The English Patient-第8章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


he　table　wood。　

“hana；”　he　said；　and　she　stilled　herself　as　if　she　could　be　camouflaged　by　stillness。　“hana。”　she　began　to　moan　so　the　sound　would　be　a　barrier　between　them；　a　river　across　which　she　could　not　be　reached。　

he　was　uncertain　at　first　about　touching　her　in　her　nakedness；　said　“hana；”　and　then　lay　his　bandaged　hand　on　her　shoulder。　

she　did　not　stop　shaking。　the　deepest　sorrow；　he　thought。　where　the　only　way　to　survive　is　to　excavate　everything。　

she　raised　herself；　her　head　down　still；　then　stood　up　against　him　as　if　dragging　herself　away　from　the　magnet　of　the　table。　

“dont　touch　me　if　youre　going　to　try　and　fuck　me。”　the　skin　pale　above　her　skirt；　which　was　all　she　wore　in　this　kitchen；　as　if　she　had　risen　from　the　bed；　dressed　partially　and　e　out　here；　the　cool　air　from　the　hills　entering　the　kitchen　doorway　and　cloaking　her。　her　face　was　red　and　wet。　

“hana。”　“do　you　understand？”　“why　do　you　adore　him　so　much？”　“i　love　him。”　“you　dont　love　him；　you　adore　him。”　“go　away；　caravaggio。　please。”　“youve　tied　yourself　to　a　corpse　for　some　reason。”　“he　is　a　saint。　i　think。　a　despairing　saint。　are　there　such　things？　our　desire　is　to　protect　them。”　“he　doesnt　even　care！”　“i　can　love　him。”　“a　twenty…year…old　who　throws　herself　out　of　the　world　to　love　a　ghost！”　caravaggio　paused。　“you　have　to　protect　yourself　from　sadness。　sadness　is　very　close　to　hate。　let　me　tell　you　this。　this　is　the　thing　i　learned。　if　you　take　in　someone　elses　poison—　thinking　you　can　cure　them　by　sharing　it—you　will　instead　store　it　within　you。　those　men　in　the　desert　were　smarter　than　you。　they　assumed　he　could　be　useful。　so　they　saved　him；　but　when　he　was　no　longer　useful　they　left　him。”　“leave　me　alone。”　　when　she　is　solitary　she　will　sit；　aware　of　the　nerve　at　her　ankle；　damp　from　the　long　grasses　of　the　orchard。　she　peels　a　plum　from　the　orchard　that　she　has　found　and　carried　in　the　dark　cotton　pocket　of　her　dress。　when　she　is　solitary　she　tries　to　imagine　who　might　e　along　the　old　road　under　the　green　hood　of　the　eighteen　cypress　trees。　

as　the　englishman　wakes　she　bends　over　his　body　and　places　a　third　of　the　plum　into　his　mouth。　his　open　mouth　holds　it；　like　water；　the　jaw　not　moving。　he　looks　as　if　he　will　cry　from　this　pleasure。　she　can　sense　the　plum　being　swallowed。　

he　brings　his　hand　up　and　wipes　from　his　lip　the　last　dribble；　which　his　tongue　cannot　reach；　and　puts　his　finger　in　his　mouth　to　suck　it。　let　me　tell　you　about　plums；　he　says。　when　i　was　a　boy。。。　

after　the　first　nights；　after　most　of　the　beds　had　been　burned　for　fuel　against　the　cold；　she　had　taken　a　dead　man’s　hammock　and　begun　to　use　it。　she　would　bang　spikes　into　whatever　walls　she　desired；　whichever　room　she　wanted　to　wake　in；　floating　above　all　the　filth　and　cordite　and　water　on　the　floors；　the　rats　that　had　started　to　appear　ing　down　from　the　third　storey。　

each　night　she　climbed　into　the　khaki　ghostline　of　hammock　she　had　taken　from　a　dead　soldier；　someone　who　had　died　under　her　care。　

a　pair　of　tennis　shoes　and　a　hammock。　what　she　had　taken　from　others　in　this　war。　she　would　wake　under　the　slide　of　moonlight　on　the　ceiling；　wrapped　in　an　old　shirt　she　always　slept　in；　her　dress　hanging　on　a　nail　by　the　door。　there　was　more　heat　now；　and　she　could　sleep　this　way。　before；　when　it　had　been　cold；　they　had　had　to　burn　things。　

her　hammock　and　her　shoes　and　her　frock。　she　was　secure　in　the　miniature　world　she　had　built；　the　two　other　men　seemed　distant　planets；　each　in　his　own　sphere　of　memory　and　solitude。　caravaggio；　who　had　been　her　father’s　gregarious　friend　in　canada；　in　those　days　was　capable　of　standing　still　and　causing　havoc　within　the　caravan　of　women　he　seemed　to　give　himself　over　to。　he　now　lay　in　his　darkness。　he　had　been　a　thief　who　refused　to　work　with　men；　because　he　did　not　trust　them；　who　talked　with　men　but　who　preferred　talking　to　women　and　when　he　began　talking　to　women　was　soon　caught　in　the　nets　of　relationship。　when　she　would　sneak　home　in　the　early　hours　of　the　morning　she　would　find　him　asleep　on　her　father’s　armchair；　exhausted　from　professional　or　personal　robberies。　

she　thought　about　caravaggio—some　people　you　just　had　to　embrace；　in　some　way　or　another；　had　to　bite　into　the　muscle；　to　remain　sane　in　their　pany。　you　needed　to　grab　their　hair　and　clutch　it　like　a　drowner　so　they　would　pull　you　into　their　midst。　otherwise　they；　walking　casually　down　the　street　towards　you；　almost　about　to　wave；　would　leap　over　a　wall　and　be　gone　for　months。　as　an　uncle　he　had　been　a　disappearer。　

caravaggio　would　disturb　you　by　simply　enfolding　you　in　his　arms；　his　wings。　with　him　you　were　embraced　by　character。　

but　now　he　lay　in　darkness；　like　her；　in　some　outpost　of　the　large　house。　so　there　was　caravaggio。　and　there　was　the　desert　englishman。　

throughout　the　war；　with　all　of　her　worst　patients；　she　survived　by　keeping　a　coldness　hidden　in　her　role　as　nurse。　i　will　survive　this。　i　won’t　fall　apart　at　this。　these　were　buried　sentences　all　through　her　war；　all　through　the　towns　they　crept　towards　and　through；　urbino；　anghiari；　monterchi；　until　they　entered　florence　and　then　went　farther　and　finally　reached　the　other　sea　near　pisa。　

in　the　pisa　hospital　she　had　seen　the　english　patient　for　the　first　time。　a　man　with　no　face。　an　ebony　pool。　all　identification　consumed　in　a　fire。　parts　of　his　burned　body　and　face　had　been　sprayed　with　tannic　acid；　that　hardened　into　a　protective　shell　over　his　raw　skin。　the　area　around　his　eyes　was　coated　with　a　thick　layer　of　gentian　violet。　there　was　nothing　to　recognize　in　him。　

sometimes　she　collects　several　blankets　and　lies　under　them；　enjoying　them　more　for　their　weight　than　for　the　warmth　they　bring。　and　when　moonlight　slides　onto　the　ceiling　it　wakes　her；　and　she　lies　in　the　hammock；　her　mind　skating。　she　finds　rest　as　opposed　to　sleep　the　truly　pleasurable　state。　if　she　were　a　writer　she　would　collect　her　pencils　and　notebooks　and　favourite　cat　and　write　in　bed。　strangers　and　lovers　would　never　get　past　the　locked　door。　

to　rest　was　to　receive　all　aspects　of　the　world　without　judgement。　a　bath　in　the　sea；　a　fuck　with　a　soldier　who　never　knew　your　name。　tenderness　towards　the　unknown　and　anonymous；　which　was　a　tenderness　to　the　self。　

her　legs　move　under　the　burden　of　military　blankets。　she　swims　in　their　wool　as　the　english　patient　moved　in　his　cloth　placenta。　

what　she　misses　here　is　slow　twilight；　the　sound　of　familiar　trees。　all　through　her　youth　in　toronto　she　learned　to　read　the　summer　night。　it　was　where　she　could　be　herself；　lying　in　a　bed；　stepping　onto　a　fire　escape　half　asleep　with　a　cat　in　her　arms。　

in　her　childhood　her　classroom　had　been　caravaggio。　he　had　taught　her　the　somersault。　now；　with　his　hands　always　in　his　pockets；　he　just　gestures　with　his　shoulders。　who　knew　what　country　the　war　had　made　him　live　in。　she　herself　had　been　trained　at　women’s　college　hospital　and　then　sent　overseas　during　the　sicilian　invasion。　that　was　in

the　first　canadian　infantry　division　worked　its　way　up　italy；　and　the　destroyed　bodies　were　fed　back　to　the　field　hospitals　like　mud　passed　back　by　tunnellers　in　the　dark。　after　the　battle　of　arezzo；　when　the　first　barrage　of　troops　recoiled；　she　was　surrounded　day　and　night　by　their　wounds。　after　three　full　days　without　rest；　she　finally　lay　down　on　the　floor　beside　a　mattress　where　someone　lay　dead；　and　slept　for　twelve　hours；　closing　her　eyes　against　the　world　around　her。　

when　she　woke；　she　picked　up　a　pair　of　scissors　out　of　the　porcelain　bowl；　leaned　over　and　began　to　cut　her　hair；　not　concerned　with　shape　or　length；　just　cutting　it　away—the　irritation　of　its　presence　during　the　previous　days　still　in　her　mind—when　she　had　bent　forward　and　her　hair　had　touched　blood　in　a　wound。　she　would　have　nothing　to　link　her；　to　lock　her；　to　death。　she　gripped　what　was　left　to　make　sure　there　were　no　more　strands　and　turned　again　to　face　the　rooms　full　of　the　wounded。　

she　never　looked　at　herself　in　mirrors　again。　as　the　war　got　darker　she　received　reports　about　how　certain　people　she　had　known　had　died。　she　feared　the　day　she　would　remove　blood　from　a　patient’s　face　and　discover　her　father　or　someone　who　had　served　her　food　across　a　counter　on　danforth　avenue。　she　grew　harsh　with　herself　and　the　patients。　reason　was　the　only　thing　that　might　save　them；　and　there　was　no　reason。　the　thermometer　of　blood　moved　up　the　country。　where　was　and　what　was　toronto　anymore　in　her　mind？　this　was　treacherous　opera。　people　hardened　against　those　around　them—soldiers；　doctors；　nurses；　civilians。　hana　bent　closer　to　the　wounds　she　cared　for；　her　mouth　whispering　to　soldiers。　

she　called　everyone　“buddy；”　and　laughed　at　the　song　that　had　the　lines　　each　time　i　chanced　to　see　franklin　d。　

he　always　said　“hi；　buddy”　to　me。　

she　swabbed　arms　that　kept　bleeding。　she　removed　so　many　pieces　of　shrapnel　she　felt　she’d　transported　a　ton　of　metal　out　of　the　huge　body　of　the　human　that　she　was　caring　for　while　the　army　travelled　north。　one　night　when　one　of　the　patients　died　she　ignored　all　rules　and　took　the　pair　of　tennis　shoes　he　had　with　him　in　his　pack　and　put　them　on。　they　were　slight