The English Patient- 第21部分

the　dream　had　taken　place　in　this　room—his　hand　on　her　neck　（she　touched　it　now）；　his　anger　towards　her　that　she　had　sensed　the　first　few　times　she　had　met　him。　no；　not　anger；　a　lack　of　interest；　irritation　at　a　married　woman　being　among　them。　

they　had　been　bent　over　like　animals；　and　he　had　yoked　her　neck　back　so　she　had　been　unable　to　breathe　within　her　arousal。　

her　husband　brought　her　the　glass　on　a　saucer　but　she　could　not　lift　her　arms；　they　were　shaking；　loose。　he　put　the　glassawkwardly　against　her　mouth　so　she　could　gulp　the　chlorinated　water；　some　ing　down　her　chin；　falling　to　her　stomach。　

when　she　lay　back　she　hardly　had　time　to　think　of　what　she　had　witnessed；　she　fell　into　a　quick　deep　sleep。　

that　had　been　the　first　recognition。　she　remembered　it　sometime　during　the　next　day；　but　she　was　busy　then　and　she　refused　to　nestle　with　its　significance　for　long；　dismissed　it；　it　was　an　accidental　collision　on　a　crowded　night；　nothing　more。　

a　year　later　the　other；　more　dangerous；　peaceful　dreams　came。　and　even　within　the　first　one　of　these　she　recalled　the　hands　at　her　neck　and　waited　for　the　mood　of　calmness　between　them　to　swerve　to　violence。　

who　lays　the　crumbs　of　food　that　tempt　you？　towards　a　person　you　never　considered。　a　dream。　then　later　another　series　of　dreams。　

he　said　later　it　was　propinquity。　propinquity　in　the　desert。　it　does　that　here；　he　said。　he　loved　the　word—the　propinquity　of　water；　the　propinquity　of　two　or　three　bodies　in　a　car　driving　the　sand　sea　for　six　hours。　her　sweating　knee　beside　the　gearbox　of　the　truck；　the　knee　swerving；　rising　with　the　bumps。　in　the　desert　you　have　time　to　look　everywhere；　to　theorize　on　the　choreography　of　all　things　around　you。　

when　he　talked　like　that　she　hated　him；　her　eyes　remaining　polite；　her　mind　wanting　to　slap　him。　she　always　had　the　desire　to　slap　him；　and　she　realized　even　that　was　sexual。　for　him　all　relationships　fell　into　patterns。　you　fell　into　propinquity　or　distance。　just　as；　for　him；　the　histories　in　herodotus　clarified　all　societies。　he　assumed　he　was　experienced　in　the　ways　of　the　world　he　had　essentially　left　years　earlier；　struggling　ever　since　to　explore　a　half…invented　world　of　the　desert。　

at　cairo　aerodrome　they　loaded　the　equipment　into　the　vehicles；　her　husband　staying　on　to　check　the　petrol　lines　of　the　moth　before　the　three　men　left　the　next　morning。　madox　went　off　to　one　of　the　embassies　to　send　a　wire。　and　he　was　going　into　town　to　get　drunk；　the　usual　final　evening　in　cairo；　first　at　madame　badin’s　opera　casino；　and　later　to　disappear　into　the　streets　behind　the　pasha　hotel。　he　would　pack　before　the　evening　began；　which　would　allow　him　to　just　climb　into　the　truck　the　next　morning；　hung　over。　

so　he　drove　her　into　town；　the　air　humid；　the　traffic　bad　and　slow　because　of　the　hour。　

“it’s　so　hot。　i　need　a　beer。　do　you　want　one？”　“no；　i　have　to　arrange　for　a　lot　of　things　in　the　next　couple　of　hours。　you’ll　have　to　excuse　me。”　“that’s　all　right；”　she　said。　“i　don’t　want　to　interfere。”　“i’ll　have　one　with　you　when　i　e　back。”　“in　three　weeks；　right？”　“about　that。”　“i　wish　i　were　going　too。”　he　said　nothing　in　answer　to　that。　they　crossed　the　bulaq　bridge　and　the　traffic　got　worse。　too　many　carts；　too　many　pedestrians　who　owned　the　streets。　he　cut　south　along　the　nile　towards　the　semiramis　hotel；　where　she　was　staying；　just　beyond　the　barracks。　

“you’re　going　to　find　zerzura　this　time；　aren’t　you。”　“i’m　going　to　find　it　this　time。”　he　was　like　his　old　self。　he　hardly　looked　at　her　on　the　drive；　even　when　they　were　stalled　for　more　than　five　minutes　in　one　spot。　

at　the　hotel　he　was　excessively　polite。　when　he　behaved　this　way　she　liked　him　even　less；　they　all　had　to　pretend　this　pose　was　courtesy；　graciousness。　it　reminded　her　of　a　dog　in　clothes。　to　hell　with　him。　if　her　husband　didn’t　have　to　work　with　him　she　would　prefer　not　to　see　him　again。　

he　pulled　her　pack　out　of　the　rear　and　was　about　to　carry　it　into　the　lobby。　

“here；　i　can　take　that。”　her　shirt　was　damp　at　the　back　when　she　got　out　of　the　passenger　seat。　

the　doorman　offered　to　take　the　pack；　but　he　said；　“no；　she　wants　to　carry　it；”　and　she　was　angry　again　at　his　assumption。　

the　doorman　left　them。　she　turned　to　him　and　he　passed　her　the　bag　so　she　was　facing　him；　both　hands　awkwardly　carrying　the　heavy　case　in　front　of　her。　

“so。　good…bye。　good　luck。”　“yes。　i’ll　look　after　them　all。　they’ll　be　safe。”　she　nodded。　she　was　in　shadow；　and　he；　as　if　unaware　of　the　harsh　sunlight；　stood　in　it。　

then　he　came　up　to　her；　closer；　and　she　thought　for　a　moment　he　was　going　to　embrace　her。　instead　he　put　his　right　arm　forward　and　drew　it　in　a　gesture　across　her　bare　neck　so　her　skin　was　touched　by　the　whole　length　of　hisdamp　forearm。　

“good…bye。”　he　walked　back　to　the　truck。　she　could　feel　his　sweat　now；　like　blood　left　by　a　blade　which　the　gesture　of　his　arm　seemed　to　have　imitated。　

she　picks　up　a　cushion　and　places　it　onto　her　lap　as　a　shield　against　him。　“if　you　make　love　to　me　i　won’t　lie　about　it。　if　i　make　love　to　you　i　won’t　lie　about　it。”　she　moves　the　cushion　against　her　heart；　as　if　she　would　suffocate　that　part　of　herself　which　has　broken　free。　

“what　do　you　hate　most？”　he　asks。　

“a　lie。　and　you？”　“ownership；”　he　says。　“when　you　leave　me；　forget　me。”　her　fist　swings　towards　him　and　hits　hard　into　the　bone　just　below　his　eye。　she　dresses　and　leaves。　

each　day　he　would　return　home　and　look　at　the　black　bruise　in　the　mirror。　he　became　curious；　not　so　much　about　the　bruise；　but　about　the　shape　of　his　face。　the　long　eyebrows　he　had　never　really　noticed　before；　the　beginning　of　grey　in　his　sandy　hair。　

he　had　not　looked　at　himself　like　this　in　a　mirror　for　years。　that　was　a　long　eyebrow。　

nothing　can　keep　him　from　her。　

when　he　is　not　in　the　desert　with　madox　or　with　bermann　in　the　arab　libraries；　he　meets　her　in　groppi　park—beside　the　heavily　watered　plum　gardens。　she　is　happiest　here。　she　is　a　woman　who　misses　moisture；　who　has　always　loved　low　green　hedges　and　ferns。　while　for　him　this　much　greenery　feels　like　a　carnival。　

from　groppi　park　they　arc　out　into　the　old　city；　south　cairo；　markets　where　few　europeans　go。　in　his　rooms　maps　cover　the　walls。　and　in　spite　of　his　attempts　at　furnishing　there　is　still　a　sense　of　base　camp　to　his　quarters。　

they　lie　in　each　other’s　arms；　the　pulse　and　shadow　of　the　fan　on　them。　all　morning　he　and　bermann　have　worked　in　the　archaeological　museum　placing　arabic　texts　and　european　histories　beside　each　other　in　an　attempt　to　recognize　echo；　co…incidence；　name　changes—back　past　herodotus　to　the　kitab　al　kanuz；　where　zerzura　is　named　after　the　bathing　woman　in　a　desert　caravan。　and　there　too　the　slow　blink　of　a　fan’s　shadow。　and　here　too　the　intimate　exchange　and　echo　of　childhood　history；　of　scar；　of　manner　of　kiss。　

“i　don’t　know　what　to　do。　i　don’t　know　what　to　do！　how　can　i　be　your　lover？　he　will　go　mad。”　　a　list　of　wounds。　

the　various　colours　of　the　bruise—bright　russet　leading　to　brown。　the　plate　she　walked　across　the　room　with；　flinging　its　contents　aside；　and　broke　across　his　head；　the　blood　rising　up　into　the　straw　hair。　the　fork　that　entered　the　back　of　his　shoulder；　leaving　its　bite　marks　the　doctor　suspected　were　caused　by　a　fox。　

he　would　step　into　an　embrace　with　her；　glancing　first　to　see　what　moveable　objects　were　around。　he　would　meet　her　with　others　in　public　with　bruises　or　a　bandaged　head　and　explain　about　the　taxi　jerking　to　a　halt　so　that　he　had　hit　the　open　side　window。　or　with　iodine　on　his　forearm　that　covered　a　welt。　madox　worried　about　his　being　suddenly　accident…prone。　she　sneered　quietly　at　the　weakness　of　his　explanation。　maybe　it’s　his　age；　maybe　he　needs　glasses；　said　her　husband；　nudging　madox。　maybe　it’s　a　woman　he　met；　she　said。　look；　isn’t　that　a　woman’s　scratch　or　bite？

it　was　a　scorpion；　he　said。　androctonus　australis。　

a　postcard。　neat　handwriting　fills　the　rectangle。　

half　my　days　　cannot　bear　not　to　touch　you。　

the　rest　of　the　time　i　feel　it　doesn’t　matter　　if　i　ever　see　you　again。　it　isn’t　the　morality；　　it　is　how　much　you　can　bear。　

no　date；　no　name　attached。　

sometimes　when　she　is　able　to　spend　the　night　with　him　they　are　wakened　by　the　three　minarets　of　the　city　beginning　their　prayers　before　dawn。　he　walks　with　her　through　the　indigo　markets　that　lie　between　south　cairo　and　her　home。　the　beautiful　songs　of　faith　enter　the　air　like　arrows；　one　minaret　answering　another；　as　if　passing　on　a　rumour　of　the　two　of　them　as　they　walk　through　the　cold　morning　air；　the　smell　of　charcoal　and　hemp　already　making　the　air　profound。　sinners　in　a　holy　city。　

he　sweeps　his　arm　across　plates　and　glasses　on　a　restaurant　table　so　she　might　look　up　somewhere　else　in　the　city　hearing　this　cause　of　noise。　when　he　is　without　her。　he；　who　has　never　felt　alone　in　the　miles　of　longitude　between　desert　towns。　a　man　in　a　desert　can　hold　absence　in　his　cupped　hands　knowing　it　is　something　that　feeds　him　more　than　water。　there　is　a　plant　he　knows　of　near　el　taj；　whose　heart；　if　one　cuts　it　out；　is　replaced　with　a　fluid　containing　herbal　goodness。　every　mo