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ed； in a cave in the gilf kebir； at uweinat； north of the ain dua well。 she needed water。 she needed food。 i would go back with them to guide them。 i said all i wanted was a jeep。 one of their damn jeeps。。。 perhaps i seemed like one of those mad desert prophets after the journey； but i don’t think so。 the war was beginning already。 they were just pulling spies in out of the desert。 everyone with a foreign name who drifted into these small oasis towns was suspect。 she was just seventy miles away and they wouldn’t listen。 some stray english outfit in el taj。 i must have gone berserk then。 they were using these wicker prisons； size of a shower。 i was put into one and moved by truck。 i was flailing around in there until i fell off onto the street； still in it。 i was yelling katharine’s name。
yelling the gilf kebir。 whereas the only name i should have yelled； dropped like a calling card into their hands； was clifton’s。
“they hauled me up into the truck again。 i was just another possible second…rate spy。 just another international bastard。” caravaggio wants to rise and walk away from this villa； the country； the detritus of a war。 he is just a thief。 what cara…vaggio wants is his arms around the sapper and hana or； better； people of his own age； in a bar where he knows everyone； where he can dance and talk with a woman； rest his head on her shoulder； lean his head against her brow； whatever； but he knows first he must get out of this desert； its architecture of morphine。 he needs to pull away from the invisible road to el taj。
this man he believes to be almasy has used him and the morphine to return to his own world； for his own sadness。 it no longer matters which side he was on during the war。
but caravaggio leans forward。
“i need to know something。” “what？” “i need to know if you murdered katharine clifton。 that is； if you murdered clifton； and in so doing killed her。” “no。 i never even imagined that。”“the reason i ask is that geoffrey clifton was with british intelligence。 he was not just an innocent englishman； i’m afraid。 your friendly boy。 as far as the english were concerned； he was keeping an eye on your strange group in the egyptian…libyan desert。 they knew the desert would someday be a theatre of war。 he was an aerial photographer。 his death perturbed them； still does。 they still raise the question。 and intelligence knew about your affair with his wife； from the beginning。 even if clifton didn’t。 they thought his death may have been engineered as protection； hoisting up the drawbridge。 they were waiting for you in cairo； but of course you turned back into the desert。 later； when i was sent to italy； i lost the last part of your story。 i didn’t know what had happened to you。” “so you have run me to earth。” “i came because of the girl。 i knew her father。 the last person i expected to find here in this shelled nunnery was count ladislaus de almasy。 quite honestly； i’ve bee more fond of you than most of the people i worked with。” the rectangle of light that had drifted up caravaggio’s chair was framing his chest and head so that to the english patient the face seemed a portrait。 in muted light his hair appeared dark； but now the wild hair lit up； bright； the bags under his eyes washed out in the pink late daylight。
he had turned the chair around so he could lean forward on its back； facing almasy。 words did not emerge easily from caravaggio。 he would rub his jaw； his face creasing up； the eyes closed； to think in darkness； and only then would he blurt out something； tearing himself away from his own thoughts。 it was this darkness that showed in him as he sat in the rhomboid frame of light； hunched over a chair beside almasy’s bed。 one of the two older men in this story。
“i can talk with you； caravaggio； because i feel we are both mortal。 the girl； the boy； they are not mortal yet。 in spite of what they have been through。 hana was greatly distressed when i first met her。” “her father was killed in france。” “i see。 she would not talk about it。 she was distant from everybody。 the only way i could get her to municate was to ask her to read to me。。。 do you realize neither of us has children？” then pausing； as if considering a possibility。
“do you have a wife？” almasy asked。
caravaggio sat in the pink light； his hands over his face to erase everything so he could think precisely； as if this was one more gift of youth that did not e so easily to him any longer。
“you must talk to me； caravaggio。 or am i just a book？ something to be read； some creature to be tempted out of a loch and shot full of morphine； full of corridors； lies； loose vegetation； pockets of stones。” “thieves like us were used a great deal during this war。 we were legitimized。 we stole。 then some of us began to advise。
we could read through the camouflage of deceit more naturally than official intelligence。 we created double bluffs。 whole campaigns were being run by this mixture of crooks and intellectuals。 i was all over the middle east； that’s where i first heard about you。 you were a mystery； a vacuum on their charts。 turning your knowledge of the desert into german hands。” “too much happened at el taj in ； when i was rounded up； imagined to be a spy。” “so that’s when you went over to the germans。” silence。
“and you still were unable to get back to the cave of swimmers and uweinat？” “not till i volunteered to take eppler across the desert。” “there is something i must tell you。 to do with ； when you guided the spy into cairo
。。” “operation salaam。” “yes。 when you were working for rommel。” “a brilliant man。。。。 what were you going to tell me？” “i was going to say； when you came through the desert avoiding allied troops； travelling with eppler—it was heroic。 from gialo oasis all the way to cairo。 only you could have gotten rommel’s man into cairo with his copy of rebecca。” “how did you know that？” “what i want to say is that they did not just discover eppler in cairo。 they knew about the whole journey。 a german code had been broken long before； but we couldn’t let rommel know that or our sources would have been discovered。 so we had to wait till cairo to