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the plane came out of the sand。 there had been no food and i was weak。 the tarp so heavy i couldn’t dig it out but had simply to cut it away。
in the morning； after two hours’ sleep； i carried her into the cockpit。 i started the motor and it rolled into life。 we moved and then slipped； years too late； into the sky。
the voice stops。 the burned man looks straight ahead in his morphine focus。
the plane is now in his eye。 the slow voice carries it with effort above the earth； the engine missing turns as if losing a stitch； her shroud unfurling in the noisy air of the cockpit； noise terrible after his days of walking in silence。 he looks down and sees oil pouring onto his knees。 a branch breaks free of her shirt。 acacia and bone。 how high is he above the land？ how low is he in the sky？
the undercarriage brushes the top of a palm and he pivots up； and the oil slides over the seat； her body slipping down into it。
there is a spark from a short； and the twigs at her knee catch fire。 he pulls her back into the seat beside him。 he thrusts his hands up against the cockpit glass and it will not shift。 begins punching the glass； cracking it； finally breaking it； and the oil and the fire slop and spin everywhere。 how low is he in the sky？ she collapses—acacia twigs； leaves； the branches that were shaped into arms uncoiling around him。 limbs begin disappearing in the suck of air。 the odour of morphine on his tongue。
caravaggio reflected in the black lake of his eye。 he goes up and down now like a well bucket。 there is blood somehow all over his face。 he is flying a rotted plane； the canvas sheetings on the wings ripping open in the speed。 they are carrion。 how far back had the palm tree been？ how long ago？ he lifts his legs out of the oil； but they are so heavy。 there is no way he can lift them again。 he is old。 suddenly。 tired of living without her。 he cannot lie back in her arms and trust her to stand guard all day all night while he sleeps。 he has no one。 he is exhausted not from the desert but from solitude。 madox gone。 the woman translated into leaves and twigs； the broken glass to the sky like a jaw above him。
he slips into the harness of the oil…wet parachute and pivots upside down； breaking free of glass； wind flinging his body back。 then his legs are free of everything； and he is in the air； bright； not knowing why he is bright until he realizes he is on fire。
hana can hear the voices in the english patient’s room and stands in the hall trying to catch what they are saying。
how is it？
wonderful！ now it’s my turn。
ahh！ splendid； splendid。
this is the greatest of inventions。
a remarkable find； young man。
when she enters she sees kip and the english patient passing a can of condensed milk back and forth。 the englishman sucks at the can； then moves the tin away from his face to chew the thick fluid。 he beams at kip； who seems irritated that he does not have possession of it。 the sapper glances at hana and hovers by the bedside； snapping his fingers a couple of times； managing finally to pull the tin away from the dark face。
“we have discovered a shared pleasure。 the boy and i。 for me on my journeys in egypt； for him in india。” “have you ever had condensed…milk sandwiches？” xthe sapper asks。
hana glances back and forth between the two of them。
kip peers into the can。 “i’ll get another one；” he says； and leaves the room。
hana looks at the man in the bed。
“kip and i are both international bastards—born in one place and choosing to live elsewhere。 fighting to get back to or get away from our homelands all our lives。 though kip doesn’t recognize that yet。 that’s why we get on so well together。” in the kitchen kip stabs two holes into the new can of condensed milk with his bayonet； which； he realizes； is now used more and more for only this purpose； and runs back upstairs to the bedroom。
“you must have been raised elsewhere；” the sapper says。 “the english don’t suck it out that way。” “for some years i lived in the desert。 i learned everything i knew there。 everything that ever happened to me that was important happened in the desert。” he smiles at hana。
“one feeds me morphine。 one feeds me condensed milk。 we may have discovered a balanced diet！” he turns back to kip。
“how long have you been a sapper？” “five years。
mostly in london。
then italy。
with the unexploded…bomb units。” “who was your teacher？” “an englishman in woolwich。 he was considered eccentric。” “the best kind of teacher。 that must have been lord suffolk。 did you meet miss morden？” “yes。” at no point does either of them attempt to make hana fortable in their conversation。 but she wants to know about his teacher； and how he would describe him。
“what was he like； kip？” “he worked in scientific research。 he was head of an experimental unit。 miss morden； his secretary； was always with him； and his chauffeur； mr。 fred harts。 miss morden would take notes； which he dictated as he worked on a bomb； while mr。 harts helped with the instruments。 he was a brilliant man。 they were called the holy trinity。 they were blown up； all three of them； in
at erith。” she looks at the sapper leaning against the wall； one foot up so the sole of his boot is against a painted bush。 no expression of sadness； nothing to interpret。
some men had unwound their last knot of life in her arms。 in the town of anghiari she had lifted live men to discover they were already being consumed by worms。 in ortona she had held cigarettes to the mouth of the boy with no arms。 nothing had stopped her。 she had continued her duties while she secretly pulled her personal self back。 so many nurses had turned into emotionally disturbed handmaidens of the war； in their yellow…and…crimson uniforms with bone buttons。
she watches kip lean his head back against the wall and knows the neutral look on his face。 she can read it。
VII In Situ
小说
westbury； england； kirpal singh stood where the horse’s saddle would have lain across its back。 at first he simply stood on the back of the horse； paused and waved to those he could not see but who he knew would be watching。