《The English Patient》第54章

nd　her　husband　were　there。　one　last　night。　one　last　dance。　almasy　was　drunk　and　attempting　an　old　dance　step　he　had　invented　called　the　bosphorus　hug；　lifting　katharine　clifton　into　his　wiry　arms　and　traversing　the　floor　until　he　fell　with　her　across　some　nile…grown　aspidistras。　
who　is　he　speaking　as　now？　caravaggio　thinks。　
almasy　was　drunk　and　his　dancing　seemed　to　the　others　a　brutal　series　of　movements。　in　those　days　he　and　she　did　not　seem　to　be　getting　on　well。　he　swung　her　from　side　to　side　as　if　she　were　some　anonymous　doll；　and　smothered　with　drink　his　grief　at　madox’s　leaving。　he　was　loud　at　the　tables　with　us。　when　almasy　was　like　this　we　usually　dispersed；　but　this　was　madox’s　last　night　in　cairo　and　we　stayed。　a　bad　egyptian　violinist　mimicking　stephane　grappelly；　and　almasy　like　a　planet　out　of　control。　“to　us—the　planetary　strangers；”　he　lifted　his　glass。　he　wanted　to　dance　with　everyone；　men　and　women。　he　clapped　his　hands　and　announced；　“now　for　the　bosphorus　hug。　you；　bernhardt？　hetherton？”　most　pulled　back。　he　turned　to　clifton’s　young　wife；　who　was　watching　him　in　a　courteous　rage；　and　she　went　forward　as　he　beckoned　and　then　slammed　into　her；　his　throat　already　at　her　left　shoulder　on　that　naked　plateau　above　the　sequins。　a　maniac’s　tango　ensued　till　one　of　them　lost　the　step。　she　would　not　back　down　from　her　anger；　refused　to　let　him　win　by　her　walking　away　and　returning　to　the　table。　just　staring　hard　at　him　when　he　pulled　his　head　back；　not　solemn　but　with　an　attacking　face。　his　mouth　muttering　at　her　when　hebent　his　face　down；　swearing　the　lyrics　of　“honeysuckle　rose；”　perhaps。　
in　cairo　between　expeditions　no　one　ever　saw　much　of　almasy。　he　seemed　either　distant　or　restless。　he　worked　in　the　museum　during　the　day　and　frequented　the　south　cairo　market　bars　at　night。　lost　in　another　egypt。　it　was　only　for　madox　they　had　all　e　here。　but　now　almasy　was　dancing　with　katharine　clifton。　the　line　of　plants　brushed　against　her　slimness。　he　pivoted　with　her；　lifting　her　up；　and　then　fell。　clifton　stayed　in　his　seat；　half　watching　them。　almasy　lying　across　her　and　then　slowly　trying　to　get　up；　smoothing　back　his　blond　hair；　kneeling　over　her　in　the　far　corner　of　the　room。　he　had　at　one　time　been　a　man　of　delicacy。　
it　was　past　midnight。　the　guests　there　were　not　amused；　except　for　the　easily　amused　regulars；　accustomed　to　these　ceremonies　of　the　desert　european。　there　were　women　with　long　tributaries　of　silver　hanging　off　their　ears；　women　in　sequins；　little　metal　droplets　warm　from　the　bar’s　heat　that　almasy　in　the　past　had　always　been　partial　towards；　women　who　in　their　dancing　swung　the　jagged　earrings　of　silver　against　his　face。　on　other　nights　he　danced　with　them；　carrying　their　whole　frame　by　the　fulcrum　of　rib　cage　as　he　got　drunker。　yes；　they　were　amused；　laughing　at　almasy’s　stomach　as　his　shirt　loosened；　not　charmed　by　his　weight；　which　leaned　on　their　shoulders　as　he　paused　during　the　dance；　collapsing　at　some　point　later　during　a　schottische　onto　the　floor。　
it　was　important　during　such　evenings　to　proceed　into　the　plot　of　the　evening；　while　the　human　constellations　whirled　and　skidded　around　you。　there　was　no　thought　or　forethought。　the　evening’s　field　notes　came　later；　in　the　desert；　in　the　landforms　between　dakhla　and　kufra。　then　he　would　remember　that　doglike　yelp　at　which　he　looked　around　for　a　dog　on　the　dance　floor　and　realized；　now　regarding　the　pass　disc　floating　on　oil；　that　it　may　have　been　a　woman　he　had　stepped　on。　within　sight　of　an　oasis　he　would　pride　himself　on　his　dancing；　waving　his　arms　and　his　wristwatch　up　to　the　sky。　
cold　nights　in　the　desert。　he　plucked　a　thread　from　the　horde　of　nights　and　put　it　into　his　mouth　like　food。　this　was　during　the　first　two　days　of　a　trek　out；　when　he　was　in　the　zone　of　limbo　between　city　and　plateau。　after　six　days　had　passed　he　would　never　think　about　cairo　or　the　music　or　the　streets　or　the　women；　by　then　he　was　moving　in　ancient　time；　had　adapted　into　the　breathing　patterns　of　deep　water。　his　only　connection　with　the　world　of　cities　was　herodotus；　his　guidebook；　ancient　and　modern；　of　supposed　lies。　when　he　discovered　the　truth　to　what　had　seemed　a　lie；　he　brought　out　his　glue　pot　and　pasted　in　a　map　or　news　clipping　or　used　a　blank　space　in　the　book　to　sketch　men　in　skirts　with　faded　unknown　animals　alongside　them。　
the　early　oasis　dwellers　had　not　usually　depicted　cattle；　though　herodotus　claimed　they　had。　they　worshipped　a　pregnant　goddess　and　their　rock　portraits　were　mostly　of　pregnant　women。　
within　two　weeks　even　the　idea　of　a　city　never　entered　his　mind。　it　was　as　if　he　had　walked　under　the　millimetre　of　haze　just　above　the　inked　fibres　of　a　map；　that　pure　zone　between　land　and　chart　between　distances　and　legend　between　nature　and　storyteller。　sandford　called　it　geomorphology。　the　place　they　had　chosen　to　e　to；　to　be　their　best　selves；　to　be　unconscious　of　ancestry。　here；　apart　from　the　sun　pass　and　the　odometer　mileage　and　the　book；　he　was　alone；　his　own　invention。　he　knew　during　these　times　how　the　mirage　worked；　the　fata　morgana；　for　he　was　within　it。　
he　awakens　to　discover　hana　washing　him。　there　is　a　bureau　at　waist　level。　she　leans　over；　her　hands　bringing　water　from　the　porcelain　basin　to　his　chest。　when　she　finishes　she　runs　her　wet　fingers　through　her　hair　a　few　times；　so　it　turns　damp　and　dark。　she　looks　up　and　sees　his　eyes　are　open；　and　smiles。　
when　he　opens　his　eyes　again；　madox　is　there；　looking　ragged；　weary；　carrying　the　morphinic　injection；　having　to　use　both　hands　because　there　are　no　thumbs。　how　does　he　give　it　to　himself？　he　thinks。　he　recognizes　the　eye；　the　habit　of　the　tongue　fluttering　at　the　lip；　the　clearness　of　the　man’s　brain　catching　all　he　says。　two　old　coots。　
caravaggio　watches　the　pink　in　the　man’s　mouth　as　he　talks。　the　gums　perhaps　the　light　iodine　colour　of　the　rock　paintings　discovered　in　uweinat。　there　is　more　to　discover；　to　divine　out　of　this　body　on　the　bed；　nonexistent　except　for　a　mouth；　a　vein　in　the　arm；　wolf…grey　eyes。　he　is　still　amazed　at　the　clarity　of　discipline　in　the　man；　who　speaks　sometimes　in　the　first　person；　sometimes　in　the　thi