s and cogs。
when hana es into the roofless chapel he is sitting there leaning his back and head against the wheel。
kip。
he says nothing； looking through her。
kip； it’s me。 what did we have to do with it？
he is a stone in front of her。
she kneels down to his level and leans forward into him； the side of her head against his chest； holding herself like that。
a beating heart。
when his stillness doesn’t alter she rolls back onto her knees。
the englishman once read me something； from a book： “love is so small it can tear itself through the eye of a needle。” he leans to his side away from her； his face stopping a few inches from a rain puddle。
a boy and a girl。
while the sapper unearthed the motorcycle from under the tarpaulin； caravaggio leaned forward on the parapet； his chin against his forearm。 then he felt he couldn’t bear the mood of the house and walked away。 he wasn’t there when the sapper gunned the motorbike to life and sat on it while it half bucked； alive under him； and hana stood nearby。
singh touched her arm and let the machine roll away； down the slope； and only then revved it to life。
halfway down the path to the gate； caravaggio was waiting for him； carrying the gun。 he didn’t even lift it formally towards the motorbike when the boy slowed down； as caravaggio walked into his path。 caravaggio came up to him and put his arms around him。 a great hug。 the sapper felt the stubble against his skin for the first time。 he felt drawn in； gathered into the muscles。 “i shall have to learn how to miss you；” caravaggio said。 then the boy pulled away and caravaggio walked back to the house。
the machine broke into life around him。 the smoke of the triumph and dust and fine gravel fell away through the trees。 the bike leapt the cattle grid at the gates； and then he was weaving down out of the village； passing the smell of gardens on either side of him that were tacked onto the slopes in their treacherous angle。
his body slipped into a position of habit； his chest parallel with； almost touching； the petrol tank； his arms horizontal in the shape of least resistance。 he went south； avoiding florence pletely。 through greve； across to montevarchi and ambra； small towns ignored by war and invasion。 then； as the new hills appeared； he began to climb the spine of them towards cortona。
he was travelling against the direction of the invasion； as if rewinding the spool of war； the route no longer tense with military。 he took only roads he knew； seeing the familiar castle towns from a distance。 he lay static on the triumph as it burned under him in its tear along the country roads。 he carried little； all weapons left behind。 the bike hurled through each village； not slowing for town or memory of war。 “the earth shall reel to and fro like a drunkard； and shall be removed like a cottage。” she opened up his knapsack。 there was a pistol wrapped in oilskin； so that its smell was released when she uncovered it。
toothbrush and tooth powder； pencil sketches in a notebook； including a drawing of her—she was sitting on the terrace and he had been looking down from the englishman’s room。 two turbans； a bottle of starch。 one sapper lamp with its leather straps； to be worn in emergencies。 she flicked it on and the knapsack filled with crimson light。
in the side pockets she found pieces of equipment to do with bomb disposal； which she didn’t wish to touch。 wrapped up in another small piece of cloth was the metal spile she had given him； which was used for tapping maple sugar out of a tree in her country。
from within the collapsed tent she unearthed a portrait that must have been of his family。 she held the photograph in her palm。 a sikh and his family。
an older brother who was only eleven in this picture。 kip beside him； eight years old。 “when the war came my brother sided with whoever was against the english；” there was also a small handbook that had a map of bombs。 and a drawing of a saint acpanied by a musician。
she packed everything back in except the photograph； which she held in her free hand。 she carried the bag through the trees； walked across the loggia and brought it into the house。
each hour or so he slowed to a stop； spat into the goggles and wiped dust off with the sleeve of his shirt。 he looked into the map again。 he would go to the adriatic； then south。 most of the troops were at the northern borders。
he climbed into cortona； the high…pitched gunning of the bike all around him。 he rode the triumph up the steps to the door of the church and then walked in。 a statue was there； bandaged in scaffold。 he wanted to get closer to the face； but he had no rifle telescope and his body felt too stiff to climb up the construction pipes。 he wandered around underneath like somebody unable to enter the intimacy of a home。 he walked the bike down the church steps； and then coasted down through the shattered vineyards and went on to arezzo。
at sansepolcro he took a winding road into the mountains； into their mist； so he had to slow to minimal speed。 the bocca trabaria。 he was cold but locked the weather out of his mind。 finally the road rose above the whiteness； the mist a bed behind him。 he skirted urbino where the germans had burned all the field horses of the enemy。 they had fought here in this region for a month； now he slid through in minutes； recognizing only the black madonna shrines。 the war had made all the cities and towns similar。
he came down towards the coast。 into gabicce mare； where he had seen the virgin emerge from the sea。 he slept on the hill； overlooking cliff and water； near where the statue had been taken。 that was the end of his first day。
dear clara—dear maman； maman is a french word； clara； a circular word； suggesting cuddles； a personal word that can be even shouted in public。
something as forting and as eternal as a barge。 though you； in spirit； i know are still a canoe。 can swerve one around and enter a creek in seconds。 still independent。 still private。 not a barge responsible for all around you。 this is my first letter in years； clara； and i am not used to the formality of them。 i have spent the last few months living with three others； and our talk has been slow； casual。 i am not used to talking in any way but that now。
the year is …。 what？ for a second i forget。 but i know the month and the day。 one day after we heard the bombs were dropped in japan； so it feels like the end of the world。 from now on i believe the personal will forever be at war with the public。 if we can rationalize this we can rationalize anything。
patrick died in a dove…cot in france。 in france in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries they built them huge； larger than most houses。 like this。
the horizontal line one…third of the way down was called the rat ledge—to stop rats running up the brick； so the doves would be safe。 safe as a dove…cot。 a sacred place。 like a church in many ways。 a forting place。 patrick died in a forting place。
at five a。m。 he kicked the triumph to life； and the rear wheel threw gravel in a skirt。 he was still in darkness； still unable to distinguish sea in the vista beyond the cliff。 for the journey from here to the south he had no maps； but he could recognize the war roads and follow the coast route。 when sunlight came he was able to double his speed。 the rivers were still ahead of him。
around two in the afternoon he reached ortona； where the sappers had laid the bailey bridges； nearly drowning in the storm in mid…river。 it began to rain and he stopped to put on a rubber cape。 he walked around the machine in the wetness。 now； as he travelled； the sound in his ears changed。 the shush shush replacing the whine and howl； the water flung onto his boots from the front wheel。 everything he saw through the goggles was grey。 he would not think of hana。 in all the silence within the bike’s noise he did not think of her。
when her face appeared he erased it； pulled the handlebars so he would swerve and have to concentrate。 if there were to be words they would not be hers； they would be names on this map of italy he was riding through。
he feels he carries the body of the englishman with him in this flight。 it sits on the petrol tank facing him； the black body in an embrace with his； facing the past over his shoulder； facing the countryside they are flying from； that receding palace of strangers on the italian hill which shall never be rebuilt。 “and my words which i have put in thy mouth shall not depart out of thy mouth。 nor out of the mouth of thy seed。 nor out of the mouth of thy seed’s seed。” the voice of the english patient sang isaiah into his ear as he had that afternoon when the boy had spoken of the face on the chapel ceiling in rome。 “there are of course a hundred isaiahs。 someday you will want to see him as an old man—in southern france the abbeys celebrate him as bearded and old； but the power is still there in his look。” the englishman had sung out into the painted room。 “behold； the lord will carry thee away with a mighty captivity； and he will surely cover thee。 he will surely violently turn and toss thee like a ball into a large country。” he was riding deeper into thick rain。 be