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d then fell。 clifton stayed in his seat； half watching them。 almasy lying across her and then slowly trying to get up； smoothing back his blond hair； kneeling over her in the far corner of the room。 he had at one time been a man of delicacy。
it was past midnight。 the guests there were not amused； except for the easily amused regulars； accustomed to these ceremonies of the desert european。 there were women with long tributaries of silver hanging off their ears； women in sequins； little metal droplets warm from the bar’s heat that almasy in the past had always been partial towards； women who in their dancing swung the jagged earrings of silver against his face。 on other nights he danced with them； carrying their whole frame by the fulcrum of rib cage as he got drunker。 yes； they were amused； laughing at almasy’s stomach as his shirt loosened； not charmed by his weight； which leaned on their shoulders as he paused during the dance； collapsing at some point later during a schottische onto the floor。
it was important during such evenings to proceed into the plot of the evening； while the human constellations whirled and skidded around you。 there was no thought or forethought。 the evening’s field notes came later； in the desert； in the landforms between dakhla and kufra。 then he would remember that doglike yelp at which he looked around for a dog on the dance floor and realized； now regarding the pass disc floating on oil； that it may have been a woman he had stepped on。 within sight of an oasis he would pride himself on his dancing； waving his arms and his wristwatch up to the sky。
cold nights in the desert。 he plucked a thread from the horde of nights and put it into his mouth like food。 this was during the first two days of a trek out； when he was in the zone of limbo between city and plateau。 after six days had passed he would never think about cairo or the music or the streets or the women； by then he was moving in ancient time； had adapted into the breathing patterns of deep water。 his only connection with the world of cities was herodotus； his guidebook； ancient and modern； of supposed lies。 when he discovered the truth to what had seemed a lie； he brought out his glue pot and pasted in a map or news clipping or used a blank space in the book to sketch men in skirts with faded unknown animals alongside them。
the early oasis dwellers had not usually depicted cattle； though herodotus claimed they had。 they worshipped a pregnant goddess and their rock portraits were mostly of pregnant women。
within two weeks even the idea of a city never entered his mind。 it was as if he had walked under the millimetre of haze just above the inked fibres of a map； that pure zone between land and chart between distances and legend between nature and storyteller。 sandford called it geomorphology。 the place they had chosen to e to； to be their best selves； to be unconscious of ancestry。 here； apart from the sun pass and the odometer mileage and the book； he was alone； his own invention。 he knew during these times how the mirage worked； the fata morgana； for he was within it。
he awakens to discover hana washing him。 there is a bureau at waist level。 she leans over； her hands bringing water from the porcelain basin to his chest。 when she finishes she runs her wet fingers through her hair a few times； so it turns damp and dark。 she looks up and sees his eyes are open； and smiles。
when he opens his eyes again； madox is there； looking ragged； weary； carrying the morphinic injection； having to use both hands because there are no thumbs。 how does he give it to himself？ he thinks。 he recognizes the eye； the habit of the tongue fluttering at the lip； the clearness of the man’s brain catching all he says。 two old coots。
caravaggio watches the pink in the man’s mouth as he talks。 the gums perhaps the light iodine colour of the rock paintings discovered in uweinat。 there is more to discover； to divine out of this body on the bed； nonexistent except for a mouth； a vein in the arm； wolf…grey eyes。 he is still amazed at the clarity of discipline in the man； who speaks sometimes in the first person； sometimes in the third person； who still does not admit that he is almasy。
“who was talking； back then？” “ ‘death means you are in the third person。
all day they have shared the ampoules of morphine。 to unthread the story out of him； caravaggio travels within the code of signals。 when the burned man slows down； or when caravaggio feels he is not catching everything—the love affair； the death of madox—he picks up the syringe from the kidney…shaped enamel tin； breaks the glass tip off an ampoule with the pressure of a knuckle and loads it。 he is blunt about all this now with hana； having ripped the sleeve off his left arm pletely。 almasy wears just a grey singlet； so his black arm lies bare under the sheet。
each swallow of morphine by the body opens a further door； or he leaps back to the cave paintings or to a buried plane or lingers once more with the woman beside him under a fan； her cheek against his stomach。
caravaggio picks up the herodotus。 he turns a page； es over a dune to discover the gilf kebir； uweinat； gebel kissu。
when almasy speaks he stays alongside him reordering the events。 only desire makes the story errant； flickering like a pass needle。 and this is the world of nomads in any case； an apocryphal story。 a mind travelling east and west in the disguise of sandstorm。
on the floor of the cave of swimmers； after her husband had crashed their plane； he had cut open and stretched out the parachute she had been carrying。 she lowered herself onto it； grimacing with the pain of her injuries。 he placed his fingers gently into her hair； searching for other wounds； then touched her shoulders and her feet。
now in the cave it was her beauty he did not want to lose； the grace of her； these limbs。 he knew he already had her nature tight in his fist。
she was a woman who translated her face when she put on makeup。 entering a party； climbing into a bed； she had painted on blood lipstick； a smear of vermilion over each eye。
he looked up to the one cave painting and stole the colours from it。 the ochre went into her face； he daubed blue around her eyes。 he walked across the cave； his hands thick with red； and bed his fingers through her hair。 then all of her skin； so her knee that had poked out of the plane that first day was saffron。 the pubis。 hoops of colour around her legs so she would be immune to the human。 there were traditions he had discovered in herodotus in which old warriors celebrated their loved ones by locating and holding them in whatever world made them eternal—a colourful fluid； a song； a rock drawing。
it was already cold in the cave。 he wrapped the parachute around her for warmth。 he lit one small fire and burned the acacia twigs and waved smoke into all the corners of the cave。 he found he could not speak directly to her； so he spoke formally； his voice against the bounce of the cave walls。 i’m going for help now； katharine。 do you understand？ there is another plane nearby； but there is no petrol。 i might meet a caravan or a jeep； which means i will be back sooner。 i don’t know。 he pulled out the copy of herodotus and placed it beside her。 it was september
he walked out of the cave； out of the flare of firelight； down through darkness and into the desert full of moon。
he climbed down the boulders to the base of the plateau and stood there。
no truck。 no plane。 no pass。 only moon and his shadow。 he found the old stone marker from the past that located the direction of el taj； north…northwest。 he memorized the angle of his shadow and started walking。 seventy miles away was the souk with the street of clocks。 water in a skin bag he had filled from the ain hung from his shoulder and sloshed like a placenta。
there were two periods of time when he could not move。 at noon； when the shadow was under him； and at twilight； between sunset and the appearance of the stars。 then everything on the disc of the desert was the same。 if he moved； he might err as much as ninety degrees off his course。 he waited for the live chart of stars； then moved forward reading them every hour。