The English Patient- 第43部分

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　world；　his　brown　face　weeping。　the　body　turns　and　fires　into　the　old　fountain；　and　the　plaster　explodes　dust　onto　the　bed。　he　pivots　back　so　the　rifle　points　at　the　englishman。　he　begins　to　shudder；　and　then　everything　in　him　tries　to　control　that。　

put　down　the　gun；　kip。　

he　slams　his　back　against　the　wall　and　stops　his　shaking。　plaster　dust　in　the　air　around　them。　

i　sat　at　the　foot　of　this　bed　and　listened　to　you；　uncle。　these　last　months。　when　i　was　a　kid　i　did　that；　the　same　thing。　i　believed　i　could　fill　myself　up　with　what　older　people　taught　me。　i　believed　i　could　carry　that　knowledge；　slowly　altering　it；　but　in　any　case　passing　it　beyond　me　to　another。　

i　grew　up　with　traditions　from　my　country；　but　later；　more　often；　from　your　country。　your　fragile　white　island　that　with　customs　and　manners　and　books　and　prefects　and　reason　somehow　converted　the　rest　of　the　world。　you　stood　for　precise　behaviour。　i　knew　if　i　lifted　a　teacup　with　the　wrong　finger　i’d　be　banished。　if　i　tied　the　wrong　kind　of　knot　in　a　tie　i　was　out。　

was　it　just　ships　that　gave　you　such　power？　was　it；　as　my　brother　said；　because　you　had　the　histories　and　printing　presses？

you　and　then　the　americans　converted　us。　with　your　missionary　rules。　and　indian　soldiers　wasted　their　lives　as　heroes　so　they　could　be　pukkah。　you　had　wars　like　cricket。　how　did　you　fool　us　into　this？　here。。。　listen　to　what　you　people　have　done。　

he　throws　the　rifle　on　the　bed　and　moves　towards　the　englishman。　the　crystal　set　is　at　his　side；　hanging　off　his　belt。　he　unclips　it　and　puts　the　earphones　over　the　black　head　of　the　patient；　who　winces　at　the　pain　on　his　scalp。　but　the　sapper　leaves　them　on　him。　then　he　walks　back　and　picks　up　the　rifle。　he　sees　hana　at　the　door。　

one　bomb。　then　another。　hiroshima。　nagasaki。　

he　swerves　the　rifle　towards　the　alcove。　the　hawk　in　the　valley　air　seems　to　float　intentionally　into　the　v　sight。　if　he　closes　his　eyes　he　sees　the　streets　of　asia　full　of　fire。　it　rolls　across　cities　like　a　burst　map；　the　hurricane　of　heat　withering　bodies　as　it　meets　them；　the　shadow　of　humans　suddenly　in　the　air。　this　tremor　of　western　wisdom。　

he　watches　the　english　patient；　earphones　on；　the　eyes　focused　inwards；　listening。　the　rifle　sight　moves　down　the　thin　nose　to　the　adam’s　apple；　above　the　collarbone。　kip　stops　breathing。　braced　at　exact　right　angles　to　the　enfield　rifle。　no　waver。　

then　the　englishman’s　eyes　look　back　at　him。　

sapper。　

caravaggio　enters　the　room　and　reaches　for　him；　and　kip　wheels　the　butt　of　the　rifle　into　his　ribs。　a　swat　from　the　paw　of　an　animal。　and　then；　as　if　part　of　the　same　movement；　he　is　back　in　the　braced　right…angle　position　of　those　in　firing　squads；　drilled　into　him　in　various　barracks　in　india　and　england。　the　burned　neck　in　his　sights。　

kip；　talk　to　me。　

now　his　face　is　a　knife。　the　weeping　from　shock　and　horror　contained；　seeing　everything；　all　those　around　him；　in　a　differ…ent　light。　night　could　fall　between　them；　fog　could　fall；　and　the　young　man’s　dark　brown　eyes　would　reach　the　new　revealed　enemy。　

my　brother　told　me。　never　turn　your　back　on　europe。　the　deal　makers。　the　contract　makers。　the　map　drawers。　never　trust　europeans；　he　said。　never　shake　hands　with　them。　but　we；　oh；　we　were　easily　impressed—by　speeches　and　medals　and　your　ceremonies。　what　have　i　been　doing　these　last　few　years？　cutting　away；　defusing；　limbs　of　evil。　for　what？　for　this　to　happen？

what　is　it？　jesus；　tell　us！i’ll　leave　you　the　radio　to　swallow　your　history　lesson。　don’t　move　again；　caravaggio。　all　those　speeches　of　civilisation　from　kings　and　queens　and　presidents。。。　such　voices　of　abstract　order。　smell　it。　listen　to　the　radio　and　smell　the　celebration　in　it。　in　my　country；　when　a　father　breaks　justice　in　two；　you　kill　the　father。　

you　don’t　know　who　this　man　is。　

the　rifle　sight　unwavering　at　the　burned　neck。　then　the　sapper　swerves　it　up　towards　the　man’s　eyes。　

do　it；　almasy　says。　

the　eyes　of　the　sapper　and　the　patient　meet　in　this　half…dark　room　crowded　now　with　the　world。　

he　nods　to　the　sapper。　

do　it；　he　says　quietly。　

kip　ejects　the　cartridge　and　catches　it　as　it　begins　to　fall。　he　throws　the　rifle　onto　the　bed；　a　snake；　its　venom　collected。　he　sees　hana　on　the　periphery。　

the　burned　man　untugs　the　earphones　off　his　head　and　slowly　places　them　down　in　front　of　him。　then　his　left　hand　reaches　up　and　pulls　away　the　hearing　aid；　and　drops　it　to　the　floor。　

do　it；　kip。　i　don’t　want　to　hear　any　more。　

he　closes　his　eyes。　slips　into　darkness；　away　from　the　room。　

the　sapper　leans　against　the　wall；　his　hands　folded；　head　down。　caravaggio　can　hear　air　being　breathed　in　and　out　of　his　nostrils；　fast　and　hard；　a　piston。　

he　isn’t　an　englishman。　

american；　french；　i　don’t　care。　when　you　start　bombing　the　brown　races　of　the　world；　you’re　an　englishman。　you　had　king　leopold　of　belgium　and　now　you　have　fucking　harry　truman　of　the　usa。　you　all　learned　it　from　the　english。　

no。　not　him。　mistake。　of　all　people　he　is　probably　on　your　side。　

he　would　say　that　doesn’t　matter；　hana　says。　

caravaggio　sits　down　in　the　chair。　he　is　always；　he　thinks；　sitting　in　this　chair。　in　the　room　there　is　the　thin　squawking　from　the　crystal　set；　the　radio　still　speaking　in　its　underwater　voice。　he　cannot　bear　to　turn　and　look　at　the　sapper　or　look　towards　the　blur　of　hana’s　frock。　he　knows　the　young　soldier　is　right。　they　would　never　have　dropped　such　a　bomb　on　a　white　nation。　

the　sapper　walks　out　of　the　room；　leaving　caravaggio　and　hana　by　the　bed。　he　has　left　the　three　of　them　to　their　world；　is　no　longer　their　sentinel。　in　the　future；　if　and　when　the　patient　dies；　caravaggio　and　the　girl　will　bury　him。　let　the　dead　bury　the　dead。　he　has　never　been　sure　what　that　meant。　those　few　callous　words　in　the　bible。　

they　will　bury　everything　except　the　book。　the　body；　the　sheets；　his　clothes；　the　rifle。　soon　he　will　be　alone　with　hana。　and　the　motive　for　all　this　on　the　radio。　a　terrible　event　emerging　out　of　the　shortwave。　a　new　war。　the　death　of　a　civilisation。　

still　night。　he　can　hear　nighthawks；　their　faint　cries；　the　muted　thud　of　wings　as　they　turn。　the　cypress　trees　rise　over　his　tent；　still　on　this　windless　night。　he　lies　back　and　stares　into　the　dark　corner　of　the　tent。　when　he　closes　his　eyes　he　sees　fire；　people　leaping　into　rivers　into　reservoirs　to　avoid　flame　or　heat　that　within　seconds　burns　everything；　whatever　they　hold；　their　own　skin　and　hair；　even　the　water　they　leap　into。　the　brilliant　bomb　carried　over　the　sea　in　a　plane；　passing　the　moon　in　the　east；　towards　the　green　archipelago。　and　released。　

he　has　not　eaten　food　or　drunk　water；　is　unable　to　swallow　anything。　before　light　failed　he　stripped　the　tent　of　all　military　objects；　all　bomb　disposal　equipment；　stripped　all　insignia　off　his　uniform。　before　lying　down　he　undid　the　turban　and　bed　his　hair　out　and　then　tied　it　up　into　a　topknot　and　lay　back；　saw　the　light　on　the　skin　of　the　tent　slowly　disperse；　his　eyes　holding　onto　the　last　blue　of　light；　hearing　the　drop　of　wind　into　windlessness　and　then　hearing　the　swerve　of　the　hawks　as　their　wings　thudded。　and　all　the　delicate　noises　of　the　air。　

he　feels　all　the　winds　of　the　world　have　been　sucked　into　asia。　he　steps　away　from　the　many　small　bombs　of　his　career　towards　a　bomb　the　size；　it　seems；　of　a　city；　so　vast　it　lets　the　living　witness　the　death　of　the　population　around　them。　he　knows　nothing　about　the　weapon。　whether　it　was　a　sudden　assault　of　metal　and　explosion　or　if　boiling　air　scoured　itself　towards　and　through　anything　human。　all　he　knows　is；　he　feels　he　can　no　longer　let　anything　approach　him；　cannot　eat　the　food　or　even　drink　from　a　puddle　on　a　stone　bench　on　the　terrace。　he　does　not　feel　he　can　draw　a　mateh　out　of　his　bag　and　fire　the　lamp；　for　he　believes　the　lamp　will　ignite　everything。　in　the　tent；　before　the　light　evaporated；　he　had　brought　out　the　photograph　of　his　family　and　gazed　at　it。　his　name　is　kirpal　singh　and　he　does　not　know　what　he　is　doing　here。　

he　stands　now　under　the　trees　in　the　august　heat；　untur…banned；　wearing　only　a　kurta。　he　carries　nothing　in　his　hands；　just　walks　alongside　the　outline；of　hedges；　his　bare　feet　on　the　grass　or　on　terrace　stone　or　in　the　ash　of　an　old　bonfire。　his　body　alive　in　its　sleeplessness；　standing　on　the　edge　of　a　great　valley　of　europe。　

in　the　early　morning　she　sees　him　standing　beside　the　tent。　during　the　evening　she　had　watched　for　some　light　among　the　trees。　each　of　them　in　the　villa　had　eaten　alone　that　night；　the　englishman　eating　nothing。　now　she　sees　the　sapper’s　arm　sweep　out　and　the　canvas　walls　collapse　on　themselves　like　a　sail。　he　turns　and　es　towards　the　house；　climbs　the　steps　onto　the　terrace　and　disappears。　

in　the　chapel　he　moves　past　the　burned　pews　towards　the　apse；　where　under　a　tarpaulin　weighted　down　with　branches　is　the　motorbike。　he　begins　dragging　the　covering　off　the　machine。　he　crouches　down　by　the　bike　and　begins　nuzzling　oil　into　the　sprockets　and　cogs。　

when　hana　es　into　the　roofl