The English Patient- 第10部分

“i　haven’t　seen　a　dog　for　years。　all　through　the　war　i　saw　no　dog。”　she　crouched　and　hugged　the　animal；　smelling　its　hair　and　the　odour　of　hill　grasses　within　it。　she　steered　the　dog　towards　caravaggio；　who　was　offering　it　the　heel　of　bread。　the　englishman　saw　caravaggio　then　and　his　jaw　dropped。　it　must　have　seemed　to　him　that　the　dog—now　blocked　by　hana’s　back　—had　turned　into　a　man。　caravaggio　collected　the　dog　in　his　arms　and　left　the　room。　

i　have　been　thinking；　the　english　patient　said；　that　this　must　be　poliziano’s　room。　this　must　have　been　his　villa　we　are　in。　it　is　the　water　ing　out　of　that　wall；　that　ancient　fountain。　it　is　a　famous　room。　they　all　met　here。　

it　was　a　hospital；　she　said　quietly。　before　that；　long　before　that　a　nunnery。　then　armies　took　it　over。　

i　think　this　was　the　villa　bruscoli。　poliziano—the　great　protege　of　lorenzo。　i’m　talking　about

in　florence；　in　santa　trinita　church；　you　can　see　the　painting　of　the　med…icis　with　poliziano　in　the　foreground；　wearing　a　red　cloak。　brilliant；　awful　man。　a　genius　who　worked　his　way　up　into　society。　

it　was　long　past　midnight　and　he　was　wide　awake　again。　

okay；　tell　me；　she　thought；　take　me　somewhere。　her　mind　still　upon　caravaggio’s　hands。　caravaggio；　who　was　by　now　probably　feeding　the　stray　dog　something　from　the　kitchen　of　the　villa　bruscoli；　if　that　was　what　its　name　was。　

it　was　a　bloody　life。　daggers　and　politics　and　three…decker　hats　and　colonial　padded　stockings　and　wigs。　wigs　of　silk！　of　course　savonarola　came　later；　not　much　later；　and　there　was　his　bonfire　of　the　vanities。　poliziano　translated　homer。　he　wrote　a　great　poem　on　simonetta　vespucci；　you　know　her？

no；　said　hana；　laughing。　

paintings　of　her　all　over　florence。　died　of　consumption　at　twenty…three。　he　made　her　famous　with　le　stanze　per　la　gios…tra　and　then　botticelli　painted　scenes　from　it。　leonardo　painted　scenes　from　it。　poliziano　would　lecture　every　day　for　two　hours　in　latin　in　the　morning；　two　hours　in　greek　in　the　afternoon。　he　had　a　friend　called　pico　della　mirandola；　a　wild　socialite　who　suddenly　converted　and　joined　savonarola。　

that　was　my　nickname　when　i　was　a　kid。　pico。　

yes；　i　think　a　lot　happened　here。　this　fountain　in　the　wall。　pico　and　lorenzo　and　poliziano　and　the　young　michelangelo。　

they　held　in　each　hand　the　new　world　and　the　old　world。　the　library　hunted　down　the　last　four　books　of　cicero。　they　im…ported　a　giraffe；　a　rhinoceros；　a　dodo。　toscanelli　drew　maps　of　the　world　based　on　correspondence　with　merchants。　they　sat　in　this　room　with　a　bust　of　plato　and　argued　all　night。　

and　then　came　savonarola’s　cry　out　of　the　streets：　“repentance！　the　deluge　is　ing！”　and　everything　was　swept　away　—free　will；　the　desire　to　be　elegant；　fame；　the　right　to　worship　plato　as　well　as　christ。　now　came　the　bonfires—the　burning　of　wigs；　books；　animal　hides；　maps。　more　than　four　hundred　years　later　they　opened　up　the　graves。　pico’s　bones　were　preserved。　

poliziano’s　had　crumbled　into　dust。　

hana　listened　as　the　englishman　turned　the　pages　of　his　monplace　book　and　read　the　information　glued　in　from　other　books—about　great　maps　lost　in　the　bonfires　and　the　burning　of　plato’s　statue；　whose　marble　exfoliated　in　the　heat；　the　cracks　across　wisdom　like　precise　reports　across　the　valley　as　poliziano　stood　on　the　grass　hills　smelling　the　future。　pico　down　there　somewhere　as　well；　in　his　grey　cell；　watching　everything　with　the　third　eye　of　salvation。　

he　poured　some　water　into　a　bowl　for　the　dog。　an　old　mongrel；　older　than　the　war。　

he　sat　down　with　the　carafe　of　wine　the　monks　from　the　monastery　had　given　hana。　it　was　hana’s　house　and　he　moved　carefully；　rearranging　nothing。　he　noticed　her　civilisation　in　the　small　wildflowers；　the　small　gifts　to　herself。　even　in　the　overgrown　garden　he　would　e　across　a　square　foot　of　grass　snipped　down　with　her　nurse’s　scissors。　if　he　had　been　a　younger　man　he　would　have　fallen　in　love　with　this。　

he　was　no　longer　young。　how　did　she　see　him？　with　his　wounds；　his　unbalance；　the　grey　curls　at　the　back　of　his　neck。　he　had　never　imagined　himself　to　be　a　man　with　a　sense　of　age　and　wisdom。　they　had　all　grown　older；　but　he　still　did　not　feel　he　had　wisdom　to　go　with　his　aging。　

he　crouched　down　to　watch　the　dog　drinking　and　he　rebalanced　himself　too　late；　grabbing　the　table；　upsetting　the　carafe　of　wine。　

your　name　is　david　caravaggio；　right？

they　had　handcuffed　him　to　the　thick　legs　of　an　oak　table。　at　one　point　he　rose　with　it　in　his　embrace；　blood　pouring　away　from　his　left　hand；　and　tried　to　run　with　it　through　the　thin　door　and　falling。　the　woman　stopped；　dropping　the　knife；　refusing　to　do　more。　the　drawer　of　the　table　slid　out　and　fell　against　his　chest；　and　all　its　contents；　and　he　thought　perhaps　there　was　a　gun　that　he　could　use。　then　ranuccio　tommasoni　picked　up　the　razor　and　came　over　to　him。　caravaggio；　right？　he　still　wasn’t　sure。　

as　he　lay　under　the　table；　the　blood　from　his　hands　fell　into　his　face；　and　he　suddenly　thought　clearly　and　slipped　the　handcuff　off　the　table　leg；　flinging　the　chair　away　to　drown　out　the　pain　and　then　leaning　to　the　left　to　step　out　of　the　other　cuff。　

blood　everywhere　now。　his　hands　already　useless。　for　months　afterwards　he　found　himself　looking　at　only　the　thumbs　of　people；　as　if　the　incident　had　changed　him　just　by　producing　envy。　but　the　event　had　produced　age；　as　if　during　the　one　night　when　he　was　locked　to　that　table　they　had　poured　a　solution　into　him　that　slowed　him。　

he　stood　up　dizzy　above　the　dog；　above　the　red　wine…soaked　table。　two　guards；　the　woman；　tommasoni；　the　telephones　ringing；　ringing；　interrupting　tommasoni；　who　would　put　down　the　razor；　caustically　whisper　excuse　me　and　pick　up　the　phone　with　his　bloody　hand　and　listen。　he　had；　he　thought；　said　nothing　of　worth　to　them。　but　they　let　him　go；　so　perhaps　he　was　wrong。　

then　he　had　walked　along　the　via　di　santo　spirito　to　the　one　geographical　location　he　had　hidden　away　in　his　brain。　walkedpast　brunelleschi’s　church　towards　the　library　of　the　german　institute；　where　he　knew　a　certain　person　would　look　after　him。　

suddenly　he　realized　this　was　why　they　had　let　him　go。　letting　him　walk　freely　would　fool　him　into　revealing　this　contact。　he　arced　into　a　side　street；　not　looking　back；　never　looking　back。　he　wanted　a　street　fire　so　he　could　stanch　his　wounds；　hang　them　over　the　smoke　from　a　tar　cauldron　so　black　smoke　would　envelop　his　hands。　he　was　on　the　santa　trinita　bridge。　there　was　nothing　around；　no　traffic；　which　surprised　him。　he　sat　on　the　smooth　balustrade　of　the　bridge；　then　lay　back。　no　sounds。　

earlier；　when　he　had　walked；　his　hands　in　his　wet　pockets；　there　had　been　the　manic　movement　of　tanks　and　jeeps。　

as　he　lay　there　the　mined　bridge　exploded　and　he　was　flung　upwards　and　then　down　as　part　of　the　end　of　the　world。　he　opened　his　eyes　and　there　was　a　giant　head　beside　him。　he　breathed　in　and　his　chest　filled　with　water。　he　was　underwater。　

there　was　a　bearded　head　beside　him　in　the　shallow　water　of　the　arno。　he　reached　towards　it　but　couldn’t　even　nudge　it。　light　was　pouring　into　the　river。　he　swam　up　to　the　surface；　parts　of　which　were　on　fire。　

when　he　told　hana　the　story　later　that　evening　she　said；　“they　stopped　torturing　you　because　the　allies　were　ing。　the　germans　were　getting　out　of　the　city；　blowing　up　bridges　as　they　left。”　“i　don’t　know。　maybe　i　told　them　everything。　whose　head　was　it？　there　were　constant　phone　calls　into　that　room。　there　would　be　a　hush；　and　the　man　would　pull　back　from　me；　and　all　of　them　would　watch　him　on　the　phone　listening　to　the　silence　of　the　other　voice；　which　we　could　not　hear。　whose　voice？　whose　head？”　“they　were　leaving；　david。”　　　she　opens　the　last　of　the　mohicans　to　the　blank　page　at　the　back　and　begins　to　write　in　it。　

there　is　a　man　named　caravaggio；　a　friend　of　my　father’s。　i　have　always　loved　him。　he　is　older　than　i　am；　about　forty…five；　　think。　he　is　in　a　time　of　darkness；　has　no　confidence。　for　some　reason　i　am　cared　for　by　this　friend　of　my　father。　

she　closes　the　book　and　then　walks　down　into　the　library　and　conceals　it　in　one　of　the　high　shelves。　

the　englishman　was　asleep；　breathing　through　his　mouth　as　he　always　did；　awake　or　asleep。　she　got　up　from　her　chair　and　gently　pulled　free　the　lit　candle　held　in　his　hands。　she　walked　to　the　window　and　blew　it　out　there；　so　the　smoke　went　out　of　the　room。　she　disliked　his　lying　there　with　a　candle　in　his　hands；　mocking　a　deathlike　posture；　wax　falling　unnoticed　onto　his　wrist。　as　if　he　was　preparing　himself；　as　if　he　wanted　to　slip　into　his　own　death　by　imitating　its　climate　and　light。　

she　stood　by　the　window　and　her　fingers　clutched　the　hair　on　her　head　with　a　tough　grip；　pulling　it。　in　darkness；　in　any　light　after　dusk；　you　can　slit　a　vein　and　the　blood　is　black。　

she　needed　to　move　from　the　room。　suddenly　she　was　claustrophobic；　untired。　she　strode　down　the　hall　and　leapt　down　the　stairs　and　went　out　onto　the　terrace　of　the　villa；　then　looked　up；　as　if　trying　to　discern　the　figure　of　the　girl　she　had　stepped　away　from。　she　walked　back　into　the　building。　she　pushed　at　the　stiff　swollen　door　and　came　into　the　library　and　then　removed　th