《The English Patient》第59章

into　as　if　trees；　fears　we　have　hidden　in　as　if　caves。　i　wish　for　all　this　to　be　marked　on　my　body　when　i　am　dead。　i　believe　in　such　cartography—　to　be　marked　by　nature；　not　just　to　label　ourselves　on　a　map　like　the　names　of　rich　men　and　women　on　buildings。　we　are　munal　histories；　munal　books。　we　are　not　owned　or　monogamous　in　our　taste　or　experience。　all　i　desired　was　to　walk　upon　such　an　earth　that　had　no　maps。　
i　carried　katharine　clifton　into　the　desert；　where　there　is　the　munal　book　of　moonlight。　we　were　among　the　rumour　of　wells。　in　the　palace　of　winds。　
almasy’s　face　fell　to　the　left；　staring　at　nothing—caravag…gio’s　knees　perhaps。　
“do　you　want　some　morphine　now？”　“no。”　“can　i　get　you　something？”　“nothing。”
。。！
X　August
＜小＞说？网
caravaggio　came　down　the　stairs　through　darkness　and　into　the　kitchen。　some　celery　on　the　table；　some　turnips　whose　roots　were　still　muddy。　the　only　light　came　from　a　fire　hana　had　recently　started。　she　had　her　back　to　him　and　had　not　heardhis　steps　into　the　room。　his　days　at　the　villa　had　loosened　his　body　and　freed　his　tenseness；　so　he　seemed　bigger；　more　sprawled　out　in　his　gestures。　only　his　silence　of　movement　remained。　otherwise　there　was　an　easy　inefficiency　to　him　now；　a　sleepiness　to　his　gestures。　
he　dragged　out　the　chair　so　she　would　turn；　realize　he　was　in　the　room。　
“hello；　david。”　he　raised　his　arm。　he　felt　that　he　had　been　in　deserts　for　too　long。　
“how　is　he？”　“asleep。　talked　himself　out。”　“is　he　what　you　thought　he　was？”　“he’s　fine。　we　can　let　him　be。”　“i　thought　so。　kip　and　i　are　both　sure　he　is　english。　kip　thinks　the　best　people　are　eccentrics；　he　worked　with　one。”　“i　think　kip　is　the　eccentric　myself。　where　is　he；　anyway？”　“he’s　plotting　something　on　the　terrace；　doesn’t　want　me　out　there。　something　for　my　birthday。”　hana　stood　up　from　her　crouch　at　the　grate；　wiping　her　hand　on　the　opposite　forearm。　
“for　your　birthday　i’m　going　to　tell　you　a　small　story；”　he　said。　
she　looked　at　him。　
“not　about　patrick；　okay？”　“a　little　about　patrick；　mostly　about　you。”　“i　still　can’t　listen　to　those　stories；　david。”　“fathers　die。　you　keep　on　loving　them　in　any　way　you　can。　you　can’t　hide　him　away　in　your　heart。”　“talk　to　me　when　the　morphia　wears　off。”　she　came　up　to　him　and　put　her　arms　around　him；　reached　up　and　kissed　his　cheek。　his　embrace　tightened　around　her；　his　stubble　like　sand　against　her　skin。　she　loved　that　about　him　now；　in　the　past　he　had　always　been　meticulous。　the　parting　in　his　hair　like　yonge　street　at　midnight；　patrick　had　said。　caravaggio　had　in　the　past　moved　like　a　god　in　her　presence。　now；　with　his　face　and　his　trunk　filled　out　and　this　greyness　in　him；　he　was　a　friendlier　human。　
tonight　dinner　was　being　prepared　by　the　sapper。　caravaggio　was　not　looking　forward　to　it。　one　meal　in　three　was　a　loss　as　far　as　he　was　concerned。　kip　found　vegetables　and　presented　them　barely　cooked；　just　briefly　boiled　into　a　soup。　it　was　to　be　another　purist　meal；　not　what　caravaggio　wished　for　after　a　day　such　as　this　when　he　had　been　listening　to　the　man　upstairs。　he　opened　the　cupboard　beneath　the　sink。　there；　wrapped　in　damp　cloth；　was　some　dried　meat；　which　caravaggio　cut　and　put　into　his　pocket。　
“i　can　get　you　off　the　morphine；　you　know。　i’m　a　good　nurse。”　“you’re　surrounded　by　madmen。。。”　“yes；　i　think　we　are　all　mad。”　when　kip　called　them；　they　walked　out　of　the　kitchen　and　onto　the　terrace；　whose　border；　with　its　low　stone　balustrade；　was　ringed　with　light。　
it　looked　to　caravaggio　like　a　string　of　small　electric　candles　found　in　dusty　churches；　and　he　thought　the　sapper　had　gone　too　far　in　removing　them　from　a　chapel；　even　for　hana’s　birthday。　hana　walked　slowly　forward　with　her　hands　over　her　face。　
there　was　no　wind。　her　legs　and　thighs　moved　through　the　skirt　of　her　frock　as　if　it　were　thin　water。　her　tennis　shoes　silent　on　the　stone。　
“i　kept　finding　dead　shells　wherever　i　was　digging；”　the　sapper　said。　
they　still　didn’t　understand。　caravaggio　bent　over　the　flutter　of　lights。　they　were　snail　shells　filled　with　oil。　he　looked　along　the　row　of　them；　there　must　have　been　about　forty。　
“forty…five；”　kip　said；　“the　years　so　far　of　this　century。　where　i　e　from；　we　celebrate　the　age　as　well　as　ourselves。”　hana　moved　alongside　them；　her　hands　in　her　pockets　now；　the　way　kip　loved　to　see　her　walk。　so　relaxed；　as　if　she　had　put　her　arms　away　for　the　night；　now　in　simple　armless　movement。　
caravaggio　was　diverted　by　the　startling　presence　of　three　bottles　of　red　wine　on　the　table。　he　walked　over　and　read　the　labels　and　shook　his　head；　amazed。　he　knew　the　sapper　wouldn’t　drink　any　of　it。　all　three　had　already　been　opened。　kip　must　have　picked　his　way　through　some　etiquette　book　in　the　library。　then　he　saw　the　corn　and　the　meat　and　the　potatoes。　hana　slid　her　arm　into　kip’s　and　came　with　him　to　the　table。　
they　ate　and　drank；　the　unexpected　thickness　of　the　wine　like　meat　on　their　tongues。　they　were　soon　turning　silly　in　their　toasts　to　the　sapper—”the　great　forager”—and　to　the　english　patient。　they　toasted　each　other；　kip　joining　in　with　his　beaker　of　water。　this　was　when　he　began　to　talk　about　himself。　caravaggio　pressing　him　on；　not　always　listening；　sometimes　standing　up　and　walking　around　the　table；　pacing　and　pacing　with　pleasure　at　all　this。　he　wanted　these　two　married；　longed　to　force　them　verbally　towards　it；　but　they　seemed　to　have　their　own　strange　rules　about　their　relationship。　what　was　he　doing　in　this　role。　he　sat　down　again。　now　and　then　he　noticed　the　death　of　a　light。　the　snail　shells　held　only　so　much　oil。　kip　would　rise　and　refill　them　with　pink　paraffin。　
“we　must　keep　them　lit　till　midnight。”　they　talked　then　about　the　war；　so　far　away。　“when　the　war　with　japan　is　over；　everyone　will　finally　go　home；”　kip　said。　
“and　where　will　you　go？”　caravaggio　asked。　the　sapper　rolled　his　head；　half　nodding；　half　shaking　it；　his　mouth　smiling。　so　caravaggio　began　to　talk；　mostly　to　kip。　
the　dog　cautiously　approached　the　table　and　laid　its　head　on　caravaggio’s　lap。　the　sapper　asked　for　other　stories　about　toronto　as