ntly turn and toss thee like a ball into a large country。” he was riding deeper into thick rain。 because he had loved the face on the ceiling he had loved the words。 as he had believed in the burned man and the meadows of civilisation he tended。 isaiah and jeremiah and solomon were in the burned man’s bedside book； his holy book； whatever he had loved glued into his own。 he had passed his book to the sapper； and the sapper had said we have a holy book too。
the rubber lining on the goggles had cracked during the past months and the rain now began filling each pocket of air in front of his eyes。 he would ride without them； the shush shush a permanent sea in his ears； and his crouched body stiff； cold； so there was only the idea of heat from this machine he rode so intimately； the white spray of it as he slid through villages like a slipping star； a half…second of visitation when one could make a wish。 “for the heavens shall vanish away like smoke and the earth shall wax old like a garment。 and they that dwell therein shall die in like manner。 for the moth shall eat them up like a garment； and the worms shall eat them like wool。” a secret of deserts from uweinat to hiroshima。
he was removing the goggles as he came out of the curve and onto the bridge over the ofanto river。 and with his left arm up holding the goggles free he began to skid。 he dropped them and calmed the bike but was not prepared for the iron bounce onto the lip of the bridge； the bike lying down to the right underneath him。 he was suddenly sliding with it along the skin of rainwater down the centre of the bridge； blue sparks from the scratching metal around his arms and face。
heavy tin flew off and shouldered past him。 then he and the bike veered to the left； there was no side to the bridge； and they hurtled out parallel to the water； he and the bike sideways； his arms flung back above his head。 the cape released itself away from him； from whatever was machine and mortal； part of the element of air。
the motorbike and the soldier stilled in midair； then pivoted down into the water； the metal body between his legs as they slammed into it； jarring a white path through it； disappearing； the rain too entering the river。 “he will toss thee like a ball into a large country。” how did patrick end up in a dove…cot； clara？ his unit had left him； burned and wounded。 so burned the buttons of his shirt were part of his skin； part of his dear chest。 that i kissed and you kissed。 and how was my father burned？ he who could swerve like an eel； or like your canoe； as if charmed； from the real world。 in his sweet and plicated innocence。 he was the most unverbal of men； and i am always surprised women liked him。 we tend to like a verbal man around us。 we are the rationalists； the wise； and he was often lost； uncertain； unspoken。
he was a burned man and i was a nurse and i could have nursed him。 do you understand the sadness of geography？ i could have saved him or at least been with him till the end。 i know a lot about burning。 how long was he alone with doves and rats？
with the last stages of blood and life in him？ doves over him。 the flutter when they thrashed around him。 unable to sleep in the darkness。 he always hated darkness。 and he was alone； without lover or kin。
i am sick of europe； clara。 want to e home。 to your small cabin and pink rock in georgian bay。 i will take a bus up to parry sound。 and from the mainland send a message over the shortwave radio out towards the pancakes。 and wait for you；wait to see the silhouette of you in a canoe ing to rescue me from this place we all entered； betraying you。 how did you bee so smart？ how did you bee so determined？ how were you not fooled like us？ you that demon for pleasure who became so wise。 the purest among us； the darkest bean； the greenest leaf。
hana the sapper’s bare head es out of the water； and he gasps in all the air above the river。
caravaggio has made a one…strand bridge with hemp rope down to the roof of the next villa。 the rope is tightened at this end round the waist of the statue of demetrius and then secured to the well。 the rope barely higher than the tops of the two olive trees along his path。 if he loses his balance he will fall into the rough dusty arms of the olive。
he steps onto it； his socked feet gripping the hemp。 how valuable is that statue？ he once asked hana casually； and she told him the english patient had said all statues of demetrius were worthless。
she seals the letter and stands up； moves across the room to close the window； and at that moment lightning slips through the valley。 she sees caravaggio in midair halfway across the gorge that lies like a deep scar alongside the villa。 she stands there as if in one of her dreams； then climbs into the window alcove and sits there looking out。
every time there is lightning； rain freezes in the suddenly lit night。 she sees the buzzard hawks flung up into the sky； looks for caravaggio。
he is halfway across when he smells the rain； and then it begins to fall all over his body； clinging to him； and suddenly there is the greater weight of his clothes。
she puts her cupped palms out of the window and bs the rain into her hair。
the villa drifts in darkness。 in the hallway by the english patient’s bedroom the last candle burns； still alive in the night。
whenever he opens his eyes out of sleep； he sees the old wavering yellow light。
for him now the world is without sound； and even light seems an unneeded thing。 he will tell the girl in the morning he wants no candle flame to acpany him while he sleeps。
around three a。m。 he feels a presence in the room。 he sees； for a pulse of a moment； a figure at the foot of his bed； against the wall or painted onto it perhaps； not quite discernible in the darkness of foliage beyond the candlelight。 he mutters something； something he had wanted to say； but there is silence and the slight brown figure； which could be just a night shadow； does not move。 a poplar。 a man with plumes。 a swimming figure。 and he would not be so lucky； he thinks； to speak to the young sapper again。
he stays awake in any case this night； to see if the figure moves towards him。 ignoring the tablet that brings painless…ness； he will remain awake till the light dies out and the smell of candle smoke drifts into his room and into the girl’s room farther down the hall。 if the figure turns around there will be paint on his back； where he slammed in grief against the mural of trees。
when the candle dies out he will be able to see this。 his hand reaches out slowly and touches his book and returns to his dark chest。 nothing else moves in the room。
now where does he sit as he thinks of her？ these years later。 a stone of history skipping over the water； bouncing up so she and he have aged before it touches the surface again and sinks。
where does he sit in his garden thinking once again he should go inside and write a letter or go one day down to the telephone depot； fill out a form and try to contact her in another country。 it is this garden； this square patch of dry cut grass that triggers him back to the months he spent with hana and caravaggio and the english patient north of florence in the villa san girolamo。 he is a doctor； has two children and a laughing wife。 he is permanently busy in this city。 at six p。m。 he removes his white lab coat。 underneath he wears dark trousers and a short…sleeved shirt。 he closes up the clinic； where all the paperwork has weights of various kinds—stones； inkpots； a toy truck his son no longer plays with—to keep it from being blown away by the fan。 he climbs onto his bicycle and pedals the four miles home； through the bazaar。 whenever he can he swerves his bicycle over to the shadowed part of the street。 he has reached an age when he suddenly realizes that the sun of india exhausts him。
he glides under the willows by the canal and then stops at a small neighbourhood of houses； removes his cycle clips and carries the bicycle down the steps into the small garden his wife has nurtured。
and something this evening has brought the stone out of the water and allowed it to move back within the air towards the hill town in italy。 it was perhaps the chemical burn on the arm of the girl he treated today。 or the stone stairway； where brown weeds grow ardently along the steps。 he had been carrying his bicycle and was halfway up the steps before he remembered。
this had been on the way to work； so the trigger of memory was postponed when he got to the hospital and ran into seven hours of constant patients and administration。 or it might have been the burn on the young girl’s arm。 he sits in the garden。
and he watches hana； her hair longer； in her own country。 and what does she do？ he sees her always； her face and body； but he doesn’t know what her profession is or what her circumstances are； although he sees her reactions to people around her； her bending down to children； a white fridge door behind her； a background of noiseless tram cars。 this is a limited gift he has somehow been given； as if a camera’s film reveals her； but only her； in silence。 he cannot discern the pany she moves among； her judgement； all he can witness is her character