X August

  CARAVAGGIOCAMEDOWairsthroughdarknessandintothekit.Someceleryoable,someturnipswhoserootswerestillmuddy.TheonlylightcamefromafireHanahadretlystarted.Shehadherbaandhadnotheardhisstepsintotheroom.Hisdaysatthevillahadloosenedhisbodyandfreedhistenseness,soheseemedbigger,moresprawledoutinhisgestures.Onlyhissilenovementremaiherwisetherewasaneasyineffinow,asleepiohisgestures.

  Hedraggedoutthechairsoshewouldturn,realizehewasintheroom.

  “Hello,David.”Heraisedhisarm.Hefeltthathehadbeesfortoolong.

  “Howishe?”“Asleep.Talkedhimselfout.”“Ishewhatyouthoughthewas?”“He’sfine.Welethimbe.”“Ithoughtso.KipandIarebothsureheisEnglish.Kipthinksthebestpeopleareetrics,heworkedwithone.”“IthinkKipistheetricmyself.Whereishe,anyway?”“He’splottingsomethingoerrace,doesn’twahere.Somethingformybirthday.”Hanastoodupfromhercrouchatthegrate,wipingherhandontheoppositeforearm.

  “ForyourbirthdayI’mgoingtotellyouasmallstory,”hesaid.

  Shelookedathim.

  “NotaboutPatrick,okay?”“AlittleaboutPatrick,mostlyaboutyou.”“Istill’tlistentothosestories,David.”“Fathersdie.Youkeeponlovingtheminanywayyou.You’thidehimawayinyourheart.”“Talktomewhenthemorphiawearsoff.”Shecameuptohimandputherarmsaroundhim,reachedupandkissedhischeek.Hisembracetightenedaroundher,hisstubblelikesandagainstherskin.Shelovedthatabouthimnow;ihehadalwaysbeeiculous.ThepartinginhishairlikeYoreetatmidnight,Patrickhadsaid.Caravaggiohadimovedlikeagodinherpresenow,withhisfadhistrunkfilledoutandthisgreynessinhim,hewasafriendlierhuman.

  Tonightdinnerwasbeingpreparedbythesapper.Caravaggiowasnotlookingforwardtoit.Onemealinthreewasalossasfarashewased.Kipfouablesaedthembarelycooked,justbrieflyboiledintoasoup.Itwastobeanotherpuristmeal,notwhatCaravaggiowishedforafteradaysuchasthiswhenhehadbeenlisteningtothemanupstairs.Heopehecupboardbehesink.There,edindampcloth,wassomedriedmeat,whichCaravaggiodputintohispocket.

  “Igetyouoffthemorphine,youknow.I’magoodnurse.”“You’resurroundedbymadmen...”“Yes,Ithinkweareallmad.”WhenKipcalledthem,theywalkedoutofthekitandontotheterrace,whoseborder,withitslowstonebalustrade,wasrihlight.

  Itlookedtgiolikeastringofsmallelectridlesfoundindustychurches,ahoughtthesapperhadgooofarinremovingthemfromachapel,evenforHana’sbirthday.Hanawalkedslowlyforwardwithherhandsoverherface.

  Therewasnowind.Herlegsandthighsmovedthroughtheskirtofherfrockasifitwerethinwater.Hertennisshoessilentoone.

  “IkeptfindingdeadshellswhereverIwasdigging,”thesappersaid.

  Theystilldidn’tuand.Caravaggiobeheflutteroflights.Theyweresnailshellsfilledwithoil.Helookedalongtherowofthem;theremusthavebeenaboutforty.

  “Forty-five,”Kipsaid,“theyearssofarofthistury.WhereIefrom,wecelebratetheageaswellasourselves.”Hanamovedalongsidethem,herhandsinherpocketsnow,thelovedtoseeherwalk.Sorelaxed,asifshehadputherarmsawayforthenight,nowinsimplearmlessmovement.

  Caravaggiowasdivertedbythestartlingpresehreebottlesofredwihetable.Hewalkedoverahelabelsandshookhishead,amazed.Hekhesapperwouldn’tdrinkanyofit.Allthreehadalreadybeenopened.Kipmusthavepickedhiswaythroughsomeetiquettebookinthelibrary.Theheaaatoes.HanaslidherarmintoKip’sandcamewithhimtothetable.

  Theyateanddrank,theuedthiessofthewinelikemeatooheyweresosillyioaststothesapper—”thegreatfer”—andtotheEnglishpatient.Theytoastedeachother,Kipjoininginwithhisbeakerofwater.Thiswaswheotalkabouthimself.Caravaggiopressinghimon,notalwayslistening,sometimesstandingupandwalkingarouable,pagandpagwithpleasureatallthis.Hewahesetwomarried,looforcethemverballytowardsit,buttheyseemedtohavetheirownstrangerulesabouttheirrelationship.Whatwashedoinginthisrole.Hesatdownagain.Nowandtheicedthedeathofalight.Thesnailshellsheldonlysomuchoil.Kipwouldriseandrefillthemwithpinkparaffin.

  “Wemustkeepthemlittillmidnight.”Theytalkedthenaboutthewar,sofaraway.“WhenthewarwithJapanisover,everyonewillfinallygohome,”Kipsaid.

  “Andwherewillyougo?”Caravaggioasked.Thesapperrolledhishead,halfnodding,halfshakingit,hismouthsmiling.Sgiobegantotalk,mostlytoKip.

  Thedogcautiouslyapproachedthetableandlaiditsheadgio’slap.ThesapperaskedforotherstoriesaboutTorontoasifitlaceofpeculiarwonders.Snowthatdrowhecity,iceduptheharbour,ferryboatsinthesummerwherepeoplelisteocerts.ButwhathewasreallyiedihecluestoHana’snature,thoughshewasevasive,veeringCaravaggioawayfromstoriesthatinvolvedsomemomentofherlife.ShewantedKiptoknowheronlyinthepresent,apersonperhapsmoreflawedormorepassionateorharderormoreobsessedthanthegirloryoungwomanshehadbeenthen.InherlifetherewashermotherAliceherfatherPatrickherstepmotherClaraandCaravaggio.ShehadalreadyadmittedtheseoKipasiftheywerehercredentials,herdowry.Theywerefaultlessandneedednodiscussion.

  Sheusedthemlikeauthoritiesinabookshecouldrefertoontherightwaytoboilanegg,orthecorrectwaytoslipgarlib.Theywerenottobequestioned.

  Andnow—becausehewasquitedrunk—CaravaggiotoldthestoryofHana’ssingingthe“Marseillaise,”whichhehadtoldherbefore.“Yes,Ihaveheardthesong,”saidKip,aemptedaversionofit.“No,youhavetosingitout,”saidHana,“youhavetosingitstandingup!”Shestoodup,pulledhertennisshoesoffandclimbedontothetable.Therewerefoursnaillightsflickering,almostdying,oablebesideherbarefeet.

  “Thisisforyou.Thisishowyoumustlearntosingit,Kip.Thisisforyou.”Shesangupintodarknessbeyondtheirsnaillight,beyondthesquareoflightfromtheEnglishpatient’sroomandintothedarkskywavingwithshadowsofcypress.Herhandscameoutoftheirpockets.

  Kiphadheardthesonginthecamps,sungbygroupsofmen,oftenduringstrangemoments,suchasbeforeanimpromptusoccermatdCaravaggiowhenhehadhearditifewyearsofthewarneverreallylikedit,neverlikedtolistentoit.InhishearthehadHana’sversionfrommanyyearsbefore.ehapleasurebecauseshewassingingagain,butthiswasquicklyalteredbythewayshesang.Notthepassiosixteenbutegthetentativecircleoflightarouhedarkness.Shewassingingitasifitwassomethingscarred,asifonecouldn’teveragainbringallthehopeofthesongtogether.Ithadbeenalteredbythefiveyearsleadingtothisnightofhertwenty-firstbirthdayiy-fifthyearofthetwehtury.Singinginthevoiceofatiredtraveller,aloneagainsteverything.Aament.Therewasaintytothesonganymore,thesingercouldonlybeonevoiceagainstallthemountainsofpower.Thatwastheonlysureheonevoicewasthesingleunspoiledthing.Asongofsnaillight.Caravaggiorealizedshewassingingwithandegtheheartofthesapper.

  Itherehavebeennightsofnotalkandnightsfulloftalk.Theyareneversurewhatwilloccur,whosefraofpastwillemerge,orwhethertouchwillbeanonymousandsilentintheirdarkheintimacyofherbodyorthebodyuageinhisear—astheylieupontheairpillowheinsistsonblowingupandusingeaight.HehasbeencharmedbythisWesterioifullyreleasestheairandfoldsitintothreeeachm,ashehasdohethelandmassofItaly.

  IKiplesagainstherneck.Hedissolvestoherscratgfingernailsacrosshisskin.Orhehashismouthagainsthermouth,hisstomachagainstherwrist.

  Shesingsandhums.Shethinkshim,inthistent’sdarkobehalfbird—aqualityoffeatherwithinhim,thecoldironathiswrist.Hemovessleepilywheneverheisinsuchdarknesswithher,notquitequickastheworld,whereasindaylightheglidesthroughallthatisrandomaroundhim,thewayclidesagainstcolour.

  Butatnightheembracestorpor.Sheotseehisorderanddisciplihoutseeinghiseyes.Thereisn’takeytohim.

  Everywhereshetouchesbrailledoorways.Asifans,theheart,therowsofrib,beseeheskin,salivaacrossherhandnowacolour.Hehasmappedhersadnessmorethananyother.Justassheknowsthestrahoflovehehasforhisdangerousbrother.“Tobeawandererisinourblood.Thatiswhyjailingismostdifficultforhisnatureandhewouldkillhimselftogetfree.”Duringtheverbalnights,theytravelhistryoffiverivers.TheSutlej,Jhelum,Ravi,ab,Beas.Heguidesherintothegreatgurdwara,removinghershoes,watgasshewashesherfeet,coversherhead.Whattheyenterwasbuiltin,desecratedinandbuiltagaiely.Ingoldandmarblelied.“IfItookyoubeforemyouwouldseefirstofallthemistoverthewater.Thenitliftstorevealthetempleinlight.Youwillalreadybehearingthehymnsofthesaints—Ramananda,NanakandKabir.Singingisatthetreofworship.Youhearthesong,yousmellthefruitfromthetemplegardens—pomegranates,es.Thetempleisahaveninthefluxoflife,accessibletoall.Itistheshipthatcrossedtheoofignoraheymovethroughthenight,theymovethroughthesilverdoortotheshriheHolyBookliesunderaopyofbrocades.TheragissingtheBook’sversesapaniedbymusis.Theysingfromfourinthemtillelevenatnight.

  TheGranthSahibisoperandom,aquotatioed,andforthreehours,beforethemistliftsoffthelaketorevealtheGoldenTemple,theversesmingleandswayoutwithunbrokenreading.

  KipwalksherbesideapooltothetreeshrinewhereBabaGujhaji,thefirstpriestofthetemple,isburied.Atreeofsuperstitions,fourhundredandfiftyyearsold.“Mymothercameheretotieastringontoabrandbeseechedthetreeforason,andwhenmybrotherwasborurnedandaskedtobeblessedwithaherearesacredtreesandmagicwateralloverthePunjab.”Hanaisquiet.Heknowsthedepthofdarknessinher,herlackofachildandoffaith.Heisalwayscoaxingherfromtheedgeofherfieldsofsadness.Achildlost.Afatherlost.

  “Ihavelostsomeonelikeafatheraswell,”hehassaid.Butsheknowsthismanbesideherisohecharmed,whohasgrownupanoutsiderandsoswitchallegiances,replaceloss.Therearethosedestroyedbyunfairnessandthosewhoarenot.Ifsheaskshimhewillsayhehashadagoodlife—hisbrotherinjail,hisradesblownup,andheriskinghimselfdailyinthiswar.

  Inspiteofthekindnessesinsuchpeopletheywereaterribleunfairness.Hecouldbealldayinaclaypitdismantlingabombthatmightkillhimatanymoment,couldehomefromtheburialofafelloer,hisenergysaddened,butwhateverthetrialsaroundhimtherewasalwayssolutionandlight.Butshesawnone.Forhimtherewerethevariousmapsoffate,andatAmritsar’stempleallfaithsandclasseswereweleaogether.Sheherselfwouldbeallowedtoplaeyoraflowerontothesheetspreaduponthefloorandthenjoininthegreatpermasinging.

  Shewishedforthat.Herinwardnesswasasadnessofnature.Hehimselfwouldallowhertoenteranyofhisthirteengatesofcharacter,butshekhatifhewereindangerhewouldurntofaceher.Hewouldcreateaspacearoundhimselfandtrate.Thiswashiscraft.Sikhs,hesaid,werebrilliantatteology.“Wehaveamysticalcloseness...whatisit?”“Affinity.”“Yes,affinity,withmaes.”Hewouldbelostamongthemforhours,thebeatofmusicwithinthecrystalsetwhagawayathisforeheadandintohishair.Shedidnotbelieveshecouldturnfullytohimandbehislover.Hemovedataspeedthatallowedhimtoreplaceloss.

  Thatwashisnature.Shewouldnotjudgeitinhim.Whatrightdidshehave.KipsteppingouteachmwithhissatchelhangingoffhisleftshoulderandwalkihawayfromtheVillaSanGirolamo.Eachmshewatchedhim,seeinghisfreshowardstheworldperhapsforthelasttime.Afterafewminuteshewouldlookupintotheshraporncypresses,whosemiddlebrancheshadbeenshelledalinymusthavewalkeddoathlikethis,orStendahl,becausepassagesinTheCharterhouseofParmahadoccurredinthispartoftheworldtoo.

  Kipwouldlookup,thearchofthehighwoureesoverhim,thepathinfrontofhimmediaeval,andheayoungmanofthestraprofessionhisturyhadied,asapper,amilitaryengineerwhodetectedanddisarmedmines.Eachmheemergedfromthetent,bathedanddressedinthegarden,andsteppedawayfromthevillaanditssurroundings,noteveeringthehouse—maybeawaveifhesawher—asiflanguage,humanity,wouldfusehim,get,likeblood,intothemaehehadtouand.Shewouldseehimfortyyardsfromthehouse,inaclearingofthepath.

  Itwasthemomethemallbehind.Themomentthedrawbridgeclosedbehindtheknightandhewasalohjustthepeacefulnessofhisownstricttalent.Iherewasthatmuralshehadseen.Afrescoofacity.Afewyardsoutsidethecitywallstheartist’spainthadcrumbledaway,sotherewashesecurityofarttoprovideanorchardinthefaracresforthetravellerleavile.Thatwaswhere,shefelt,Kipwentduringtheday.Eachmhewouldstepfromthepaintedsetowardsdarkbluffsofchaos.Theknight.Thewarriorsaint.Shewouldseethekhakiuniformflickeringthroughthecypresses.TheEnglishmanhadcalledhimfatus—fate’sfugitive.Sheguessedthatthesedaysbeganforhimwiththepleasureofliftinghiseyesuptothetrees.

  TheyhadflownthesappersintohebeginningofOctober,selegthebestfromtheengineeringcorpsthatwerealreadyinsouthernItaly,Kipamohirtymenwhowerebroughtintothebooby-trappedcity.

  TheGermansialiancampaignhadchraphedohemostbrilliantandterribleretreatsinhistory.TheadvaheAllies,whichshouldhavetakenamonth,tookayear.Therewasfireintheirpath.Sappersrodethemudguardsoftrucksasthearmiesmovedforward,theireyesseargforfreshsoildisturbahatsignalledlandmineslassminesorshoemiheadvanceimpossiblyslow.Farthernorthinthemountains,partisanbandsofGaribaldiunistgroups,whoworeidentifyingredhandkerchiefs,werealsexplosivesovertheroadswhichdetonatedwhenGermantruckspassedoverthem.

  ThescaleofthelayingofminesinItalyandinNorthAfrinotbeimagitheKismaayo-Afmaduroadjunineswerefound.TherewereattheOmoRiverBridgearea.OnJune,,SouthAfrisapperslaid,MarkminesinMersaMatruhinoneday.FourmonthslatertheBritishclearedMersaMatruhof,minesandplacedthemelsewhere.

  Minesweremadeoutofeverything.Forty-timetregalvanizedpipeswerefilledwithexplosivesaalongmilitarypaths.Minesinwoodenboxeswereleftinhomes.Pipemineswerefilledwithgeligalscrapsandnails.SouthAfrisapperspackedironandgeligallorolsthatcouldtheroyarmouredcars.

  Itwasworstiies.Bombdisposalunits,barelytrained,wereshippedoutfromCairoandAlexandria.TheEighteenthDivisionbecamefamous.DuringthreeweeksinOctober,theydismantled,high-explosivebombs.

  ItalywasworsethanAfrica,theclockworkfuzesnightmar-ishlyetric,thespring-activatedmeismsdifferentfromtheGermahatunitshadbeentrainedin.Assapperseiestheywalkedalongavenueswherecorpseswerestrungfromtreesorthebaliesofbuildings.TheGermansoftealiatedbykillialiansforeveryGermankilled.Someofthehangingcorpseswereminedandhadtobeblownupinmidair.

  TheGermansevacuatedNaplesonOctoberi,

  DuringanAlliedraidthepreviousSeptember,hundredsofcitizenshadwalkedawayandbegunlivinginthecavesoutsidethecity.TheGermansintheirretreatbombedtheentrahecaves,fthecitizenstostayunderground.Atyphusepidemicbrokeout.Intheharbourscuttledshipswerefreshlymineduer.

  Thethirtysapperswalkedintoacityofboobytraps.Thereweredelayed-abssealedintothewallsofpublicbuildings.Nearlyeveryvehiclewasrigged.Thesappersbecamepermalysuspiciousofanyobjectplacedcasuallyinaroom.Theydistrustedeverythingtheysawonatableulacedfag“fouro’clock.”Yearsaftertheerputtingapenonatablewouldpositionitwiththethickerendfagfouro’clock.

  NaplestinuedasawarzoneforsixweeksandKipwastherewiththeunitforthewholeperiod.Aftertwoweekstheydiscoveredthecitizensinthecaves.Theirskindarkwithshitandtyphus.Theprocessionofthembatothecityhospitalswasoneofghosts.

  Fourdayslaterthetralpostofficeblewup,ay-twowerekilledorwouherichestcolleediaevalrecordsinEuropehadalreadyburhecityarchives.

  OwehofOctober,threedaysbeforeelectricitywastoberestored,aGermanturnedhimselfioldauthoritiesthattherewerethousandsofbombshiddenintheharbourseofthecitythatwerewiredtothedormaricalsystem.

  Whenpowerwasturnedoywoulddissolveinflames.Hewasinterrogatedmorethaimes,indifferingstagesoftadvioleheendofwhichtheauthoritieswerestilluainabouthisfession.Thistimeaireareaofthecitywasevacuated.Childrenandtheold,thosealmostdead,thnant,thosewhohadbeenbroughtoutofthecaves,animals,valuablejeeps,woundedsoldiersoutofthehospitals,mentalpatients,priestsandmonksandnunsoutoftheabbeys.

  ByduskontheeveningofOctober,,onlytwelvesappersremainedbehind.

  Theelectricitywastobeturnedonatthreep.m.theday.hesappershadeverbeeniycitybefore,andtheseweretobethestraandmostdisturbinghoursoftheirlives.

  DuringtheeveningsthuormsrolloverTusy.Lightningdropstowardsaalorspirethatrisesupoutofthelandscape.Kipalwaysreturnstothevillaalongtheyellowpathbetweenthecypressesaroundsevenintheevening,whichiswhehunder,ifthereisgoingtobethunder,begins.Themediaevalexperience.

  Heseemstolikesuchtemporalhabits.Shegiowillseehisfigureiance,pausinginhiswalkhometolookbacktowardsthevalleytoseehowfarawaytherainisfromhim.HanaandCaravaggioreturntothehouse.Kiptinueshishalf-mileuphillwalkohthatcurlsslowlythtandthenslowlytotheleft.Thereisthenoiseofhisbootsonthegravel.Thewindreacheshiminbursts,hittingthecypressesbroadsidesotheytilt,enteringthesleevesofhisshirt.

  Fortheenminuteshewalks,neversureiftherainwillovertakehim.Hewillheartherainbeforehefeelsit,acligonthedrygrass,ontheoliveleaves.Butfornowheisinthegreatrefreshingwindofthehill,inthefroundofthestorm.

  Iftherainreacheshimbefetstothevilla,hetinueswalkingatthesamepaapstherubbercapeoverhishaversadwalksonwithinit.

  Inhistenthehearsthepurethunder.Sharpcracksofitoverhead,acoach-wheelsoundasitdisappearsintothemountains.Asuddensunlightoflightningthroughthetentwall,always,itseemstohim,brighterthansunlight,aflashoftainedphosphorus,somethingmaelike,todowiththenewwordhehasheardiheoryroomsandthroughhiscrystalset,whichis“nuclear.”Iheunwindsthewetturban,drieshishairandweavesanotheraroundhishead.

  ThestormrollsoutofPiedmonttothesouthandtotheeast.LightningfallsupoeeplesofthesmallalpinechapelswhosetableauxreenacttheStationsoftheCrossortheMysteriesoftheRosary.InthesmalltownsofVareseandVaraller-than-lifeterra-cottafigurescarvedintheioosarerevealedbriefly,depigbiblicalses.TheboundarmsofthescedChristpulledback,thewhipingdown,thebayingdog,threesoldiersichapeltableauraisingthecrucifixhighertowardsthepaintedclouds.

  TheVillaSanGirolamo,locatedwhereitis,alsoreceivessuentsoflight—thedarkhalls,theroomtheEnglishmanliesiwhereHanaislayingafire,theshelledchapel—alllitsuddenly,withoutshadow.Kipithnoqualmsuhetreesinhispatchofgardenduringsus,thedangersofbeingkilledbylightningpatheticallyminimalparedwiththedangerofhisdailylife.Theholicimagesfromthosehillsideshrihathehasseehhiminthehalf-darkness,ashetsthesedsbetweenlightningandthunder.Perhapsthisvillaisasimilartableau,thefouroftheminprivatemovement,momentarilylitup,flungironicallyagainstthiswar.

  ThetwelvesapperswhoremainedbehindinNaplesfaintothecity.Allthroughthenighttheyhavebrokenintosealedtunnels,desdedintosewers,lookingforfuzelihatmightbelihthetralgeors.Theyaretodriveawayattwop.m.,anhourbeforetheelectricityistobeturnedon.

  Acityoftwelve.Easeparatepartsofthetowhegeor,ohereservoir,stilldiving—theauthoritiesmostcertairuwillbecausedbyflooding.Howtomiy.Itisunnervingmostlybecauseofthesilence.Alltheyhearofthehumanworldarebarkingdogsandbirdsongsthatefromapartmentwindowsabovethestreets.Wheimees,hewillgointooheroomswithabird.Somehumanthinginthisvacuum.HepassestheMuseoArcheologiazionale,wheretheremnantsofPompeiiandHereumarehoused.Hehasseentheadogfrozeninwhiteash.

  Thescarletsapperlightstrappedtohisleftarmisturnedonashewalks,theonlysourceoflightoradaCarbonara.Heisexhaustedfromthenightseardnowthereseemslittletodo.Eachofthemhasaradiophoitistobeusedonlyforanemergencydiscovery.Itistheterriblesileheemptycourtyardsandthedryfountainsthatmakeshimmosttired.

  Atonep.m.hetraceshiswaytowardsthedamagedChurchofSanGiovanniaCarbonara,whereheknowsthereisachapeloftheRosary.Hehadbeenwalkingthroughthechurchafeweveningsearlierwhenlightningfilledthedarkness,andhehadseenlargehumanfiguresiableau.Anangelandawomaninabedroom.Darknessreplacedthebriefseainapewwaiting,buttherewastobenomorerevelation.

  Heehaterofthechurow,withtheterracottafigurespaihecolourofwhitehumans.Thesedepictsabedroomwhereawomanisinversationwithahewoman’scurlybrownhairrevealsitselfuheloosebluecape,thefingersofherlefthandtougherbreastbone.Wheepsforwardintotheroomherealizeseverythingislargerthanlife.Hisownheadisnohigherthantheshoulderofthewoman.Theangel’sraisedarmreachesfifteei.Still,forKip,theyarepany.Itisaninhabitedroom,andhewalkswithinthediscussionofthesecreaturesthatrepresentsomefableaboutmankindandheaven.

  Heslipshissatchelfromhisshoulderandfacesthebed.Hewantstolieonit,hesitatingonlybecauseofthepreseheangel.Hehasalreadywalkedarouherealbodyandnoticedthedustylightbulbsattachedtoitsbaeaththedarkcolouredwings,andheknowsinspiteofhisdesirethathecouldnotsleepeasilyinthepresenceofsuchathing.Therearethreepairsofstageslippers,asetdesigner’ssubtlety,peekingoutfromuhebed.Itisaboutone-forty.

  Hespreadshiscapeonthefloor,flattechelintoapillowandliesdownoone.MostofhischildhoodinLahorehesleptonamatonthefloorofhisbedroom.AndintruthhehastenacedtothebedsoftheWest.Apalletandanairpillowareallheusesinhistent,whereasinEnglaayingwithLordSuffolkhesankclaustro-phobicallyintothedoughofamattress,andlaytherecaptiveandawakeuntilhecrawledouttosleeponthecarpet.

  Hestretchesoutbesidethebed.Theshoestoo,henotices,arelargerthahefeetofAmazoniansslipintothem.Abovehisheadthetentativerightarmofthewoman.Beyondhisfeettheangel.Soohesapperswillturnoy’selectricity,andifheisgoingtoexplodehewilldosointhepanyofthesetwo.Theywilldieorbesecure.Thereisnothingmorehedo,anyway.Hehasbeenupallnightonafinalsearchforcachesofdynamiteandtimecartridges.Wallswillcrumblearoundhimorhewillwalkthroughacityoflight.Atleasthehasfoundtheseparentalfigures.Herelaxinthemidstofthismimeofversation.

  Hehashishandsunderhishead,interpretioughnessinthefaceoftheangelhedidn’tnoticebefore.Thewhitefloweritholdshasfooledhim.Theaooisawarrior.Inthemidstofthisseriesofthoughtshiseyescloseandhegivesintotiredness.

  Heissprawledoutwithasmileonhisface,asifrelievedfinallytobesleeping,theluxuriousnessofsuchathing.Thepalmofhislefthandfacedownonthecrete.Thecolourofhisturbanechoesthatofthelacecollarattheneary.

  AtherfeetthesmallIndiansapper,inuniform,besidethesixslippers.Thereseemstobenotimehere.Eachofthemhasselectedthemostfortableofpositionstettime.Sowewillberememberedbyothers.Insuchsmilingfortwherustoursurroundings.Thetableaunow,withKipatthefeetofthetwofigures,suggestsadebateoverhisfate.Theraisedterra-cottaarmastayofexecution,apromiseofsomegreatfutureforthissleeper,childlike,fn-borhreeofthemalmostatthepointofdecision,agreement.

  Uhethinlayerofdusttheangel’sfacehasapowerfuljoy.Attachedtoitsbackarethesixlightbulbs,twoofwhicharedefunct.Butinspiteofthatthewonderofelectricitysuddenlylightsitswingsfromunderh,sothattheirblood-redandblueandgoldhecolourofmustardfieldsshineanimatedieafternoon.

  WhereverHanaisnow,iure,sheisawareofthelineofmovementKip’sbodyfollowedoutofherlife.Hermisit.Thepathheslammedthroughamongthem.Wheuroastoneofsileheirmidst.SherecallseverythingofthatAugustday—whattheskywaslike,theobjethetableinfrontoingdarkuhethunder.

  Sheseeshiminthefield,hishandsclaspedoverhishead,thenrealizesthisisagesturenotofpainbutofhisohol松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读

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