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imself in the last three years of the war。 the other sapper； who had arrived with him in the rainstorm； hardy he was called； is billeted elsewhere； nearer the town； though she has seen them working together； entering a garden with their wands of gad…getry to clear mines。
the dog has stuck by caravaggio。 the young soldier； who will run and leap with the dog along the path； refuses to give it food of any kind； feeling it should survive on its own。 if he finds food he eats it himself。 his courtesy goes only so far。 some nights he sleeps on the parapet that overlooks the valley； crawling into his tent only if it rains。
he； for his part； witnesses caravaggio’s wanderings at night。 on two occasions the sapper trails caravaggio at a distance。
but two days later caravaggio stops him and says； don’t follow me again。 he begins to deny it； but the older man puts his hand across his lying face and quiets him。 so the soldier knows caravaggio was aware of him two nights before。 in any case； the trailing was simply a remnant of a habit he had been taught during the war。 just as even now he desires to aim his rifle and fire and hit some target precisely。 again and again he aims at a nose on a statue or one of the brown hawks veering across the sky of the valley。
he is still very much a youth。 he wolfs down food； jumps up to clear away his plate； allowing himself half an hour for lunch。
she has watched him at work； careful and timeless as a cat； in the orchard and within the overgrown garden that rises behind the house。 she notices the darker brown skin of his wrist； which slides freely within the bangle that clinks sometimes when he drinks a cup of tea in front of her。
he never speaks about the danger that es with his kind of searching。 now and then an explosion brings her and ca…ravaggio quickly out of the house； her heart taut from the muffled blast。 she runs out or runs to a window seeing cara…vaggio too in the corner of her vision； and they will see the sapper waving lazily towards the house； not even turning around from the herb terrace。
once caravaggio entered the library and saw the sapper up by the ceiling； against the trompe ’oeil—only caravaggio would walk into a room and look up into the high corners to see if he was alone—and the young soldier； his eyes not leaving their focus； put out his palm and snapped his fingers； halting caravaggio in his entrance； a warning to leave the room for safety as he unthreaded and cut a fuze wire he had traced to that corner； hidden above the valance。
he is always humming or whistling。 “who is whistling？” asks the english patient one night； having not met or even seen the newer。 always singing to himself as he lies upon the parapet looking up at a shift of clouds。
when he steps into the seemingly empty villa he is noisy。 he is the only one of them who has remained in uniform。
immaculate； buckles shined； the sapper appears out of his tent； his turban symmetrically layered； the boots clean and banging into the wood or stone floors of the house。 on a dime he turns from a problem he is working on and breaks into laughter。 he seems unconsciously in love with his body； with his physicalness； bending over to pick up a slice of bread； his knuckles brushing the grass； even twirling the rifle absent…mindedly like a huge mace as he walks along the path of cypresses to meet the other sappers in the village。
he seems casually content with this small group in the villa； some kind of loose star on the edge of their system。 this is like a holiday for him after the war of mud and rivers and bridges。 he enters the house only when invited in； just a tentative visitor； the way he had done that first night when he had followed the faltering sound of hana’s piano and e up the cypress…lined path and stepped into the library。
he had approached the villa on that night of the storm not out of curiosity about the music but because of a danger to the piano player。 the retreating army often left pencil mines within musical instruments。 returning owners opened up pianos and lost their hands。 people would revive the swing on a grandfather clock； and a glass bomb would blow out half a wall and whoever was nearby。
he followed the noise of the piano； rushing up the hill with hardy； climbed over the stone wall and entered the villa as long as there was no pause it meant the player would not lean forward and pull out the thin metal band to set the metronome going。
most pencil bombs were hidden in these—the easiest place to solder the thin layer of wire upright。 bombs were attached to taps； to the spines of books； they were drilled into fruit trees so an apple falling onto a lower branch would detonate the tree；just as a hand gripping that branch would。 he was unable to look at a room or field without seeing the possibilities of weapons there。
he had paused by the french doors； leaned his head against the frame； then slid into the room and except for moments of lightning remained within the darkness。 there was a girl standing； as if waiting for him； looking down at the keys she was playing。 his eyes took in the room before they took her in； swept across it like a spray of radar。 the metronome was ticking already； swaying innocently back and forth。 there was no danger； no tiny wire。 he stood there in his wet uniform； the young woman at first unaware of his entrance。
beside his tent the antenna of a crystal set is strung up into the trees。 she can see the phosphorus green from the radio dial if she looks over there at night with caravaggio’s field glasses； the sapper’s shifting body covering it up suddenly if he moves across the path of vision。 he wears the portable contraption during the day； just one earphone attached to his head； the other loose under his chin； so he can hear sounds from the rest of the world that might be important to him。 he will e into the house to pass on whatever information he has picked up that he thinks might be interesting to them。 oie afternoon he announces that the bandleader glenn miller has died； his plane having crashed somewhere between england and france。
so he moves among them。 she sees him in the distance of a defunct ga