《The English Patient》第53章

e　never　sure　of　what　i　thought　of　it　all。　“do　you　like　that　moon？”　madox　asked　me　after　he’d　known　me　for　ten　years。　he　asked　it　tentatively；　as　if　he　had　breached　an　intimacy。　for　them　i　was　a　bit　too　cunning　to　be　a　lover　of　the　desert。　more　like　odysseus。　still；　i　was。　show　me　a　desert；　as　you　would　show　another　man　a　river；　or　another　man　the　metropolis　of　his　childhood。　
when　we　parted　for　the　last　time；　madox　used　the　old　farewell。　
“may　god　make　safety　your　panion。”　and　i　strode　away　from　him　saying；　“there　is　no　god。”　we　were　utterly　unlike　each　other。　
madoaid　odysseus　never　wrote　a　word；　an　intimate　book。　perhaps　he　felt　alien　in　the　false　rhapsody　of　art。　and　my　own　monograph；　i　must　admit；　had　been　stern　with　accuracy。　the　fear　of　describing　her　presence　as　i　wrote　caused　me　to　burn　down　all　sentiment；　all　rhetoric　of　love。　still；　i　described　the　desert　as　purely　as　i　would　have　spoken　of　her。　madox　asked　meabout　the　moon　during　our　last　days　together　before　the　war　began。　we　parted。　he　left　for　england；　the　probability　of　the　oning　war　interrupting　everything；　our　slow　unearthing　of　history　in　the　desert。　good…bye；　odysseus；　he　said　grinning；　knowing　i　was　never　that　fond　of　odysseus；　less　fond　of　aeneas；　but　we　had　decided　bagnold　was　aeneas。　but　i　was　not　that　fond　of　odysseus　either。　good…bye；　i　said。　
i　remember　he　turned　back；　laughing。　he　pointed　his　thick　finger　to　the　spot　by　his　adam’s　apple　and　said；　“this　is　called　the　vascular　sizood。”　giving　that　hollow　at　her　neck　an　official　name。　he　returned　to　his　wife　in　the　village　of　marston　magna；　took　only　his　favourite　volume　of　tolstoy；　left　all　of　his　passes　and　maps　to　me。　our　affection　left　unspoken。　
and　marston　magna　in　somerset；　which　he　had　evoked　for　me　again　and　again　in　our　conversations；　had　turned　its　green　fields　into　an　aerodrome。　the　planes　burned　their　exhaust　over　arthurian　castles。　what　drove　him　to　the　act　i　do　not　know。　
maybe　it　was　the　permanent　noise　of　flight；　so　loud　to　him　now　after　the　simple　drone　of　the　gypsy　moth　that　had　putted　over　our　silences　in　libya　and　egypt。　someone’s　war　was　slashing　apart　his　delicate　tapestry　of　panions。　i　was　odysseus；　i　understood　the　shifting　and　temporary　vetoes　of　war。　but　he　was　a　man　who　made　friends　with　difficulty。　he　was　a　man　who　knew　two　or　three　people　in　his　life；　and　they　had　turned　out　now　to　be　the　enemy。　
he　was　in　somerset　alone　with　his　wife；　who　had　never　met　us。　small　gestures　were　enough　for　him。　one　bullet　ended　the　war。　
it　was　july
they　caught　a　bus　from　their　village　into　yeovil。　the　bus　had　been　slow　and　so　they　had　been　late　for　the　service。　at　the　back　of　the　crowded　church；　in　order　to　find　seats　they　decided　to　sit　separately。　when　the　sermon　began　half　an　hour　later；　it　was　jingoistic　and　without　any　doubt　in　its　support　of　the　war。　the　priest　intoned　blithely　about　battle；　blessing　the　government　and　the　men　about　to　enter　the　war。　madox　listened　as　the　sermon　grew　more　impassioned。　he　pulled　out　the　desert　pistol；　bent　over　and　shot　himself　in　the　heart。　he　was　dead　immediately。　a　great　silence。　desert　silence。　planeless　silence。　they　heard　his　body　collapse　against　the　pew。　nothing　else　moved。　the　priest　frozen　in　a　gesture。　it　was　like　those　silences　when　a　glass　funnel　round　a　candle　in　church　splits　and　all　faces　turn。　his　wife　walked　down　the　centre　aisle；　stopped　at　his　row；　muttered　something；　and　they　let　her　in　beside　him。　she　knelt　down；　her　arms　enclosing　him。　
how　did　odysseus　die？　a　suicide；　wasn’t　it？　i　seem　to　recall　that。　now。　maybe　the　desert　spoiled　madox。　that　time　when　we　had　nothing　to　do　with　the　world。　i　keep　thinking　of　the　russian　book　he　always　carried。　russia　has　always　been　closer　to　my　country　than　to　his。　yes；　madox　was　a　man　who　died　because　of　nations。　
i　loved　his　calmness　in　all　things。　i　would　argue　furiously　about　locations　on　a　map；　and　his　reports　would　somehow　speak　of　our　“debate”　in　reasonable　sentences。　he　wrote　calmly　and　joyfully　about　our　journeys　when　there　was　joy　to　describe；　as　if　we　were　anna　and　vronsky　at　a　dance。　still；　he　was　a　man　who　never　entered　those　cairo　dance　halls　with　me。　and　i　was　the　man　who　fell　in　love　while　dancing。　
he　moved　with　a　slow　gait。　i　never　saw　him　dance。　he　was　a　man　who　wrote；　who　interpreted　the　world。　wisdom　grew　out　of　being　handed　just　the　smallest　sliver　of　emotion。　a　glance　could　lead　to　paragraphs　of　theory。　if　he　witnessed　a　new　knot　among　a　desert　tribe　or　found　a　rare　palm；　it　would　charm　him　for　weeks。　when　we　came　upon　messages　on　our　travels—any　wording；　contemporary　or　ancient；　arabic　on　a　mud　wall；　a　note　in　english　written　in　chalk　on　the　fender　of　a　jeep—he　would　read　it　and　then　press　his　hand　upon　it　as　if　to　touch　its　possible　deeper　meanings；　to　bee　as　intimate　as　he　could　with　the　words。　
he　holds　out　his　arm；　the　bruised　veins　horizontal；　facing　up；　for　the　raft　of　morphine。　as　it　floods　him　he　hears　caravaggio　drop　the　needle　into　the　kidney…shaped　enamel　tin。　he　sees　the　grizzled　form　turn　its　back　to　him　and　then　reappear；　also　caught；　a　citizen　of　morphia　with　him。　
there　are　days　when　i　e　home　from　arid　writing　when　all　that　can　save　me　is　“honeysuckle　rose”　by　django　rein…hardt　and　stephane　grappelly　performing　with　the　hot　club　of　france。
great　jazz　years。　the　years　when　it　floated　out　of　the　hotel　claridge　on　the　champs…elysees　and　into　the　bars　of　london；　southern　france；　morocco；　and　then　slid　into　egypt；　where　the　rumour　of　such　rhythms　was　introduced　in　a　hush　by　an　unnamed　cairo　dance　band。　when　i　went　back　into　the　desert；　i　took　with　me　the　evenings　of　dancing　to　the of　“souvenirs”　in　the　bars；　the　women　pacing　like　greyhounds；　leaning　against　you　while　you　muttered　into　their　shoulders　during　“my　sweet。”　courtesy　of　the　societe　ultraphone　franchise　record　pany。
there　was　the　whispering　of　love　in　a　booth。　there　was　war　around　the　corner。　
during　those　final　nights　in　cairo；　months　after　the　affair　was　over；　we　had　finally　persuaded　madox　into　a　zinc　bar　for　his　farewell。　she　and　her　husband　were　there。　one　last　night。　one　last　dance。　almasy　was　drunk　and　attempting　an　old　da