《The English Patient》第55章

the　clarity　of　discipline　in　the　man；　who　speaks　sometimes　in　the　first　person；　sometimes　in　the　third　person；　who　still　does　not　admit　that　he　is　almasy。　
“who　was　talking；　back　then？”　“　‘death　means　you　are　in　the　third　person。　
all　day　they　have　shared　the　ampoules　of　morphine。　to　unthread　the　story　out　of　him；　caravaggio　travels　within　the　code　of　signals。　when　the　burned　man　slows　down；　or　when　caravaggio　feels　he　is　not　catching　everything—the　love　affair；　the　death　of　madox—he　picks　up　the　syringe　from　the　kidney…shaped　enamel　tin；　breaks　the　glass　tip　off　an　ampoule　with　the　pressure　of　a　knuckle　and　loads　it。　he　is　blunt　about　all　this　now　with　hana；　having　ripped　the　sleeve　off　his　left　arm　pletely。　almasy　wears　just　a　grey　singlet；　so　his　black　arm　lies　bare　under　the　sheet。　
each　swallow　of　morphine　by　the　body　opens　a　further　door；　or　he　leaps　back　to　the　cave　paintings　or　to　a　buried　plane　or　lingers　once　more　with　the　woman　beside　him　under　a　fan；　her　cheek　against　his　stomach。　
caravaggio　picks　up　the　herodotus。　he　turns　a　page；　es　over　a　dune　to　discover　the　gilf　kebir；　uweinat；　gebel　kissu。　
when　almasy　speaks　he　stays　alongside　him　reordering　the　events。　only　desire　makes　the　story　errant；　flickering　like　a　pass　needle。　and　this　is　the　world　of　nomads　in　any　case；　an　apocryphal　story。　a　mind　travelling　east　and　west　in　the　disguise　of　sandstorm。　
on　the　floor　of　the　cave　of　swimmers；　after　her　husband　had　crashed　their　plane；　he　had　cut　open　and　stretched　out　the　parachute　she　had　been　carrying。　she　lowered　herself　onto　it；　grimacing　with　the　pain　of　her　injuries。　he　placed　his　fingers　gently　into　her　hair；　searching　for　other　wounds；　then　touched　her　shoulders　and　her　feet。　
now　in　the　cave　it　was　her　beauty　he　did　not　want　to　lose；　the　grace　of　her；　these　limbs。　he　knew　he　already　had　her　nature　tight　in　his　fist。　
she　was　a　woman　who　translated　her　face　when　she　put　on　makeup。　entering　a　party；　climbing　into　a　bed；　she　had　painted　on　blood　lipstick；　a　smear　of　vermilion　over　each　eye。　
he　looked　up　to　the　one　cave　painting　and　stole　the　colours　from　it。　the　ochre　went　into　her　face；　he　daubed　blue　around　her　eyes。　he　walked　across　the　cave；　his　hands　thick　with　red；　and　bed　his　fingers　through　her　hair。　then　all　of　her　skin；　so　her　knee　that　had　poked　out　of　the　plane　that　first　day　was　saffron。　the　pubis。　hoops　of　colour　around　her　legs　so　she　would　be　immune　to　the　human。　there　were　traditions　he　had　discovered　in　herodotus　in　which　old　warriors　celebrated　their　loved　ones　by　locating　and　holding　them　in　whatever　world　made　them　eternal—a　colourful　fluid；　a　song；　a　rock　drawing。　
it　was　already　cold　in　the　cave。　he　wrapped　the　parachute　around　her　for　warmth。　he　lit　one　small　fire　and　burned　the　acacia　twigs　and　waved　smoke　into　all　the　corners　of　the　cave。　he　found　he　could　not　speak　directly　to　her；　so　he　spoke　formally；　his　voice　against　the　bounce　of　the　cave　walls。　i’m　going　for　help　now；　katharine。　do　you　understand？　there　is　another　plane　nearby；　but　there　is　no　petrol。　i　might　meet　a　caravan　or　a　jeep；　which　means　i　will　be　back　sooner。　i　don’t　know。　he　pulled　out　the　copy　of　herodotus　and　placed　it　beside　her。　it　was　september
he　walked　out　of　the　cave；　out　of　the　flare　of　firelight；　down　through　darkness　and　into　the　desert　full　of　moon。　
he　climbed　down　the　boulders　to　the　base　of　the　plateau　and　stood　there。　
no　truck。　no　plane。　no　pass。　only　moon　and　his　shadow。　he　found　the　old　stone　marker　from　the　past　that　located　the　direction　of　el　taj；　north…northwest。　he　memorized　the　angle　of　his　shadow　and　started　walking。　seventy　miles　away　was　the　souk　with　the　street　of　clocks。　water　in　a　skin　bag　he　had　filled　from　the　ain　hung　from　his　shoulder　and　sloshed　like　a　placenta。　
there　were　two　periods　of　time　when　he　could　not　move。　at　noon；　when　the　shadow　was　under　him；　and　at　twilight；　between　sunset　and　the　appearance　of　the　stars。　then　everything　on　the　disc　of　the　desert　was　the　same。　if　he　moved；　he　might　err　as　much　as　ninety　degrees　off　his　course。　he　waited　for　the　live　chart　of　stars；　then　moved　forward　reading　them　every　hour。　in　the　past；　when　they　had　had　desert　guides；　they　would　hang　a　lantern　from　a　long　pole　and　the　rest　of　them　would　follow　the　bounce　of　light　above　the　star　reader。　
a　man　walks　as　fast　as　a　camel。　two　and　a　half　miles　an　hour。　if　lucky；　he　would　e　upon　ostrich　eggs。　if　unlucky；　a　sandstorm　would　erase　everything。　he　walked　for　three　days　without　any　food。　he　refused　to　think　about　her。　if　he　got　to　el　taj　he　would　eat　abra；　which　the　goran　tribes　made　out　of　colocynth；　boiling　the　pips　to　get　rid　of　bitterness　and　then　crushing　it　along　with　dates　and　locusts。　he　would　walk　through　the　street　of　clocks　and　alabaster。　may　god　make　safety　your　panion；　madox　had　said。　good…bye。　a　wave。　there　is　god　only　in　the　desert；　he　wanted　to　acknowledge　that　now。　outside　of　this　there　was　just　trade　and　power；　money　and　war。　financial　and　military　despots　shaped　the　world。　
he　was　in　broken　country；　had　moved　from　sand　to　rock。　he　refused　to　think　about　her。　then　hills　emerged　like　mediaeval　castles。　he　walked　till　he　stepped　with　his　shadow　into　the　shadow　of　a　mountain。　mimosa　shrubs。　colocynths。　he　yelled　out　her　name　into　the　rocks。　for　echo　is　the　soul　of　the　voice　exciting　itself　in　hollow　places。　
then　there　was　el　taj。　he　had　imagined　the　street　of　mirrors　for　most　of　his　journey。　when　he　got　to　the　outskirts　of　the　settlements；　english　military　jeeps　surrounded　him　and　took　him　away；　not　listening　to　his　story　of　the　woman　injured　at　uweinat；　just　seventy　miles　away；　listening　in　fact　to　nothing　he　said。　
“are　you　telling　me　the　english　did　not　believe　you？　no　one　listened　to　you？”　“no　one　listened。”　“why？”　“i　didn’t　give　them　a　right　name。”　“yours？”　“i　gave　them　mine。”　“then　what—”　“hers。　her　name。　the　name　of　her　husband。”　“what　did　you　say？”　he　says　nothing。　
“wake　up！　what　did　you　say？”　“i　said　she　was　my　wife。　i　said　katharine。　her　husband　was　dead。　i　said　she　was　badly　injured；　in　a　cave　in　the　gilf　kebir；　at　uweinat；　north　of　the　ain　dua　well。　she　needed　water。　she　needed