drink without a fucking bomb going off。 listen to frank sinatra singing。 we have to get some music；” he says。 “good for your patient。” “he’s still in africa。” he is watching her； waiting for her to say more； but there is nothing more about the english patient to be said。 he mutters。
“some of the english love africa。 a part of their brain reflects the desert precisely。 so they’re not foreigners there。” he sees her head nod slightly。 a lean face with hair cut short； without the mask and mystery of her long hair。 if anything； she seems calm in this universe of hers。 the fountain gurgling in the background； the hawks； the ruined garden of the villa。
maybe this is the way to e out of a war； he thinks。 a burned man to care for； some sheets to wash in a fountain； a room painted like a garden。 as if all that remains is a capsule from the past； long before verdi； the medicis considering a balustrade or window； holding up a candle at night in the presence of an invited architect—the best architect in the fifteenth century—and requesting something more satisfying to frame that vista。
“if you are staying；” she says； “we are going to need more food。 i have planted vegetables； we have a sack of beans； but we need some chickens。” she is looking at caravaggio； knowing his skills from the past； not quite saying it。
“i lost my nerve；” he says。
“i’ll e with you； then；” hana offers。 “we’ll do it together。 you can teach me to steal； show me what to do。” “you don’t understand。 i lost my nerve。” “why？” “i was caught。 they nearly chopped off my rucking hands。” at night sometimes； when the english patient is asleep or even after she has read alone outside his door for a while； she goes looking for caravaggio。 he will be in the garden lying along the stone rim of the fountain looking up at stars； or she will e across him on a lower terrace。 in this early…summer weather he finds it difficult to stay indoors at night。 most of the time he is on the roof beside the broken chimney； but he slips down silently when he sees her figure cross the terrace looking for him。
she will find him near the headless statue of a count； upon whose stub of neck one of the local cats likes to sit； solemn and drooling when humans appear。 she is always made to feel that she is the one who has found him； this man who knows darkness； who when drunk used to claim he was brought up by a family of owls。
two of them on a promontory； florence and her lights in the distance。 sometimes he seems frantic to her； or he will be too calm。 in daylight she notices better how he moves； notices the stiffened arms above the bandaged hands； how his whole body turns instead of just the neck when she points to something farther up the hill。 but she has said nothing about these things to him。
“my patient thinks peacock bone ground up is a great healer。” he looks up into the night sky。 “yes。” “were you a spy then？” “not quite。” he feels more fortable； more disguised from her in the dark garden； a flicker of the lamp from the patient’s room looking down。 “at times we were sent in to steal。 here i was； an italian and a thief。 they couldn’t believe their luck； they were falling over themselves to use me。 there were about four or five of us。 i did well for some time。 then i was accidentally photographed。 can you imagine that？
“i was in a tuxedo； a monkey suit； in order to get into this gathering； a party； to steal some papers。 really i was still a thief。
no great patriot。 no great hero。 they had just made my skills official。 but one of the women had brought a camera and was snapping at the german officers； and i was caught in mid…step； walking across the ballroom。 in mid…step； the beginning of the shutter’s noise making me jerk my head towards it。 so suddenly everything in the future was dangerous。 some general’s girlfriend。
“all photographs taken during the war were processed officially in government labs； checked by the gestapo； and so there i would be； obviously not part of any list； to be filed away by an official when the film went to the milan laboratory。 so it meant having to try and steal that film back somehow。” she looks in on the english patient； whose sleeping body is probably miles away in the desert； being healed by a man who continues to dip his fingers into the bowl made with the joined soles of his feet； leaning forward； pressing the dark paste against the burned face。 she imagines the weight of the hand on her own cheek。
she walks down the hall and climbs into her hammock； giving it a swing as she leaves the ground。
moments before sleep are when she feels most alive； leaping across fragments of the day； bringing each moment into the bed with her like a child with schoolbooks and pencils。 the day seems to have no order until these times； which are like a ledger for her； her body full of stories and situations。 caravag…gio has for instance given her something。 his motive； a drama； and a stolen image。
he leaves the party in a car。 it crunches over the slowly curving gravel path leading out of the grounds； the automobile purring； serene as ink within the summer night。 for the rest of the evening during the villa cosima gathering he had been looking at the photographer； spinning his body away whenever she lifted the camera to photograph in his direction。 now that he knows of its existence he can avoid it。 he moves into the range of her dialogue； her name is anna； mistress to an officer； who will be staying here in the villa for the night and then in the morning will travel north through tuscany。 the death of the woman or the woman’s sudden disappearance will only arouse suspicion。 nowadays anything out of the ordinary is investigated。
four hours later； he runs over the grass in his socks； his shadow curled under him； painted by the moon。 he stops at the gravel path and moves slowly over the grit。 he looks up at the villa cosima； at the square moons of window。 a palace of war…women。
a car beam—like something sprayed out of a hose—lights up the room he is in； and he pauses once again in mid…step； seeing that same woman’s eyes on him； a man moving on top of her； his fingers in her blonde hair。 and she has seen； he knows； even though now he is naked； the same man she photographed earlier in the crowded party； for by accident he stands the same way now； half turned in surprise at the light that reveals his body in the darkness。 the car lights sweep up into a corner of the room and disappear。
then there is blackness。 he doesn’t know whether to move； whether she will whisper to the man fucking her about the other person in the room。 a naked thief。 a naked assassin。 should he move—his hands out to break a neck—towards the couple on the bed？
he hears the man’s lovemaking continue； hears the silence of the woman—no whisper—hears her thinking； her eyes aimed towards him in the darkness。 the word should be think…ering。 caravaggio’s mind slips into this consideration； another syllable to suggest collecting a thought as one tinkers with a half…pleted bicycle。 words are tricky things； a friend of his has told him； they’re much more tricky than violins。 his mind recalls the woman’s blonde hair； the black ribbon in it。
he hears the car turning and waits for another moment of light。 the face that emerges out of the dark is still an arrow upon him。 the light moves from her face down onto the body of the general； over the carpet； and then touches and slides over caravaggio once more。 he can no longer see her。 he shakes his head； then mimes the cutting of his throat。 the camera is in his hands for her to understand。 then he is in darkness again。 he hears a moan of pleasure now from her towards her lover； and he is aware it is her agreement with him。 no words； no hint of irony； just a contract with him； the morse of understanding； so he knows he can now move safely to the verandah and drop out into the night。
finding her room had been more difficult。 he had entered the villa and silently passed the half…lit seventeenth…century murals along the corridors。 somewhere there were bedrooms like dark pockets in a gold suit。 the only way he could get past guards was to be revealed as an innocent。 he had stripped pletely and left his clothes in a flower bed。
he ambles naked up the stairs to the second floor； where the guards are； bending down to laugh at some privacy； so his face is almost at his hip； nudging the guards about his evening’s invitation； alfresco； was that it？ or seduction a cappella~？
one long hall on the third floor。 a guard by the stair and one at the far end twenty yards away； too many yards away。 so a long theatrical walk； and caravaggio now having to perform it； watched with quiet suspicion and scornfully by the two bookended sentries； the ass…and…cock walk； pausing at a section of mural to peer at a painted donkey in a grove。 he leans his head on the wall； almost falling asleep； then walks again； stumbles and immediately pulls himself together into a military gait。
his stray left hand waves to the ceiling of cherubs bum…naked as he is； a salute from a thief； a brief waltz while the mural scene drifts haphazardly past him； castles； black…and…white duomos； uplifted s