《The English Patient》第65章

n　the　radio。　a　terrible　event　emerging　out　of　the　shortwave。　a　new　war。　the　death　of　a　civilisation。　
still　night。　he　can　hear　nighthawks；　their　faint　cries；　the　muted　thud　of　wings　as　they　turn。　the　cypress　trees　rise　over　his　tent；　still　on　this　windless　night。　he　lies　back　and　stares　into　the　dark　corner　of　the　tent。　when　he　closes　his　eyes　he　sees　fire；　people　leaping　into　rivers　into　reservoirs　to　avoid　flame　or　heat　that　within　seconds　burns　everything；　whatever　they　hold；　their　own　skin　and　hair；　even　the　water　they　leap　into。　the　brilliant　bomb　carried　over　the　sea　in　a　plane；　passing　the　moon　in　the　east；　towards　the　green　archipelago。　and　released。　
he　has　not　eaten　food　or　drunk　water；　is　unable　to　swallow　anything。　before　light　failed　he　stripped　the　tent　of　all　military　objects；　all　bomb　disposal　equipment；　stripped　all　insignia　off　his　uniform。　before　lying　down　he　undid　the　turban　and　bed　his　hair　out　and　then　tied　it　up　into　a　topknot　and　lay　back；　saw　the　light　on　the　skin　of　the　tent　slowly　disperse；　his　eyes　holding　onto　the　last　blue　of　light；　hearing　the　drop　of　wind　into　windlessness　and　then　hearing　the　swerve　of　the　hawks　as　their　wings　thudded。　and　all　the　delicate　noises　of　the　air。　
he　feels　all　the　winds　of　the　world　have　been　sucked　into　asia。　he　steps　away　from　the　many　small　bombs　of　his　career　towards　a　bomb　the　size；　it　seems；　of　a　city；　so　vast　it　lets　the　living　witness　the　death　of　the　population　around　them。　he　knows　nothing　about　the　weapon。　whether　it　was　a　sudden　assault　of　metal　and　explosion　or　if　boiling　air　scoured　itself　towards　and　through　anything　human。　all　he　knows　is；　he　feels　he　can　no　longer　let　anything　approach　him；　cannot　eat　the　food　or　even　drink　from　a　puddle　on　a　stone　bench　on　the　terrace。　he　does　not　feel　he　can　draw　a　mateh　out　of　his　bag　and　fire　the　lamp；　for　he　believes　the　lamp　will　ignite　everything。　in　the　tent；　before　the　light　evaporated；　he　had　brought　out　the　photograph　of　his　family　and　gazed　at　it。　his　name　is　kirpal　singh　and　he　does　not　know　what　he　is　doing　here。　
he　stands　now　under　the　trees　in　the　august　heat；　untur…banned；　wearing　only　a　kurta。　he　carries　nothing　in　his　hands；　just　walks　alongside　the　outline；of　hedges；　his　bare　feet　on　the　grass　or　on　terrace　stone　or　in　the　ash　of　an　old　bonfire。　his　body　alive　in　its　sleeplessness；　standing　on　the　edge　of　a　great　valley　of　europe。　
in　the　early　morning　she　sees　him　standing　beside　the　tent。　during　the　evening　she　had　watched　for　some　light　among　the　trees。　each　of　them　in　the　villa　had　eaten　alone　that　night；　the　englishman　eating　nothing。　now　she　sees　the　sapper’s　arm　sweep　out　and　the　canvas　walls　collapse　on　themselves　like　a　sail。　he　turns　and　es　towards　the　house；　climbs　the　steps　onto　the　terrace　and　disappears。　
in　the　chapel　he　moves　past　the　burned　pews　towards　the　apse；　where　under　a　tarpaulin　weighted　down　with　branches　is　the　motorbike。　he　begins　dragging　the　covering　off　the　machine。　he　crouches　down　by　the　bike　and　begins　nuzzling　oil　into　the　sprockets　and　cogs。　
when　hana　es　into　the　roofless　chapel　he　is　sitting　there　leaning　his　back　and　head　against　the　wheel。　
kip。　
he　says　nothing；　looking　through　her。　
kip；　it’s　me。　what　did　we　have　to　do　with　it？
he　is　a　stone　in　front　of　her。　
she　kneels　down　to　his　level　and　leans　forward　into　him；　the　side　of　her　head　against　his　chest；　holding　herself　like　that。　
a　beating　heart。　
when　his　stillness　doesn’t　alter　she　rolls　back　onto　her　knees。　
the　englishman　once　read　me　something；　from　a　book：　“love　is　so　small　it　can　tear　itself　through　the　eye　of　a　needle。”　he　leans　to　his　side　away　from　her；　his　face　stopping　a　few　inches　from　a　rain　puddle。　
a　boy　and　a　girl。　
while　the　sapper　unearthed　the　motorcycle　from　under　the　tarpaulin；　caravaggio　leaned　forward　on　the　parapet；　his　chin　against　his　forearm。　then　he　felt　he　couldn’t　bear　the　mood　of　the　house　and　walked　away。　he　wasn’t　there　when　the　sapper　gunned　the　motorbike　to　life　and　sat　on　it　while　it　half　bucked；　alive　under　him；　and　hana　stood　nearby。　
singh　touched　her　arm　and　let　the　machine　roll　away；　down　the　slope；　and　only　then　revved　it　to　life。　
halfway　down　the　path　to　the　gate；　caravaggio　was　waiting　for　him；　carrying　the　gun。　he　didn’t　even　lift　it　formally　towards　the　motorbike　when　the　boy　slowed　down；　as　caravaggio　walked　into　his　path。　caravaggio　came　up　to　him　and　put　his　arms　around　him。　a　great　hug。　the　sapper　felt　the　stubble　against　his　skin　for　the　first　time。　he　felt　drawn　in；　gathered　into　the　muscles。　“i　shall　have　to　learn　how　to　miss　you；”　caravaggio　said。　then　the　boy　pulled　away　and　caravaggio　walked　back　to　the　house。　
the　machine　broke　into　life　around　him。　the　smoke　of　the　triumph　and　dust　and　fine　gravel　fell　away　through　the　trees。　the　bike　leapt　the　cattle　grid　at　the　gates；　and　then　he　was　weaving　down　out　of　the　village；　passing　the　smell　of　gardens　on　either　side　of　him　that　were　tacked　onto　the　slopes　in　their　treacherous　angle。　
his　body　slipped　into　a　position　of　habit；　his　chest　parallel　with；　almost　touching；　the　petrol　tank；　his　arms　horizontal　in　the　shape　of　least　resistance。　he　went　south；　avoiding　florence　pletely。　through　greve；　across　to　montevarchi　and　ambra；　small　towns　ignored　by　war　and　invasion。　then；　as　the　new　hills　appeared；　he　began　to　climb　the　spine　of　them　towards　cortona。　
he　was　travelling　against　the　direction　of　the　invasion；　as　if　rewinding　the　spool　of　war；　the　route　no　longer　tense　with　military。　he　took　only　roads　he　knew；　seeing　the　familiar　castle　towns　from　a　distance。　he　lay　static　on　the　triumph　as　it　burned　under　him　in　its　tear　along　the　country　roads。　he　carried　little；　all　weapons　left　behind。　the　bike　hurled　through　each　village；　not　slowing　for　town　or　memory　of　war。　“the　earth　shall　reel　to　and　fro　like　a　drunkard；　and　shall　be　removed　like　a　cottage。” she　opened　up　his　knapsack。　there　was　a　pistol　wrapped　in　oilskin；　so　that　its　smell　was　released　when　she　uncovered　it。　
toothbrush　and　tooth　powder；　pencil　sketches　in　a　notebook；　including　a　drawing　of　her—she　was　sitting　on　the　terrace　and　he　had　been　looking　down　fro