between england and france。
so he moves among them。 she sees him in the distance of a defunct garden with the diviner or； if he has found something； unravelling that knot of wires and fuzes someone has left him like a terrible letter。
he is always washing his hands。 caravaggio at first thinks he is too fussy。 “how did you get through a war？” caravaggio laughs。
“i grew up in india； uncle。 you wash your hands all the time。 before all meals。 a habit。 i was born in the punjab。” “i’m from upper america；” she says。
he sleeps half in and half out of the tent。 she sees his hands remove the earphone and drop it onto his lap。
then hana puts down the glasses and turns away。
they were under the huge vault。 the sergeant lit a flare； and the sapper lay on the floor and looked up through the rifle’s telescope； looked at the ochre faces as if he were searching for a brother in the crowd。 the cross hairs shook along the biblical figures； the light dousing the coloured vestments and flesh darkened by hundreds of years of oil and candle smoke。 and now this yellow gas smoke； which they knew was outrageous in this sanctuary； so the soldiers would be thrown out； would be remembered for abusing the permission they received to see the great hall； which they had e to； wading up beachheads and the one thousand skirmishes of small wars and the bombing of monte cassino and then walking in hushed politeness through the raphael stanze till they were here； finally； seventeen men who had landed in sicily and fought their way up the ankle of the country to be here— where they were offered just a mostly dark hall。 as if being in the presence of the place was enough。
and one of them had said； “damn。 maybe more light； sergeant shand？” and the sergeant released the catch of the flare and held it up in his outstretched arm； the niagara of its light pouring off his fist； and stood there for the length of its burn like that。
the rest of them stood looking up at the figures and faces crowded onto the ceiling that emerged in the light。 but the young sapper was already on his back； the rifle aimed； his eye almost brushing the beards of noah and abraham and the variety of demons until he reached the great face and was stilled by it； the face like a spear； wise； unforgiving。
the guards were yelling at the entrance and he could hear the running steps； just another thirty seconds left on the flare。 he rolled over and handed the rifle to the padre。 “that one。 who is he？ at three o’clock northwest； who is he？ quick； the flare is almost out。” the padre cradled the rifle and swept it over to the corner； and the flare died。
he returned the rifle to the young sikh。
“you know we shall all be in serious trouble over this lighting of weapons in the sistine chapel。 i should not have e here。 but i also must thank sergeant shand； he was heroic to do it。 no real damage has been done； i suppose。” “did you see it？ the face。 who was it？” “ah yes； it is a great face。” “you saw it。” “yes。 isaiah。” when the eighth army got to gabicce on the east coast； the sapper was head of night patrol。 on the second night he received a signal over the shortwave that there was enemy movement in the water。 the patrol sent out a shell and the water erupted； a rough warning shot。 they did not hit anything； but in the white spray of the explosion he picked up a darker outline of movement。 he raised the rifle and held the drifting shadow in his sights for a full minute； deciding not to shoot in order to see if there would be other movement nearby。 the enemy was still camped up north； in rimini； on the edge of the city。 he had the shadow in his sights when the halo was suddenly illuminated around the head of the virgin mary。 she was ing out of the sea。
she was standing in a boat。 two men rowed。 two other men held her upright； and as they touched the beach the people of the town began to applaud from their dark and opened windows。
the sapper could see the cream…coloured face and the halo of small battery lights。 he was lying on the concrete pillbox； between the town and the sea； watching her as the four men climbed out of the boat and lifted the five…foot…tall plaster statue into their arms。 they walked up the beach； without pausing； no hesitation for the mines。 perhaps they had watched them being buried and charted them when the germans had been there。 their feet sank into the sand。 this was gabicce mare on may ；
marine festival of the virgin mary。
adults and children were on the streets。 men in band uniforms had also emerged。 the band would not play and break the rules of curfew； but the instruments were still part of the ceremony； immaculately polished。
he slid from the darkness； the mortar tube strapped to his back； carrying the rifle in his hands。 in his turban and with the weapons he was a shock to them。 they had not expected him to emerge too out of the no…man’s…land of the beach。
he raised his rifle and picked up her face in the gun sight —ageless； without sexuality； the foreground of the men’s dark hands reaching into her light； the gracious nod of the twenty small light bulbs。 the figure wore a pale blue cloak； her left knee raised slightly to suggest drapery。
they were not romantic people。 they had survived the fascists； the english； gauls； goths and germans。 they had been owned so often it meant nothing。 but this blue and cream plaster figure had e out of the sea； was placed in a grape truck full of flowers； while the band marched ahead of her in silence。 whatever protection he was supposed to provide for this town was meaningless。 he couldn’t walk among their children in white dresses with these guns。
he moved one street south of them and walked at the speed of the statue’s movement； so they reached the joining streets at the same time。 he raised his rifle to pick up her face once again in his sights。 it all ended on a promontory overlooking the sea； where they left her and returned to their homes。 none of them was aware of his continued presence on the periphery。
her face was still lit。 the four men who had brought her by boat sat in a square around her like sentries。 the battery attached to her back began to fade； it died at about four…thirty in the morning。 he glanced at his watch then。 he picked up the men with the rifle telescope。 two were asleep。 he swung the sights up to her face and studied her again。 a different look in the fading light around her。 a face which in the darkness looked more like someone he knew。 a sister。 someday a daughter。 if he could have parted with it； the sapper would have left something there as his gesture。 but he had his own faith after all。
caravaggio enters the library。 he has been spending most afternoons there。 as always； books are mystical creatures to him。
he plucks one out and opens it to the title page。 he is in the room about five minutes before he hears a slight groan。
he turns and sees hana asleep on the sofa。 he closes the book and leans back against the thigh…high ledge under the shelves。
she is curled up； her left cheek on the dusty brocade and her right arm up towards her face； a fist against her jaw。 her eyebrows shift； the face concentrating within sleep。
when he had first seen her after all this time she had looked taut； boiled down to just body enough to get her through this efficiently。 her body had been in a war and； as in love； it had used every part of itself。
he sneezed out loud； and when he looked up from the movement of his tossed…down head she was awake； the eyes open staring ahead at him。 “guess what time it is。” “about four…oh…five。 no； four…oh…seven；” she said。 it was an old game between a man and a child。 he slipped out of the room to look for the clock； and by his movement and assuredness she could tell he had recently taken morphine； was refreshed and precise； with his familiar confidence。 she sat up and smiled when he came back shaking his head with wonder at her accuracy。
“i was born with a sundial in my head； right？” “and at night？” “do they have moondials？ has anyone invented one？ perhaps every architect preparing a villa hides a moondial for thieves； like a necessary tithe。” “a good worry for the rich。” “meet me at the moondial； david。 a place where the weak can enter the strong。” “like the english patient and you？” “i was almost going to have a baby a year ago。” now that his mind is light and exact with the drug； she can whip around and he will be with her； thinking alongside her。 and she is being open； not quite realizing she is awake and conversing； as if still speaking in a dream； as if his sneeze had been the sneeze in a dream。
caravaggio is familiar with this state。 he has often met people at the moondial。 disturbing them at two a。m。 as a whole bedroom cupboard came crashing down by mistake。 such shocks； he discovered； kept them away from fear and violence。
disturbed by owners of houses he was robbing； he would clap his hands and converse frantically； flinging an expensive clock into the air and catching it in his hands； quickly asking them questions； about where things were。
“i lost the child。 i mean； i had to lose it。 the father was already dead。 there was a war。” “we