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at three a。m。 you feel you must leave； but you are unable to find one shoe。 you hold the other in your hand； a rose…coloured slipper。 i see one half buried near me and pick it up。 the sheen of it。 they are obviously favourite shoes； with the indentation of your toes。 thank you； you say accepting it； as you leave； not even looking at my face。
i believe this。 when we meet those we fall in love with； there is an aspect of our spirit that is historian； a bit of a pedant； who imagines or remembers a meeting when the other had passed by innocently； just as clifton might have opened a car door for you a year earlier and ignored the fate of his life。 but all parts of the body must be ready for the other； all atoms must jump in one direction for desire to occur。
i have lived in the desert for years and i have e to believe in such things。 it is a place of pockets。 the trompe ’oeil of time and water。 the jackal with one eye that looks back and one that regards the path you consider taking。 in his jaws are pieces of the past he delivers to you； and when all of that time is fully discovered it will prove to have been already known。
her eyes looked at me； tired of everything。 a terrible weariness。 when i pulled her from the plane her stare had tried to receive all things around her。 now the eyes were guarded； as if protecting something inside。 i moved closer； and sat on my heels。 i leaned forward and put my tongue against the right blue eye； a taste of salt。 pollen。 i carried that taste to her mouth。 then the other eye。 my tongue against the fine porousness of the eyeball； wiping off the blue； when i moved back there was a sweep of white across her gaze。 i parted the lips on her mouth； this time i let the fingers go in deeper and prised the teeth apart； the tongue was “withdrawn；” and i had to pull it forward； there was a thread； a breath of death in her。 it was almost too late。 i leaned forward and with my tongue carried the blue pollen to her tongue。 we touched this way once。
nothing happened。 i pulled back； took a breath and then went forward again。 as i met the tongue there was a twitch within it。
then the terrible snarl； violent and intimate； came out of her upon me。 a shudder through her whole body like a path of electricity。 she was flung from the propped position against the painted wall。 the creature had entered her and it leapt and fell against me。 there seemed to be less and less light in the cave。 her neck flipping this way and that。
i know the devices of a demon。 i was taught as a child about the demon lover。 i was told about a beautiful temptress who came to a young man’s room。 and he； if he were wise； would demand that she turn around； because demons and witches have no back； only what they wish to present to you。 what had i done？ what animal had i delivered into her？ i had been speaking to her i think for over an hour。 had i been her demon lover？ had i been madox’s demon friend？ this country—had i charted it and turned it into a place of war？
it is important to die in holy places。 that was one of the secrets of the desert。 so madox walked into a church in somerset； a place he felt had lost its holiness； and he mitted what he believed was a holy act。
when i turned her around； her whole body was covered in bright pigment。 herbs and stones and light and the ash of acacia to make her eternal。 the body pressed against sacred colour。 only the eye blue removed； made anonymous； a naked map where nothing is depicted； no signature of lake； no dark cluster of mountain as there is north of the borkou…ennedi…tibesti； no lime…green fan where the nile rivers enter the open palm of alexandria； the edge of africa。
and all the names of the tribes； the nomads of faith who walked in the monotone of the desert and saw brightness and faith and colour。 the way a stone or found metal box or bone can bee loved and turn eternal in a prayer。 such glory of this country she enters now and bees part of。 we die containing a richness of lovers and tribes； tastes we have swallowed； bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom； characters we have climbed into as if trees； fears we have hidden in as if caves。 i wish for all this to be marked on my body when i am dead。 i believe in such cartography— to be marked by nature； not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings。 we are munal histories； munal books。 we are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience。 all i desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps。
i carried katharine clifton into the desert； where there is the munal book of moonlight。 we were among the rumour of wells。 in the palace of winds。
almasy’s face fell to the left； staring at nothing—caravag…gio’s knees perhaps。
“do you want some morphine now？” “no。” “can i get you something？” “nothing。”
。。！
X August
＜小＞说？网
caravaggio came down the stairs through darkness and into the kitchen。 some celery on the table； some turnips whose roots were still muddy。 the only light came from a fire hana had recently started。 she had her back to him and had not heardhis steps into the room。 his days at the villa had loosened his body and freed his tenseness； so he seemed bigger； more sprawled out in his gestures。 only his silence of movement remained。 otherwise there was an easy inefficiency to him now； a sleepiness to his gestures。
he dragged out the chair so she would turn； realize he was in the room。
“hello； david。” he raised his arm。 he felt that he had been in deserts for too long。
“how is he？” “asleep。 talked himself out。” “is he what you thought he was？” “he’s fine。 we can let him be。” “i thought so。 kip and i are both sure he is english。 kip thinks the best people are eccentrics； he worked with one。” “i think kip is the eccentric myself。 where is he； anyway？” “he’s plotting something on the terrace； doesn’t want me out there。 something for my birthday。” hana stood up from her crouch at the grate； wiping her hand on the opposite forearm。
“for your birthday i’m going to tell you a small story；” he said。
she looked at him。
“not about patrick； okay？” “a little about patrick； mostly about you。” “i still can’t listen to those stories； david。” “fathers die。 you keep on loving them in any way you can。 you can’t hide him away in your heart。” “talk to me when the morphia wears off。” she came up to him and put her arms around him； reached up and kissed his cheek。 his embrace tightened around her； his stubble like sand against her skin。 she loved that about him now； in the past he had always been meticulous。 the parting in his hair like yonge street at midnight； patrick had said。 caravaggio had in the past moved like a god in her presence。 now； with his face and his trunk filled out and this greyness in him； he was a friendlier human。
tonight dinner was being prepared by the sapper。 caravaggio was not looking forward to it。 one meal in three was a loss as far as he was concerned。 kip found vegetables and presented them barely cooked； just briefly boiled into a soup。 it was to be another purist meal； not what caravaggio wished for after a day such as this when he had been listening to the man upstairs。 he opened the cupboard beneath the sink。 there； wrapped in damp cloth； was some dried meat； which caravaggio cut and put into his pocket。
“i can get you off the morphine； you know。 i’m a good nurse。” “you’re surrounded by madmen。。。” “yes； i think we are all mad。” when kip called them； they walked out of the kitchen and onto the terrace； whose border； with its low stone balustrade； was ringed with light。
it looked to caravaggio like a string of small electric candles found in dusty churches； and he thought the sapper had gone too far in removing them from a chapel； even for hana’s birthday。 hana walked slowly forward with her hands over her face。
there was no wind。 her legs and thighs moved through the skirt of her frock as if it were thin water。 her tennis shoes silent on the stone。
“i kept finding dead shells wherever i was digging；” the sapper said。
they still didn’t understand。 caravaggio bent over the flutter of lights。