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nd stood in front of her。 the noise of chords still in the air of the changed 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 fell asleep。 they had had no piano。 she used to go to the munity centre on saturday mornings and play there； but all week she practised wherever she was； learning the chalked notes that her mother had drawn onto the kitchen table and then wiped off later。 this was the first time she had played on the villa’s piano； even though she had been here for three months； her eye catching its shape on her first day there through the french doors。 in canada pianos needed water。 you opened up the back and left a full glass of water； and a month later the glass would be empty。 her father had told her about the dwarfs who drank only at pianos； never in bars。 she had never believed that but had at first thought it was perhaps mice。
a lightning flash across the valley； the storm had been ing all night； and she saw one of the men was a sikh。 now she paused and smiled； somewhat amazed； relieved anyway； the cyclorama of light behind them so brief that it was just a quick glimpse of his turban and the bright wet guns。 the high flap of the piano had been removed 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 pure italian。 a villa romance。 what would poliziano have thought of this tableau； two men and a woman across a piano and the war almost over and the guns in their wet brightness whenever the lightning slipped itself into the room filling everything with colour and shadow as it was doing now every half…minute thunder crackling all over the 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 of melody。
when take my sugar to teaall the boys are jealous of me； so never take her where the gang goes when i take my sugar to tea。
their clothes wet while they watched her whenever the lightning was in the room among them； her hands playing now against and within the lightning and thunder； counter to it； filling up the darkness between light。 her face so concentrated they knew they were invisible to her； to her brain struggling to remember her mother’s hand ripping newspaper and wetting it under a kitchen tap and using it to wipe the table free of the shaded notes； the hopscotch of keys。 after which she went for her weekly lesson at the munity hall； where she would play； her feet still unable to reach the pedals if she sat； so she preferred to stand； her summer sandal on the left pedal and the 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 the gang never went； crowded with aspidistra。 she looked up and nodded towards them； an acknowledgement that she would stop now。
caravaggio did not see all this。 when he returned he found hana and the two soldiers from a sapper unit in the kitchen making up sandwiches。
。。
III Sometime a Fire
，
the last mediaeval war was fought in italy in and
fortress towns on great promontories which had been battled over since the eighth century had the armies of new kings flung carelessly against them。 around the outcrops of rocks were the traffic of stretchers； butchered vineyards； where； if you dug deep beneath the tank ruts； you found blood…axe and spear。 monterchi； cortona； urbino； arezzo； sanse…polcro； anghiari。 and then the coast。
cats slept in the gun turrets looking south。 english and americans and indians and australians and canadians advanced north； and the shell traces exploded and dissolved in the air。 when the armies assembled at sansepolcro； a town whose symbol is the crossbow； some soldiers acquired them and fired them silently at night over the walls of the untaken city。 field marshal kesselring of the retreating german army seriously considered the pouring of hot oil from battlements。
mediaeval scholars were pulled out of oxford colleges and flown into umbria。 their average age was sixty。 they were billeted with the troops； and in meetings with strategic mand they kept forgetting the invention of the airplane。 they spoke of towns in terms of the art in them。 at monterchi there was the madonna del parto by piero della francesca； located in the chapel next to the town graveyard。 when the thirteenth…century castle was finally taken during the spring rains； troops were billeted under the high dome of the church and slept by the stone pulpit where hercules slays the hydra。 there was only bad water。 many died of typhoid and other fevers。 looking up with service binoculars in the gothic church at arezzo soldiers would e upon their contemporary faces in the piero della francesca frescoes。 the queen of sheba conversing with king solomon。 nearby a twig from the tree of good and evil inserted into the mouth of the dead adam。 years later this queen would realize that the bridge over the siloam was made from the wood of this sacred tree。
it was always raining and cold； and there was no order but for the great maps of art that showed judgement； piety and sacrifice。 the eighth army came upon river after river of destroyed bridges； and their sapper units clambered down banks on ladders of rope within enemy gunfire and swam or waded across。 food and tents were washed away。 men who were tied to equipment disappeared。 once across the river they tried to ascend out of the water。 they sank their hands and wrists into the mud wall of the cliff face and hung there。 they wanted the mud to harden and hold them。
the young sikh sapper put his cheek against the mud and thought of the queen of sheba’s face； the texture of her skin。
there was no fort in this river except for his desire for her； which somehow kept him warm。 he would pull the veil off her hair。 he would put his right hand between her neck and olive blouse。 he too was tired and sad； as the wise king and guilty queen he had seen in arezzo two weeks earlier。
he hung over the water； his hands locked into the mud…bank。 character； that subtle art； disappeared among them during those days and nights； existed only in a book or on a painted wall。 who was sadder in that dome’s mural？ he leaned forward to rest on the skin of her frail neck。 he fell in love with her downcast eye。 this woman who would someday know the sacredness of bridges。
at night in the camp bed； his arms stretched out into distance like two armies。 there was no promise of solution or victory except for the temporary pact between him and that painted fresco’s royalty who would forget him； never acknowledge his existence or be aware of him； a sikh； halfway up a sapper’s ladder in the rain； erecting a bailey bridge for the army behind him。