IX The Cave of Swimmers
IPROMISEDtotellyouhowonefallsinlove.
AyoungmannamedGeoffreyCliftonhadmetafriendatOxfordwhohadmentionederedoiactedme,gotmarriedtheday,andtwoweekslaterflewwithhiswifetoCairo.Theywereodaysoftheirhoneymoon.Thatwasthebeginningofourstory.
Wheharineshewasmarried.Amarriedwoman.Cliftonclimbedoutoftheplahen,ued,forlaheexpeditionwithjusthiminmind,sheemerged.Khakishorts,bonyknees.Inthosedaysshewastooardentforthedesert.Ilikedhisyouthmorethantheeagernessofhisnewyoungwife.Hewasourpilot,messenger,reaissance.HewastheNewAge,flyingoveranddroppingcodesoflongcolouredribbontoadviseuswhereweshouldbe.Hesharedhisadorationofherstantly.Herewerefourmenandonewomanandherhusbandinhisverbaljoyofhoneymoon.TheywentbacktoCairoaurnedamonthlater,anditwasalmostthesame.Shewasquieterthistimebuthewasstilltheyouth.Shewouldsquatorols,herjawcuppedinherhands,herelbowsonherkaringatsomestantlyflappingtarpaulin,andCliftonwouldbesingingherpraises.Wetriedtojokehimoutofit,buttowishhimmoremodestwouldhavebeenagainsthimandnoneofuswahat.
AfterthatmonthinCairoshewasmuted,readstantly,keptmoretoherself,asifsomethinghadoccurredorsherealizedsuddenlythatwondrousthingaboutthehumanbeing,itge.Shedidnothavetoremainasocialitewhohadmarriedaurer.Shewasdischerself.Itainfultowatch,becauseCliftoncould,herself-education.Shereadeverythingaboutthedesert.ShecouldtalkaboutUweinataoasis,hadevenhunteddownmarginalarticles.
Iwasamanfifteenyearsolderthanshe,youuand.IhadreachedthatstageinlifewhereIidentifiedwithicalvillainsinabook.Idon’tbelieveinpermanenrelationshipsthatspanages.Iwasfifteenyearsolder.Butshewassmarter.
ShewashuogethanIexpected.
WhatalteredherduringtheirpostponedhoneymoonontheuaryoutsideCairo?Wehadseenthemforafewdays—theyhadarrivedtwoweeksaftertheirCheshirewedding.Hehadbroughthisbridealong,ashecouldn’tleaveherandhecouldn’tbreaktheitmenttous.ToMadoxandme.Wewouldhavedevouredhim.Soherbonykneesemergedfromthepladay.Thatwastheburdenofourstory.Oursituation.
Cliftoedthebeautyofherarms,thethinlinesofherankles.Hedescribedwitnessingherswim.Hespokeaboutthenewbidetsielsuite.Herravenoushubreakfast.
Toallthat,Ididn’tsayaword.Iwouldlookupsometimesashespokeandcatchherglanessingmyunspokenexasperation,andthenherdemuresmile.Therewassomeirony.Iwastheolderman.Iwasthemanoftheworld,whohadwalkedtenyearsearlierfromDakhlaOasistotheGilfKebir,whochartedtheFarafra,whoknewaidhadbeenlostmorethantwitheSandSea.ShemetmewhenIhadallthoselabels.OrshecouldtwistafewdegreesahelabelsonMadox.YetapartfromtheGeographicalSocietywewereunknoerethethinedgeofacultshehadstumbledontobecauseofthismarriage.
Thewordsofherhusbandinpraiseofhermeantnothing.ButIamamanwhoselifeinmanyways,evenasanexplorer,hasbeengovernedbywords.Byrumoursandlegends.Chartedthings.Shardswrittendowofwords.Inthedeserttorepeatsomethingwouldbetoflingmorewaterintotheearth.Herenuaookyouahundredmiles.
OurexpeditionwasaboutfortymilesfromUweinat,andMadoxaoleavealoneonareaissaheCliftonsahersweretoremainbehind.Shehadedallherreadingandaskedmeforbooks.Ihadnothingbutmapswithme.“Thatbookyoulookatintheevenings?”“Herodotus.Ahh.Youwantthat?”“Idon’tpresume.Ifitisprivate.”“Ihavemyhinit.Andcuttings.Iwithme.”“Itwasforwardofme,excuseme.”“WheurnIshallshowittoyou.Itisunusualformetotravelwithoutit.”Allthisoccurredwithmuchgradcourtesy.Iexplaiwasmoreaonplacebook,andshebowedtothat.Iwasabletoleavewithoutfeelinginanywayselfish.Iaowledgedhergraciousness.Cliftonwasnotthere.Wewerealone.Ihadbeenpagiwhenshehadapproachedme.Iamamanwhohasturnedmybauchofthesocialworld,butsometimesIappreciatethedelianner.
Wereturnedaweeklater.Muchhadhappeermsoffindingsandpiegstogether.Wewereingoodspirits.Therewasasmallcelebrationatthecamp.Cliftonwasalwaysoocelebrateothers.Itwascatg.
Sheapproachedmeofwater.“gratulations,IheardfromGeoffreyalready—”“Yes!”“Here,drinkthis.”Iputoutmyhandandsheplacedthemypalm.Thewaterwasverycoldafterthestuffieenswehadbeendrinking.
“Geoffreyhasplannedapartyforyou.He’swritingasongandwaoreadapoem,butIwanttodosomethingelse.”“Here,takethebookandlohit.”Ipulleditfrommyknapsadhaoher.
AfterthemealaeasClifthtoutabottleofachehadhiddenfromeveryoillthismoment.ThewholebottlewastobedrunkthatnightduringMadox’satofourjourney,Clifton’sfunnysong.ThenshebegantoreadfromTheHistories—thestoryofdaulesandhisqueen.Ialwaysskimpastthatstory.ItisearlyinthebookandhaslittletodowiththepladperiodIamiedin.Butitisofcourseafamousstory.Itwasalsowhatshehadchosentotalkabout.
Thisdauleshadbeepassionatelyihhisownwife;andhavingbeeso,hedeemedthathiswifewasfairerbyfarthanallotherwomen.ToGyges,thesonofDaskylus(forheofallhisspearmenwasthemostpleasingtohim),heusedtodescribethebeautyofhiswife,praisingitaboveallmeasure.
“Areyoulistening,Geoffrey?”“Yes,mydarling.”HesaidtoGyges:“Gyges,IthinkthatyoudonotbelievemewhenItellyouofthebeautyofmywife,forithappensthatmen’searsarelessaptofbeliefthantheireyes.trivethereforemeansbywhiaylookuponherhereareseveralthingsonesay.KnowingthateventuallyIwillbeeherlover,justasGygeswillbethequeen’sloverandmurdererofdaules.IwouldoftenopenHerodotusforacluetogeography.ButKatharinehaddoasawindowtoherlife.Hervoicewaswaryassheread.Hereyesonlyonthepagewherethestorywas,asifsheweresinkingwithinquidwhileshespoke.
“Ibelieveihatsheisofallwomenthefairestareatyounottoaskofmethatwhichitisnotlawfulformetodo.”ButtheKingansweredhimthus:“Beofgoodce,Gyges,andhavenofear,eitherofme,thatIamsayingthesewordstotryyou,orofmywife,lestanyharmmayhappentoyoufromher.ForIwilltriveitsofromthefirstthatsheshallnotperceivethatshehasbeenseenbyyou.”ThisisastoryofhowIfellihawoman,whoreadmeaspecificstoryfromHerodotus.Iheardthewordsshespokeacrossthefire,neverlookingup,evenwheeasedherhusband.Perhapsshewasjustreadingittohim.Perhapstherewasnoulteriormotiveintheseleexceptforthemselves.Itwassimplyastorythathadjarredherinitsfamiliarityofsituation.
Butapathsuddenlyrevealeditselfinreallife.Eventhoughshehadnotceiveditasafirsterrantstepinanyway.Iamsure.
“Iwillplaceyouintheroomwherewesleep,behindtheopendoor;andafterIhavegonein,mywifewillalsoetoliedown.Nowthereisaseatheentraheroomandonthisshelayshergarmentsasshetakesthemoffonebyone;andsoyouwillbeabletogazeatheratfullleisure.”ButGygesiswithequeenwhenheleavesthebedchamber.Sheuandsthenwhathasbeendonebyherhusband;andthoughashamed,sheraisesnooutcry...sheholdsherpeace.
Itisastraory.Isitnot,Caravaggio?Thevanityofamantothepointwherehewishestobeenvied.Orhewishestobebelieved,forhethinksheisnotbelieved.ThiswasinnoortraitofClifton,buthebecameapartofthisstory.Thereissomethingveryshogbuthumaninthehusband’saethingmakesusbelieveit.
ThedaythewifecallsinGygesandgiveshimtwochoices.
“Therearenoaysopentoyou,andIwillgiveyouthechoicewhichofthetwoyouwillprefertotake.EitheryoumustslaydaulesandpossessbothmeandtheKingdomofLydia,oryoumustyourselfhereobeslain,sothatyoumayestnotinfuture,byobeyingdaulesinallthings,seethatwhichyoushouldherhemustdiewhoformedthisdesign,oryouwhohavelookeduponmenaked.”Sothekingiskilled.ANewAgebegins.TherearepoemswrittenaboutGygesiniambictrimeters.HewasthefirstofthebarbarianstodedicateobjectsatDelphi.HereignedasKingofLydiafortweyears,butwestillrememberhimasonlyaanunusuallovestory.
Shestoppedreadingandlookedup.Outofthequid.Shewasevolving.Sopowergedhands.Meanwhile,withthehelpofae,Ifellinlove.
Words,Caravaggio.Theyhaveapower.
WhentheCliftonswerenotwithustheywerebasedinCairo.CliftondoingotherworkfortheEnglish,Godknowswhat,anunsomegoveroffice.Allthiswasbeforethewar.Butatthattimethecityhadeverynationswimminginit,meetingatGroppi’sforthesoireecerts,dangintothenight.Theyularyoungcouplewithhonourbetweenthem,andIwasontheperipheryofCairosociety.Theylivedwell.AceremoniallifethatIwouldslipintonowandthen.
Dinners,gardenparties.EventsIwouldnotnormallyhavebeeedinbutobecauseshewasthere.IamamanwhofastsuntilIseewhatIwant.
HowdoIexplaioyou?Withtheuseofmyhands?ThewayIarcoutiheshapeofamesaorrock?Shehadbeenpartoftheexpeditionforalmostayear.Isawher,versedwithher.Wehadeachbeentinuallyinthepreseheother.Later,ereawareofmutualdesire,thesepreviousmomentsfloodedbatotheheart,nowsuggestive,thatnervousgripofanarmonacliff,looksthathadbeenmissedormisinterpreted.
IwasatthattimeseldominCairo,thereaboutohinthree.IworkedintheDepartmeologyonmyownbook,RetesExplorationsdansleDesertLibyque,asthedaysprogressed,ingcloserandclosertothetextasifthedesertweretheresomewhereonthepage,soIcouldeveheinkasitemergedfromthefountainpen.Andsimul-taneouslystruggledwithhernearbypresence,moreobsessediftruthbeknownwithherpossiblemouth,thetautnessbehindthekhewhiteplainofstomach,asIwrotemybriefbook,seventypageslong,sudtothepoint,pletewithmapsoftravel.Iwasuoremoveherbodyfromthepage.Iwishedtodedicatethemonographtoher,tohervoice,toherbodythatIimaginedrosewhiteoutofabedlikealongbow,butitwasabookIdedicatedtoaking.Believingsuobsessionwouldbemocked,patronizedbyherpoliteandembarrassedshakeofthehead.
Ibegantobedoublyformalinherpany.Acharacteristiynature.Asifawkwardaboutapreviouslyrevealedna-kedness.ItisaEuropeanhabit.Itwasnaturalforme—havingtranslatedherstrangelyintomytextofthedesert—nowtostepialclothinginherpresence.
ThewildpoemisasubstituteForthewomanoneloveshttolove,Onewildrhapsodyafakeforanother.
OnHassaneinBey’slawn—thegrandoldmanoftheexpedition—shewalkedoverwiththegoveraideRoun-dellandshookmyhand,askedhimtogetheradrink,turnedbaeandsaid,“Iwantyoutoravishme.”RoundellreturwasasifshehadhandedmeakhinamonthIwasherlover.Inthatroomoverthesouk,northofthestreetofparrots.
Isanktomykhemosaic-tiledhall,myfathecurtainowtasteofthesefingersinhermouth.
Wewereastraue,thetwoofus,beforewebegantounlocker.Herfingersscratgagainstthesandinmythinninghair.Cairoandallherdesertsaroundus.
Wasitdesireforheryouth,forherthiboyishness?HergardehegardensIspokeofwhenIspoketoyouofgardens.
TherewasthatsmalliiohroatwecalledtheBosphorus.IwoulddivefromhershoulderintotheBos-phorus.
Restmyeyethere.IwouldkneelwhileshelookeddownonmequizzicalasifIlaarystranger.Sheofthequizzicallook.HercoolhandsuddenlyagainstmyneaCairobus.Takingaclosedtaxiandourquick-handlovebetweentheKhediveIsmailBridgeaipperaryClub.Orthesunthroughherfingernailsohird-floorlobbyatthemuseumwhenherhandcoveredmyface.
Asfaraswewereedtherewasonlyonepersontoavoidbeingseenby.
ButGeoffreyCliftonwasamanembeddedintheEnglishmae.Hehadafamilygenealogygoingbacktoute.ThemaewouldnotnecessarilyhaverevealedtoClifton,marriedoeenmonths,hiswife’siy,butitbegantoencirclethefault,thediseaseiem.ItkneweverymovesheandImadefromthefirstdayoftheawkwardtoutheportecochereoftheSemiramisHotel.
Ihadignoredherremarksaboutherhusband’srelatives.AndGeoffreyCliftonwasasiaswewereaboutthegreatEnglishwebthatwasaboveus.Buttheclubofbodyguardswatchedoverherhusbandahimprotected.OnlyMadox,whowasanaristocratastimentalassociations,knewaboutsuchdiscreetvolutions.OnlyMadox,withsiderabletact,warnedmeaboutsuchaworld.
IcarriedHerodotus,andMadox—asaintinhisownmarriage—carriedAnnaKarenina,tinuallyrereadioryofromanddeceit.Oneday,fartoolatetoavoidthemaerywehadsetinmotioriedtoexplainClifton’sworldintermsofAnnaKarenina’sbrother.Passmemybook.Listentothis.
HalfMosdPetersburgwererelationsorfriendsofOblonsky.Hewasbornintothecircleofpeoplewhowere,orwhobecame,thegreatohisearth.Athirdoftheofficialworld,theoldermen,werehisfather’sfriendsandhadknownhimfromthetimehewasababyiicoats....sequently,thedistributorsoftheblessingsofthisworldwereallfriendsofhis.
Theycouldnotpassoveroheirown....Itwasonlynecessarynottoraiseobjesorbeenvious,nottoquarrelortakeoffence,whiaccordahhisnaturalkindlinessheneverdid.
Ihaveetolovethetapofyernailonthesyringe,Caravaggio.ThefirsttimeHanagavememorphineinyourpanyyouwerebythewindow,andatthetapofhernailyourneckjerkedtowardsus.Iknowarade.Thewayaloverwillalwaysreizethecamouflageofotherlovers.
Womenwahingofalover.AndtoooftenIwouldsihesurfaiesdisappearundersand.Andtherewasherfearofherhusband,herbeliefinherhonour,myolddesireforself-sufficy,mydisappearances,hersus-pisofme,mydisbeliefthatshelovedme.Theparanoiaandclaustrophobiaofhiddenlove.
“Ithinkyouhavebeeinhuman,”shesaidtome.
“I’mnottheorayer.”“Idon’tthinkyoucare—thatthishashappenedamongus.Youslidepasteverythingwithyourfearandhateofownership,ofowning,ofbeingowned,ofbeingnamed.Youthinkthisisavirtue.Ithinkyouareinhuman.IfIleaveyou,whowillyougoto?Wouldyoufindanotherlover?”Isaidnothing.
“Denyit,damnyou.”Shehadalwayswantedwords,shelovedthem,grewuponthem.Waveherclarity,broughtreason,shape.WhereasIthoughtwordsbeionslikestiwater.
Shereturoherhusband.
Fromthispointon,shewhispered,wewilleitherfindorloseoursouls.
Seasmoveaway,whynotlovers?TheharboursofEphesus,theriversofHeraclitusdisappearandarereplacedbyestuariesofsilt.ThewifeofdaulesbeesthewifeofGyges.Librariesburn.
Whathadourrelationshipbeerayalofthosearoundus,orthedesireofanotherlife?
Sheclimbedbatoherhousebesideherhusband,airedtothezincbars.
I’llbelookingatthemoon,butI’llbeseeingyou.
ThatoldHerodotusclassic.Hummingandsingingthatsongagainandagaiingthelihiobeoone’sownlife.Peoplerecoverfromsecretlossvariously.Iwasseenbyoneofherretiingicetrader.Shehadoncereceivedfromhimapewterthimblethatheldsaffrohetenthousandthings.
AndifBagnold—havingseeingbythesaffrontrader—broughtuptheiduringdihetablewhereshesat,howdidIfeelaboutthat?Diditgivemesomefortthatshewouldrememberthemanwhohadgivenherasmallgift,apewterthimbleshehungfromathindarkaroundherneckfortwodayswhenherhusbandwasoutoftown?Thesaffronstillinit,sotherewasthestainofgoldonherchest.
Howdidsheholdthisstoryaboutme,pariahtothegroupaftersomeseorotherwhereIhaddisgracedmyself,Bagnoldlaughing,herhusbandwhowasagoodmanwaboutme,andMadoxgettingupandwalkingtoawindowandlookingouttowardsthesouthseofthecity.Theversationperhapsmovedtohtings.Theyweremapmak-ers,afterall.
Butdidsheclimbdownintothewellwehelpeddigtogetherandholdherself,thewayIdesiredmyselftowardsherwithmyhand?
Weeaowhadourownlives,armedbythedeepesttreatywiththeother.
“Whatareyoudoing?”shesaidrunningihestreet.“’tyouseeyouaredrivingusallmad.”ToMadoxIhadsaidIwascawidow.Butshewasnotawidowyet.WhenMadoxreturoEnglandsheandIwerenolongerlivemygreetingstoyourCairowidow,”Madoxmurmured.“Would’velikedtohavemether.”Didheknow?Ialwaysfeltmoreofadeceiverwithhim,thisfriendIhadworkedwithfortenyears,thismanIlovedmorethananyotherman.Itwas,andwewereallleavingthistry,inanycase,tothewar.
AndMadoxreturhevillageofMarstonMagna,Somerset,wherehehadbeenborn,andamonthlatersatinthegregationofachurch,heardthesermoninhonourofulledouthisdesertrevolverandshothimself.
I,HerodotusofHaliassus,setforthmyhistory,thattimemaynotdrawthecolourfromwhatManhasbroughtintobeing,northosegreatandwonderfuldeedsmaedbybothGreeksandBarbarians...togetherwiththereasontheyfoughtoher.
Menhadalwaysbeentherecitersofpoetryinthedesert.AndMadox—totheGeographicalSociety—hadspokeifulatsofourtraversalsandcs.Bermaheoryintotheembers.AndI?Iwastheskillamohemeic.TheotherswroteouttheirloveofsolitudeaatedonwhattheyfouheywereneversureofwhatIthoughtofitall.“Doyoulikethatmoon?”Madoxaskedmeafterhe’dknowenyears.Heaskedittentatively,asifhehadbreachedanintimacy.ForthemIwasabittooingtobealoverofthedesert.MorelikeOdysseus.Still,Iwas.Showmeadesert,asyouwouldshowanothermanariver,oranothermaropolisofhischildhood.
Wheedforthelasttime,Madoxusedtheoldfarewell.
“MayGodmakesafetyyourpanion.”AndIstrodeawayfromhimsaying,“ThereisnoGod.”Wewereutterlyunlikeeachother.
MadoxsaidOdysseusneverwroteaword,anintimatebook.Perhapshefeltalieninthefalserhapsodyofart.Andmyownmonograph,Imustadmit,hadbeensternwithaccuracy.ThefearofdescribingherpresenceasIwrotecausedmetoburndownallse,allrhetoricoflove.Still,IdescribedthedesertaspurelyasIwouldhavespokenofher.Madoxaskedmeaboutthemoourlastdaystogetherbeforethewarbegaed.Heleftfland,theprobabilityoftheoningwarinterruptihing,ourslowuhingofhistoryinthedesert.Good-bye,Odysseus,hesaidgrinning,knowingIwashatfondofOdysseus,lessfondofAeneas,butwehaddecidedBagnoldwasAeneas.ButIwasnotthatfondofOdysseuseither.Good-bye,Isaid.
Irememberheturnedback,laughing.HepointedhisthigertothespotbyhisAdam’sappleandsaid,“Thisiscalledthevascularsizood.”Givingthathollowatherneoffiame.HereturohiswifeinthevillageofMarstonMagna,tookonlyhisfavouritevolumeofTolstoy,leftallofhispassesandmapstome.Ouraffeleftunspoken.
AndMarstonMagnai,whichhehadevokedfainandagaininourversations,hadtursgreenfieldsintoanaerodrome.TheplanesburheirexhaustoverArthuriancastles.WhatdrovehimtotheactIdonotknow.
Maybeitwasthepermanoiseofflight,soloudtohimnowafterthesimpledroheGypsyMoththathadputtedoveroursilenLibyaa.Someone’swarwasslashingaparthisdelicatetapestryofpanions.IwasOdysseus,Iuoodtheshiftingandtemporaryvetoesofwar.Buthewasamanwhomadefriendswithdifficulty.Hewasamanwhokwoorthreepeopleinhislife,andtheyhadturnowtobetheenemy.
Hewasialohhiswife,whohadus.Smallgestureswereenoughforhim.Onebulletehewar.
ItwasJuly
TheycaughtabusfromtheirvillageintoYeovil.Thebushadbeenslowandsotheyhadbeeheservice.Atthebackofthecrowdedchurordertofiheydecidedtositseparately.Whenthesermonbeganhalfanhourlater,itwasjingoistidwithoutanydoubtinitssupportofthewar.Thepriestintonedblithelyaboutbattle,blessingthegoverandthemenabouttoehewar.Madoxlistehesermongrewmoreimpassioned.Hepulledoutthedesertpistol,bentoverandshothimselfintheheart.Hewasdeadimmediately.Agreatsilence.Desertsilence.Planelesssileheyheardhisbodycollapseagainstthepew.Nothingelsemoved.Thepriestfrozeniure.Itwaslikethosesilenceswhenaglassfunnelroundadleinchurchsplitsandallfacesturn.Hiswifewalkeddowreaisle,stoppedathisrow,mutteredsomething,aherinbesidehim.Shekdown,herarmsenclosinghim.
HowdidOdysseusdie?Asuicide,wasn’tit?Iseemtorecallthat.Now.MaybethedesertspoiledMadox.Thattimewhenwehadnothingtodowiththeworld.IkeepthinkingoftheRussianbookhealwayscarried.Russiahasalwaysbeenclosertomytrythantohis.Yes,Madoxwasamanwhodiedbecauseofnations.
Ilovedhisessinallthings.Iwouldarguefuriouslyaboutlocationsonamap,andhisreportswouldsomehowspeakofour“debate”inreasoences.Hewrotecalmlyandjoyfullyaboutourjourneyswhentherewasjoytodescribe,asifwewereAnnaandVronskyatadaill,hewasamanwhoeredthoseCairodancehallswithme.AndIwasthemanwhofellinlovewhiledang.
Hemovedwithaslowgait.Ineversawhimdance.Hewasamanwhowrote,whointerpretedtheworld.Wisdomgrewoutofbeinghandedjustthesmallestsliverofemotion.Aglancecouldleadtraphsoftheory.Ifhewitnessedanewknotamotribeorfoundararepalm,itwouldcharmhimforweeks.Whenonmessagesonourtravels—anyw,poraryora,Arabiudwall,anoteinEnglishwritteninchalkonthefenderofajeep—hewouldreaditandthenpresshishanduponitasiftotouchitspossibledeepermeanings,tobeeasintimateashecouldwiththewords.
Heholdsouthisarm,thebruisedveinshorizontal,fagup,fortheraftofmorphine.AsitfloodshimhehearsCaravaggiodroptheneedleintothekidney-shapedein.Heseesthegrizzledformturnitsbaandthenreappear,alsocaught,acitizenofmorphiawithhim.
TherearedayswhenIehomefromaridwritingwhenallthatsavemeis“HoneysuckleRose”byDjangoRein-hardtandStephaneGrappellyperfwiththeHotClubofFrance.
Greatjazzyears.TheyearswhenitfloatedoutoftheHotelClaridgeontheChamps-ElyseesandintothebarsofLondon,southernFrance,Morocdthenslidi,wheretherumourofsuchrhythmswasintroduahushbyanunnamedCairodand.Whebatothedesert,Itookwithmetheeveningsofdangtotheof“Souvenirs”inthebars,thewomenpaglikegreyhounds,leaningagainstyouwhileyoumutteredintotheirshouldersduring“MySweet.”CourtesyoftheSocieteUltraphoneFranchiserecordpany.
Therewasthewhisperingofloveinabooth.Therewaswararoundtheer.
Duringthosefinalnightsinonthsaftertheaffairwasover,wehadfinallypersuadedMadoxintoazincbarforhisfarewell.Sheandherhusbahere.Onight.Odance.AlmasywasdrunkandattemptinganolddaephehadiedcalledtheBosphorushug,liftingKatharineCliftonintohiswiryarmsandtraversingtheflooruntilhefellwithheracrosssomeNile-groidistras.
Whoishespeakingasnow?Caravaggiothinks.
Almasywasdrunkandhisdangseemedtotheothersabrutalseriesofmovements.Inthosedaysheandshedidobegettingonwell.Heswungherfromsidetosideasifsheweresomeanonymousdoll,andsmotheredwithdrinkhisgriefatMadox’sleaving.Hewasloudatthetableswithus.WhenAlmasywaslikethisweusuallydispersed,butthiswasMadox’slastnightinCairoaayed.AbadEgyptianviolinistmimigStephaneGrappelly,andAlmasylikeaplaoftrol.“Tous—theplaarystrangers,”heliftedhisglass.Hewaodaheveryone,menandwomen.Heclappedhishandsandannounced,“NowfortheBosphorushug.You,Bernhardt?Hetherton?”Mostpulledback.HeturoClifton’syoungwife,atghiminacourtee,aforwardashebeedandthenslammedintoher,histhroatalreadyatherleftshoulderonthatnakedplateauabovethesequins.Amaniac’stangoeillohemlostthestep.Shewouldnotbackdownfrer,refusedtolethimwinbyherwalkingawayaurningtothetable.Juststaringhardathimwhenhepulledhisheadbaotsolemnbutwithanattagface.Hismouthmutteringatherwhehisfacedown,swearingthelyricsof“HoneysuckleRose,”perhaps.
InCairobetweeionsnooneeversawmuasy.Heseemedeitherdistantorrestless.HeworkedinthemuseumduringthedayandfrequeheSoutharketbarsatnight.Lostinanypt.ItwasonlyforMadoxtheyhadallehere.ButnowAlmasywasdangwithKatharineClifton.Thelineofplantsbrushedagainstherslimness.Hepivotedwithher,liftingherup,andthenfell.Cliftonstayedinhisseat,halfwatgthem.Almasylyingacrossherandthenslowlytryingtogetup,smoothingbackhisblondhair,kneelingoverherinthefareroftheroom.Hehadatoimebeenamanofdelicacy.
Itastmidnight.Thegueststherewerenotamused,exceptfortheeasilyamusedregulars,acedtotheseceremohedesertEuropean.Therewerewomenwithlongtributariesofsilverhangingofftheirears,womeninsequins,littlemetaldropletswarmfromthebar’sheatthatAlmasyihadalwaysbeenpartialtowards,womenwhointheirdangswungthejaggedearringsofsilveragainsthisfahtshedahthem,carryingtheirwholeframebythefulcrumofribcageashegotdrunker.Yes,theywereamused,laughingatAlmasy’sstomachashisshir松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
AyoungmannamedGeoffreyCliftonhadmetafriendatOxfordwhohadmentionederedoiactedme,gotmarriedtheday,andtwoweekslaterflewwithhiswifetoCairo.Theywereodaysoftheirhoneymoon.Thatwasthebeginningofourstory.
Wheharineshewasmarried.Amarriedwoman.Cliftonclimbedoutoftheplahen,ued,forlaheexpeditionwithjusthiminmind,sheemerged.Khakishorts,bonyknees.Inthosedaysshewastooardentforthedesert.Ilikedhisyouthmorethantheeagernessofhisnewyoungwife.Hewasourpilot,messenger,reaissance.HewastheNewAge,flyingoveranddroppingcodesoflongcolouredribbontoadviseuswhereweshouldbe.Hesharedhisadorationofherstantly.Herewerefourmenandonewomanandherhusbandinhisverbaljoyofhoneymoon.TheywentbacktoCairoaurnedamonthlater,anditwasalmostthesame.Shewasquieterthistimebuthewasstilltheyouth.Shewouldsquatorols,herjawcuppedinherhands,herelbowsonherkaringatsomestantlyflappingtarpaulin,andCliftonwouldbesingingherpraises.Wetriedtojokehimoutofit,buttowishhimmoremodestwouldhavebeenagainsthimandnoneofuswahat.
AfterthatmonthinCairoshewasmuted,readstantly,keptmoretoherself,asifsomethinghadoccurredorsherealizedsuddenlythatwondrousthingaboutthehumanbeing,itge.Shedidnothavetoremainasocialitewhohadmarriedaurer.Shewasdischerself.Itainfultowatch,becauseCliftoncould,herself-education.Shereadeverythingaboutthedesert.ShecouldtalkaboutUweinataoasis,hadevenhunteddownmarginalarticles.
Iwasamanfifteenyearsolderthanshe,youuand.IhadreachedthatstageinlifewhereIidentifiedwithicalvillainsinabook.Idon’tbelieveinpermanenrelationshipsthatspanages.Iwasfifteenyearsolder.Butshewassmarter.
ShewashuogethanIexpected.
WhatalteredherduringtheirpostponedhoneymoonontheuaryoutsideCairo?Wehadseenthemforafewdays—theyhadarrivedtwoweeksaftertheirCheshirewedding.Hehadbroughthisbridealong,ashecouldn’tleaveherandhecouldn’tbreaktheitmenttous.ToMadoxandme.Wewouldhavedevouredhim.Soherbonykneesemergedfromthepladay.Thatwastheburdenofourstory.Oursituation.
Cliftoedthebeautyofherarms,thethinlinesofherankles.Hedescribedwitnessingherswim.Hespokeaboutthenewbidetsielsuite.Herravenoushubreakfast.
Toallthat,Ididn’tsayaword.Iwouldlookupsometimesashespokeandcatchherglanessingmyunspokenexasperation,andthenherdemuresmile.Therewassomeirony.Iwastheolderman.Iwasthemanoftheworld,whohadwalkedtenyearsearlierfromDakhlaOasistotheGilfKebir,whochartedtheFarafra,whoknewaidhadbeenlostmorethantwitheSandSea.ShemetmewhenIhadallthoselabels.OrshecouldtwistafewdegreesahelabelsonMadox.YetapartfromtheGeographicalSocietywewereunknoerethethinedgeofacultshehadstumbledontobecauseofthismarriage.
Thewordsofherhusbandinpraiseofhermeantnothing.ButIamamanwhoselifeinmanyways,evenasanexplorer,hasbeengovernedbywords.Byrumoursandlegends.Chartedthings.Shardswrittendowofwords.Inthedeserttorepeatsomethingwouldbetoflingmorewaterintotheearth.Herenuaookyouahundredmiles.
OurexpeditionwasaboutfortymilesfromUweinat,andMadoxaoleavealoneonareaissaheCliftonsahersweretoremainbehind.Shehadedallherreadingandaskedmeforbooks.Ihadnothingbutmapswithme.“Thatbookyoulookatintheevenings?”“Herodotus.Ahh.Youwantthat?”“Idon’tpresume.Ifitisprivate.”“Ihavemyhinit.Andcuttings.Iwithme.”“Itwasforwardofme,excuseme.”“WheurnIshallshowittoyou.Itisunusualformetotravelwithoutit.”Allthisoccurredwithmuchgradcourtesy.Iexplaiwasmoreaonplacebook,andshebowedtothat.Iwasabletoleavewithoutfeelinginanywayselfish.Iaowledgedhergraciousness.Cliftonwasnotthere.Wewerealone.Ihadbeenpagiwhenshehadapproachedme.Iamamanwhohasturnedmybauchofthesocialworld,butsometimesIappreciatethedelianner.
Wereturnedaweeklater.Muchhadhappeermsoffindingsandpiegstogether.Wewereingoodspirits.Therewasasmallcelebrationatthecamp.Cliftonwasalwaysoocelebrateothers.Itwascatg.
Sheapproachedmeofwater.“gratulations,IheardfromGeoffreyalready—”“Yes!”“Here,drinkthis.”Iputoutmyhandandsheplacedthemypalm.Thewaterwasverycoldafterthestuffieenswehadbeendrinking.
“Geoffreyhasplannedapartyforyou.He’swritingasongandwaoreadapoem,butIwanttodosomethingelse.”“Here,takethebookandlohit.”Ipulleditfrommyknapsadhaoher.
AfterthemealaeasClifthtoutabottleofachehadhiddenfromeveryoillthismoment.ThewholebottlewastobedrunkthatnightduringMadox’satofourjourney,Clifton’sfunnysong.ThenshebegantoreadfromTheHistories—thestoryofdaulesandhisqueen.Ialwaysskimpastthatstory.ItisearlyinthebookandhaslittletodowiththepladperiodIamiedin.Butitisofcourseafamousstory.Itwasalsowhatshehadchosentotalkabout.
Thisdauleshadbeepassionatelyihhisownwife;andhavingbeeso,hedeemedthathiswifewasfairerbyfarthanallotherwomen.ToGyges,thesonofDaskylus(forheofallhisspearmenwasthemostpleasingtohim),heusedtodescribethebeautyofhiswife,praisingitaboveallmeasure.
“Areyoulistening,Geoffrey?”“Yes,mydarling.”HesaidtoGyges:“Gyges,IthinkthatyoudonotbelievemewhenItellyouofthebeautyofmywife,forithappensthatmen’searsarelessaptofbeliefthantheireyes.trivethereforemeansbywhiaylookuponherhereareseveralthingsonesay.KnowingthateventuallyIwillbeeherlover,justasGygeswillbethequeen’sloverandmurdererofdaules.IwouldoftenopenHerodotusforacluetogeography.ButKatharinehaddoasawindowtoherlife.Hervoicewaswaryassheread.Hereyesonlyonthepagewherethestorywas,asifsheweresinkingwithinquidwhileshespoke.
“Ibelieveihatsheisofallwomenthefairestareatyounottoaskofmethatwhichitisnotlawfulformetodo.”ButtheKingansweredhimthus:“Beofgoodce,Gyges,andhavenofear,eitherofme,thatIamsayingthesewordstotryyou,orofmywife,lestanyharmmayhappentoyoufromher.ForIwilltriveitsofromthefirstthatsheshallnotperceivethatshehasbeenseenbyyou.”ThisisastoryofhowIfellihawoman,whoreadmeaspecificstoryfromHerodotus.Iheardthewordsshespokeacrossthefire,neverlookingup,evenwheeasedherhusband.Perhapsshewasjustreadingittohim.Perhapstherewasnoulteriormotiveintheseleexceptforthemselves.Itwassimplyastorythathadjarredherinitsfamiliarityofsituation.
Butapathsuddenlyrevealeditselfinreallife.Eventhoughshehadnotceiveditasafirsterrantstepinanyway.Iamsure.
“Iwillplaceyouintheroomwherewesleep,behindtheopendoor;andafterIhavegonein,mywifewillalsoetoliedown.Nowthereisaseatheentraheroomandonthisshelayshergarmentsasshetakesthemoffonebyone;andsoyouwillbeabletogazeatheratfullleisure.”ButGygesiswithequeenwhenheleavesthebedchamber.Sheuandsthenwhathasbeendonebyherhusband;andthoughashamed,sheraisesnooutcry...sheholdsherpeace.
Itisastraory.Isitnot,Caravaggio?Thevanityofamantothepointwherehewishestobeenvied.Orhewishestobebelieved,forhethinksheisnotbelieved.ThiswasinnoortraitofClifton,buthebecameapartofthisstory.Thereissomethingveryshogbuthumaninthehusband’saethingmakesusbelieveit.
ThedaythewifecallsinGygesandgiveshimtwochoices.
“Therearenoaysopentoyou,andIwillgiveyouthechoicewhichofthetwoyouwillprefertotake.EitheryoumustslaydaulesandpossessbothmeandtheKingdomofLydia,oryoumustyourselfhereobeslain,sothatyoumayestnotinfuture,byobeyingdaulesinallthings,seethatwhichyoushouldherhemustdiewhoformedthisdesign,oryouwhohavelookeduponmenaked.”Sothekingiskilled.ANewAgebegins.TherearepoemswrittenaboutGygesiniambictrimeters.HewasthefirstofthebarbarianstodedicateobjectsatDelphi.HereignedasKingofLydiafortweyears,butwestillrememberhimasonlyaanunusuallovestory.
Shestoppedreadingandlookedup.Outofthequid.Shewasevolving.Sopowergedhands.Meanwhile,withthehelpofae,Ifellinlove.
Words,Caravaggio.Theyhaveapower.
WhentheCliftonswerenotwithustheywerebasedinCairo.CliftondoingotherworkfortheEnglish,Godknowswhat,anunsomegoveroffice.Allthiswasbeforethewar.Butatthattimethecityhadeverynationswimminginit,meetingatGroppi’sforthesoireecerts,dangintothenight.Theyularyoungcouplewithhonourbetweenthem,andIwasontheperipheryofCairosociety.Theylivedwell.AceremoniallifethatIwouldslipintonowandthen.
Dinners,gardenparties.EventsIwouldnotnormallyhavebeeedinbutobecauseshewasthere.IamamanwhofastsuntilIseewhatIwant.
HowdoIexplaioyou?Withtheuseofmyhands?ThewayIarcoutiheshapeofamesaorrock?Shehadbeenpartoftheexpeditionforalmostayear.Isawher,versedwithher.Wehadeachbeentinuallyinthepreseheother.Later,ereawareofmutualdesire,thesepreviousmomentsfloodedbatotheheart,nowsuggestive,thatnervousgripofanarmonacliff,looksthathadbeenmissedormisinterpreted.
IwasatthattimeseldominCairo,thereaboutohinthree.IworkedintheDepartmeologyonmyownbook,RetesExplorationsdansleDesertLibyque,asthedaysprogressed,ingcloserandclosertothetextasifthedesertweretheresomewhereonthepage,soIcouldeveheinkasitemergedfromthefountainpen.Andsimul-taneouslystruggledwithhernearbypresence,moreobsessediftruthbeknownwithherpossiblemouth,thetautnessbehindthekhewhiteplainofstomach,asIwrotemybriefbook,seventypageslong,sudtothepoint,pletewithmapsoftravel.Iwasuoremoveherbodyfromthepage.Iwishedtodedicatethemonographtoher,tohervoice,toherbodythatIimaginedrosewhiteoutofabedlikealongbow,butitwasabookIdedicatedtoaking.Believingsuobsessionwouldbemocked,patronizedbyherpoliteandembarrassedshakeofthehead.
Ibegantobedoublyformalinherpany.Acharacteristiynature.Asifawkwardaboutapreviouslyrevealedna-kedness.ItisaEuropeanhabit.Itwasnaturalforme—havingtranslatedherstrangelyintomytextofthedesert—nowtostepialclothinginherpresence.
ThewildpoemisasubstituteForthewomanoneloveshttolove,Onewildrhapsodyafakeforanother.
OnHassaneinBey’slawn—thegrandoldmanoftheexpedition—shewalkedoverwiththegoveraideRoun-dellandshookmyhand,askedhimtogetheradrink,turnedbaeandsaid,“Iwantyoutoravishme.”RoundellreturwasasifshehadhandedmeakhinamonthIwasherlover.Inthatroomoverthesouk,northofthestreetofparrots.
Isanktomykhemosaic-tiledhall,myfathecurtainowtasteofthesefingersinhermouth.
Wewereastraue,thetwoofus,beforewebegantounlocker.Herfingersscratgagainstthesandinmythinninghair.Cairoandallherdesertsaroundus.
Wasitdesireforheryouth,forherthiboyishness?HergardehegardensIspokeofwhenIspoketoyouofgardens.
TherewasthatsmalliiohroatwecalledtheBosphorus.IwoulddivefromhershoulderintotheBos-phorus.
Restmyeyethere.IwouldkneelwhileshelookeddownonmequizzicalasifIlaarystranger.Sheofthequizzicallook.HercoolhandsuddenlyagainstmyneaCairobus.Takingaclosedtaxiandourquick-handlovebetweentheKhediveIsmailBridgeaipperaryClub.Orthesunthroughherfingernailsohird-floorlobbyatthemuseumwhenherhandcoveredmyface.
Asfaraswewereedtherewasonlyonepersontoavoidbeingseenby.
ButGeoffreyCliftonwasamanembeddedintheEnglishmae.Hehadafamilygenealogygoingbacktoute.ThemaewouldnotnecessarilyhaverevealedtoClifton,marriedoeenmonths,hiswife’siy,butitbegantoencirclethefault,thediseaseiem.ItkneweverymovesheandImadefromthefirstdayoftheawkwardtoutheportecochereoftheSemiramisHotel.
Ihadignoredherremarksaboutherhusband’srelatives.AndGeoffreyCliftonwasasiaswewereaboutthegreatEnglishwebthatwasaboveus.Buttheclubofbodyguardswatchedoverherhusbandahimprotected.OnlyMadox,whowasanaristocratastimentalassociations,knewaboutsuchdiscreetvolutions.OnlyMadox,withsiderabletact,warnedmeaboutsuchaworld.
IcarriedHerodotus,andMadox—asaintinhisownmarriage—carriedAnnaKarenina,tinuallyrereadioryofromanddeceit.Oneday,fartoolatetoavoidthemaerywehadsetinmotioriedtoexplainClifton’sworldintermsofAnnaKarenina’sbrother.Passmemybook.Listentothis.
HalfMosdPetersburgwererelationsorfriendsofOblonsky.Hewasbornintothecircleofpeoplewhowere,orwhobecame,thegreatohisearth.Athirdoftheofficialworld,theoldermen,werehisfather’sfriendsandhadknownhimfromthetimehewasababyiicoats....sequently,thedistributorsoftheblessingsofthisworldwereallfriendsofhis.
Theycouldnotpassoveroheirown....Itwasonlynecessarynottoraiseobjesorbeenvious,nottoquarrelortakeoffence,whiaccordahhisnaturalkindlinessheneverdid.
Ihaveetolovethetapofyernailonthesyringe,Caravaggio.ThefirsttimeHanagavememorphineinyourpanyyouwerebythewindow,andatthetapofhernailyourneckjerkedtowardsus.Iknowarade.Thewayaloverwillalwaysreizethecamouflageofotherlovers.
Womenwahingofalover.AndtoooftenIwouldsihesurfaiesdisappearundersand.Andtherewasherfearofherhusband,herbeliefinherhonour,myolddesireforself-sufficy,mydisappearances,hersus-pisofme,mydisbeliefthatshelovedme.Theparanoiaandclaustrophobiaofhiddenlove.
“Ithinkyouhavebeeinhuman,”shesaidtome.
“I’mnottheorayer.”“Idon’tthinkyoucare—thatthishashappenedamongus.Youslidepasteverythingwithyourfearandhateofownership,ofowning,ofbeingowned,ofbeingnamed.Youthinkthisisavirtue.Ithinkyouareinhuman.IfIleaveyou,whowillyougoto?Wouldyoufindanotherlover?”Isaidnothing.
“Denyit,damnyou.”Shehadalwayswantedwords,shelovedthem,grewuponthem.Waveherclarity,broughtreason,shape.WhereasIthoughtwordsbeionslikestiwater.
Shereturoherhusband.
Fromthispointon,shewhispered,wewilleitherfindorloseoursouls.
Seasmoveaway,whynotlovers?TheharboursofEphesus,theriversofHeraclitusdisappearandarereplacedbyestuariesofsilt.ThewifeofdaulesbeesthewifeofGyges.Librariesburn.
Whathadourrelationshipbeerayalofthosearoundus,orthedesireofanotherlife?
Sheclimbedbatoherhousebesideherhusband,airedtothezincbars.
I’llbelookingatthemoon,butI’llbeseeingyou.
ThatoldHerodotusclassic.Hummingandsingingthatsongagainandagaiingthelihiobeoone’sownlife.Peoplerecoverfromsecretlossvariously.Iwasseenbyoneofherretiingicetrader.Shehadoncereceivedfromhimapewterthimblethatheldsaffrohetenthousandthings.
AndifBagnold—havingseeingbythesaffrontrader—broughtuptheiduringdihetablewhereshesat,howdidIfeelaboutthat?Diditgivemesomefortthatshewouldrememberthemanwhohadgivenherasmallgift,apewterthimbleshehungfromathindarkaroundherneckfortwodayswhenherhusbandwasoutoftown?Thesaffronstillinit,sotherewasthestainofgoldonherchest.
Howdidsheholdthisstoryaboutme,pariahtothegroupaftersomeseorotherwhereIhaddisgracedmyself,Bagnoldlaughing,herhusbandwhowasagoodmanwaboutme,andMadoxgettingupandwalkingtoawindowandlookingouttowardsthesouthseofthecity.Theversationperhapsmovedtohtings.Theyweremapmak-ers,afterall.
Butdidsheclimbdownintothewellwehelpeddigtogetherandholdherself,thewayIdesiredmyselftowardsherwithmyhand?
Weeaowhadourownlives,armedbythedeepesttreatywiththeother.
“Whatareyoudoing?”shesaidrunningihestreet.“’tyouseeyouaredrivingusallmad.”ToMadoxIhadsaidIwascawidow.Butshewasnotawidowyet.WhenMadoxreturoEnglandsheandIwerenolongerlivemygreetingstoyourCairowidow,”Madoxmurmured.“Would’velikedtohavemether.”Didheknow?Ialwaysfeltmoreofadeceiverwithhim,thisfriendIhadworkedwithfortenyears,thismanIlovedmorethananyotherman.Itwas,andwewereallleavingthistry,inanycase,tothewar.
AndMadoxreturhevillageofMarstonMagna,Somerset,wherehehadbeenborn,andamonthlatersatinthegregationofachurch,heardthesermoninhonourofulledouthisdesertrevolverandshothimself.
I,HerodotusofHaliassus,setforthmyhistory,thattimemaynotdrawthecolourfromwhatManhasbroughtintobeing,northosegreatandwonderfuldeedsmaedbybothGreeksandBarbarians...togetherwiththereasontheyfoughtoher.
Menhadalwaysbeentherecitersofpoetryinthedesert.AndMadox—totheGeographicalSociety—hadspokeifulatsofourtraversalsandcs.Bermaheoryintotheembers.AndI?Iwastheskillamohemeic.TheotherswroteouttheirloveofsolitudeaatedonwhattheyfouheywereneversureofwhatIthoughtofitall.“Doyoulikethatmoon?”Madoxaskedmeafterhe’dknowenyears.Heaskedittentatively,asifhehadbreachedanintimacy.ForthemIwasabittooingtobealoverofthedesert.MorelikeOdysseus.Still,Iwas.Showmeadesert,asyouwouldshowanothermanariver,oranothermaropolisofhischildhood.
Wheedforthelasttime,Madoxusedtheoldfarewell.
“MayGodmakesafetyyourpanion.”AndIstrodeawayfromhimsaying,“ThereisnoGod.”Wewereutterlyunlikeeachother.
MadoxsaidOdysseusneverwroteaword,anintimatebook.Perhapshefeltalieninthefalserhapsodyofart.Andmyownmonograph,Imustadmit,hadbeensternwithaccuracy.ThefearofdescribingherpresenceasIwrotecausedmetoburndownallse,allrhetoricoflove.Still,IdescribedthedesertaspurelyasIwouldhavespokenofher.Madoxaskedmeaboutthemoourlastdaystogetherbeforethewarbegaed.Heleftfland,theprobabilityoftheoningwarinterruptihing,ourslowuhingofhistoryinthedesert.Good-bye,Odysseus,hesaidgrinning,knowingIwashatfondofOdysseus,lessfondofAeneas,butwehaddecidedBagnoldwasAeneas.ButIwasnotthatfondofOdysseuseither.Good-bye,Isaid.
Irememberheturnedback,laughing.HepointedhisthigertothespotbyhisAdam’sappleandsaid,“Thisiscalledthevascularsizood.”Givingthathollowatherneoffiame.HereturohiswifeinthevillageofMarstonMagna,tookonlyhisfavouritevolumeofTolstoy,leftallofhispassesandmapstome.Ouraffeleftunspoken.
AndMarstonMagnai,whichhehadevokedfainandagaininourversations,hadtursgreenfieldsintoanaerodrome.TheplanesburheirexhaustoverArthuriancastles.WhatdrovehimtotheactIdonotknow.
Maybeitwasthepermanoiseofflight,soloudtohimnowafterthesimpledroheGypsyMoththathadputtedoveroursilenLibyaa.Someone’swarwasslashingaparthisdelicatetapestryofpanions.IwasOdysseus,Iuoodtheshiftingandtemporaryvetoesofwar.Buthewasamanwhomadefriendswithdifficulty.Hewasamanwhokwoorthreepeopleinhislife,andtheyhadturnowtobetheenemy.
Hewasialohhiswife,whohadus.Smallgestureswereenoughforhim.Onebulletehewar.
ItwasJuly
TheycaughtabusfromtheirvillageintoYeovil.Thebushadbeenslowandsotheyhadbeeheservice.Atthebackofthecrowdedchurordertofiheydecidedtositseparately.Whenthesermonbeganhalfanhourlater,itwasjingoistidwithoutanydoubtinitssupportofthewar.Thepriestintonedblithelyaboutbattle,blessingthegoverandthemenabouttoehewar.Madoxlistehesermongrewmoreimpassioned.Hepulledoutthedesertpistol,bentoverandshothimselfintheheart.Hewasdeadimmediately.Agreatsilence.Desertsilence.Planelesssileheyheardhisbodycollapseagainstthepew.Nothingelsemoved.Thepriestfrozeniure.Itwaslikethosesilenceswhenaglassfunnelroundadleinchurchsplitsandallfacesturn.Hiswifewalkeddowreaisle,stoppedathisrow,mutteredsomething,aherinbesidehim.Shekdown,herarmsenclosinghim.
HowdidOdysseusdie?Asuicide,wasn’tit?Iseemtorecallthat.Now.MaybethedesertspoiledMadox.Thattimewhenwehadnothingtodowiththeworld.IkeepthinkingoftheRussianbookhealwayscarried.Russiahasalwaysbeenclosertomytrythantohis.Yes,Madoxwasamanwhodiedbecauseofnations.
Ilovedhisessinallthings.Iwouldarguefuriouslyaboutlocationsonamap,andhisreportswouldsomehowspeakofour“debate”inreasoences.Hewrotecalmlyandjoyfullyaboutourjourneyswhentherewasjoytodescribe,asifwewereAnnaandVronskyatadaill,hewasamanwhoeredthoseCairodancehallswithme.AndIwasthemanwhofellinlovewhiledang.
Hemovedwithaslowgait.Ineversawhimdance.Hewasamanwhowrote,whointerpretedtheworld.Wisdomgrewoutofbeinghandedjustthesmallestsliverofemotion.Aglancecouldleadtraphsoftheory.Ifhewitnessedanewknotamotribeorfoundararepalm,itwouldcharmhimforweeks.Whenonmessagesonourtravels—anyw,poraryora,Arabiudwall,anoteinEnglishwritteninchalkonthefenderofajeep—hewouldreaditandthenpresshishanduponitasiftotouchitspossibledeepermeanings,tobeeasintimateashecouldwiththewords.
Heholdsouthisarm,thebruisedveinshorizontal,fagup,fortheraftofmorphine.AsitfloodshimhehearsCaravaggiodroptheneedleintothekidney-shapedein.Heseesthegrizzledformturnitsbaandthenreappear,alsocaught,acitizenofmorphiawithhim.
TherearedayswhenIehomefromaridwritingwhenallthatsavemeis“HoneysuckleRose”byDjangoRein-hardtandStephaneGrappellyperfwiththeHotClubofFrance.
Greatjazzyears.TheyearswhenitfloatedoutoftheHotelClaridgeontheChamps-ElyseesandintothebarsofLondon,southernFrance,Morocdthenslidi,wheretherumourofsuchrhythmswasintroduahushbyanunnamedCairodand.Whebatothedesert,Itookwithmetheeveningsofdangtotheof“Souvenirs”inthebars,thewomenpaglikegreyhounds,leaningagainstyouwhileyoumutteredintotheirshouldersduring“MySweet.”CourtesyoftheSocieteUltraphoneFranchiserecordpany.
Therewasthewhisperingofloveinabooth.Therewaswararoundtheer.
Duringthosefinalnightsinonthsaftertheaffairwasover,wehadfinallypersuadedMadoxintoazincbarforhisfarewell.Sheandherhusbahere.Onight.Odance.AlmasywasdrunkandattemptinganolddaephehadiedcalledtheBosphorushug,liftingKatharineCliftonintohiswiryarmsandtraversingtheflooruntilhefellwithheracrosssomeNile-groidistras.
Whoishespeakingasnow?Caravaggiothinks.
Almasywasdrunkandhisdangseemedtotheothersabrutalseriesofmovements.Inthosedaysheandshedidobegettingonwell.Heswungherfromsidetosideasifsheweresomeanonymousdoll,andsmotheredwithdrinkhisgriefatMadox’sleaving.Hewasloudatthetableswithus.WhenAlmasywaslikethisweusuallydispersed,butthiswasMadox’slastnightinCairoaayed.AbadEgyptianviolinistmimigStephaneGrappelly,andAlmasylikeaplaoftrol.“Tous—theplaarystrangers,”heliftedhisglass.Hewaodaheveryone,menandwomen.Heclappedhishandsandannounced,“NowfortheBosphorushug.You,Bernhardt?Hetherton?”Mostpulledback.HeturoClifton’syoungwife,atghiminacourtee,aforwardashebeedandthenslammedintoher,histhroatalreadyatherleftshoulderonthatnakedplateauabovethesequins.Amaniac’stangoeillohemlostthestep.Shewouldnotbackdownfrer,refusedtolethimwinbyherwalkingawayaurningtothetable.Juststaringhardathimwhenhepulledhisheadbaotsolemnbutwithanattagface.Hismouthmutteringatherwhehisfacedown,swearingthelyricsof“HoneysuckleRose,”perhaps.
InCairobetweeionsnooneeversawmuasy.Heseemedeitherdistantorrestless.HeworkedinthemuseumduringthedayandfrequeheSoutharketbarsatnight.Lostinanypt.ItwasonlyforMadoxtheyhadallehere.ButnowAlmasywasdangwithKatharineClifton.Thelineofplantsbrushedagainstherslimness.Hepivotedwithher,liftingherup,andthenfell.Cliftonstayedinhisseat,halfwatgthem.Almasylyingacrossherandthenslowlytryingtogetup,smoothingbackhisblondhair,kneelingoverherinthefareroftheroom.Hehadatoimebeenamanofdelicacy.
Itastmidnight.Thegueststherewerenotamused,exceptfortheeasilyamusedregulars,acedtotheseceremohedesertEuropean.Therewerewomenwithlongtributariesofsilverhangingofftheirears,womeninsequins,littlemetaldropletswarmfromthebar’sheatthatAlmasyihadalwaysbeenpartialtowards,womenwhointheirdangswungthejaggedearringsofsilveragainsthisfahtshedahthem,carryingtheirwholeframebythefulcrumofribcageashegotdrunker.Yes,theywereamused,laughingatAlmasy’sstomachashisshir松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
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