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“here； i can take that。” her shirt was damp at the back when she got out of the passenger seat。
the doorman offered to take the pack； but he said； “no； she wants to carry it；” and she was angry again at his assumption。
the doorman left them。 she turned to him and he passed her the bag so she was facing him； both hands awkwardly carrying the heavy case in front of her。
“so。 good…bye。 good luck。” “yes。 i’ll look after them all。 they’ll be safe。” she nodded。 she was in shadow； and he； as if unaware of the harsh sunlight； stood in it。
then he came up to her； closer； and she thought for a moment he was going to embrace her。 instead he put his right arm forward and drew it in a gesture across her bare neck so her skin was touched by the whole length of hisdamp forearm。
“good…bye。” he walked back to the truck。 she could feel his sweat now； like blood left by a blade which the gesture of his arm seemed to have imitated。
she picks up a cushion and places it onto her lap as a shield against him。 “if you make love to me i won’t lie about it。 if i make love to you i won’t lie about it。” she moves the cushion against her heart； as if she would suffocate that part of herself which has broken free。
“what do you hate most？” he asks。
“a lie。 and you？” “ownership；” he says。 “when you leave me； forget me。” her fist swings towards him and hits hard into the bone just below his eye。 she dresses and leaves。
each day he would return home and look at the black bruise in the mirror。 he became curious； not so much about the bruise； but about the shape of his face。 the long eyebrows he had never really noticed before； the beginning of grey in his sandy hair。
he had not looked at himself like this in a mirror for years。 that was a long eyebrow。
nothing can keep him from her。
when he is not in the desert with madox or with bermann in the arab libraries； he meets her in groppi park—beside the heavily watered plum gardens。 she is happiest here。 she is a woman who misses moisture； who has always loved low green hedges and ferns。 while for him this much greenery feels like a carnival。
from groppi park they arc out into the old city； south cairo； markets where few europeans go。 in his rooms maps cover the walls。 and in spite of his attempts at furnishing there is still a sense of base camp to his quarters。
they lie in each other’s arms； the pulse and shadow of the fan on them。 all morning he and bermann have worked in the archaeological museum placing arabic texts and european histories beside each other in an attempt to recognize echo； co…incidence； name changes—back past herodotus to the kitab al kanuz； where zerzura is named after the bathing woman in a desert caravan。 and there too the slow blink of a fan’s shadow。 and here too the intimate exchange and echo of childhood history； of scar； of manner of kiss。
“i don’t know what to do。 i don’t know what to do！ how can i be your lover？ he will go mad。” a list of wounds。
the various colours of the bruise—bright russet leading to brown。 the plate she walked across the room with； flinging its contents aside； and broke across his head； the blood rising up into the straw hair。 the fork that entered the back of his shoulder； leaving its bite marks the doctor suspected were caused by a fox。
he would step into an embrace with her； glancing first to see what moveable objects were around。 he would meet her with others in public with bruises or a bandaged head and explain about the taxi jerking to a halt so that he had hit the open side window。 or with iodine on his forearm that covered a welt。 madox worried about his being suddenly accident…prone。 she sneered quietly at the weakness of his explanation。 maybe it’s his age； maybe he needs glasses； said her husband； nudging madox。 maybe it’s a woman he met； she said。 look； isn’t that a woman’s scratch or bite？
it was a scorpion； he said。 androctonus australis。
a postcard。 neat handwriting fills the rectangle。
half my days cannot bear not to touch you。
the rest of the time i feel it doesn’t matter if i ever see you again。 it isn’t the morality； it is how much you can bear。
no date； no name attached。
sometimes when she is able to spend the night with him they are wakened by the three minarets of the city beginning their prayers before dawn。 he walks with her through the indigo markets that lie between south cairo and her home。 the beautiful songs of faith enter the air like arrows； one minaret answering another； as if passing on a rumour of the two of them as they walk through the cold morning air； the smell of charcoal and hemp already making the air profound。 sinners in a holy city。
he sweeps his arm across plates and glasses on a restaurant table so she might look up somewhere else in the city hearing this cause of noise。 when he is without her。 he； who has never felt alone in the miles of longitude between desert towns。 a man in a desert can hold absence in his cupped hands knowing it is something that feeds him more than water。 there is a plant he knows of near el taj； whose heart； if one cuts it out； is replaced with a fluid containing herbal goodness。 every morning one can drink the liquid the amount of a missing heart。 the plant continues to flourish for a year before it dies from some lack or other。
he lies in his room surrounded by the pale maps。 he is without katharine。 his hunger wishes to burn down all social rules； all courtesy。
her life with others no longer interests him。 he wants only her stalking beauty； her theatre of expressions。 he wants the minute and secret reflection between them； the depth of field minimal； their foreignness intimate like two pages of a closed book。
he has been disassembled by her。
and if she has brought him to this； what has he brought her to？
when she is within the wall of her class and he is beside her in larger groups he tells jokes he doesn’t laugh at himself。
uncharacteristically manic； he attacks the history of exploration。 when he is unhappy he does this。 only madox recognizes the habit。 but she will not even catch his eye。 she smiles to everyone； to the objects in the room； praises a flower arrangement； worthless impersonal things。 she misinterprets his behaviour； assuming this is what he wants； and doubles the size of the wall to protect herself。
but now he cannot bear this wall in her。 you built your walls too； she tells him； so i have my wall。 she says it glittering in a beauty he cannot stand。 she with her beautiful clothes； with her pale face that laughs at everyone who smiles at her； with the uncertain grin for his angry jokes。 he continues his appalling statements about this and that in some expedition they are all familiar with。
the minute she turns away from him in the lobby of grop…pi’s bar after he greets her； he is insane。 he knows the only way he can accept losing her is if he can continue to hold her or be held by her。 if they can somehow nurse each other out of this。
not with a wall。
sunlight pours into his cairo room。 his hand flabby over the herodotus journal； all the tension in the rest of his body； so he writes words down wrong； the pen sprawling as if without spine。 he can hardly write down the word sunlight。 the words in love。
in the apartment there is light only from the river and the desert beyond it。 it falls upon her neck her feet the vaccination scar he loves on her right arm。 she sits on the bed hugging nakedness。 he slides his open palm along the sweat of her shoulder。 this is my shoulder； he thinks； not her husband’s； this is my shoulder。 as lovers they have offered parts of their bodies to each other； like this。 in this room on the periphery of the river。
in the few hours they have； the room has darkened to this pitch of light。 just river and desert light。 only when there is the rare shock of rain do they go towards the window and put their arms out； stretching； to bathe as much as they can of themselves in it。 shouts towards the brief downpour fill the streets。
“we will never love each other again。 we can never see each other again。” “i know；” he says。
the night of her insistence on parting。
she sit