《The English Patient》第60章

the　dog　cautiously　approached　the　table　and　laid　its　head　on　caravaggio’s　lap。　the　sapper　asked　for　other　stories　about　toronto　as　if　it　were　a　place　of　peculiar　wonders。　snow　that　drowned　the　city；　iced　up　the　harbour；　ferryboats　in　the　summer　where　people　listened　to　concerts。　but　what　he　was　really　interested　in　were　the　clues　to　hana’s　nature；　though　she　was　evasive；　veering　caravaggio　away　from　stories　that　involved　some　moment　of　her　life。　she　wanted　kip　to　know　her　only　in　the　present；　a　person　perhaps　more　flawed　or　more　passionate　or　harder　or　more　obsessed　than　the　girl　or　young　woman　shehad　been　then。　in　her　life　there　was　her　mother　alice　her　father　patrick　her　stepmother　clara　and　caravaggio。　she　had　already　admitted　these　names　to　kip　as　if　they　were　her　credentials；　her　dowry。　they　were　faultless　and　needed　no　discussion。　
she　used　them　like　authorities　in　a　book　she　could　refer　to　on　the　right　way　to　boil　an　egg；　or　the　correct　way　to　slip　garlic　into　a　lamb。　they　were　not　to　be　questioned。　
and　now—because　he　was　quite　drunk—caravaggio　told　the　story　of　hana’s　singing　the　“marseillaise；”　which　he　had　told　her　before。　“yes；　i　have　heard　the　song；”　said　kip；　and　he　attempted　a　version　of　it。　“no；　you　have　to　sing　it　out；”　said　hana；　“you　have　to　sing　it　standing　up！”　she　stood　up；　pulled　her　tennis　shoes　off　and　climbed　onto　the　table。　there　were　four　snail　lights　flickering；　almost　dying；　on　the　table　beside　her　bare　feet。　
“this　is　for　you。　this　is　how　you　must　learn　to　sing　it；　kip。　this　is　for　you。”　she　sang　up　into　darkness　beyond　their　snail　light；　beyond　the　square　of　light　from　the　english　patient’s　room　and　into　the　dark　sky　waving　with　shadows　of　cypress。　her　hands　came　out　of　their　pockets。　
kip　had　heard　the　song　in　the　camps；　sung　by　groups　of　men；　often　during　strange　moments；　such　as　before　an　impromptu　soccer　match。　and　caravaggio　when　he　had　heard　it　in　the　last　few　years　of　the　war　never　really　liked　it；　never　liked　to　listen　to　it。　in　his　heart　he　had　hana’s　version　from　many　years　before。　now　he　listened　with　a　pleasure　because　she　was　singing　again；　but　this　was　quickly　altered　by　the　way　she　sang。　not　the　passion　of　her　at　sixteen　but　echoing　the　tentative　circle　of　light　around　her　in　the　darkness。　she　was　singing　it　as　if　it　was　something　scarred；　as　if　one　couldn’t　ever　again　bring　all　the　hope　of　the　song　together。　it　had　been　altered　by　the　five　years　leading　to　this　night　of　her　twenty…first　birthday　in　the　forty…fifth　year　of　the　twentieth　century。　singing　in　the　voice　of　a　tired　traveller；　alone　against　everything。　a　new　testament。　there　was　no　certainty　to　the　song　anymore；　the　singer　could　only　be　one　voice　against　all　the　mountains　of　power。　that　was　the　only　sureness。　the　one　voice　was　the　single　unspoiled　thing。　a　song　of　snail　light。　caravaggio　realized　she　was　singing　with　and　echoing　the　heart　of　the　sapper。　
in　the　tent　there　have　been　nights　of　no　talk　and　nights　full　of　talk。　they　are　never　sure　what　will　occur；　whose　fraction　of　past　will　emerge；　or　whether　touch　will　be　anonymous　and　silent　in　their　darkness。　the　intimacy　of　her　body　or　the　body　of　her　language　in　his　ear—as　they　lie　upon　the　air　pillow　he　insists　on　blowing　up　and　using　each　night。　he　has　been　charmed　by　this　western　invention。　he　dutifully　releases　the　air　and　folds　it　into　three　each　morning；　as　he　has　done　all　the　way　up　the　landmass　of　italy。　
in　the　tent　kip　nestles　against　her　neck。　he　dissolves　to　her　scratching　fingernails　across　his　skin。　or　he　has　his　mouth　against　her　mouth；　his　stomach　against　her　wrist。　
she　sings　and　hums。　she　thinks　him；　in　this　tent’s　darkness；　to　be　half　bird—a　quality　of　feather　within　him；　the　cold　iron　at　his　wrist。　he　moves　sleepily　whenever　he　is　in　such　darkness　with　her；　not　quite　quick　as　the　world；　whereas　in　daylight　he　glides　through　all　that　is　random　around　him；　the　way　colour　glides　against　colour。　
but　at　night　he　embraces　torpor。　she　cannot　see　his　order　and　discipline　without　seeing　his　eyes。　there　isn’t　a　key　to　him。　
everywhere　she　touches　braille　doorways。　as　if　organs；　the　heart；　the　rows　of　rib；　can　be　seen　under　the　skin；　saliva　across　her　hand　now　a　colour。　he　has　mapped　her　sadness　more　than　any　other。　just　as　she　knows　the　strange　path　of　love　he　has　for　his　dangerous　brother。　“to　be　a　wanderer　is　in　our　blood。　that　is　why　jailing　is　most　difficult　for　his　nature　and　he　would　kill　himself　to　get　free。”　during　the　verbal　nights；　they　travel　his　country　of　five　rivers。　the　sutlej；　jhelum；　ravi；　chenab；　beas。　he　guides　her　into　the　great　gurdwara；　removing　her　shoes；　watching　as　she　washes　her　feet；　covers　her　head。　what　they　enter　was　built　in　；　desecrated　in and　built　again　immediately。　in gold　and　marble　were　applied。　“if　i　took　you　before　morning　you　would　see　first　of　all　the　mist　over　the　water。　then　it　lifts　to　reveal　the　temple　in　light。　you　will　already　be　hearing　the　hymns　of　the　saints—ramananda；　nanak　and　kabir。　singing　is　at　the　centre　of　worship。　you　hear　the　song；　you　smell　the　fruit　from　the　temple　gardens—pomegranates；　oranges。　the　temple　is　a　haven　in　the　flux　of　life；　accessible　to　all。　it　is　the　ship　that　crossed　the　ocean　of　ignorance。”　they　move　through　the　night；　they　move　through　the　silver　door　to　the　shrine　where　the　holy　book　lies　under　a　canopy　of　brocades。　the　ragis　sing　the　book’s　verses　acpanied　by　musicians。　they　sing　from　four　in　the　morning　till　eleven　at　night。　
the　granth　sahib　is　opened　at　random；　a　quotation　selected；　and　for　three　hours；　before　the　mist　lifts　off　the　lake　to　reveal　the　golden　temple；　the　verses　mingle　and　sway　out　with　unbroken　reading。　
kip　walks　her　beside　a　pool　to　the　tree　shrine　where　baba　gujhaji；　the　first　priest　of　the　temple；　is　buried。　a　tree　of　superstitions；　four　hundred　and　fifty　years　old。　“my　mother　came　here　to　tie　a　string　onto　a　branch　and　beseeched　the　tree　for　a　son；　and　when　my　brother　was　born　returned　and　asked　to　be　blessed　with　another。　there　are　sacred　trees　and　magic　water　all　over　the　punjab。”　hana　is　quiet。　he　knows　the　depth　of　darkness　in　her；　her　lack　of　a　child　and　of　faith。　he　is　always　coax