he table wood。
“hana；” he said； and she stilled herself as if she could be camouflaged by stillness。 “hana。” she began to moan so the sound would be a barrier between them； a river across which she could not be reached。
he was uncertain at first about touching her in her nakedness； said “hana；” and then lay his bandaged hand on her shoulder。
she did not stop shaking。 the deepest sorrow； he thought。 where the only way to survive is to excavate everything。
she raised herself； her head down still； then stood up against him as if dragging herself away from the magnet of the table。
“dont touch me if youre going to try and fuck me。” the skin pale above her skirt； which was all she wore in this kitchen； as if she had risen from the bed； dressed partially and e out here； the cool air from the hills entering the kitchen doorway and cloaking her。 her face was red and wet。
“hana。” “do you understand？” “why do you adore him so much？” “i love him。” “you dont love him； you adore him。” “go away； caravaggio。 please。” “youve tied yourself to a corpse for some reason。” “he is a saint。 i think。 a despairing saint。 are there such things？ our desire is to protect them。” “he doesnt even care！” “i can love him。” “a twenty…year…old who throws herself out of the world to love a ghost！” caravaggio paused。 “you have to protect yourself from sadness。 sadness is very close to hate。 let me tell you this。 this is the thing i learned。 if you take in someone elses poison— thinking you can cure them by sharing it—you will instead store it within you。 those men in the desert were smarter than you。 they assumed he could be useful。 so they saved him； but when he was no longer useful they left him。” “leave me alone。” when she is solitary she will sit； aware of the nerve at her ankle； damp from the long grasses of the orchard。 she peels a plum from the orchard that she has found and carried in the dark cotton pocket of her dress。 when she is solitary she tries to imagine who might e along the old road under the green hood of the eighteen cypress trees。
as the englishman wakes she bends over his body and places a third of the plum into his mouth。 his open mouth holds it； like water； the jaw not moving。 he looks as if he will cry from this pleasure。 she can sense the plum being swallowed。
he brings his hand up and wipes from his lip the last dribble； which his tongue cannot reach； and puts his finger in his mouth to suck it。 let me tell you about plums； he says。 when i was a boy。。。
after the first nights； after most of the beds had been burned for fuel against the cold； she had taken a dead man’s hammock and begun to use it。 she would bang spikes into whatever walls she desired； whichever room she wanted to wake in； floating above all the filth and cordite and water on the floors； the rats that had started to appear ing down from the third storey。
each night she climbed into the khaki ghostline of hammock she had taken from a dead soldier； someone who had died under her care。
a pair of tennis shoes and a hammock。 what she had taken from others in this war。 she would wake under the slide of moonlight on the ceiling； wrapped in an old shirt she always slept in； her dress hanging on a nail by the door。 there was more heat now； and she could sleep this way。 before； when it had been cold； they had had to burn things。
her hammock and her shoes and her frock。 she was secure in the miniature world she had built； the two other men seemed distant planets； each in his own sphere of memory and solitude。 caravaggio； who had been her father’s gregarious friend in canada； in those days was capable of standing still and causing havoc within the caravan of women he seemed to give himself over to。 he now lay in his darkness。 he had been a thief who refused to work with men； because he did not trust them； who talked with men but who preferred talking to women and when he began talking to women was soon caught in the nets of relationship。 when she would sneak home in the early hours of the morning she would find him asleep on her father’s armchair； exhausted from professional or personal robberies。
she thought about caravaggio—some people you just had to embrace； in some way or another； had to bite into the muscle； to remain sane in their pany。 you needed to grab their hair and clutch it like a drowner so they would pull you into their midst。 otherwise they； walking casually down the street towards you； almost about to wave； would leap over a wall and be gone for months。 as an uncle he had been a disappearer。
caravaggio would disturb you by simply enfolding you in his arms； his wings。 with him you were embraced by character。
but now he lay in darkness； like her； in some outpost of the large house。 so there was caravaggio。 and there was the desert englishman。
throughout the war； with all of her worst patients； she survived by keeping a coldness hidden in her role as nurse。 i will survive this。 i won’t fall apart at this。 these were buried sentences all through her war； all through the towns they crept towards and through； urbino； anghiari； monterchi； until they entered florence and then went farther and finally reached the other sea near pisa。
in the pisa hospital she had seen the english patient for the first time。 a man with no face。 an ebony pool。 all identification consumed in a fire。 parts of his burned body and face had been sprayed with tannic acid； that hardened into a protective shell over his raw skin。 the area around his eyes was coated with a thick layer of gentian violet。 there was nothing to recognize in him。
sometimes she collects several blankets and lies under them； enjoying them more for their weight than for the warmth they bring。 and when moonlight slides onto the ceiling it wakes her； and she lies in the hammock； her mind skating。 she finds rest as opposed to sleep the truly pleasurable state。 if she were a writer she would collect her pencils and notebooks and favourite cat and write in bed。 strangers and lovers would never get past the locked door。
to rest was to receive all aspects of the world without judgement。 a bath in the sea； a fuck with a soldier who never knew your name。 tenderness towards the unknown and anonymous； which was a tenderness to the self。
her legs move under the burden of military blankets。 she swims in their wool as the english patient moved in his cloth placenta。
what she misses here is slow twilight； the sound of familiar trees。 all through her youth in toronto she learned to read the summer night。 it was where she could be herself； lying in a bed； stepping onto a fire escape half asleep with a cat in her arms。
in her childhood her classroom had been caravaggio。 he had taught her the somersault。 now； with his hands always in his pockets； he just gestures with his shoulders。 who knew what country the war had made him live in。 she herself had been trained at women’s college hospital and then sent overseas during the sicilian invasion。 that was in
the first canadian infantry division worked its way up italy； and the destroyed bodies were fed back to the field hospitals like mud passed back by tunnellers in the dark。 after the battle of arezzo； when the first barrage of troops recoiled； she was surrounded day and night by their wounds。 after three full days without rest； she finally lay down on the floor beside a mattress where someone lay dead； and slept for twelve hours； closing her eyes against the world around her。
when she woke； she picked up a pair of scissors out of the porcelain bowl； leaned over and began to cut her hair； not concerned with shape or length； just cutting it away—the irritation of its presence during the previous days still in her mind—when she had bent forward and her hair had touched blood in a wound。 she would have nothing to link her； to lock her； to death。 she gripped what was left to make sure there were no more strands and turned again to face the rooms full of the wounded。
she never looked at herself in mirrors again。 as the war got darker she received reports about how certain people she had known had died。 she feared the day she would remove blood from a patient’s face and discover her father or someone who had served her food across a counter on danforth avenue。 she grew harsh with herself and the patients。 reason was the only thing that might save them； and there was no reason。 the thermometer of blood moved up the country。 where was and what was toronto anymore in her mind？ this was treacherous opera。 people hardened against those around them—soldiers； doctors； nurses； civilians。 hana bent closer to the wounds she cared for； her mouth whispering to soldiers。
she called everyone “buddy；” and laughed at the song that had the lines each time i chanced to see franklin d。
he always said “hi； buddy” to me。
she swabbed arms that kept bleeding。 she removed so many pieces of shrapnel she felt she’d transported a ton of metal out of the huge body of the human that she was caring for while the army travelled north。 one night when one of the patients died she ignored all rules and took the pair of tennis shoes he had with him in his pack and put them on。 they were slight