《The English Patient》第51章

reading　it　to　him。　perhaps　there　was　no　ulterior　motive　in　the　selection　except　for　themselves。　it　was　simply　a　story　that　had　jarred　her　in　its　familiarity　of　situation。　
but　a　path　suddenly　revealed　itself　in　real　life。　even　though　she　had　not　conceived　it　as　a　first　errant　step　in　any　way。　i　am　sure。　
“i　will　place　you　in　the　room　where　we　sleep；　behind　the　open　door；　and　after　i　have　gone　in；　my　wife　will　also　e　to　lie　down。　now　there　is　a　seat　near　the　entrance　of　the　room　and　on　this　she　lays　her　garments　as　she　takes　them　off　one　by　one；　and　so　you　will　be　able　to　gaze　at　her　at　full　leisure。” but　gyges　is　witnessed　by　the　queen　when　he　leaves　the　bedchamber。　she　understands　then　what　has　been　done　by　her　husband；　and　though　ashamed；　she　raises　no　outcry。。。　she　holds　her　peace。　
it　is　a　strange　story。　is　it　not；　caravaggio？　the　vanity　of　a　man　to　the　point　where　he　wishes　to　be　envied。　or　he　wishes　to　be　believed；　for　he　thinks　he　is　not　believed。　this　was　in　no　way　a　portrait　of　clifton；　but　he　became　a　part　of　this　story。　there　is　something　very　shocking　but　human　in　the　husband’s　act。　something　makes　us　believe　it。　
the　next　day　the　wife　calls　in　gyges　and　gives　him　two　choices。　
“there　are　now　two　ways　open　to　you；　and　i　will　give　you　the　choice　which　of　the　two　you　will　prefer　to　take。　either　youmust　slay　candaules　and　possess　both　me　and　the　kingdom　of　lydia；　or　you　must　yourself　here　on　the　spot　be　slain；　so　that　you　mayest　not　in　future；　by　obeying　candaules　in　all　things；　see　that　which　you　should　not。　either　he　must　die　who　formed　this　design；　or　you　who　have　looked　upon　me　naked。” so　the　king　is　killed。　a　new　age　begins。　there　are　poems　written　about　gyges　in　iambic　trimeters。　he　was　the　first　of　the　barbarians　to　dedicate　objects　at　delphi。　he　reigned　as　king　of　lydia　for　twenty…eight　years；　but　we　still　remember　him　as　only　a　cog　in　an　unusual　love　story。　
she　stopped　reading　and　looked　up。　out　of　the　quicksand。　she　was　evolving。　so　power　changed　hands。　meanwhile；　with　the　help　of　an　anecdote；　i　fell　in　love。　
words；　caravaggio。　they　have　a　power。　
when　the　cliftons　were　not　with　us　they　were　based　in　cairo。　clifton　doing　other　work　for　the　english；　god　knows　what；　an　uncle　in　some　government　office。　all　this　was　before　the　war。　but　at　that　time　the　city　had　every　nation　swimming　in　it；　meeting　at　groppi’s　for　the　soiree　concerts；　dancing　into　the　night。　they　were　a　popular　young　couple　with　honour　between　them；　and　i　was　on　the　periphery　of　cairo　society。　they　lived　well。　a　ceremonial　life　that　i　would　slip　into　now　and　then。　
dinners；　garden　parties。　events　i　would　not　normally　have　been　interested　in　but　now　went　to　because　she　was　there。　i　am　a　man　who　fasts　until　i　see　what　i　want。　
how　do　i　explain　her　to　you？　with　the　use　of　my　hands？　the　way　i　can　arc　out　in　the　air　the　shape　of　a　mesa　or　rock？　she　had　been　part　of　the　expedition　for　almost　a　year。　i　saw　her；　conversed　with　her。　we　had　each　been　continually　in　the　presence　of　the　other。　later；　when　we　were　aware　of　mutual　desire；　these　previous　moments　flooded　back　into　the　heart；　now　suggestive；　that　nervous　grip　of　an　arm　on　a　cliff；　looks　that　had　been　missed　or　misinterpreted。　
i　was　at　that　time　seldom　in　cairo；　there　about　one　month　in　three。　i　worked　in　the　department　of　egyptology　on　my　own　book；　recentes　explorations　dans　le　desert　libyque；　as　the　days　progressed；　ing　closer　and　closer　to　the　text　as　if　the　desert　were　there　somewhere　on　the　page；　so　i　could　even　smell　the　ink　as　it　emerged　from　the　fountain　pen。　and　simul…taneously　struggled　with　her　nearby　presence；　more　obsessed　if　truth　be　known　with　her　possible　mouth；　the　tautness　behind　the　knee；　the　white　plain　of　stomach；　as　i　wrote　my　brief　book；　seventy　pages　long；　succinct　and　to　the　point；　plete　with　maps　of　travel。　i　was　unable　to　remove　her　body　from　the　page。　i　wished　to　dedicate　the　monograph　to　her；　to　her　voice；　to　her　body　that　i　imagined　rose　white　out　of　a　bed　like　a　long　bow；　but　it　was　a　book　i　dedicated　to　a　king。　believing　such　an　obsession　would　be　mocked；　patronized　by　her　polite　and　embarrassed　shake　of　the　head。　
i　began　to　be　doubly　formal　in　her　pany。　a　characteristic　of　my　nature。　as　if　awkward　about　a　previously　revealed　na…kedness。　it　is　a　european　habit。　it　was　natural　for　me—having　translated　her　strangely　into　my　text　of　the　desert—now　to　step　into　metal　clothing　in　her　presence。　
the　wild　poem　is　a　substitute　for　the　woman　one　loves　or　ought　to　love；　one　wild　rhapsody　a　fake　for　another。　
on　hassanein　bey’s　lawn—the　grand　old　man　of　the expedition—she　walked　over　with　the　government　aide　roun…dell　and　shook　my　hand；　asked　him　to　get　her　a　drink；　turned　back　to　me　and　said；　“i　want　you　to　ravish　me。”　roundell　returned。　it　was　as　if　she　had　handed　me　a　knife。　within　a　month　i　was　her　lover。　in　that　room　over　the　souk；　north　of　the　street　of　parrots。　
i　sank　to　my　knees　in　the　mosaic…tiled　hall；　my　face　in　the　curtain　of　her　gown；　the　salt　taste　of　these　fingers　in　her　mouth。　
we　were　a　strange　statue；　the　two　of　us；　before　we　began　to　unlock　our　hunger。　her　fingers　scratching　against　the　sand　in　my　thinning　hair。　cairo　and　all　her　deserts　around　us。　
was　it　desire　for　her　youth；　for　her　thin　adept　boyishness？　her　gardens　were　the　gardens　i　spoke　of　when　i　spoke　to　you　of　gardens。　
there　was　that　small　indentation　at　her　throat　we　called　the　bosphorus。　i　would　dive　from　her　shoulder　into　the　bos…phorus。　
rest　my　eye　there。　i　would　kneel　while　she　looked　down　on　me　quizzical　as　if　i　were　a　planetary　stranger。　she　of　the　quizzical　look。　her　cool　hand　suddenly　against　my　neck　on　a　cairo　bus。　taking　a　closed　taxi　and　our　quick…hand　love　between　the　khedive　ismail　bridge　and　the　tipperary　club。　or　the　sun　through　her　fingernails　on　the　third…floor　lobby　at　the　museum　when　her　hand　covered　my　face。　
as　far　as　we　were　concerned　there　was　only　one　person　to　avoid　being　seen　by。　
but　geoffrey　clifton　was　a　man　embedded　in　the　english　machine。　he　had　a　family　genealogy　going　back　to　canute。　the　machine　would　not　necessarily　have　revealed　to　clifton；　married　only　eighteen　months；　his　wife