按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
sliding his finger seven inches west； off the page； onto his chest； he touches his rib。
“here。 the gilf kebir； just north of the tropic of cancer。 on the egyptian…libyan border。” what happened in ？
i had made the journey to cairo and was returning from there。 i was slipping between the enemy； remembering old maps； hitting the pre…war caches of petrol and water； driving towards uweinat。 it was easier now that i was alone。 miles from the gilf kebir； the truck exploded and i capsized； rolling automatically into the sand； not wanting a spark to touch me。 in the desert one is always frightened of fire。
the truck exploded； probably sabotaged。 there were spies among the bedouin； whose caravans continued to drift like cities； carrying spice； rooms； government advisors wherever they went。 at any given moment among the bedouin in those days of the war； there were englishmen as well as germans。
leaving the truck； i started walking towards uweinat； where i knew there was a buried plane。
wait。 what do you mean； a buried plane？
madox had an old plane in the early days； which he had shaved down to the essentials—the only “extra” was the closed bubble of cockpit； crucial for desert flights。 during our times in the desert he had taught me to fly； the two of us walking around the guy…roped creature theorizing on how it hung or veered in the wind。
when clifton’s plane—rupert—flew into our midst； the aging plane of madox’s was left where it was； covered with a tarpaulin； pegged down in one of the northeast alcoves of uweinat。 sand collected over it gradually for the next few years。
none of us thought we would see it again。 it was another victim of the desert。 within a few months we would pass the northeast gully and see no contour of it。 by now clifton’s plane； ten years younger； had flown into our story。
so you were walking towards it？
yes。 four nights of walking。 i had left the man in cairo and turned back into the desert。 everywhere there was war。
suddenly there were “teams。” the bermanns； the bagnolds； the slatin pashas—who had at various times saved each other’s lives—had now split up into camps。
i walked towards uweinat。 i got there about noon and climbed up into the caves of the plateau。 above the well named ain dua。
“caravaggio thinks he knows who you are；” hana said。
the man in the bed said nothing。
“he says you are not english。 he worked with intelligence out of cairo and italy for a while。 till he was captured。 my family knew caravaggio before the war。 he was a thief。 he believed in ‘the movement of things。’ some thieves are collectors； like some of the explorers you scorn； like some men with women or some women with men。 but caravaggio was not like that。
he was too curious and generous to be a successful thief。 half the things he stole never came home。 he thinks you are not english。”she watched his stillness as she spoke； it appeared that he was not listening carefully to what she was saying。 just his distant thinking。 the way duke ellington looked and thought when he played “solitude。” she stopped talking。
he reached the shallow well named ain dua。 he removed all of his clothes and soaked them in the well； put his head and then his thin body into the blue water。 his limbs exhausted from the four nights of walking。 he left his clothes spread on the rocks and climbed up higher into the boulders； climbed out of the desert； which was now； in ； a vast battlefield； and went naked into the darkness of the cave。
he was among the familiar paintings he had found years earlier。 giraffes。 cattle。 the man with his arms raised； in a plumed headdress。 several figures in the unmistakable posture of swimmers。 bermann had been right about the presence of an ancient lake。 he walked farther into the coldness； into the cave of swimmers； where he had left her。 she was still there。
she had dragged herself into a corner； had wrapped herself tight in the parachute material。 he had promised to return for her。
he himself would have been happier to die in a cave； with its privacy； the swimmers caught in the rock around them。
hermann had told him that in asian gardens you could look at rock and imagine water； you could gaze at a still pool and believe it had the hardness of rock。 but she was a woman who had grown up within gardens； among moistness； with words like trellis and hedgehog。 her passion for the desert was temporary。 she’d e to love its sternness because of him； wanting to understand his fort in its solitude。 she was always happier in rain； in bathrooms steaming with liquid air； in sleepy wetness； climbing back in from his window that rainy night in cairo and putting on her clothes while still wet； in order to hold it all。 just as she loved family traditions and courteous ceremony and old memorized poems。 she would have hated to die without a name。 for her there was a line back to her ancestors that was tactile； whereas he had erased the path he had emerged from。 he was amazed she had loved him in spite of such qualities of anonymity in himself。
she was on her back； positioned the way the mediaeval dead lie。
i approached her naked as i would have done in our south cairo room； wanting to undress her； still wanting to love her。
what is terrible in what i did？ don’t we forgive everything of a lover？ we forgive selfishness； desire； guile。 as long as we are the motive for it。 you can make love to a woman with a broken arm； or a woman with fever。 she once sucked blood from a cut on my hand as i had tasted and swallowed her menstrual blood。 there are some european words you can never translate properly into another language。 felhomaly。 the dusk of graves。 with the connotation of intimacy there between the dead and the living。
i lifted her into my arms from the shelf of sleep。 clothing like cobweb。 i disturbed all that。
i carried her out into the sun。 i dressed。 my clothes dry and brittle from the heat in the stones。
my linked hands made a saddle for her to rest on。 as soon as i reached the sand i jostled her around so her body was facing back； over my shoulder。 i was conscious of the airiness of her weight。 i was used to her like