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clifton met us in el jof； north of uweinat。 he sat in his two…seater plane and we walked towards him from the base camp。
he stood up in the cockpit and poured a drink out of his flask。 his new wife sat beside him。
“i name this site the bir messaha country club；” he announced。
i watched the friendly uncertainty scattered across his wife’s face； her lionlike hair when she pulled off the leather helmet。
they were youth； felt like our children。 they climbed out of the plane and shook hands with us。
that was ； the beginning of our story。。。。
they jumped off the wing of the moth。 clifton walked towards us holding out the flask； and we all sipped the warm alcohol。
he was one for ceremonies。 he had named his plane rupert bear。 i don’t think he loved the desert； but he had an affection for it that grew out of awe at our stark order； into which he wanted to fit himself—like a joyous undergraduate who respects silent behaviour in a library。 we had not expected him to bring his wife； but we were i suppose courteous about it。 she stood there while the sand collected in her mane of hair。
what were we to this young couple？ some of us had written books about dune formation； the disappearance and reappear…ance of oases； the lost culture of deserts。 we seemed to be interested only in things that could not be bought or sold； of no interest to the outside world。 we argued about latitudes； or about an event that had happened seven hundred years earlier。 the theorems of exploration。 that abd el melik ibra…him el zwaya who lived in zuck oasis pasturing camels was the first man among those tribes who could understand the concept of photographs。
the cliftons were on the last days of their honeymoon。 i left them with the others and went to join a man in kufra and spent many days with him； trying out theories i had kept secret from the rest of the expedition。 i returned to the base camp at el jof three nights later。
the desert fire was between us。 the cliftons； madox； bell and myself。 if a man leaned back a few inches he would dis… appear into darkness。 katharine clifton began to recite something； and my head was no longer in the halo of the camp’s twig fire。
there was classical blood in her face。 her parents were famous； apparently； in the world of legal history。 i am a man who did not enjoy poetry until i heard a woman recite it to us。
and in that desert she dragged her university days into our midst to describe the stars—the way adam tenderly taught a woman with gracious metaphors。
these then； though unbeheld in deep of night； shine not in vain； nor think； though men were none； that heav’n would want spectators； god want praise； millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth unseen； both when we …wake； and when we sleep： all these with ceaseless praise his works behold both day and night： how often from the steep of echoing hill or thicket have we heard celestial voices to the midnight air； sole； or responsive each to other’s note singing their great creator。。。
that night i fell in love with a voice。 only a voice。 i wanted to hear nothing more。 i got up and walked away。
she was a willow。 what would she be like in winter； at my age？ i see her still； always； with the eye of adam。 she had been these awkward limbs climbing out of a plane； bending down in our midst to prod at a fire； her elbow up and pointed towards me as she drank from a canteen。
a few months later； she waltzed with me； as we danced as a group in cairo。 though slightly drunk she wore an uncon…querable face。 even now the face i believe that most revealed her was the one she had that time when we were both half drunk； not lovers。
all these years i have been trying to unearth what she was handing me with that look。 it seemed to be contempt。 so it appeared to me。 now i think she was studying me。 she was an innocent； surprised at something in me。 i was behaving the way i usually behave in bars； but this time with the wrong pany。 i am a man who kept the codes of my behaviour separate。 i was forgetting she was younger than i。
she was studying me。 such a simple thing。 and i was watching for one wrong move in her statue…like gaze； something that would give her away。
give me a map and i’ll build you a city。 give me a pencil and i will draw you a room in south cairo； desert charts on the wall。 always the desert was among us。 i could wake and raise my eyes to the map of old settlements along the mediterranean coast—gazala； tobruk； mersa matruh—and south of that the hand…painted wadis； and surrounding those the shades of yellowness that we invaded； tried to lose ourselves in。 “my task is to describe briefly the several expeditions which have attacked the gilf kebir。 dr。 bermann will later take us back to the desert as it existed thousands of years ago。。。” that is the way madopoke to other geographers at kensington gore。 but you do not find adultery in the minutes of the geographical society。 our room never appears in the detailed reports which chartered every knoll and every incident of history。
in the street of imported parrots in cairo one is hectored by almost articulate birds。 the birds bark and whistle in rows； like a plumed avenue。 i knew which tribe had travelled which silk or camel road carrying them in their petite palanquins across the deserts。 forty…day journeys； after the birds were caught by slaves or picked like flowers in equatorial gardens and then placed in bamboo cages to enter the river that is trade。 they appeared like brides in a mediaeval courtship。
we stood among them。 i was showing her a city that was new to her。
her hand touched me at the wrist。
“if i gave you my life； you would drop it。 wouldn’t you？” i didn’t say anything。
．．
V Katharine
；小；说；〃；网
the first time she dreamed of him she woke up beside her husband screaming。
in their bedroom she stared down onto the sheet； mouth open。 her husband put his hand on her back。
“nightmare。 don’t worry。” “yes。” “shall i get you some water？” “yes。” she wouldn’t move。 wouldn’t lie back into that zone they had been in。
the dream had taken place in this room—his hand on he