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elieve in all those services they gave for the dead。 their vulgar rhetoric。 how dare they！ how dare they talk like that about a human being dying。” there was no light； all lamps out； the sky mostly cloud…hidden。 it was safer not to draw attention to the civilisation of existing homes。 they were used to walking the grounds of the house in darkness。
“you know why the army didn’t want you to stay here； with the english patient？ do you？” “an embarrassing marriage？ my father plex？” she was smiling at him。
“how’s the old guy？” “he still hasn’t calmed down about that dog。” “tell him he came with me。” “he’s not really sure you are staying here either。 thinks you might walk off with the china。” “do you think he would like some wine？ i managed to scrounge a bottle today。” “from？” “do you want it or not？” “let’s just have it now。 let’s forget him。” “ah； the breakthrough！” “not the breakthrough。 i badly need a serious drink。” “twenty years old。 by the time i was twenty
。。” “yes； yes； why don’t you scrounge a gramophone someday。 by the way； i think this is called looting。” “my country taught me all this。 it’s what i did for them during the war。” he went through the bombed chapel into the house。
hana sat up； slightly dizzy； off balance。 “and look what they did to you；” she said to herself。
even among those she worked closely with she hardly talked during the war。 she needed an uncle； a member of the family’ she needed the father of the child； while she waited in this hill town to get drunk for the first time in years； while a burned man upstairs had fallen into his four hours of sleep and an old friend of her father’s was now rifling through her medicine chest； breaking the glass tab； tightening a bootlace round his arm and injecting the morphine quickly into himself； in the time it took for him to turn around。
at night； in the mountains around them； even by ten o’clock； only the earth is dark。 clear grey sky and the green hills。
“i was sick of the hunger。 of just being lusted at。 so i stepped away； from the dates； the jeep rides； the courtship’ the last dances before they died—i was considered a snob。 i worked harder than others。 double shifts； under fire； did anything for them； emptied every bedpan。 i became a snob because i wouldn’t go out and spend their money。 i wanted to go home and there was no one at home。 and i was sick of europe。 sick of being treated like gold because i was female。 i courted one man and he died and the child died。 i mean； the child didn’t just die； i was the one who destroyed it。 after that i stepped so far back no one could get near me。 not with talk of snobs。 not with anyone’s death。 then i met him； the man burned black。 who turned out to be； up close； an englishman…”it has been a long time； david； since i thought of anything to do with a man。” after a week of the sikh sapper’s presence around the villa they adapted to his habits of eating。 wherever he was—on the hill or in the village—he would return around twelve…thirty and join hana and caravaggio； pull out the small bundle of blue handkerchief from his shoulder bag and spread it onto the table alongside their meal。 his onions and his herbs— which caravaggio suspected he was taking from the franciscans’ garden during the time he spent there sweeping the place for mines。
he peeled the onions with the same knife he used to strip rubber from a fuze wire。 this was followed by fruit。 caravaggio suspected he had gone through the whole invasion never eating from a mess canteen。
in fact he had always been dutifully in line at the crack of dawn； holding out his cup for the english tea he loved； adding to it his own supply of condensed milk。 he would drink slowly； standing in sunlight to watch the slow movement of troops who； if they were stationary that day； would already be playing canasta by nine a。m。
now； at dawn； under the scarred trees in the half…bombed gardens of the villa san girolamo； he takes a mouthful of water from his canteen。 he pours tooth powder onto the brush and begins a ten…minute session of lackadaisical brushing as he wanders around looking down into the valley still buried in the mist； his mind curious rather than awestruck at the vista he happens now to be living above。 the brushing of teeth； since he was a child； has always been for him an outdoor activity。
the landscape around him is just a temporary thing； there is no permanence to it。 he simply acknowledges the possibility of rain； a certain odour from a shrub。 as if his mind； even when unused； is radar； his eyes locating the choreography of inanimate objects for the quarter…mile around him； which is the killing radius of small arms。 he studies the two onions he has pulled out of the earth with care； aware that gardens too have been mined by retreating armies。
at lunch there is caravaggio’s avuncular glance at the objects on the blue handkerchief。 there is probably some rare animal；caravaggio thinks； who eats the same foods that this young soldier eats with his right hand； his fingers carrying it to his mouth。 he uses the knife only to peel the skin from the onion； to slice fruit。
the two men take a trip by cart down into the valley to pick up a sack of flour。 also； the soldier has to deliver maps of the cleared areas to headquarters at san domenico。 finding it difficult to ask questions about each other； they speak about hana。
there are many questions before the older man admits having known her before the war。
“in canada？” “yes； i knew her there。” they pass numerous bonfires on the sides of the road and caravaggio diverts the young soldier’s attention to them。 the sapper’s nickname is kip。 “get kip。” “here es kip。” the name had attached itself to him curiously。 in his first bomb disposal report in england some butter had marked his paper； and the officer had exclaimed； “what’s this？ kipper grease？” and laughter surrounded him。 he had no idea what a kipper was； but the young sikh had been thereby translated into a salty english fish。 within a week his real name； kirpal singh； had been forgotten。 he hadn’t minded this。 lord suffolk and his demolition team took