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he dates and passed them down into his mouth。
there was no colour during those nights。 no speech or song。 the bedouin silenced themselves when he was awake。 he was on an altar of hammock and he imagined in his vanity hundreds of them around him and there may have been just two who had found him； plucked the antlered hat of fire from his head。 those two he knew only by the taste of saliva that entered him along with the date or by the sound of their feet running。
she would sit and read； the book under the waver of light。 she would glance now and then down the hall of the villa that had been a war hospital； where she had lived with the other nurses before they had all transferred out gradually； the war moving north； the war almost over。
this was the time in her life that she fell upon books as the only door out of her cell。 they became half her world。 she sat at the night table； hunched over； reading of the young boy in india who learned to memorize diverse jewels and objects on a tray； tossed from teacher to teacher—those who taught him dialect those who taught him memory those who taught him to escape the hypnotic。
the book lay on her lap。 she realized that for more than five minutes she had been looking at the porousness of the paper； the crease at the corner of page 17 which someone had folded over as a mark。 she brushed her hand over its skin。 a scurry in her mind like a mouse in the ceiling； a moth on the night window。 she looked down the hall； though there was no one else living there now； no one except the english patient and herself in the villa san girolamo。 she had enough vegetables planted in the bombed…out orchard above the house for them to survive； a man ing now and then from the town with whom she would trade soap and sheets and whatever there was left in this war hospital for other essentials。 some beans； some meats。 the man had left her two bottles of wine； and each night after she had lain with the englishman and he was asleep； she would ceremoniously pour herself a small beaker and carry it back to the night table just outside the three…quarter…closed door and sip away further into whatever book she was reading。
so the books for the englishman； as he listened intently or not； had gaps of plot like sections of a road washed out by storms； missing incidents as if locusts had consumed a section of tapestry； as if plaster loosened by the bombing had fallen away from a mural at night。
the villa that she and the englishman inhabited now was much like that。 some rooms could not be entered because of rubble。 one bomb crater allowed moon and rain into the library downstairs—where there was in one corner a permanently soaked armchair。
she was not concerned about the englishman as far as the gaps in plot were concerned。 she gave no summary of the missing chapters。 she simply brought out the book and said “page ninety…six” or “page one hundred and eleven。” that was the only locator。 she lifted both of his hands to her face and smelled them—the odour of sickness still in them。
your hands are getting rough； he said。
the weeds and thistles and digging。
be careful。 i warned you about the dangers。
i know。
then she began to read。
her father had taught her about hands。 about a dog’s paws。 whenever her father was alone with a dog in a house he would lean over and smell the skin at the base of its paw。 this； he would say； as if ing away from a brandy snifter； is the greatest smell in the world！ a bouquet！ great rumours of travel！ she would pretend disgust； but the dog’s paw was a wonder： the smell of it never suggested dirt。 it’s a cathedral！ her father had said； so…and…so’s garden； that field of grasses； a walk through cyclamen—a concentration of hints of all the paths the animal had taken during the day。
a scurry in the ceiling like a mouse； and she looked up from the book again。
they unwrapped the mask of herbs from his face。 the day of the eclipse。 they were waiting for it。 where was he？ what civilisation was this that understood the predictions of weather and light？ el ahmar or el abyadd； for they must be one of the northwest desert tribes。 those who could catch a man out of the sky； who covered his face with a mask of oasis reeds knitted together。 he had now a bearing of grass。 his favourite garden in the world had been the grass garden at kew； the colours so delicate and various； like levels of ash on a hill。
he gazed onto the landscape under the eclipse。 they had taught him by now to raise his arms and drag strength into his body from the universe； the way the desert pulled down planes。 he was carried in a palanquin of felt and branch。 he saw the moving veins of flamingos across his sight in the half…darkness of the covered sun。
always there were ointments； or darkness； against his skin。 one night he heard what seemed to be wind chimes high in the air； and after a while it stopped and he fell asleep with a hunger for it； that noise like the slowed…down sound from the throat of a bird； perhaps flamingo； or a desert fox； which one of the men kept in a sewn…half…closed pocket in his burnoose。
the next day he heard snatches of the glassy sound as he lay once more covered in cloth。 a noise out of the darkness。 at twilight the felt was unwrapped and he saw a man’s head on a table moving towards him； then realized the man wore a giant yoke from which hung hundreds of small bottles on different lengths of string and wire。 moving as if part of a glass curtain； his body enveloped within that sphere。
the figure resembled most of all those drawings of archangels he had tried to copy as a schoolboy； never solving how one body could have space for the muscles of such wings。 the man moved with a long； slow gait； so smoothly there was hardly a tilt in the bottles。 a wave of glass； an archangel； all the ointments within the bottles warmed from the sun； so when they were rubbed onto skin they seemed to have been heated especially for a wound。 behind him was translated light—blues and other colours shivering in the haze and sand。 the faint glass noise and the diverse colours and the regal walk and his face like a lean dark gun。
up close the glass