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light was pouring into the river。 he swam up to the surface； parts of which were on fire。
when he told hana the story later that evening she said； “they stopped torturing you because the allies were ing。 the germans were getting out of the city； blowing up bridges as they left。” “i don’t know。 maybe i told them everything。 whose head was it？ there were constant phone calls into that room。 there would be a hush； and the man would pull back from me； and all of them would watch him on the phone listening to the silence of the other voice； which we could not hear。 whose voice？ whose head？” “they were leaving； david。” she opens the last of the mohicans to the blank page at the back and begins to write in it。
there is a man named caravaggio； a friend of my father’s。 i have always loved him。 he is older than i am； about forty…five； think。 he is in a time of darkness； has no confidence。 for some reason i am cared for by this friend of my father。
she closes the book and then walks down into the library and conceals it in one of the high shelves。
the englishman was asleep； breathing through his mouth as he always did； awake or asleep。 she got up from her chair and gently pulled free the lit candle held in his hands。 she walked to the window and blew it out there； so the smoke went out of the room。 she disliked his lying there with a candle in his hands； mocking a deathlike posture； wax falling unnoticed onto his wrist。 as if he was preparing himself； as if he wanted to slip into his own death by imitating its climate and light。
she stood by the window and her fingers clutched the hair on her head with a tough grip； pulling it。 in darkness； in any light after dusk； you can slit a vein and the blood is black。
she needed to move from the room。 suddenly she was claustrophobic； untired。 she strode down the hall and leapt down the stairs and went out onto the terrace of the villa； then looked up； as if trying to discern the figure of the girl she had stepped away from。 she walked back into the building。 she pushed at the stiff swollen door and came into the library and then removed the boards from the french doors at the far end of the room； opening them； letting in the night air。 where caravaggio was； she didn’t know。 he was out most evenings now； usually returning a few hours before dawn。 in any case there was no sign of him。
she grabbed the grey sheet that covered the piano and walked away to a corner of the room hauling it in after her； a winding…cloth； a net of fish。
no light。 she heard a far grumble of thunder。
she was standing in front of the piano。 without looking down she lowered her hands and started to play； just chording sound； reducing melody to a skeleton。 she paused after each set of notes as if bringing her hands out of water to see what she had caught； then continued； placing down the main bones of the tune。 she slowed the movements of her fingers even more。 she was looking down as two men slipped through the french doors and placed their guns on the end of the piano and stood in front of her。 the noise of chords still in the air of the changed room。
her arms down her sides； one bare foot on the bass pedal； continuing with the song her mother had taught her； that she practised on any surface； a kitchen table； a wall while she walked upstairs； her own bed before she fell asleep。 they had had no piano。 she used to go to the munity centre on saturday mornings and play there； but all week she practised wherever she was； learning the chalked notes that her mother had drawn onto the kitchen table and then wiped off later。 this was the first time she had played on the villa’s piano； even though she had been here for three months； her eye catching its shape on her first day there through the french doors。 in canada pianos needed water。 you opened up the back and left a full glass of water； and a month later the glass would be empty。 her father had told her about the dwarfs who drank only at pianos； never in bars。 she had never believed that but had at first thought it was perhaps mice。
a lightning flash across the valley； the storm had been ing all night； and she saw one of the men was a sikh。 now she paused and smiled； somewhat amazed； relieved anyway； the cyclorama of light behind them so brief that it was just a quick glimpse of his turban and the bright wet guns。 the high flap of the piano had been removed and used as a hospital table several months earlier； so their guns lay on the far side of the ditch of keys。 the english patient could have identified the weapons。
hell。 she was surrounded by foreign men。 not one pure italian。 a villa romance。 what would poliziano have thought of this tableau； two men and a woman across a piano and the war almost over and the guns in their wet brightness whenever the lightning slipped itself into the room filling everything with colour and shadow as it was doing now every half…minute thunder crackling all over the valley and the music antiphonal； the press of chords； when i take my sugar to tea
。。
do you know the words？
there was no movement from them。 she broke free of the chords and released her fingers into intricacy； tumbling into what she had held back； the jazz detail that split open notes and angles from the chestnut of melody。
when take my sugar to teaall the boys are jealous of me； so never take her where the gang goes when i take my sugar to tea。
their clothes wet while they watched her whenever the lightning was in the room among them； her hands playing now against and within the lightning and thunder； counter to it； filling up the darkness between light。 her face so concentrated they knew they were invisible to her； to her brain struggling to remember her mother’s hand ripping newspaper and wetting it under a kitchen tap and using it to wipe the table free of the shaded notes； the hopscotch of keys。 after which she went for her weekly lesson at the munity hall； where she would play； her feet still unable to reach the pedals if she sat； so she preferred to stand； her summer sandal on the left pedal and the metronome ticking。
she did not want to end this。 to give up these words from an old song。 she saw the places they went； where the gang never went； crowded with aspidistra。 she looked up and nodded towards them； an acknowledgement that she would stop now。
caravaggio did not see all this。 when he returned he found hana and the two soldiers from a sapper unit in the kitchen making up sandwiches。
。。
III Sometime a Fire
，
the last mediaeval war was fought in italy in and
fortress towns on great promontories which had been battled over since the eighth century had the armies of new kings flung carelessly against them。 around the outcrops of rocks were the traffic of stretchers； butchered vineyards； where； if you dug deep beneath the tank ruts； you found blood…axe and spear。 monterchi； cortona； urbino； arezzo； sanse…polcro； anghiari。 and then the coast。
cats slept in the gun turrets looking south。 english and americans and indians and australians and canadians advanced north； and the shell traces exploded and dissolved in the air。 when the armies assembled at sansepolcro； a town whose symbol is the crossbow； some soldiers acquired them and fired them silently at night over the walls of the untaken city。 field marshal kesselring of the retreating german army seriously considered the pouring of hot oil from battlements。
mediaeval scholars were pulled out of oxford colleges and flown into umbria。 their average age was sixty。 they were billeted with the troops； and in meetings with strategic mand they kept forgetting the invention of the airplane。 they spoke of towns in terms of the art in them。 at monterchi there was the madonna del parto by piero della francesca； located in the chapel next to the town graveyard。 when the thirteenth…century castle was finally taken during the spring rains； troops were billeted under the high dome of the church and slept by the stone pulpit where hercules slays the hydra。 there was only bad water。 many died of typhoid and other fevers。 looking up with service binoculars in the gothic church at arezzo soldiers would e upon their contemporary faces in