looked and thought when he played “solitude。” she stopped talking。
he reached the shallow well named ain dua。 he removed all of his clothes and soaked them in the well； put his head and then his thin body into the blue water。 his limbs exhausted from the four nights of walking。 he left his clothes spread on the rocks and climbed up higher into the boulders； climbed out of the desert； which was now； in ； a vast battlefield； and went naked into the darkness of the cave。
he was among the familiar paintings he had found years earlier。 giraffes。 cattle。 the man with his arms raised； in a plumed headdress。 several figures in the unmistakable posture of swimmers。 bermann had been right about the presence of an ancient lake。 he walked farther into the coldness； into the cave of swimmers； where he had left her。 she was still there。
she had dragged herself into a corner； had wrapped herself tight in the parachute material。 he had promised to return for her。
he himself would have been happier to die in a cave； with its privacy； the swimmers caught in the rock around them。
hermann had told him that in asian gardens you could look at rock and imagine water； you could gaze at a still pool and believe it had the hardness of rock。 but she was a woman who had grown up within gardens； among moistness； with words like trellis and hedgehog。 her passion for the desert was temporary。 she’d e to love its sternness because of him； wanting to understand his fort in its solitude。 she was always happier in rain； in bathrooms steaming with liquid air； in sleepy wetness； climbing back in from his window that rainy night in cairo and putting on her clothes while still wet； in order to hold it all。 just as she loved family traditions and courteous ceremony and old memorized poems。 she would have hated to die without a name。 for her there was a line back to her ancestors that was tactile； whereas he had erased the path he had emerged from。 he was amazed she had loved him in spite of such qualities of anonymity in himself。
she was on her back； positioned the way the mediaeval dead lie。
i approached her naked as i would have done in our south cairo room； wanting to undress her； still wanting to love her。
what is terrible in what i did？ don’t we forgive everything of a lover？ we forgive selfishness； desire； guile。 as long as we are the motive for it。 you can make love to a woman with a broken arm； or a woman with fever。 she once sucked blood from a cut on my hand as i had tasted and swallowed her menstrual blood。 there are some european words you can never translate properly into another language。 felhomaly。 the dusk of graves。 with the connotation of intimacy there between the dead and the living。
i lifted her into my arms from the shelf of sleep。 clothing like cobweb。 i disturbed all that。
i carried her out into the sun。 i dressed。 my clothes dry and brittle from the heat in the stones。
my linked hands made a saddle for her to rest on。 as soon as i reached the sand i jostled her around so her body was facing back； over my shoulder。 i was conscious of the airiness of her weight。 i was used to her like this in my arms； she had spun around me in my room like a human reflection of the fan —her arms out； fingers like starfish。
we moved like this towards the northeast gully； where the plane was buried。 i did not need a map。 with me was the tank of petrol i had carried all the way from the capsized truck。 because three years earlier we had been impotent without it。
“what happened three years earlier？” “she had been injured。 in
her husband had crashed his plane。 it had been planned as a suicide…murder by her husband that would involve all three of us。 we were not even lovers at the time。 i suppose information of the affair trickled down to him somehow。” “so she was too wounded to take with you。” “yes。 the only chance to save her was for me to try and reach help alone。” in the cave； after all those months of separation and anger； they had e together and spoken once more as lovers； rolling away the boulder they had placed between themselves for some social law neither had believed in。
in the botanical garden she had banged her head against the gatepost in determination and fury。 too proud to be a lover； a secret。 there would be no partments in her world。 he had turned back to her； his finger raised； i don’t miss you yet。
you will。
during their months of separation he had grown bitter and self…sufficient。 he avoided her pany。 he could not stand her calmness when she saw him。 he phoned her house and spoke to her husband and heard her laughter in the background。 there was a public charm in her that tempted everyone。 this was something he had loved in her。 now he began to trust nothing。
he suspected she had replaced him with another lover。 he interpreted her every gesture to others as a code of promise。 she gripped the front of roundell’s jacket once in a lobby and shook it； laughing at him as he muttered something； and he followed the innocent government aide for two days to see if there was more between them。 he did not trust her last endearments to him anymore。 she was with him or against him。 she was against him。 he couldn’t stand even her tentative smiles at him。 if she passed him a drink he would not drink it。 if at a dinner she pointed to a bowl with a nile lily floating in it he would not look at it。 just another fucking flower。 she had a new group of intimates that excluded him and her husband。 no one goes back to the husband。 he knew that much about love and human nature。
he bought pale brown cigarette papers and glued them into sections of the histories that recorded wars that were of no interest to him。 he wrote down all her arguments against him。 glued into the book—giving himself only the voice of the watcher； the listener； the “he。” during the last days before the war he had gone for a last time to the gilf kebir to clear out the base camp。 her husband was supposed to pick him up。 the husband they had both loved until they began to love each other。
clifton flew up on uweinat to collect him on the appointed day； buzzing the lost oasis so low the acacia shrubs dismantled their leaves in the wake of the plane； the moth slipping into the depressions and cuts—while he stood on the high ridgesignalling with blue tarpaulin。 then the plane pivoted down and came straight towards him； then crashed into the earth fifty yards away。 a blue line of smoke uncoiling from the undercarriage。 there was no fire。
a husband gone mad。 killing all of them。 killing himself and his wife—and him by the fact there was now no way out of the desert。
only she was not dead。 he pulled the body free； carrying it out of the plane’s crumpled grip； this grip of her husband。
how did you hate me？ she whispers in the cave of swimmers； talking through her pain of injuries。 a broken wrist。 shattered ribs。 you were terrible to me。 that’s when my husband suspected you。 i still hate that about you—disappearing into deserts or bars。
you left me in groppi park。
because you didn’t want me as anything else。
because you said your husband was going mad。 well； he went mad。
not for a long time。 i went mad before he did； you killed everything in me。 kiss me； will you。 stop defending yourself。 kiss me and call me by my name。
their bodies had met in perfumes； in sweat； frantic to get under that thin film with a tongue or a tooth； as if they each could grip character there and during love pull it right off the body of the other。
now there is no talcum on her arm； no rose water on her thigh。
you think you are an iconoclast； but you’re not。 you just move； or replace what you cannot have。 if you fail at something you retreat into something else。 nothing changes you。 how many women did you have？ i left you because i knew i could never change you。 you would stand in the room so still sometimes； so wordless sometimes； as if the greatest betrayal of yourself would be to reveal one more inch of your character。 in the cave of swimmers we talked。 we were only two latitudes away from the safety of kufra。
he pauses and holds out his hand。 caravaggio places a morphine tablet into the black palm； and it disappears into the man’s dark mouth。
i crossed the dry bed of the lake towards kufra oasis； carrying nothing but robes against the heat and night cold； my herodotus left behind with her。 and three years later； in ； i walked with her towards the buried plane； carrying her body as if it was the armour of a knight。
in the desert the tools of survival are underground—troglodyte caves； water sleeping within a buried plant； weapons； a plane。
at longitude ； latitude ； i dug down towards the tarpaulin； and madox’s old plane gradually emerged。 it was night and even in the cold air i was sweating。 i carried the naphtha lantern over to her and sat for a while； beside the silhouette of her nod。 two lovers and desert—starlight or moonlight； i don’t remember。 everywhere else out there was a war。
the plane came out of the sand。 there had been no food and i was weak。 the tarp so heavy i couldn’t dig it out but had simply to cut it away。
in the morning； after two hours’ sleep； i ca