《The English Patient》第68章

young　sapper　again。　
he　stays　awake　in　any　case　this　night；　to　see　if　the　figure　moves　towards　him。　ignoring　the　tablet　that　brings　painless…ness；　he　will　remain　awake　till　the　light　dies　out　and　the　smell　of　candle　smoke　drifts　into　his　room　and　into　the　girl’s　room　farther　down　the　hall。　if　the　figure　turns　around　there　will　be　paint　on　his　back；　where　he　slammed　in　grief　against　the　mural　of　trees。　
when　the　candle　dies　out　he　will　be　able　to　see　this。　his　hand　reaches　out　slowly　and　touches　his　book　and　returns　to　his　dark　chest。　nothing　else　moves　in　the　room。　
now　where　does　he　sit　as　he　thinks　of　her？　these　years　later。　a　stone　of　history　skipping　over　the　water；　bouncing　up　so　she　and　he　have　aged　before　it　touches　the　surface　again　and　sinks。　
where　does　he　sit　in　his　garden　thinking　once　again　he　should　go　inside　and　write　a　letter　or　go　one　day　down　to　the　telephone　depot；　fill　out　a　form　and　try　to　contact　her　in　another　country。　it　is　this　garden；　this　square　patch　of　dry　cut　grass　that　triggers　him　back　to　the　months　he　spent　with　hana　and　caravaggio　and　the　english　patient　north　of　florence　in　the　villa　san　girolamo。　he　is　a　doctor；　has　two　children　and　a　laughing　wife。　he　is　permanently　busy　in　this　city。　at　six　p。m。　he　removes　his　white　lab　coat。　underneath　he　wears　dark　trousers　and　a　short…sleeved　shirt。　he　closes　up　the　clinic；　where　all　the　paperwork　has　weights　of　various　kinds—stones；　inkpots；　a　toy　truck　his　son　no　longer　plays　with—to　keep　it　from　being　blown　away　by　the　fan。　he　climbs　onto　his　bicycle　and　pedals　the　four　miles　home；　through　the　bazaar。　whenever　he　can　he　swerves　his　bicycle　over　to　the　shadowed　part　of　the　street。　he　has　reached　an　age　when　he　suddenly　realizes　that　the　sun　of　india　exhausts　him。　
he　glides　under　the　willows　by　the　canal　and　then　stops　at　a　small　neighbourhood　of　houses；　removes　his　cycle　clips　and　carries　the　bicycle　down　the　steps　into　the　small　garden　his　wife　has　nurtured。　
and　something　this　evening　has　brought　the　stone　out　of　the　water　and　allowed　it　to　move　back　within　the　air　towards　the　hill　town　in　italy。　it　was　perhaps　the　chemical　burn　on　the　arm　of　the　girl　he　treated　today。　or　the　stone　stairway；　where　brown　weeds　grow　ardently　along　the　steps。　he　had　been　carrying　his　bicycle　and　was　halfway　up　the　steps　before　he　remembered。　
this　had　been　on　the　way　to　work；　so　the　trigger　of　memory　was　postponed　when　he　got　to　the　hospital　and　ran　into　seven　hours　of　constant　patients　and　administration。　or　it　might　have　been　the　burn　on　the　young　girl’s　arm。　he　sits　in　the　garden。　
and　he　watches　hana；　her　hair　longer；　in　her　own　country。　and　what　does　she　do？　he　sees　her　always；　her　face　and　body；　but　he　doesn’t　know　what　her　profession　is　or　what　her　circumstances　are；　although　he　sees　her　reactions　to　people　around　her；　her　bending　down　to　children；　a　white　fridge　door　behind　her；　a　background　of　noiseless　tram　cars。　this　is　a　limited　gift　he　has　somehow　been　given；　as　if　a　camera’s　film　reveals　her；　but　only　her；　in　silence。　he　cannot　discern　the　pany　she　moves　among；　her　judgement；　all　he　can　witness　is　her　character　and　the　lengthening　of　her　dark　hair；　which　falls　again　and　then　again　into　her　eyes。　
she　will；　he　realizes　now；　always　have　a　serious　face。　she　has　moved　from　being　a　young　woman　into　having　the　angular　look　of　a　queen；　someone　who　has　made　her　face　with　her　desire　to　be　a　certain　kind　of　person。　he　still　likes　that　about　her。　
her　smartness；　the　fact　that　she　did　not　inherit　that　look　or　that　beauty；　but　that　it　was　something　searched　for　and　that　it　will　always　reflect　a　present　stage　of　her　character。　it　seems　every　month　or　two　he　witnesses　her　this　way；　as　if　these　moments　of　revelation　are　a　continuation　of　the　letters　she　wrote　to　him　for　a　year；　getting　no　reply；　until　she　stopped　sending　them；　turnedaway　by　his　silence。　his　character；　he　supposed。　
now　there　are　these　urges　to　talk　with　her　during　a　meal　and　return　to　that　stage　they　were　most　intimate　at　in　the　tent　or　in　the　english　patient’s　room；　both　of　which　contained　the　turbulent　river　of　space　between　them。　recalling　the　time；　he　is　just　as　fascinated　at　himself　there　as　he　is　with　her—boyish　and　earnest；　his　lithe　arm　moving　across　the　air　towards　the　girl　he　has　fallen　in　love　with。　his　wet　boots　are　by　the　italian　door；　the　laces　tied　together；　his　arm　reaches　for　her　shoulder；　there　is　the　prone　figure　on　the　bed。　
during　the　evening　meal　he　watches　his　daughter　struggling　with　her　cutlery；　trying　to　hold　the　large　weapons　in　her　small　hands。　at　this　table　all　of　their　hands　are　brown。　they　move　with　ease　in　their　customs　and　habits。　and　his　wife　has　taught　them　all　a　wild　humour；　which　has　been　inherited　by　his　son。　he　loves　to　see　his　son’s　wit　in　this　house；　how　it　surprises　him　constantly；　going　beyond　even　his　and　his　wife’s　knowledge　and　humour—the　way　he　treats　dogs　on　the　streets；　imitating　their　stroll；　their　look。　he　loves　the　fact　that　this　boy　can　almost　guess　the　wishes　of　dogs　from　the　variety　of　expressions　at　a　dog’s　disposal。　
and　hana　moves　possibly　in　the　pany　that　is　not　her　choice。　she；　at　even　this　age；　thirty…four；　has　not　found　her　own　pany；　the　ones　she　wanted。　she　is　a　woman　of　honour　and　smartness　whose　wild　love　leaves　out　luck；　always　taking　risks；　and　there　is　something　in　her　brow　now　that　only　she　can　recognize　in　a　mirror。　ideal　and　idealistic　in　that　shiny　dark　hair！　people　fall　in　love　with　her。　she　still　remembers　the　lines　of　poems　the　englishman　read　out　loud　to　her　from　his　monplace　book。　she　is　a　woman　i　don’t　know　well　enough　to　hold　in　my　wing；　if　writers　have　wings；　to　harbour　for　the　rest　of　my　life。　
and　so　hana　moves　and　her　face　turns　and　in　a　regret　she　lowers　her　hair。　her　shoulder　touches　the　edge　of　a　cupboard　and　a　glass　dislodges。　kirpal’s　left　hand　swoops　down　and　catches　the　dropped　fork　an　inch　from　the　floor　and　gently　passes　it　into　the　fingers　of　his　daughter；　a　wrinkle　at　the　edge　of　his　eyes　behind　his　spectacles。　
．。
Acknowledgements
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while　some　of　the　characters　who　appear　in　this　book　are　based　on　historical　figures；　and　while　many　of　the