ng to everything and recording it in case something went wrong。 one spark and kip would be in a shaft of flames。 or there could be a joker in the bomb。 the next person would have to consider the alternatives。
“i’m using the quilter key。” he had pulled it out of his breast pocket。 it was cold and he had to rub it warm。 he began to remove the locking ring。 it moved easily and he told hardy。
“they’re changing guard at buckingham palace；” kip whistled。 he pulled off the locking ring and the locating ring and let them sink into the water。 he could feel them roll slowly at his feet。 it would all take another four minutes。
“alice is marrying one of the guard。 ‘a soldier’s life is terrible hard；’ says alice！” he was singing it out loud； trying to get more warmth into his body； his chest painfully cold。 he kept trying to lean back far enough away from the frozen metal in front of him。 and he had to keep moving his hands up to the back of his neck； where the sun still was； then rub them to free them of the muck and grease and frost。 it was difficult to get the collet to grip the head。
then to his horror the fuze head broke away； came off pletely。
“wrong； hardy。 whole fuze head snapped off。 talk back to me； okay？ the main body of the fuze is jammed down there； i can’t get to it。 there’s nothing exposed i can grip。” “where is the frost at？” hardy was right above him。 it had been a few seconds but he had raced to the shaft。
“six more minutes of frost。” “e up and we’ll blow it up。” “no； pass me down some more oxygen。” he raised his right hand and felt an icy canister being placed in it。
“i’m going to dribble the muck onto the area of exposed fuze —where the head separated—then i’ll cut into the metal。 chip through till i can grip something。 get back now； i’ll talk it through。” he could hardly keep his fury back at what had happened。 the muck； which was their name for oxygen； was going all over his clothes； hissing as it hit the water。 he waited for the frost to appear and then began to shear metal off with a chisel。 he poured more on； waited and chiselled deeper。 when nothing came off he ripped free a bit of his shirt； placed it between the metal and the chisel； and then banged the chisel dangerously with a mallet； chipping off fragments。 the cloth of his shirt his only safety against a spark。 what was more of a problem was the coldness on his fingers。 they were no longer agile； they were inert as the batteries。 he kept cutting sideways into the metal around the lost fuze head。 shaving it off in layers； hoping the freezing would accept this kind of surgery。 if he cut down directly there was always a chance he would hit the percussion cap that flashed the gaine。
it took five more minutes。 hardy had not moved from the top of the pit； instead was giving him the approximate time left in the freezing。 but in truth neither of them could be sure。 since the fuze head had broken off； they were freezing a different area； and the water temperature though cold to him was warmer than the metal。
then he saw something。 he did not dare chip the hole any bigger。 the contact of the circuit quivering like a silver tendril。 if he could reach it。 he tried to rub warmth into his hands。
he breathed out； was still for a few seconds； and with the needle pliers cut the contact in two before he breathed in again。 he gasped as the freeze burned part of his hand when he pulled it back out of the circuits。 the bomb was dead。
“fuze out。 gaine off。 kiss me。” hardy was already rolling up the winch and kip was trying to clip on the halter； he could hardly do it with the burn and the cold； all his muscles cold。 he heard the pulley jerk and just held tight onto the leather straps still half attached around him。 he began to feel his brown legs being pulled from the grip of the mud； removed like an ancient corpse out of a bog。 his small feet rising out of the water。 he emerged； lifted out of the pit into the sunlight； head and then torso。
he hung there； a slow swivel under the tepee of poles that held the pulley。 hardy was now embracing him and unbuckling him simultaneously； letting him free。 suddenly he saw there was a large crowd watching from about twenty yards away； too close； far too close； for safety； they would have been destroyed。 but of course hardy had not been there to keep them back。
they watched him silently； the indian； hanging onto hardy’s shoulder； scarcely able to walk back to the jeep with all the equipment—tools and canisters and blankets and the recording instruments still wheeling around； listening to the nothingness down in the shaft。
“i can’t walk。” “only to the jeep。 a few yards more； sir。 i’ll pick up the rest。” they kept pausing； then walking on slowly。 they had to go past the staring faces who were watching the slight brown man； shoeless； in the wet tunic； watching the drawn face that didn’t recognize or acknowledge anything； any of them。 all of them silent。 just stepping back to give him and hardy room。 at the jeep he started shaking。 his eyes couldn’t stand the glare off the windshield。 hardy had to lift him； in stages； into the passenger seat。
when hardy left； kip slowly pulled off his wet trousers and wrapped himself in the blanket。 then he sat there。 too cold and tired even to unscrew the thermos of hot tea on the seat beside him。 he thought： i wasn’t even frightened down there。 i was just angry—with my mistake； or the possibility that there was a joker。 an animal reacting just to protect myself。
only hardy； he realized； keeps me human now。
when there is a hot day at the villa san girolamo they all wash their hair； first with kerosene to remove the possibility of lice； and then with water。 lying back； his hair spread out； eyes closed against the sun； kip seems suddenly vulnerable。 there is a shyness within him when he assumes this fragile posture； looking more like a corpse from a myth than anything living orhuman。 hana sits beside him； her dark brown hair already dry。 these are the times he will talk about his family and his brother in jail。
he will sit up and flip his hair forward； and begin to rub the length of it with a towel。 she imagines all of asia through the gestures of this one man。 the way he lazily moves； his quiet civilisation。 he speaks of warrior saints and she now feels he is one； stern and visionary； pausing only in these rare times of sunlight to be godless； informal； his head back again on the table so the sun can dry his spread hair like grain in a fan…shaped straw basket。 although he is a man from asia who has in these last years of war assumed english fathers； following their codes like a dutiful son。
“ah； but my brother thinks me a fool for trusting the english。” he turns to her； sunlight in his eyes。 “one day； he says； i will open my eyes。 asia is still not a free continent； and he is appalled at how we throw ourselves into english wars。 it is a battle of opinion we have always had。 ‘one day you will open your eyes；’ my brother keeps saying。” the sapper says this； his eyes closed tight； mocking the metaphor。 “japan is a part of asia； i say； and the sikhs have been brutalized by the japanese in malaya。 but my brother ignores that。 he says the english are now hanging sikhs who are fighting for independence。” she turns away from him； her arms folded。 the feuds of the world。 the feuds of the world。 she walks into the daylight darkness of the villa and goes in to sit with the englishman。
at night； when she lets his hair free； he is once more another constellation； the arms of a thousand equators against his pillow； waves of it between them in their embrace and in their turns of sleep。 she holds an indian goddess in her arms； she holds wheat and ribbons。 as he bends over her it pours。 she can tie it against her wrist。 as he moves she keeps her eyes open to witness the gnats of electricity in his hair in the darkness of the tent。
he moves always in relation to things； beside walls； raised terrace hedges。 he scans the periphery。 when he looks at hana he sees a fragment of her lean cheek in relation to the landscape behind it。 the way he watches the arc of a linnet in terms of the space it gathers away from the surface of the earth。 he has walked up italy with eyes that tried to see everything except what was temporary and human。
the one thing he will never consider is himself。 not his twilit shadow or his arm reaching for the back of a chair or the reflection of himself in a window or how they watch him。 in the years of war he has learned that the only thing safe is himself。
he spends hours with the englishman； who reminds him of a fir tree he saw in england； its one sick branch； too weighted down with age； held up by a crutch made out of another tree。 it stood in lord suffolk’s garden on the edge of the cliff； overlooking the bristol channel like a sentinel。 in spite of such infirmity he sensed the creature within it was noble； with a memory whose power rainbowed beyond ailment。
he himself has no mirrors he wraps his turban outside in his garden； looking about at the moss on trees。 but he notices the swath scissors have made in hana’s hair。 he is familiar with her breath when he places his fac