gh； whose line and shadow appeared so soft。 he would place his head on the lap of such creatures and release himself into sleep。
she suddenly let more weight onto him。 and now her breathing stretched deeper； like the voice of a cello。 he watched her sleeping face。 he was still annoyed the girl had stayed with him when he defused the bomb； as if by that she had made him owe her something。 making him feel in retrospect responsible for her； though there was no thought of that at the time。 as if that could usefully influence what he chose to do with a mine。
but he felt he was now within something； perhaps a painting he had seen somewhere in the last year。 some secure couple in a field。 how many he had seen with their laziness of sleep； with no thought of work or the dangers of the world。 beside him there were the mouselike movements within hana’s breath； her eyebrows rode upon argument； a small fury in her dreaming。
he turned his eyes away； up towards the tree and the sky of white cloud。 her hand gripped him as mud had clung along the bank of the moro river； his fist plunging into the wet earth to stop himself slipping back into the already crossed torrent。
if he were a hero in a painting； he could claim a just sleep。
but as even she had said； he was the brownness of a rock； the brownness of a muddy storm…fed river。 and something in him made him step back from even the naive innocence of such a remark。 the successful defusing of a bomb ended novels。 wise white fatherly men shook hands； were acknowledged； and limped away； having been coaxed out of solitude for this special occasion。 but he was a professional。 and he remained the foreigner； the sikh。 his only human and personal contact was this enemy who had made the bomb and departed brushing his tracks with a branch behind him。
why couldn’t he sleep？ why couldn’t he turn towards the girl； stop thinking everything was still half lit； hanging fire？ in a painting of his imagining the field surrounding this embrace would have been in flames。 he had once followed a sapper’s entrance into a mined house with binoculars。 he had seen him brush a box of matches off the edge of a table and be enveloped by light for the half…second before the crumpling sound of the bomb reached him。 what lightning was like in
how could he trust even this circle of elastic on the sleeve of the girl’s frock that gripped her arm？ or the rattle in her intimate breath asdeep as stones within a river。
she woke when the caterpillar moved from the collar of her dress onto her cheek； and she opened her eyes； saw him crouched over her。 he plucked it from her face； not touching her skin； and placed it in the grass。 she noticed he had already packed up his equipment。 he moved back and sat against the tree； watching her as she rolled slowly onto her back and then stretched； holding that moment for as long as she could。 it must have been afternoon； the sun over there。 she leaned her head back and looked at him。
“you were supposed to hold onto me！” “i did。 till you moved away。” “how long did you hold me？” “until you moved。 until you needed to move。” “i wasn’t taken advantage of； was i？” adding； “just joking；” as she saw him beginning to blush。
“do you want to go down to the house？” “yes； i’m hungry。” she could hardly stand up； the dazzle of sun； her tired legs。 how long they had been there she still didn’t know。 she could not forget the depth of her sleep； the lightness of the plummet。
a party began in the english patient’s room when caravaggio revealed the gramophone he had found somewhere。
“i will use it to teach you to dance； hana。 not what your young friend there knows。 i have seen and turned my back on certain dances。 but this tune； ‘how long has this been going on；’ is one of the great songs because the introduction’s melody is purer than the song it introduces。 and only great jazzmen have acknowledged that。 now； we can have this party on the terrace； which would allow us to invite the dog； or we can invade the englishman and have it in the bedroom upstairs。 your young friend who doesn’t drink managed to find bottles of wine yesterday in san domenico。 we have not just music。 give me your arm。 no。 first we must chalk the floor and practise。 three main steps—one…two…three—now give me your arm。 what happened to you today？” “he dismantled a large bomb； a difficult one。 let him tell you about it。” the sapper shrugged； not modestly； but as if it was too plicated to explain。 night fell fast； night filled up the
IV South Cairo …
there is； after herodotus； little interest by the western world towards the desert for hundreds of years。 from b。c。 to the beginning of the twentieth century there is an averting of eyes。 silence。 the nineteenth century was an age of river seekers。
and then in the there is a sweet postscript history on this pocket of earth； made mostly by privately funded expeditions and followed by modest lectures given at the geographical society in london at kensington gore。 these lectures are given by sunburned； exhausted men who； like conrad’s sailors； are not too fortable with the etiquette of taxis； the quick； flat wit of bus conductors。
when they travel by local trains from the suburbs towards knightsbridge on their way to society meetings； they are often lost； tickets misplaced； clinging only to their old maps and carrying their lecture notes—which were slowly and painfully written—in their ever present knapsacks which will always be a part of their bodies。 these men of all nations travel at that early evening hour； six o’clock； when there is the light of the solitary。 it is an anonymous time； most of the city is going home。
the explorers arrive too early at kensington gore； eat at the lyons corner house and then enter the geographical society； where they sit in the upstairs hall next to the large maori canoe； going over their notes。 at eight o’clock the talks begin。
every other week there is a lecture。 someone will introduce the talk and someone will give thanks。 the concluding speaker usually argues or tests the lecture for hard currency； is pertinently critical but never impertinent。 the main speakers； everyone assumes； stay close to the facts； and even obsessive assumptions are presented modestly。
my journey through the libyan desert from sokum on the mediterranean to el obeid in the sudan was made over one of the few tracks of the earth’s surface which present a number and variety of interesting geographical problems。。。。
the years of preparation and research and fund…raising are never mentioned in these oak rooms。 the previous week’s lecturer recorded the loss of thirty people in ice in antarctica。 similar losses in extreme heat or windstorm are announced with minimal eulogy。 all human and financial behaviour lies on the far side of the issue being discussed—which is the earth’s surface and its “interesting geographical problems。” can other depressions in this region； besides the much…discussed wadi rayan； be considered possible of utilization in connection with irrigation or drainage of the nile delta？ are the artesian water supplies of the oases gradually diminishing？
where shall we look for the mysterious “zerzura”？ are there any other “lost” oases remaining to be discovered？ where are the tortoise marshes of ptolemy？
john bell； director of desert surveys in egypt； asked these questions in
by the the papers grew even more modest。 “/ should like to add a few remarks on some of the points raised in the interesting discussion on the ‘prehistoric geography of kharga oasis。’ “ by the mid… the lost oasis of zerzura was found by ladislaus de almasy and his panions。
in the great decade of libyan desert expeditions came to an end； and this vast and silent pocket of the earth became one of the theatres of war。
in the arboured bedroom the burned patient views great distances。 the way that dead knight in ravenna； whose marble body seems alive； almost liquid； has his head raised upon a stone pillow； so it can gaze beyond his feet into vista。 farther than the desired rain of africa。 towards all their lives in cairo。 their works and days。
hana sits by his bed； and she travels like a squire beside him during these journeys。
in we had begun mapping the greater part of the gilf kebir plateau； looking for the lost oasis that was called zerzura。
the city of acacias。
we were desert europeans。 john bell had sighted the gilf in
then kemal el din。 then bagnold； who found his way south into the sand sea。 madox； walpole of desert surveys； his excellency wasfi bey； casparius the photographer； dr。
kadar the geologist and bermann。 and the gilf kebir— that large plateau resting in the libyan desert； the size of switzerland； as madox liked to say—was our heart； its escarpments precipitous to the east and west； the plateau sloping gradually to the north。 it rose out of the desert four hundred miles west of the nile。
for the early egyptians there was supposedly no water west of the oasis towns。 the world ended out there。 the interior was waterless。 but in the emptiness of deserts you are always surrounded by lost history。 tebu and senussi tribes had roamed