《The English Patient》第66章

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　from　the　englishman’s　room。　two　turbans；　a　bottle　of　starch。　one　sapper　lamp　with　its　leather　straps；　to　be　worn　in　emergencies。　she　flicked　it　on　and　the　knapsack　filled　with　crimson　light。　
in　the　side　pockets　she　found　pieces　of　equipment　to　do　with　bomb　disposal；　which　she　didn’t　wish　to　touch。　wrapped　up　in　another　small　piece　of　cloth　was　the　metal　spile　she　had　given　him；　which　was　used　for　tapping　maple　sugar　out　of　a　tree　in　her　country。　
from　within　the　collapsed　tent　she　unearthed　a　portrait　that　must　have　been　of　his　family。　she　held　the　photograph　in　her　palm。　a　sikh　and　his　family。　
an　older　brother　who　was　only　eleven　in　this　picture。　kip　beside　him；　eight　years　old。　“when　the　war　came　my　brother　sided　with　whoever　was　against　the　english；”　there　was　also　a　small　handbook　that　had　a　map　of　bombs。　and　a　drawing　of　a　saint　acpanied　by　a　musician。　
she　packed　everything　back　in　except　the　photograph；　which　she　held　in　her　free　hand。　she　carried　the　bag　through　the　trees；　walked　across　the　loggia　and　brought　it　into　the　house。　
each　hour　or　so　he　slowed　to　a　stop；　spat　into　the　goggles　and　wiped　dust　off　with　the　sleeve　of　his　shirt。　he　looked　into　the　map　again。　he　would　go　to　the　adriatic；　then　south。　most　of　the　troops　were　at　the　northern　borders。　
he　climbed　into　cortona；　the　high…pitched　gunning　of　the　bike　all　around　him。　he　rode　the　triumph　up　the　steps　to　the　door　of　the　church　and　then　walked　in。　a　statue　was　there；　bandaged　in　scaffold。　he　wanted　to　get　closer　to　the　face；　but　he　had　no　rifle　telescope　and　his　body　felt　too　stiff　to　climb　up　the　construction　pipes。　he　wandered　around　underneath　like　somebody　unable　to　enter　the　intimacy　of　a　home。　he　walked　the　bike　down　the　church　steps；　and　then　coasted　down　through　the　shattered　vineyards　and　went　on　to　arezzo。　
at　sansepolcro　he　took　a　winding　road　into　the　mountains；　into　their　mist；　so　he　had　to　slow　to　minimal　speed。　the　bocca　trabaria。　he　was　cold　but　locked　the　weather　out　of　his　mind。　finally　the　road　rose　above　the　whiteness；　the　mist　a　bed　behind　him。　he　skirted　urbino　where　the　germans　had　burned　all　the　field　horses　of　the　enemy。　they　had　fought　here　in　this　region　for　a　month；　now　he　slid　through　in　minutes；　recognizing　only　the　black　madonna　shrines。　the　war　had　made　all　the　cities　and　towns　similar。　
he　came　down　towards　the　coast。　into　gabicce　mare；　where　he　had　seen　the　virgin　emerge　from　the　sea。　he　slept　on　the　hill；　overlooking　cliff　and　water；　near　where　the　statue　had　been　taken。　that　was　the　end　of　his　first　day。　
dear　clara—dear　maman；　maman　is　a　french　word；　clara；　a　circular　word；　suggesting　cuddles；　a　personal　word　that　can　be　even　shouted　in　public。　
something　as　forting　and　as　eternal　as　a　barge。　though　you；　in　spirit；　i　know　are　still　a　canoe。　can　swerve　one　around　and　enter　a　creek　in　seconds。　still　independent。　still　private。　not　a　barge　responsible　for　all　around　you。　this　is　my　first　letter　in　years；　clara；　and　i　am　not　used　to　the　formality　of　them。　i　have　spent　the　last　few　months　living　with　three　others；　and　our　talk　has　been　slow；　casual。　i　am　not　used　to　talking　in　any　way　but　that　now。　
the　year　is　…。　what？　for　a　second　i　forget。　but　i　know　the　month　and　the　day。　one　day　after　we　heard　the　bombs　were　dropped　in　japan；　so　it　feels　like　the　end　of　the　world。　from　now　on　i　believe　the　personal　will　forever　be　at　war　with　the　public。　if　we　can　rationalize　this　we　can　rationalize　anything。　
patrick　died　in　a　dove…cot　in　france。　in　france　in　the　seventeenth　and　eighteenth　centuries　they　built　them　huge；　larger　than　most　houses。　like　this。　
the　horizontal　line　one…third　of　the　way　down　was　called　the　rat　ledge—to　stop　rats　running　up　the　brick；　so　the　doves　would　be　safe。　safe　as　a　dove…cot。　a　sacred　place。　like　a　church　in　many　ways。　a　forting　place。　patrick　died　in　a　forting　place。　
at　five　a。m。　he　kicked　the　triumph　to　life；　and　the　rear　wheel　threw　gravel　in　a　skirt。　he　was　still　in　darkness；　still　unable　to　distinguish　sea　in　the　vista　beyond　the　cliff。　for　the　journey　from　here　to　the　south　he　had　no　maps；　but　he　could　recognize　the　war　roads　and　follow　the　coast　route。　when　sunlight　came　he　was　able　to　double　his　speed。　the　rivers　were　still　ahead　of　him。　
around　two　in　the　afternoon　he　reached　ortona；　where　the　sappers　had　laid　the　bailey　bridges；　nearly　drowning　in　the　storm　in　mid…river。　it　began　to　rain　and　he　stopped　to　put　on　a　rubber　cape。　he　walked　around　the　machine　in　the　wetness。　now；　as　he　travelled；　the　sound　in　his　ears　changed。　the　shush　shush　replacing　the　whine　and　howl；　the　water　flung　onto　his　boots　from　the　front　wheel。　everything　he　saw　through　the　goggles　was　grey。　he　would　not　think　of　hana。　in　all　the　silence　within　the　bike’s　noise　he　did　not　think　of　her。　
when　her　face　appeared　he　erased　it；　pulled　the　handlebars　so　he　would　swerve　and　have　to　concentrate。　if　there　were　to　be　words　they　would　not　be　hers；　they　would　be　names　on　this　map　of　italy　he　was　riding　through。　
he　feels　he　carries　the　body　of　the　englishman　with　him　in　this　flight。　it　sits　on　the　petrol　tank　facing　him；　the　black　body　in　an　embrace　with　his；　facing　the　past　over　his　shoulder；　facing　the　countryside　they　are　flying　from；　that　receding　palace　of　strangers　on　the　italian　hill　which　shall　never　be　rebuilt。　“and　my　words　which　i　have　put　in　thy　mouth　shall　not　depart　out　of　thy　mouth。　nor　out　of　the　mouth　of　thy　seed。　nor　out　of　the　mouth　of　thy　seed’s　seed。”　the　voice　of　the　english　patient　sang　isaiah　into　his　ear　as　he　had　that　afternoon　when　the　boy　had　spoken　of　the　face　on　the　chapel　ceiling　in　rome。　“there　are　of　course　a　hundred　isaiahs。　someday　you　will　want　to　see　him　as　an　old　man—in　southern　france　the　abbeys　celebrate　him　as　bearded　and　old；　but　the　power　is　still　there　in　his　look。”　the　englishman　had　sung　out　into　the　painted　room。　“behold；　the　lord　will　carry　thee　away　with　a　mighty　captivity；　and　he　will　surely　cover　thee。　he　will　surely　violently　turn　and　toss　thee　like　a　ball　into　a　larg