THE MAN WITH BANDAGED HANDS had been in the mili.tary hospital in Rome for more than four monthswhen by accident he heard about the burned patient and the nurse, heard her name. He turned from the doorwayand walked back into the clutch of doctors he had just passed, to discover where she was. He had beenrecuperating there for a long time, and they knew him as an evasive man. But now he spoke to them, askingabout the name, and startled them. During all that time he had never spoken, communicating by signals andgri.maces, now and then a grin. He had revealed nothing, not even his name, just wrote out his serial number,which showed he was with the Allies.

His status had been double-checked, and confirmed in mes.sages from London. There was the cluster of knownscars on him. So the doctors had come back to him, nodded at the bandages on him. A celebrity, after all,wanting silence. A war hero.

That was how he felt safest. Revealing nothing. Whether they came at him with tenderness or subterfuge orknives. For more than four months he had not said a word. He was a large animal in their presence, in near ruinswhen he was brought in and given regular doses of morphine for the pain in his hands. He would sit in anarmchair in the darkness, watching the tide of movement among patients and nurses in and out of the wards andstockrooms.

But now, walking past the group of doctors in the hall, he heard the woman’s name, and he slowed his pace andturned and came up to them and asked specifically which hospital she was working in. They told him that it wasin an old nunnery, taken over by the Germans, then converted into a hospital after the Allies had laid siege to it.

In the hills north of Flor.ence. Most of it torn apart by bombing. Unsafe. It had been just a temporary fieldhospital. But the nurse and the patient had refused to leave.

Why didn’t you force the two of them down?

She claimed he was too ill to be moved. We could have brought him out safely, of course, but nowadays there isno time to argue. She was in rough shape herself.

Is she injured?

No. Partial shell shock probably. She should have been sent home. The trouble is, the war here is over. Youcannot make anyone do anything anymore. Patients are walking out of hos.pitals. Troops are going AWOLbefore they get sent back home.

Which villa? he asked.

It’s one they say has a ghost in the garden. San Girolamo. Well, she’s got her own ghost, a burned patient. Thereis a face, but it is unrecognizable. The nerves all gone. You can pass a match across his face and there is noexpression. The face is asleep.

Who is he? he asked.

We don’t know his name.

He won’t talk?

The clutch of doctors laughed. No, he talks, he talks all the time, he just doesn’t know who he is.

Where did he come from?

The Bedouin brought him into Siwa Oasis. Then he was in Pisa for a while, then... One of the Arabs is probablywearing his name tag. He will probably sell it and we’ll get it one day, or perhaps they will never sell it. Theseare great charms. All pilots who fall into the desert—none of them come back with identification. Now he’sholed up in a Tuscan villa and the girl won’t leave him. Simply refuses. The Allies housed a hundred patientsthere. Before that the Germans held it with a small army, their last stronghold. Some rooms are painted, eachroom has a different season. Outside the villa is a gorge. All this is about twenty miles from Florence, in the hills.

You will need a pass, of course. We can probably get someone to drive you up. It is still terrible out there. Deadcattle. Horses shot dead, half eaten. People hanging upside down from bridges. The last vices of war. Completelyunsafe. The sap.pers haven’t gone in there yet to clear it. The Germans re.treated burying and installing minesas they went. A terrible place for a hospital. The smell of the dead is the worst. We need a good snowfall to cleanup this country. We need ravens.

Thank you.

He walked out of the hospital into the sun, into open air for the first time in months, out of the green-lit roomsthat lay like glass in his mind. He stood there breathing everything in, the hurry of everyone. First, he thought, Ineed shoes with rubber on the bottom. I need gelato.

He found it difficult to fall asleep on the train, shaking from side to side. The others in the compartmentsmoking. His temple banging against the window frame. Everyone was in dark clothes, and the carriage seemedto be on fire with all the lit cigarettes. He noticed that whenever the train passed a cemetery the travellers aroundhim crossed themselves. She’s in rough shape herself.

Gelato for tonsils, he remembered. Accompanying a girl and her father to have her tonsils out. She had taken onelook at the ward full of other children and simply refused. This, the most adaptable and genial of children,suddenly turned into a stone of refusal, adamant. No one was ripping anything out of her throat though thewisdom of the day advised it. She would live with it in, whatever “it” looked like. He still had no idea what atonsil was.

They never touched my head, he thought, that was strange. The worst times were when he began to imagine whatthey would have done next, cut next. At those times he always thought of his head.

A scurry in the ceiling like a mouse.

He stood with his valise at the far end of the hall. He put the bag down and waved across the darkness and theintermit.tent pools of candlelight. There was no clatter of footsteps as he walked towards her, not a sound on thefloor, and that surprised her, was somehow familiar and comforting to her, that he could approach this privacy ofhers and the English patient’s without loudness.

As he passed the lamps in the long hall they flung his shadow forward ahead of him. She turned up the wick onthe oil lamp so it enlarged the diameter of light around her. She sat very still, the book on her lap, as he came upto her and then crouched beside her like an uncle.

“Tell me what a tonsil is.”

Her eyes staring at him.

“I keep remembering how you stormed out of the hospital followed by two grown men.”

She nodded.

“Is your patient in there? Can I go in?”

She shook her head, kept shaking it until he spoke again.

“I’ll see him tomorrow, then. Just tell me where to go. I don’t need sheets. Is there a kitchen? Such a strangejourney I took in order to find you.”

When he had gone along the hall she came back to the table and sat down, trembling. Needing this table, thishalf-finished book in order to collect herself. A man she knew had come all the way by train and walked the fourmiles uphill from the village and along the hall to this table just to see her. After a few minutes she walked intothe Englishman’s room and stood there looking down on him. Moonlight across the foliage on the walls. Thiswas the only light that made the trompe 1’oeil seem convincing. She could pluck that flower and pin it onto herdress.

The man named Caravaggio pushes open all the windows in the room so he can hear the noises of the night. Heundresses, rubs his palms gently over his neck and for a while lies down on the unmade bed. The noise of thetrees, the breaking of moon into silver fish bouncing off the leaves of asters outside. The moon is on him likeskin, a sheaf of water. An hour later he is on the roof of the villa. Up on the peak he is aware of the shelledsections along the slope of roofs, the two acres of destroyed gardens and orchards that neighbour the villa. Helooks over where they are in Italy.

In the morning by the fountain they talk tentatively.

“Now you are in Italy you should find out more about Verdi.”

“What?” She looks up from the bedding that she is washing out in the fountain.

He reminds her. “You told me once you were in love with him.”

Hana bows her head, embarrassed.

Caravaggio walks around, looking at the building for the first time, peering down from the loggia into thegarden.

“Yes, you used to love him. You used to drive us all mad with your new information about Giuseppe. What aman! The best in every way, you’d say. We all had to agree with you, the cocky sixteen-year-old.”

“I wonder what happened to her.” She spreads the washed sheet over the rim of the fountain.

“You were someone with a dangerous will.”

She walks over the paved stones, grass in the cracks. He watches her black-stockinged feet, the thin brown dress.

She leans over the balustrade.

“I think I did come here, I have to admit, something at the back of my mind made me, for Verdi. And then ofcourse you had left and my dad had left for the war.... Look at the hawks. They are here every morning.

Everything else is dam.aged and in pieces here. The only running water in this whole villa is in this fountain.

The Allies dismantled water pipes when they left. They thought that would make me leave.”

“You should have. They still have to clear this region. There are unexploded bombs all over the place.”

She comes up to him and puts her fingers on his mouth.

“I’m glad to see you, Caravaggio. No one else. Don’t say you have come here to try and persuade me to leave.”

“I want to find a small bar with a Wurlitzer and drink without a fucking bomb going off. Listen to Frank Sinatrasinging. We have to get some music,” he says. “Good for your patient.”

“He’s still in Africa.”

He is watching her, waiting for her to say more, but there is nothing more about the English patient to be said. Hemutters. “Some of the English love Africa. A part of their brain reflects the desert precisely. So they’re notforeigners there.”

He sees her head nod slightly. A lean face with hair cut short, without the mask and mystery of her long hair. Ifany.thing, she seems calm in this universe of hers. The fountain gurgling in the background, the hawks, theruined garden of the villa.

Maybe this is the way to come out of a war, he thinks. A burned man to care for, some sheets to wash in afountain, a room painted like a garden. As if all that remains is a capsule from the past, long before Verdi, theMedicis considering a balustrade or window, holding up a candle at night in the presence of an invited architect—the best architect in the fifteenth century—and requesting something more satisfying to frame that vista.

“If you are staying,” she says, “we are going to need more food. I have planted vegetables, we have a sack ofbeans, but we need some chickens.” She is looking at Caravaggio, know.ing his skills from the past, not quitesaying it.

“I lost my nerve,” he says.

“I’ll come with you, then,” Hana offers. “We’ll do it to.gether. You can teach me to steal, show me what to do.”

“You don’t understand. I lost my nerve.”

“Why?”

“I was caught. They nearly chopped off my rucking hands.”

At night sometimes, when the English patient is asleep or even after she has read alone outside his door for awhile, she goes looking for Caravaggio. He will be in the garden lying along the stone rim of the fountainlooking up at stars, or she will come across him on a lower terrace. In this early-summer weather he finds itdifficult to stay indoors at night. Most of the time he is on the roof beside the broken chimney, but he slips downsilently when he sees her figure cross the terrace looking for him. She will find him near the headless statue of acount, upon whose stub of neck one of the local cats likes to sit, solemn and drooling when humans appear. Sheis always made to feel that she is the one who has found him, this man who knows darkness, who when drunkused to claim he was brought up by a family of owls.

Two of them on a promontory, Florence and her lights in the distance. Sometimes he seems frantic to her, or hewill be too calm. In daylight she notices better how he moves, notices the stiffened arms above the bandagedhands, how his whole body turns instead of just the neck when she points to some.thing farther up the hill. Butshe has said nothing about these things to him.

“My patient thinks peacock bone ground up is a great healer.”

He looks up into the night sky. “Yes.”

“Were you a spy then?”

“Not quite.”

He feels more comfortable, more disguised from her in the dark garden, a flicker of the lamp from the patient’sroom looking down. “At times we were sent in to steal. Here I was, an Italian and a thief. They couldn’t believetheir luck, they were falling over themselves to use me. There were about four or five of us. I did well for sometime. Then I was accidentally photographed. Can you imagine that?

“I was in a tuxedo, a monkey suit, in order to get into this gathering, a party, to steal some papers. Really I wasstill a thief. No great patriot. No great hero. They had just made my skills official. But one of the women hadbrought a camera and was snapping at the German officers, and I was caught in mid-step, walking across theballroom. In mid-step, the beginning of the shutter’s noise making me jerk my head towards it. So suddenlyeverything in the future was dangerous. Some gen.eral’s girlfriend.

“All photographs taken during the war were processed offi.cially in government labs, checked by the Gestapo,and so there I would be, obviously not part of any list, to be filed away by an official when the film went to theMilan laboratory. So it meant having to try and steal that film back somehow.”

She looks in on the English patient, whose sleeping body is probably miles away in the desert, being healed by aman who continues to dip his fingers into the bowl made with the joined soles of his feet, leaning forward,pressing the dark paste against the burned face. She imagines the weight of the hand on her own cheek.

She walks down the hall and climbs into her hammock, giving it a swing as she leaves the ground.

Moments before sleep are when she feels most alive, leaping across fragments of the day, bringing each momentinto the bed with her like a child with schoolbooks and pencils. The day seems to have no order until these times,which are like a ledger for her, her body full of stories and situations. Caravag-gio has for instance given hersomething. His motive, a drama, and a stolen image.

He leaves the party in a car. It crunches over the slowly curving gravel path leading out of the grounds, theautomobile purring, serene as ink within the summer night. For the rest of the evening during the Villa Cosimagathering he had been looking at the photographer, spinning his body away whenever she lifted the camera tophotograph in his direction. Now that he knows of its existence he can avoid it. He moves into the range of herdialogue, her name is Anna, mistress to an officer, who will be staying here in the villa for the night and then inthe morning will travel north through Tuscany. The death of the woman or the woman’s sudden disappearancewill only arouse suspicion. Nowadays anything out of the ordinary is investigated.

Four hours later, he runs over the grass in his socks, his shadow curled under him, painted by the moon. He stopsat the gravel path and moves slowly over the grit. He looks up at the Villa Cosima, at the square moons ofwindow. A palace of war-women.

A car beam—like something sprayed out of a hose—lights up the room he is in, and he pauses once again inmid-step, seeing that same woman’s eyes on him, a man moving on top of her, his fingers in her blonde hair.

And she has seen, he knows, even though now he is naked, the same man she pho.tographed earlier in thecrowded party, for by accident he stands the same way now, half turned in surprise at the light that reveals hisbody in the darkness. The car lights sweep up into a corner of the room and disappear.

Then there is blackness. He doesn’t know whether to move, whether she will whisper to the man fucking herabout the other person in the room. A naked thief. A naked assassin. Should he move—his hands out to break aneck—towards the couple on the bed?

He hears the man’s lovemaking continue, hears the silence of the woman—no whisper—hears her thinking, hereyes aimed towards him in the darkness. The word should be think-ering. Caravaggio’s mind slips into thisconsideration, another syllable to suggest collecting a thought as one tinkers with a half-completed bicycle.

Words are tricky things, a friend of his has told him, they’re much more tricky than violins. His mind recalls thewoman’s blonde hair, the black ribbon in it.

He hears the car turning and waits for another moment of light. The face that emerges out of the dark is still anarrow upon him. The light moves from her face down onto the body of the general, over the carpet, and thentouches and slides over Caravaggio once more. He can no longer see her. He shakes his head, then mimes thecutting of his throat. The camera is in his hands for her to understand. Then he is in darkness again. He hears amoan of pleasure now from her towards her lover, and he is aware it is her agreement with him. No words, nohint of irony, just a contract with him, the morse of understanding, so he knows he can now move safely to theverandah and drop out into the night.

Finding her room had been more difficult. He had entered the villa and silently passed the half-lit seventeenth-century murals along the corridors. Somewhere there were bedrooms like dark pockets in a gold suit. The onlyway he could get past guards was to be revealed as an innocent. He had stripped completely and left his clothesin a flower bed.

He ambles naked up the stairs to the second floor, where the guards are, bending down to laugh at some privacy,so his face is almost at his hip, nudging the guards about his eve.ning’s invitation, alfresco, was that it? Orseduction a cappella~?

One long hall on the third floor. A guard by the stair and one at the far end twenty yards away, too many yardsaway. So a long theatrical walk, and Caravaggio now having to per.form it, watched with quiet suspicion andscornfully by the two bookended sentries, the ass-and-cock walk, pausing at a section of mural to peer at apainted donkey in a grove. He leans his head on the wall, almost falling asleep, then walks again, stumbles andimmediately pulls himself together into a military gait. His stray left hand waves to the ceiling of cherubs bum-naked as he is, a salute from a thief, a brief waltz while the mural scene drifts haphazardly past him, castles,black-and-white duomos, uplifted saints on this Tues.day during the war, in order to save his disguise and hislife. Caravaggio is out on the tiles looking for a photograph of himself.

He pats his bare chest as if looking for his pass, grabs his penis and pretends to use it as a key to let him into theroom that is being guarded. Laughing, he staggers back, peeved at his woeful failure, and slips into the next roomhumming.

He opens the window and steps out onto the verandah. A dark, beautiful night. Then he climbs off it and swingsonto the verandah one level below. Only now can he enter the room of Anna and her general. Nothing more thana perfume in their midst. Printless foot. Shadowless. The story he told someone’s child years ago about theperson who searched for his shadow—as he is now looking for this image of himself on a piece of film.

In the room he is immediately aware of the beginnings of sexual movement. His hands within her clothingthrown onto chair backs, dropped upon the floor. He lies down and rolls across the carpet in order to feelanything hard like a camera, touching the skin of the room. He rolls in silence in the shape of fans, findingnothing. There is not even a grain of light.

He gets to his feet and sways his arms out slowly, touches a breast of marble. His hand moves along a stone hand—he understands the way the woman thinks now—off which the camera hangs with its sling. Then he hears thevehicle and simultaneously as he turns is seen by the woman in the sudden spray of car light.

Caravaggio watches Hana, who sits across from him looking into his eyes, trying to read him, trying to figure theflow of thought the way his wife used to do. He watches her sniffing him out, searching for the trace. He buries itand looks back at her, knowing his eyes are faultless, clear as any river, un.impeachable as a landscape. People,he knows, get lost in them, and he is able to hide well. But the girl watches him quizzically, tilting her head in aquestion as a dog would when spoken to in a tone or pitch that is not human. She sits across from him in front ofthe dark, blood-red walls, whose colour he doesn’t like, and in her black hair and with that look, slim, tannedolive from all the light in this country, she reminds him of his wife.

Nowadays he doesn’t think of his wife, though he knows he can turn around and evoke every move of her,describe any aspect of her, the weight of her wrist on his heart during the night.

He sits with his hands below the table, watching the girl eat. He still prefers to eat alone, though he always sitswith Hana during meals. Vanity, he thinks. Mortal vanity. She has seen him from a window eating with his handsas he sits on one of the thirty-six steps by the chapel, not a fork or a knife in sight, as if he were learning to eatlike someone from the East. In his greying stubble-beard, in his dark jacket, she sees the Italian finally in him.

She notices this more and more.

He watches her darkness against the brown-and-red walls, her skin, her cropped dark hair. He had known her andher father in Toronto before the war. Then he had been a thief, a married man, slipped through his chosen worldwith a lazy confidence, brilliant in deceit against the rich, or charm towards his wife Giannetta or with this youngdaughter of his friend.

But now there is hardly a world around them and they are forced back on themselves. During these days in thehill town near Florence, indoors during the days of rain, daydreaming in the one soft chair in the kitchen or onthe bed or on the roof, he has no plots to set in motion, is interested only in Hana. And it seems she has chainedherself to the dying man upstairs.

During meals he sits opposite this girl and watches her eat.

Half a year earlier, from a window at the end of the long hall in Santa Chiara Hospital in Pisa, Hana had beenable to see a white lion. It stood alone on top of the battlements, linked by colour to the white marble of theDuomo and the Camposanto, though its roughness and naive form seemed part of another era. Like some giftfrom the past that had to be accepted. Yet she accepted it most of all among the things surrounding this hospital.

At midnight she would look through the window and know it stood within the curfew blackout and that it wouldemerge like her into the dawn shift. She would look up at five or five-thirty and then at six to see its silhouetteand growing detail. Every night it was her sentinel while she moved among patients. Even through the shellingthe army had left it there, much more concerned about the rest of the fabulous com.pound—with its mad logicof a tower leaning like a person in shell shock.

Their hospital buildings lay in old monastery grounds. The topiary carved for thousands of years by too carefulmonks was no longer bound within recognizable animal forms, and during the day nurses wheeled patientsamong the lost shapes. It seemed that only white stone remained permanent.

Nurses too became shell-shocked from the dying around them. Or from something as small as a letter. Theywould carry a severed arm down a hall, or swab at blood that never stopped, as if the wound were a well, andthey began to believe in nothing, trusted nothing. They broke the way a man dis.mantling a mine broke thesecond his geography exploded. The way Hana broke in Santa Chiara Hospital when an official walked down thespace between a hundred beds and gave her a letter that told her of the death of her father.

A white lion.

It was sometime after this that she had come across the English patient—someone who looked like a burnedanimal, taut and dark, a pool for her. And now, months later, he is her last patient in the Villa San Girolamo,their war over, both of them refusing to return with the others to the safety of the Pisa hospitals. All the coastalports, such as Sorrento and Marina di Pisa, are now filled with North American and Brit.ish troops waiting to besent home. But she washed her uni.form, folded it and returned it to the departing nurses. The war is not overeverywhere, she was told. The war is over. This war is over. The war here. She was told it would be likedesertion. This is not desertion. I will stay here. She was warned of the uncleared mines, lack of water and food.

She came upstairs to the burned man, the English patient, and told him she would stay as well.

He said nothing, unable even to turn his head towards her, but his fingers slipped into her white hand, and whenshe bent forward to him he put his dark fingers into her hair and felt it cool within the valley of his fingers.

How old are you?

Twenty.

There was a duke, he said, who when he was dying wanted to be carried halfway up the tower in Pisa so he coulddie looking out into the middle distance.

A friend of my father’s wanted to die while Shanghai-dancing. I don’t know what it is. He had just heard of ithimself.

What does your father do?

He is ... he is in the war.

You’re in the war too.

She does not know anything about him. Even after a month or so of caring for him and allotting him the needlesof mor.phine. There was shyness at first within both of them, made more evident by the fact that they were nowalone. Then it was suddenly overcome. The patients and doctors and nurses and equipment and sheets and towels—all went back down the hill into Florence and then to Pisa. She had salted away codeine tablets, as well as themorphine. She watched the departures, the line of trucks. Good-bye, then. She waved from his window, bringingthe shutters to a close.

Behind the villa a rock wall rose higher than the house. To the west of the building was a long enclosed garden,and twenty miles away was the carpet of the city of Florence, which often disappeared under the mist of thevalley. Rumour had it one of the generals living in the old Medici villa next door had eaten a nightingale.

The Villa San Girolamo, built to protect inhabitants from the flesh of the devil, had the look of a besiegedfortress, the limbs of most of the statues blown off during the first days of shelling. There seemed littledemarcation between house and landscape, between damaged building and the burned and shelled remnants ofthe earth. To Hana the wild gardens were like further rooms. She worked along the edges of them aware alwaysof unexploded mines. In one soil-rich area beside the house she began to garden with a furious passion that couldcome only to someone who had grown up in a city. In spite of the burned earth, in spite of the lack of water.

Someday there would be a bower of limes, rooms of green light.

Caravaggio came into the kitchen to find Hana sitting hunched over the table. He could not see her face or herarms tucked in under her body, only the naked back, the bare shoulders.

She was not still or asleep. With each shudder her head shook over the table.

Caravaggio stood there. Those who weep lose more energy than they lose during any other act. It was not yetdawn. Her face against the darkness of the 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 naked.ness, said “Hana,” and then lay his bandaged hand onher shoulder. She did not stop shaking. The deepest sorrow, he thought. Where the only way to survive is toexcavate every.thing.

She raised herself, her head down still, then stood up against him as if dragging herself away from the magnet ofthe table.

“Don't touch me if you're 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, dressedpartially and come out here, the cool air from the hills entering the kitchen doorway and cloaking her. Her facewas red and wet.

“Hana.”

“Do you understand?”

“Why do you adore him so much?”

“I love him.”

“You don't love him, you adore him.”

“Go away, Caravaggio. Please.”

“You've 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 doesn't 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 sad.ness. Sadness is very close to hate. Let me tell youthis. This is the thing I learned. If you take in someone else's 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 beuseful. 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. Shepeels a plum from the orchard that she has found and carried in the dark cotton pocket of her dress. When she issolitary she tries to imagine who might come along the old road under the green hood of the eighteen cypresstrees.

As the Englishman wakes she bends over his body and places a third of the plum into his mouth. His open mouthholds it, like water, the jaw not moving. He looks as if he will cry from this pleasure. She can sense the plumbeing swallowed.

He brings his hand up and wipes from his lip the last drib.ble, which his tongue cannot reach, and puts his fingerin 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’shammock and begun to use it. She would bang spikes into whatever walls she desired, whichever room shewanted to wake in, floating above all the filth and cordite and water on the floors, the rats that had started toappear coming down from the third storey. Each night she climbed into the khaki ghostline of hammock she hadtaken 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 theslide of moonlight on the ceiling, wrapped in an old shirt she always slept in, her dress hanging on a nail by thedoor. There was more heat now, and she could sleep this way. Before, when it had been cold, they had had toburn things.

Her hammock and her shoes and her frock. She was secure in the miniature world she had built; the two othermen seemed distant planets, each in his own sphere of memory and solitude. Caravaggio, who had been herfather’s gregarious friend in Canada, in those days was capable of standing still and causing havoc within thecaravan of women he seemed to give himself over to. He now lay in his darkness. He had been a thief whorefused to work with men, because he did not trust them, who talked with men but who preferred talking towomen and when he began talking to women was soon caught in the nets of relationship. When she would sneakhome in the early hours of the morning she would find him asleep on her father’s armchair, exhausted fromprofessional or personal robberies.

She thought about Caravaggio—some people you just had to embrace, in some way or another, had to bite intothe muscle, to remain sane in their company. You needed to grab their hair and clutch it like a drowner so theywould pull you into their midst. Otherwise they, walking casually down the street towards you, almost about towave, 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 bycharacter. 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 asnurse. I will survive this. I won’t fall apart at this. These were buried sentences all through her war, all throughthe towns they crept towards and through, Urbino, Anghiari, Monterchi, until they entered Florence and thenwent 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. Allidentifica.tion consumed in a fire. Parts of his burned body and face had been sprayed with tannic acid, thathardened into a protective shell over his raw skin. The area around his eyes was coated with a thick layer ofgentian 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 thewarmth they bring. And when moonlight slides onto the ceil.ing it wakes her, and she lies in the hammock, hermind skating. She finds rest as opposed to sleep the truly pleasurable state. If she were a writer she would collecther pencils andnotebooks 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 judge.ment. A bath in the sea, a fuck with a soldier whonever knew your name. Tenderness towards the unknown and anony.mous, 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 hiscloth placenta.

What she misses here is slow twilight, the sound of familiar trees. All through her youth in Toronto she learnedto read the summer night. It was where she could be herself, lying in a bed, stepping onto a fire escape halfasleep with a cat in her arms.

In her childhood her classroom had been Caravaggio. He had taught her the somersault. Now, with his handsalways 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 over.seas during the Sicilian invasion.

That was in 1943. The First Canadian Infantry Division worked its way up Italy, and the destroyed bodies werefed back to the field hospitals like mud passed back by tunnellers in the dark. After the battle of Arezzo, whenthe first barrage of troops recoiled, she was surrounded day and night by their wounds. After three full dayswithout rest, she finally lay down on the floor beside a mattress where someone lay dead, and slept for twelvehours, 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 daysstill in her mind—when she had bent forward and her hair had touched blood in a wound. She would havenothing to link her, to lock her, to death. She gripped what was left to make sure there were no more strands andturned 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 peopleshe had known had died. She feared the day she would remove blood from a patient’s face and discover herfather or someone who had served her food across a counter on Danforth Avenue. She grew harsh with herselfand the patients. Reason was the only thing that might save them, and there was no reason. The thermometer ofblood moved up the country. Where was and what was Toronto anymore in her mind? This was treacherousopera. People hardened against those around them—soldiers, doctors, nurses, civilians. Hana bent closer to thewounds she cared for, her mouth whispering to soldiers.

She called everyone “Buddy,” and laughed at the song that had the linesEach 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 ofmetal out of the huge body of the human that she was caring for while the army travelled north. One night whenone of the patients died she ignored all rules and took the pair of tennis shoes he had with him in his pack and putthem on. They were slightly too big for her but she was comfortable.

Her face became tougher and leaner, the face Caravaggio would meet later. She was thin, mostly from tiredness.

She was always hungry and found it a furious exhaustion to feed a patient who couldn’t eat or didn’t want to,watching the bread crumble away, the soup cool, which she desired to swallow fast. She wanted nothing exotic,just bread, meat. One of the towns had a bread-making section attached to the hospital and in her free time shemoved among the bakers, inhaling the dust and the promise of food. Later, when they were east of Rome,someone gave her a gift of a Jerusalem artichoke.

It was strange sleeping in the basilicas, or monasteries, or wherever the wounded were billeted, always movingnorth. She broke the small cardboard flag off the foot of the bed when someone died, so that orderlies wouldknow glancing from a distance. Then she would leave the thick-stoned building and walk outside into spring orwinter or summer, seasons that seemed archaic, that sat like old gentlemen throughout the war. She would stepoutside whatever the weather. She wanted air that smelled of nothing human, wanted moonlight even if it camewith a rainstorm.

Hello Buddy, good-bye Buddy. Caring was brief. There was a contract only until death. Nothing in her spirit orpast had taught her to be a nurse. But cutting her hair was a contract, and it lasted until they were bivouacked inthe Villa San Gi-rolamo north of Florence. Here there were four other nurses, two doctors, one hundred patients.

The war in Italy moved farther north and they were what had been left behind.

Then, during the celebrations of some local victory, some.what plaintive in this hill town, she had said she wasnot going back to Florence or Rome or any other hospital, her war was over. She would remain with the oneburned man they called “the English patient,” who, it was now clear to her, should never be moved because ofthe fragility of his limbs. She would lay belladonna over his eyes, give him saline baths for the keloided skin andextensive burns. She was told the hospital was unsafe—the nunnery that had been for months a German defence,barraged with shells and flares by the Allies. Nothing would be left for her, there would be no safety frombrigands.

She still refused to leave, got out of her nurse’s uniform, unbundled the brown print frock she had carried formonths, and wore that with her tennis shoes. She stepped away from the war. She had moved back and forth attheir desire. Till the nuns reclaimed it she would sit in this villa with the Englishman. There was something abouthim she wanted to learn, grow into, and hide in, where she could turn away from being an adult. There was somelittle waltz in the way he spoke to her and the way he thought. She wanted to save him, this nameless, almostfaceless man who had been one of the two hundred or so placed in her care during the invasion north.

In her print dress she walked away from the celebration. She went into the room she shared with the other nursesand sat down. Something flickered in her eye as she sat, and she caught the eye of a small round mirror. She gotup slowly and went towards it. It was very small but even so seemed a lux.ury. She had refused to look atherself for more than a year, now and then just her shadow on walls. The mirror revealed only her cheek, she hadto move it back to arm’s length, her hand wavering. She watched the little portrait of herself as if within aclasped brooch. She. Through the window there was the sound of the patients being brought out into the sunlightin their chairs, laughing and cheering with the staff. Only those who were seriously ill were still indoors. Shesmiled at that. Hi Buddy, she said. She peered into her look, trying to recognize herself.

Darkness between Hana and Caravaggio as they walk in the garden. Now he begins to talk in his familiar slowdrawl.

“It was someone’s birthday party late at night on Danforth Avenue. The Night Crawler restaurant. Do youremember, Hana? Everyone had to stand and sing a song. Your father, me, Giannetta, friends, and you said youwanted to as well— for the first time. You were still at school then, and you had learned the song in a Frenchclass.

“You did it formally, stood on the bench and then one more step up onto the wooden table between the platesand the candles burning.

“ ‘Alonson fon!’

“You sang out, your left hand to your heart. Alonson fon! Half the people there didn’t know what the hell youwere singing, and maybe you didn’t know what the exact words meant, but you knew what the song was about.

“The breeze from the window was swaying your skirt over so it almost touched a candle, and your anklesseemed fire-white in the bar. Your father’s eyes looking up at you, mi.raculous with this new language, thecause pouring out so distinct, flawless, no hesitations, and the candles swerving away, not touching your dressbut almost touching. We stood up at the end and you walked off the table into his arms.”

“I would remove those bandages on your hands. I am a nurse, you know.”

“They’re comfortable. Like gloves.” “How did this happen.”

“I was caught jumping from a woman’s window. That woman I told you about, who took the photograph. Nother fault.”

She grips his arm, kneading the muscle. “Let me do it.” She pulls the bandaged hands out of his coat pockets.

She has seen them grey in daylight, but in this light they are almost luminous.

As she loosens the bandages he steps backwards, the white coming out of his arms as if he were a magician, tillhe is free of them. She walks towards the uncle from childhood, sees his eyes hoping to catch hers to postponethis, so she looks at nothing but his eyes.

His hands held together like a human bowl. She reaches for them while her face goes up to his cheek, thennestles in his neck. What she holds seems firm, healed.

“I tell you I had to negotiate for what they left me.”

“How did you do that?”

“All those skills I used to have.”

“Oh, I remember. No, don’t move. Don’t drift away from me.”

“It is a strange time, the end of a war.”

“Yes. A period of adjustment.”

“Yes.”

He raises his hands up as if to cup the quarter-moon.

“They removed both thumbs, Hana. See.”

He holds his hands in front of her. Showing her directly what she has glimpsed. He turns one hand over as if toreveal that it is no trick, that what looks like a gill is where the thumb has been cut away. He moves the handtowards her blouse.

She feels the cloth lift in the area below her shoulder as he holds it with two fingers and tugs it softly towardshim.

“I touch cotton like this.”

“When I was a child I thought of you always as the Scarlet Pimpernel, and in my dreams I stepped onto the nightroofs with you. You came home with cold meals in your pockets, pencil cases, sheet music off some Forest Hillpiano for me.”

She speaks into the darkness of his face, a shadow of leaves washing over his mouth like a rich woman’s lace.

“You like women, don’t you? You liked them.”

“I like them. Why the past tense?”

“It seems unimportant now, with the war and such things.”

He nods and the pattern of leaves rolls off him.

“You used to be like those artists who painted only at night, a single light on in their street. Like the worm-pickers with their old coffee cans strapped to their ankles and the helmet of light shooting down into the grass.

All over the city parks. You took me to that place, that cafe” where they sold them. It was like the stockexchange, you said, where the price of worms kept dropping and rising, five cents, ten cents. People were ruinedor made fortunes. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“Walk back with me, it’s getting cold.”

“The great pickpockets are born with the second and third fingers almost the same length. They do not need to goas deep into a pocket. The great distance of half an inch!”

They move towards the house, under the trees.

“Who did that to you?”

“They found a woman to do it. They thought it was more trenchant. They brought in one of their nurses. Mywrists handcuffed to the table legs. When they cut off my thumbs my hands slipped out of them without anypower. Like a wish in a dream. But the man who called her in, he was really in charge—he was the one.

Ranuccio Tommasoni. She was an innocent, knew nothing abou^me, my name or nationality or what I may havedone.”

When they came into the house the English patient was shouting. Hana let go of Caravaggio and he watched herrun up the stairs, her tennis shoes flashing as she ascended and wheeled around with the banister.

The voice filled the halls. Caravaggio walked into the kitchen, tore off a section of bread and followed Hana upthe stairs. As he walked towards the room the shouts became more frantic. When he stepped into the bedroomthe Englishman was staring at a dog—the dog’s head angled back as if stunned by the screaming. Hana lookedover to Caravaggio and grinned.

“I haven’t seen a dog for years. All through the war I saw no dog.”

She crouched and hugged the animal, smelling its hair and the odour of hill grasses within it. She steered the dogtowards Caravaggio, who was offering it the heel of bread. The En.glishman saw Caravaggio then and his jawdropped. It must have seemed to him that the dog—now blocked by Hana’s back —had turned into a man.

Caravaggio collected the dog in his arms and left the room.

I have been thinking, the English patient said, that this must be Poliziano’s room. This must have been his villawe are in. It is the water coming out of that wall, that ancient fountain. It is a famous room. They all met here.

It was a hospital, she said quietly. Before that, long before that a nunnery. Then armies took it over.

I think this was the Villa Bruscoli. Poliziano—the great protege of Lorenzo. I’m talking about 1483. In Florence,in Santa Trinita Church, you can see the painting of the Med-icis with Poliziano in the foreground, wearing a redcloak. Brilliant, awful man. A genius who worked his way up into society.

It was long past midnight and he was wide awake again.

Okay, tell me, she thought, take me somewhere. Her mind still upon Caravaggio’s hands. Caravaggio, who wasby now probably feeding the stray dog something from the kitchen of the Villa Bruscoli, if that was what itsname was.

It was a bloody life. Daggers and politics and three-decker hats and colonial padded stockings and wigs. Wigs ofsilk! Of course Savonarola came later, not much later, and there was his Bonfire of the Vanities. Polizianotranslated Homer. He wrote a great poem on Simonetta Vespucci, you know her?

No, said Hana, laughing.

Paintings of her all over Florence. Died of consumption at twenty-three. He made her famous with Le Stanze perla Gios-tra and then Botticelli painted scenes from it. Leonardo painted scenes from it. Poliziano would lectureevery day for two hours in Latin in the morning, two hours in Greek in the afternoon. He had a friend called Picodella Mirandola, a wild socialite who suddenly converted and joined Savonarola.

That was my nickname when I was a kid. Pico.

Yes, I think a lot happened here. This fountain in the wall. Pico and Lorenzo and Poliziano and the youngMichelangelo. They held in each hand the new world and the old world. The library hunted down the last fourbooks of Cicero. They im.ported a giraffe, a rhinoceros, a dodo. Toscanelli drew maps of the world based oncorrespondence with merchants. They sat in this room with a bust of Plato and argued all night.

And then came Savonarola’s cry out of the streets: “Repen.tance! The deluge is coming!” And everything wasswept away —free will, the desire to be elegant, fame, the right to worship Plato as well as Christ. Now came thebonfires—the burning of wigs, books, animal hides, maps. More than four hundred years later they opened upthe graves. Pico’s bones were pre.served. Poliziano’s had crumbled into dust.

Hana listened as the Englishman turned the pages of his commonplace book and read the information glued infrom other books—about great maps lost in the bonfires and the burning of Plato’s statue, whose marbleexfoliated in the heat, the cracks across wisdom like precise reports across the valley as Poliziano stood on thegrass hills smelling the future. Pico down there somewhere as well, in his grey cell, watching everything with thethird eye of salvation.

He poured some water into a bowl for the dog. An old mongrel, older than the war.

He sat down with the carafe of wine the monks from the monastery had given Hana. It was Hana’s house and hemoved carefully, rearranging nothing. He noticed her civilisation in the small wildflowers, the small gifts toherself. Even in the overgrown garden he would come across a square foot of grass snipped down with hernurse’s scissors. If he had been a younger man he would have fallen in love with this.

He was no longer young. How did she see him? With his wounds, his unbalance, the grey curls at the back of hisneck. He had never imagined himself to be a man with a sense of age and wisdom. They had all grown older, buthe still did not feel he had wisdom to go with his aging.

He crouched down to watch the dog drinking and he rebal.anced himself too late, grabbing the table, upsettingthe carafe of wine.

Your name is David Caravaggio, right?

They had handcuffed him to the thick legs of an oak table. At one point he rose with it in his embrace, bloodpouring away from his left hand, and tried to run with it through the thin door and falling. The woman stopped,dropping the knife, refusing to do more. The drawer of the table slid out and fell against his chest, and all itscontents, and he thought perhaps there was a gun that he could use. Then Ranuccio Tommasoni picked up therazor and came over to him. Caravaggio, right? He still wasn’t sure.

As he lay under the table, the blood from his hands fell into his face, and he suddenly thought clearly and slippedthe handcuff off the table leg, flinging the chair away to drown out the pain and then leaning to the left to stepout of the other cuff. Blood everywhere now. His hands already useless. For months afterwards he found himselflooking at only the thumbs of people, as if the incident had changed him just by producing envy. But the eventhad produced age, as if during the one night when he was locked to that table they had poured a solution into himthat slowed him.

He stood up dizzy above the dog, above the red wine-soaked table. Two guards, the woman, Tommasoni, thetelephones ringing, ringing, interrupting Tommasoni, who would put down the razor, caustically whisper Excuseme and pick up the phone with his bloody hand and listen. He had, he thought, said nothing of worth to them.

But they let him go, so perhaps he was wrong.

Then he had walked along the Via di Santo Spirito to the one geographical location he had hidden away in hisbrain. Walked past Brunelleschi’s church towards the library of the German Institute, where he knew a certainperson would look after him. Suddenly he realized this was why they had let him go. Letting him walk freelywould fool him into revealing this contact. He arced into a side street, not looking back, never looking back. Hewanted a street fire so he could stanch his wounds, hang them over the smoke from a tar cauldron so blacksmoke would envelop his hands. He was on the Santa Trinita Bridge. There was nothing around, no traffic,which surprised him. He sat on the smooth balustrade of the bridge, then lay back. No sounds. Earlier, when hehad walked, his hands in his wet pockets, there had been the manic movement of tanks and jeeps.

As he lay there the mined bridge exploded and he was flung upwards and then down as part of the end of theworld. He opened his eyes and there was a giant head beside him. He breathed in and his chest filled with water.

He was underwa.ter. There was a bearded head beside him in the shallow water of the Arno. He reached towardsit but couldn’t even nudge it. Light was pouring into the river. He swam up to the sur.face, parts of which wereon fire.

When he told Hana the story later that evening she said, “They stopped torturing you because the Allies werecoming. The Germans were getting out of the city, blowing up bridges as they left.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I told them everything. Whose head was it? There were constant phone calls into thatroom. There would be a hush, and the man would pull back from me, and all of them would watch him on thephone listening to the silence of the other voice, which we could not hear. Whose voice? Whose head?”

“They were leaving, David.”

She opens The Last of the Mohicans to the blank page at the back and begins to write in it.

There is a man named Caravaggio, a friend of my father’s. I have always loved him. He is older than I am, aboutforty-five, 1 think. He is in a time of darkness, has no confidence. For some reason I am cared for by this friendof my father.

She closes the book and then walks down into the library and conceals it in one of the high shelves.

The Englishman was asleep, breathing through his mouth as he always did, awake or asleep. She got up from herchair and gently pulled free the lit candle held in his hands. She walked to the window and blew it out there, sothe smoke went out of the room. She disliked his lying there with a candle in his hands, mocking a deathlikeposture, wax falling unnoticed onto his wrist. As if he was preparing himself, as if he wanted to slip into his owndeath by imitating its climate and light.

She stood by the window and her fingers clutched the hair on her head with a tough grip, pulling it. In darkness,in any light after dusk, you can slit a vein and the blood is black.

She needed to move from the room. Suddenly she was claus.trophobic, untired. She strode down the hall andleapt down the stairs and went out onto the terrace of the villa, then looked up, as if trying to discern the figure ofthe girl she had stepped away from. She walked back into the building. She pushed at the stiff swollen door andcame into the library and then removed the boards from the French doors at the far end of the room, openingthem, letting in the night air. Where Caravaggio was, she didn’t know. He was out most evenings now, usuallyreturning a few hours before dawn. In any case there was no sign of him.

She grabbed the grey sheet that covered the piano and walked away to a corner of the room hauling it in afterher, a winding-cloth, a net of fish.

No light. She heard a far grumble of thunder.

She was standing in front of the piano. Without looking down she lowered her hands and started to play, justchording sound, reducing melody to a skeleton. She paused after each set of notes as if bringing her hands out ofwater to see what she had caught, then continued, placing down the main bones of the tune. She slowed themovements of her fingers even more. She was looking down as two men slipped through the French doors andplaced their guns on the end of the piano and stood in front of her. The noise of chords still in the air of thechanged room.

Her arms down her sides, one bare foot on the bass pedal, continuing with the song her mother had taught her,that she practised on any surface, a kitchen table, a wall while she walked upstairs, her own bed before she fellasleep. They had had no piano. She used to go to the community centre on Saturday mornings and play there, butall week she practised wherever she was, learning the chalked notes that her mother had drawn onto the kitchentable and then wiped off later. This was the first time she had played on the villa’s piano, even though she hadbeen here for three months, her eye catching its shape on her first day there through the French doors. In Canadapianos needed water. You opened up the back and left a full glass of water, and a month later the glass would beempty. Her father had told her about the dwarfs who drank only at pianos, never in bars. She had never believedthat but had at first thought it was perhaps mice.

A lightning flash across the valley, the storm had been com.ing all night, and she saw one of the men was aSikh. Now she paused and smiled, somewhat amazed, relieved anyway, the cyclorama of light behind them sobrief that it was just a quick glimpse of his turban and the bright wet guns. The high flap of the piano had beenremoved and used as a hospital table several months earlier, so their guns lay on the far side of the ditch of keys.

The English patient could have identified the weapons. Hell. She was surrounded by foreign men. Not one pureItalian. A villa romance. What would Poliziano have thought of this 1945 tableau, two men and a woman acrossa piano and the war almost over and the guns in their wet brightness whenever the lightning slipped itself into theroom filling everything with colour and shadow as it was doing now every half-minute thunder crackling all overthe valley and the music antiphonal, the press of chords, When I take my sugar to tea ...

Do you know the words?

There was no movement from them. She broke free of the chords and released her fingers into intricacy,tumbling into what she had held back, the jazz detail that split open notes and angles from the chestnut ofmelody.

When 1 take my sugar to teaAll the boys are jealous of me,So 1 never take her where the gang goesWhen I take my sugar to tea.

Their clothes wet while they watched her whenever the lightning was in the room among them, her handsplaying now against and within the lightning and thunder, counter to it, filling up the darkness between light. Herface so concentrated they knew they were invisible to her, to her brain struggling to remember her mother’s handripping newspaper and wet.ting it under a kitchen tap and using it to wipe the table free of the shaded notes, thehopscotch of keys. After which she went for her weekly lesson at the community hall, where she would play, herfeet still unable to reach the pedals if she sat, so she preferred to stand, her summer sandal on the left pedal andthe metronome ticking.

She did not want to end this. To give up these words from an old song. She saw the places they went, where thegang never went, crowded with aspidistra. She looked up and nod.ded towards them, an acknowledgement thatshe would stop now.

Caravaggio did not see all this. When he returned he found Hana and the two soldiers from a sapper unit in thekitchen making up sandwiches.