。他放慢了速度，就像一个要入睡的人，反复地读着同一段文字，想找出句子之间的联系。她已经把他从问题的旋涡中拉出来了。她小心地收起她的小背包，把一只手放在他的右肩上，回到韦斯特伯里马上方的那张毯子上。她给他留下一副太阳眼镜，但是他透过它看不清楚东西，于是他把它放在一边，然后又投人工作中。古龙香水的香味，他记得小时候曾经闻过。那时他正在发烧，有人把它擦在他的身上。

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