。
for the next ten minutes he walks； never sure if the rain will overtake him。 he will hear the rain before he feels it； a clicking on the dry grass； on the olive leaves。 but for now he is in the great refreshing wind of the hill； in the foreground of the storm。
if the rain reaches him before he gets to the villa； he continues walking at the same pace； snaps the rubber cape over his haversack and walks on within it。
in his tent he hears the pure thunder。 sharp cracks of it overhead； a coach…wheel sound as it disappears into the mountains。 a sudden sunlight of lightning through the tent wall； always； it seems to him； brighter than sunlight； a flash of contained phosphorus； something machinelike； to do with the new word he has heard in the theory rooms and through his crystal set； which is “nuclear。” in the tent he unwinds the wet turban； dries his hair and weaves another around his head。
the storm rolls out of piedmont to the south and to the east。 lightning falls upon the steeples of the small alpine chapels whose tableaux reenact the stations of the cross or the mysteries of the rosary。 in the small towns of varese and varallo； larger…than…life terra…cotta figures carved in the ioos are revealed briefly； depicting biblical scenes。 the bound arms of the scourged christ pulled back； the whip ing down； the baying dog； three soldiers in the next chapel tableau raising the crucifix higher towards the painted clouds。
the villa san girolamo； located where it is； also receives such moments of light—the dark halls； the room the englishman lies in； the kitchen where hana is laying a fire； the shelled chapel—all lit suddenly； without shadow。 kip will walk with no qualms under the trees in his patch of garden during such storms； the dangers of being killed by lightning pathetically minimal pared with the danger of his daily life。 the naive catholic images from those hillside shrines that he has seen are with him in the half…darkness； as he counts the seconds between lightning and thunder。 perhaps this villa is a similar tableau； the four of them in private movement； momentarily lit up； flung ironically against this war。
the twelve sappers who remained behind in naples fanned out into the city。 all through the night they have broken into sealed tunnels； descended into sewers； looking for fuze lines that might be linked with the central generators。 they are to drive away at two p。m。； an hour before the electricity is to be turned on。
a city of twelve。 each in separate parts of the town。 one at the generator； one at the reservoir； still diving—the authorities most certain destruction will be caused by flooding。 how to mine a city。 it is unnerving mostly because of the silence。 all they hear of the human world are barking dogs and bird songs that e from apartment windows above the streets。 when the time es； he will go into one of the rooms with a bird。 some human thing in this vacuum。 he passes the museo archeologico nazionale； where the remnants of pompeii and herculaneum are housed。 he has seen the ancient dog frozen in white ash。
the scarlet sapper light strapped to his left arm is turned on as he walks； the only source of light on the strada carbonara。 he is exhausted from the night search； and now there seems little to do。 each of them has a radiophone； but it is to be used only for an emergency discovery。 it is the terrible silence in the empty courtyards and the dry fountains that makes him most tired。
at one p。m。 he traces his way towards the damaged church of san giovanni a carbonara； where he knows there is a chapel of the rosary。 he had been walking through the church a few evenings earlier when lightning filled the darkness； and he had seen large human figures in the tableau。 an angel and a woman in a bedroom。 darkness replaced the brief scene and he sat in a pew waiting； but there was to be no more revelation。
he enters that corner of the church now； with the terracotta figures painted the colour of white humans。 the scene depicts a bedroom where a woman is in conversation with an angel。 the woman’s curly brown hair reveals itself under the loose blue cape； the fingers of her left hand touching her breastbone。 when he steps forward into the room he realizes everything is larger than life。 his own head is no higher than the shoulder of the woman。 the angel’s raised arm reaches fifteen feet in height。 still； for kip； they are pany。 it is an inhabited room； and he walks within the discussion of these creatures that represent some fable about mankind and heaven。
he slips his satchel from his shoulder and faces the bed。 he wants to lie on it； hesitating only because of the presence of the angel。 he has already walked around the ethereal body and noticed the dusty light bulbs attached to its back beneath the dark coloured wings； and he knows in spite of his desire that he could not sleep easily in the presence of such a thing。 there are three pairs of stage slippers； a set designer’s subtlety； peeking out from under the bed。 it is about one…forty。
he spreads his cape on the floor； flattens the satchel into a pillow and lies down on the stone。 most of his childhood in lahore he slept on a mat on the floor of his bedroom。 and in truth he has never gotten accustomed to the beds of the west。 a pallet and an air pillow are all he uses in his tent； whereas in england when staying with lord suffolk he sank claustro…phobically into the dough of a mattress； and lay there captive and awake until he crawled out to sleep on the carpet。
he stretches out beside the bed。 the shoes too； he notices； are larger than life。 the feet of amazonians slip into them。 above his head the tentative right arm of the woman。 beyond his feet the angel。 soon one of the sappers will turn on the city’s electricity； and if he is going to explode he will do so in the pany of these two。 they will die or be secure。 there is nothing more he can do； anyway。 he has been up all night on a final search for caches of dynamite and time cartridges。 walls will crumble around him or he will walk through a city of light。 at least he has found these parental figures。 he can relax in the midst of this mime of conversation。
he has his hands under his head； interpreting a new toughness in the face of the angel he didn’t notice before。 the white flower it holds has fooled him。 the angel too is a warrior。 in the midst of this series of thoughts his eyes close and he gives in to tiredness。
he is sprawled out with a smile on his face； as if relieved finally to be sleeping； the luxuriousness of such a thing。 the palm of his left hand facedown on the concrete。 the colour of his turban echoes that of the lace collar at the neck of mary。
at her feet the small indian sapper； in uniform； beside the silippers。 there seems to be no time here。 each of them has selected the most fortable of positions to forget time。 so we will be remembered by others。 in such smiling fort when we trust our surroundings。 the tableau now； with kip at the feet of the two figures； suggests a debate over his fate。 the raised terra…cotta arm a stay of execution； a promise of some great future for this sleeper； childlike； foreign…born。 the three of them almost at the point of decision； agreement。
under the thin layer of dust the angel’s face has a powerful joy。 attached to its back are the six light bulbs； two of which are defunct。 but in spite of that the wonder of electricity suddenly lights its wings from underneath； so that their blood…red and blue and goldness the colour of mustard fields shine animated in the late afternoon。
wherever hana is now； in the future； she is aware of the line of movement kip’s body followed out of her life。 her mind repeats it。 the path he slammed through among them。 when he turned into a stone of silence in their midst。 she recalls everything of that august day—what the sky was like； the objects on the table in front of her going dark under the thunder。
she sees him in the field； his hands clasped over his head； then realizes this is a gesture not of pain but of his need to hold the earphones tight against his brain。 he is a hundred yards away from her in the lower field when she hears a scream emerge from his body which had never raised its voice among them。 he sinks to his knees； as if unbuckled。 stays like that and then slowly gets up and moves in a diagonal towards his tent； enters it； and closes the flaps behind him。 there is the dry crackle of thunder and she sees her arms darken。
kip emerges from the tent with the rifle。 he es into the villa san girolamo and sweeps past her； moving like a steel ball in an arcade game； through the doorway and up the stairs three steps at a time； his breath metronomed； the hit of his boots against the vertical sections of stairs。 she hears his feet along the hallway as she continues to sit at the table in the kitchen； the book in front of her； the pencil； these objects frozen and shadowed in the pre…storm light。
he enters the bedroom。 he stands at the foot of the bed where the english patient lies。 hello； sapper。
the rifle stock is against his chest； its sling braced against his triangled arm。
what was going on outside？
kip looks condemned； separate from the