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kirpal singh； had been forgotten。 he hadn’t minded this。 lord suffolk and his demolition team took to calling him by his nickname； which he preferred to the english habit of calling people by their surname。
that summer the english patient wore his hearing aid so he was alive to everything in the house。 the amber shell hung within his ear with its translations of casual noises—the chair in the hall scraping against the floor； the click of the dog’s claws outside his room so he would turn up the volume and even hear its damn breathing； or the shout on the terrace from the sapper。
the english patient within a few days of the young soldier’s arrival had thus bee aware of his presence around the house； though hana kept them separate； knowing they would probably not like each other。
but she entered the englishman’s room one day to find the sapper there。 he was standing at the foot of the bed； his arms hung over the rifle that rested across his shoulders。 she disliked this casual handling of the gun； his lazy spin towards her entrance as if his body were the axle of a wheel； as if the weapon had been sewn along his shoulders and arms and into his small brown wrists。
the englishman turned to her and said； “we’re getting along famously！” she was put out that the sapper had strolled casually into this domain； seemed able to surround her； be everywhere。 kip； hearing from caravaggio that the patient knew about guns； had begun to discuss the search for bombs with the englishman。 he had e up to the room and found him a reservoir of information about allied and enemy weaponry。 the englishman not only knew about the absurd italian fuzes but also knew the detailed topography of this region of tuscany。 soon they were drawing outlines of bombs for each other and talking out the theory of each specific circuit。
“the italian fuzes seem to be put in vertically。 and not always at the tail。” “well； that depends。 the ones made in naples are that way； but the factories in rome follow the german system。 of course； naples； going back to the fifteenth century
。。” it meant having to listen to the patient talk in his circuitous way； and the young soldier was not used to remaining still and silent。 he would get restless and kept interrupting the pauses and silences the englishman always allowed himself； trying to energize the train of thought。 the soldier rolled his head back and looked at the ceiling。
“what we should do is make a sling；” the sapper mused； turning to hana as she entered； “and carry him around the house。” she looked at both of them； shrugged and walked out of the room。
when caravaggio passed her in the hall she was smiling。 they stood in the hall and listened to the conversation inside the room。
did i tell you my concept ofvirgilian man； kip？ let me。。。
is your hearing aid on？
what？
turn it— “i think he’s found a friend；” she said to caravaggio。
she walks out into the sunlight and the courtyard。 at noon the taps deliver water into the villa’s fountain and for twenty minutes it bursts forth。 she removes her shoes； climbs into the dry bowl of the fountain and waits。
at this hour the smell of hay grass is everywhere。 bluebottles stumble in the air and bang into humans as if slamming into a wall； then retreat unconcerned。 she notices where water spiders have nested beneath the upper bowl of the fountain； her face in the shade of its overhang。 she likes to sit in this cradle of stone； the smell of cool and dark hidden air emerging from the still empty spout near her； like air from a basement opened for the first time in late spring so the heat outside hangs in contrast。 she brushes her arms and toes free of dust； of the crimp of shoes； and stretches。
too many men in the house。 her mouth leans against the bare arm of her shoulder。 she smells her skin； the familiarity of it。
one’s own taste and flavour。 she remembers when she had first grown aware of it； somewhere in her teens—it seemed a place rather than a time—kissing her forearm to practise kissing； smelling her wrist or bending down to her thigh。 breathing into her own cupped hands so breath would bounce back towards her nose。 she rubs her bare white feet now against the brindle colour of the fountain。 the sapper has told her about statues he came across during the fighting； how he had slept beside one who was a grieving angel； half male； half female； that he had found beautiful。 he had lain back； looking at the body； and for the first time during the war felt at peace。
she sniffs the stone； the cool moth smell of it。
did her father struggle into his death or die calm？ did he lie the way the english patient reposes grandly on his cot？ was he nursed by a stranger？ a man not of your own blood can break upon your emotions more than someone of your own blood。 as if falling into the arms of a stranger you discover the mirror of your choice。 unlike the sapper； her father was never fully fortable in the world。 his conversations lost some of their syllables out of shyness。 in any of patrick’s sentences； hermother had plained； you lost two or three crucial words。 but hana liked that about him； there seemed to be no feudal spirit around him。 he had a vagueness； an uncertainty that allowed him tentative charm。 he was unlike most men。 even the wounded english patient had the familiar purpose of the feudal。 but her father was a hungry ghost； liking those around him to be confident； even raucous。
did he move towards his death with the same casual sense of being there at an accident？ or in fury？ he was the least furious man she knew； hating argument； just walking out of a room if someone spoke badly of roosevelt or tim buck or praised certain toronto mayors。 he had never attempted to convert anyone in his life； just bandaging or celebrating events that occurred near him。 that was all。 a novel is a mirror walking down a road。 she had read that in one of the books the english patient remended； and that was the way she remembered her father—whenever she collected the moments of him—stopping his car under one specific bridge in toronto north of pottery road at midnight and telling her that this was where the starlin