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f 1757。 illustrated by n。 c。 wyeth。 as in all of the best books； there was the important page with the list of illustrations； a line of text for each of them。
she entered the story knowing she would emerge from it feeling she had been immersed in the lives of others； in plots that stretched back twenty years； her body full of sentences and moments； as if awaking from sleep with a heaviness caused by unremembered dreams。
their italian hill town； sentinel to the northwest route； had been besieged for more than a month； the barrage focusing upon the two villas and the monastery surrounded by apple and plum orchards。 there was the villa medici； where the generals lived。
just above it the villa san girolamo； previously a nunnery； whose castlelike battlements had made it the last stronghold of the german army。 it had housed a hundred troops。 as the hill town began to be torn apart like a battleship at sea； by fire shells； the troops moved from the barrack tents in the orchard into the now crowded bedrooms of the old nunnery。 sections of the chapel were blown up。 parts of the top storey of the villa crumbled under explosions。 when the allies finally took over the building and made it a hospital； the steps leading to the third level were sealed off； though a section of chimney and roof survived。
she and the englishman had insisted on remaining behind when the other nurses and patients moved to a safer location in the south。 during this time they were very cold； without electricity。 some rooms faced onto the valley with no walls at all。 she would open a door and see just a sodden bed huddled against a corner； covered with leaves。 doors opened into landscape。
some rooms had bee an open aviary。
the staircase had lost its lower steps during the fire that was set before the soldiers left。 she had gone into the library； removed twenty books and nailed them to the floor and then onto each other； in this way rebuilding the two lowest steps。 most of the chairs had been used for fires。 the armchair in the library was left there because it was always wet； drenched by evening storms that came in through the mortar hole。 whatever was wet escaped burning during that april of 1945。 there were few beds left。 she herself preferred to be nomadic in the house with her pallet or hammock； sleeping sometimes in the english patient’s room； sometimes in the hall； depending on temperature or wind or light。 in the morning she rolled up her mattress and tied it into a wheel with string。 now it was warmer and she was opening more rooms； airing the dark reaches； letting sunlight dry all the dampness。 some nights she opened doors and slept in rooms that had walls missing。 she lay on the pallet on the very edge of the room； facing the drifting landscape of stars； moving clouds； wakened by the growl of thunder and lightning。
she was twenty years old and mad and unconcerned with safety during this time； having no qualms about the dangers of the possibly mined library or the thunder that startled her in the night。 she was restless after the cold months； when she had been limited to dark； protected spaces。 she entered rooms that had been soiled by soldiers； rooms whose furniture had been burned within them。 she cleared out leaves and shit and urine and charred tables。 she was living like a vagrant； while elsewhere the english patient reposed in his bed like a king。
from outside； the place seemed devastated。 an outdoor staircase disappeared in midair； its railing hanging off。 their life was foraging and tentative safety。 they used only essential candlelight at night because of the brigands who annihilated everything they came across。 they were protected by the simple fact that the villa seemed a ruin。 but she felt safe here； half adult and half child。 ing out of what had happened to her during the war； she drew her own few rules to herself。 she would not be ordered again or carry out duties for the greater good。 she would care only for the burned patient。 she would read to him and bathe him and give him his doses of morphine—her only munication was with him。
she worked in the garden and orchard。 she carried the six…foot crucifix from the bombed chapel and used it to build a scarecrow above her seedbed； hanging empty sardine cans from it which clattered and clanked whenever the wind lifted。
within the villa she would step from rubble to a candlelit alcove where there was her neatly packed suitcase； which held little besides some letters； a few rolled…up clothes； a metal box of medical supplies。 she had cleared just small sections of the villa； and all this she could burn down if she wished。
she lights a match in the dark hall and moves it onto the wick of the candle。 light lifts itself onto her shoulders。 she is on her knees。 she puts her hands on her thighs and breathes in the smell of the sulphur。 she imagines she also breathes in light。
she moves backwards a few feet and with a piece of white chalk draws a rectangle onto the wood floor。 then continues backwards； drawing more rectangles； so there is a pyramid of them； single then double then single； her left hand braced flat on the floor； her head down； serious。 she moves farther and farther away from the light。 till she leans back onto her heels and sits crouching。
she drops the chalk into the pocket of her dress。 she stands and pulls up the looseness of her skirt and ties it around her waist。 she pulls from another pocket a piece of metal and flings it out in front of her so it falls just beyond the farthest square。
she leaps forward； her legs smashing down； her shadow behind her curling into the depth of the hall。 she is very quick； her tennis shoes skidding on the numbers she has drawn into each rectangle； one foot landing； then two feet； then one again； until she reaches the last square。
she bends down and picks up the piece of metal； pauses in that position； motionless； her skirt still tucked up above her thighs； hands hanging down loose； breathing hard。 she takes a gulp of air and blows out the candle。
now she is in darkness。 just a smell of smoke。
she leaps up and in midair turns so she lands facing the other way； then skips forward even wilder now down the black hall； still landing on squares she knows are there； her tennis shoes banging and slamming onto the dark floor—so the sound echoes out into the far reaches of the deserted italian villa； out towards the moon and the scar of a ravine that half circles the building。
sometimes at night the burned man hears a faint shudder in the building。 he turns up his hearing aid to draw in a banging noise he still cannot interpret or place。
she picks up the notebook that lies on the small table beside his bed。 it is the book he brought with him through the fire— a copy of the histories by herodotus that he has added to； cutting and gluing in pages from other books or writing in his own observations—so they all are cradled within the text of herodotus。
she begins to read his small gnarled handwriting。
there is a whirlwind in southern morocco； the aajej； against which the fellahin defend themselves with knives。 there is the africo； which has at times reached into the city of rome。 the aim； a fall wind out of yugoslavia。 the arifi； also christened are/or rifi； which scorches with numerous tongues。 these are permanent winds that live in the present tense。
there are other； less constant winds that change direction； that can knock down horse and rider and realign themselves anticlockwise。 the bist roz leaps into afghanistan for 170 days —burying villages。 there is the hot； dry ghibli from tunis； which rolls and rolls and produces a nervous condition。 the haboob—a sudan dust storm that dresses in bright yellow walls a thousand metres high and is followed by rain。 the harmattan； which blows and eventually drowns itself into the atlantic。 imbat； a sea breeze in north africa。 some winds that just sigh towards the sky。 night dust storms that e with the cold。 the khamsin； a dust in egypt from march to may； named after the arabic word for “fifty；” blooming for fifty days—the ninth plague of egypt。 the datoo out of gibraltar； which carries fragrance。
there is also the ———； the secret