The English Patient- 第2部分

your　hands　are　getting　rough；　he　said。　

the　weeds　and　thistles　and　digging。　

be　careful。　i　warned　you　about　the　dangers。　

i　know。　

then　she　began　to　read。　

her　father　had　taught　her　about　hands。　about　a　dog’s　paws。　whenever　her　father　was　alone　with　a　dog　in　a　house　he　would　lean　over　and　smell　the　skin　at　the　base　of　its　paw。　this；　he　would　say；　as　if　ing　away　from　a　brandy　snifter；　is　the　greatest　smell　in　the　world！　a　bouquet！　great　rumours　of　travel！　she　would　pretend　disgust；　but　the　dog’s　paw　was　a　wonder：　the　smell　of　it　never　suggested　dirt。　it’s　a　cathedral！　her　father　had　said；　so…and…so’s　garden；　that　field　of　grasses；　a　walk　through　cyclamen—a　concentration　of　hints　of　all　the　paths　the　animal　had　taken　during　the　day。　

a　scurry　in　the　ceiling　like　a　mouse；　and　she　looked　up　from　the　book　again。　

they　unwrapped　the　mask　of　herbs　from　his　face。　the　day　of　the　eclipse。　they　were　waiting　for　it。　where　was　he？　what　civilisation　was　this　that　understood　the　predictions　of　weather　and　light？　el　ahmar　or　el　abyadd；　for　they　must　be　one　of　the　northwest　desert　tribes。　those　who　could　catch　a　man　out　of　the　sky；　who　covered　his　face　with　a　mask　of　oasis　reeds　knitted　together。　he　had　now　a　bearing　of　grass。　his　favourite　garden　in　the　world　had　been　the　grass　garden　at　kew；　the　colours　so　delicate　and　various；　like　levels　of　ash　on　a　hill。　

he　gazed　onto　the　landscape　under　the　eclipse。　they　had　taught　him　by　now　to　raise　his　arms　and　drag　strength　into　his　body　from　the　universe；　the　way　the　desert　pulled　down　planes。　he　was　carried　in　a　palanquin　of　felt　and　branch。　he　saw　the　moving　veins　of　flamingos　across　his　sight　in　the　half…darkness　of　the　covered　sun。　

always　there　were　ointments；　or　darkness；　against　his　skin。　one　night　he　heard　what　seemed　to　be　wind　chimes　high　in　the　air；　and　after　a　while　it　stopped　and　he　fell　asleep　with　a　hunger　for　it；　that　noise　like　the　slowed…down　sound　from　the　throat　of　a　bird；　perhaps　flamingo；　or　a　desert　fox；　which　one　of　the　men　kept　in　a　sewn…half…closed　pocket　in　his　burnoose。　

the　next　day　he　heard　snatches　of　the　glassy　sound　as　he　lay　once　more　covered　in　cloth。　a　noise　out　of　the　darkness。　at　twilight　the　felt　was　unwrapped　and　he　saw　a　man’s　head　on　a　table　moving　towards　him；　then　realized　the　man　wore　a　giant　yoke　from　which　hung　hundreds　of　small　bottles　on　different　lengths　of　string　and　wire。　moving　as　if　part　of　a　glass　curtain；　his　　　body　enveloped　within　that　sphere。　

the　figure　resembled　most　of　all　those　drawings　of　archangels　he　had　tried　to　copy　as　a　schoolboy；　never　solving　how　one　body　could　have　space　for　the　muscles　of　such　wings。　the　man　moved　with　a　long；　slow　gait；　so　smoothly　there　was　hardly　a　tilt　in　the　bottles。　a　wave　of　glass；　an　archangel；　all　the　ointments　within　the　bottles　warmed　from　the　sun；　so　when　they　were　rubbed　onto　skin　they　seemed　to　have　been　heated　especially　for　a　wound。　behind　him　was　translated　light—blues　and　other　colours　shivering　in　the　haze　and　sand。　the　faint　glass　noise　and　the　diverse　colours　and　the　regal　walk　and　his　face　like　a　lean　dark　gun。　

up　close　the　glass　was　rough　and　sandblasted；　glass　that　had　lost　its　civilisation。　each　bottle　had　a　minute　cork　the　man　plucked　out　with　his　teeth　and　kept　in　his　lips　while　mixing　one　bottle’s　contents　with　another’s；　a　second　cork　also　in　his　teeth。　

he　stood　over　the　supine　burned　body　with　his　wings；　sank　two　sticks　deep　into　the　sand　and　then　moved　away　free　of　the　six…foot　yoke；　which　balanced　now　within　the　crutches　of　the　two　sticks。　he　stepped　out　from　under　his　shop。　he　sank　to　his　knees　and　came　towards　the　burned　pilot　and　put　his　cold　hands　on　his　neck　and　held　them　there。　

he　was　known　to　everyone　along　the　camel　route　from　the　sudan　north　to　giza；　the　forty　days　road。　he　met　the　caravans；　traded　spice　and　liquid；　and　moved　between　oases　and　water　camps。　he　walked　through　sandstorms　with　this　coat　of　bottles；　his　ears　plugged　with　two　other　small　corks　so　he　seemed　a　vessel　to　himself；　this　merchant　doctor；　this　king　of　oils　and　perfumes　and　panaceas；　this　baptist。　he　would　enter　a　camp　and　set　up　the　curtain　of　bottles　in　front　of　whoever　was　sick。　

he　crouched　by　the　burned　man。　he　made　a　skin　cup　with　the　soles　of　his　feet　and　leaned　back　to　pluck；　without　even　looking；　certain　bottles。　with　the　uncorking　of　each　tiny　bottle　the　perfumes　fell　out。　there　was　an　odour　of　the　sea。　the　smell　of　rust。　indigo。　ink。　river…mud　arrow…wood　formaldehyde　paraffin　ether。　the　tide　of　airs　chaotic。　there　were　screams　of　camels　in　the　distance　as　they　picked　up　the　scents。　he　began　to　rub　green…black　paste　onto　the　rib　cage。　it　was　ground　peacock　bone；　bartered　for　in　a　medina　to　the　west　or　the　south—the　most　potent　healer　of　skin。　

between　the　kitchen　and　the　destroyed　chapel　a　door　led　into　an　oval…shaped　library。　the　space　inside　seemed　safe　except　for　a　large　hole　at　portrait　level　in　the　far　wall；　caused　by　mortar…shell　attack　on　the　villa　two　months　earlier。　the　rest　of　the　room　had　adapted　itself　to　this　wound；　accepting　the　habits　of　weather；　evening　stars；　the　sound　of　birds。　there　was　a　sofa；　a　piano　covered　in　a　grey　sheet；　the　head　of　a　stuffed　bear　and　high　walls　of　books。　the　shelves　nearest　the　torn　wall　bowed　with　the　rain；　which　had　doubled　the　weight　of　the　books。　lightning　came　into　the　room　too；　again　and　again；　falling　across　the　covered　piano　and　carpet。　

at　the　far　end　were　french　doors　that　were　boarded　up。　if　they　had　been　open　she　could　have　walked　from　the　library　to　the　loggia；　then　down　thirty…six　penitent　steps　past　the　chapel　towards　what　had　been　an　ancient　meadow；　scarred　now　by　phosphorus　bombs　and　explosions。　the　german　army　had　mined　many　of　the　houses　they　retreated　from；　so　most　rooms　not　needed；　like　this　one；　had　been　sealed　for　safety；　the　doors　hammered　into　their　frames。　

she　knew　these　dangers　when　she　slid　into　the　room；　walking　into　its　afternoon　darkness。　she　stood　conscious　suddenly　of　her　weight　on　the　wooden　floor；　thinking　it　was　probably　enough　to　trigger　whatever　mechanism　was　there。　her　feet　in　dust。　

the　only　light　poured　through　the　jagged　mortar　circle　that　looked　onto　the　sky。　

with　a　crack　of　separation；　as　if　it　were　being　dismantled　from　one　single　unit；　she　pulled　out　the　last　of　the　mohicans　and　even　in　this　half…light　was　cheered　by　the　aquamarine　sky　and　lake　on　the　cover　illustration；　the　indian　in　the　foreground。　and　then；　as　if　there　were　someone　in　the　room　who　was　not　to　be　disturbed；　she　walked　backwards；　stepping　on　her　own　footprints；　for　safety；　but　also　as　part　of　a　private　game；　so　it　would　seem　from　the　steps　that　she　had　entered　the　room　and　then　the　corporeal　body　had　disappeared。　she　closed　the　door　and　replaced　the　seal　of　warning。　

she　sat　in　the　window　alcove　in　the　english　patient’s　room；　the　painted　walls　on　one　side　of　her；　the　valley　on　the　other。　she　opened　the　book。　the　pages　were　joined　together　in　a　stiff　wave。　she　felt　like　crusoe　finding　a　drowned　book　that　had　washed　up　and　dried　itself　on　the　shore。　a　narrative　of　1757。　illustrated　by　n。　c。　wyeth。　as　in　all　of　the　best　books；　there　was　the　important　page　with　the　list　of　illustrations；　a　line　of　text　for　each　of　them。　

she　entered　the　story　knowing　she　would　emerge　from　it　feeling　she　had　been　immersed　in　the　lives　of　others；　in　plots　that　stretched　back　twenty　years；　her　body　full　of　sentences　and　moments；　as　if　awaking　from　sleep　with　a　heaviness　caused　by　unremembered　dreams。　

their　italian　hill　town；　sentinel　to　the　northwest　route；　had　been　besieged　for　more　than　a　month；　the　barrage　focusing　upon　the　two　villas　and　the　monastery　surrounded　by　apple　and　plum　orchards。　there　was　the　villa　medici；　where　the　generals　lived。　

just　above　it　the　villa　san　girolamo；　previously　a　nunnery；　whose　castlelike　battlements　had　made　it　the　last　stronghold　of　the　german　army。　it　had　housed　a　hundred　troops。　as　the　hill　town　began　to　be　torn　apart　like　a　battleship　at　sea；　by　fire　shells；　the　troops　moved　from　the　barrack　tents　in　the　orchard　into　the　now　crowded　bedrooms　of　the　old　nunnery。　sections　of　the　chapel　were　blown　up。　parts　of　the　top　storey　of　the　villa　crumbled　under　explosions。　when　the　allies　finally　took　over　the　building　and　made　it　a　hospital；　the　steps　leading　to　the　third　level　were　sealed　off；　though　a　section　of　chimney　and　roof　survived。　

she　and　the　englishman　had　insisted　on　remaining　behind　when　the　other　nurses　and　patients　moved　to　a　safer　location　in　the　south。　during　this　time　they　were　very　cold；　without　electricity。　some　rooms　faced　onto　the　valley　with　no　walls　at　all。　she　would　open　a　door　and　see　just　a　sodden　bed　huddled　against　a　corner；　covered　with　leaves。　doors　opened　into　landscape。　

some　rooms　had　bee　an　open　aviary。　

the　staircase　had　lost　its　lower　steps　during　the　fire　that　was　set　before　the　soldiers　left。　she　had　gone　into　the　library；　removed　twenty　books　and　nailed　them　to　the　floor　and　then　onto　each　other；　in　this　way　rebuilding　the　two　lowest　steps。　most　of　the　chairs　had　been　used　for　fires。　the　armchair　in　the　library　was　left　there　because　it　was　always　wet；　drenched　by　evening　storms　that　came　in　through　the