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r of her husband； her belief in her honour； my old desire for self…sufficiency； my disappearances； her sus…picions of me； my disbelief that she loved me。 the paranoia and claustrophobia of hidden love。
“i think you have bee inhuman；” she said to me。
“i’m not the only betrayer。” “i don’t think you care—that this has happened among us。 you slide past everything with your fear and hate of ownership； of owning； of being owned； of being named。 you think this is a virtue。 i think you are inhuman。 if i leave you； who will you go to？ would you find another lover？” i said nothing。
“deny it； damn you。” she had always wanted words； she loved them； grew up on them。 words gave her clarity； brought reason； shape。 whereas i thought words bent emotions like sticks in water。
she returned to her husband。
from this point on； she whispered； we will either find or lose our souls。
seas move away； why not lovers？ the harbours of ephesus； the rivers of heraclitus disappear and are replaced by estuaries of silt。 the wife of candaules bees the wife of gyges。 libraries burn。
what had our relationship been？ a betrayal of those around us； or the desire of another life？
she climbed back into her house beside her husband； and i retired to the zinc bars。
i’ll be looking at the moon； but i’ll be seeing you。
that old herodotus classic。 humming and singing that song again and again； beating the lines thinner to bend them into one’s own life。 people recover from secret loss variously。 i was seen by one of her retinue sitting with a spice trader。 she had once received from him a pewter thimble that held saffron。 one of the ten thousand things。
and if bagnold—having seen me sitting by the saffron trader—brought up the incident during dinner at the table where she sat； how did i feel about that？ did it give me some fort that she would remember the man who had given her a small gift； a pewter thimble she hung from a thin dark chain around her neck for two days when her husband was out of town？ the saffron still in it； so there was the stain of gold on her chest。
how did she hold this story about me； pariah to the group after some scene or other where i had disgraced myself； bagnold laughing； her husband who was a good man worrying about me； and madox getting up and walking to a window and looking out towards the south section of the city。 the conversation perhaps moved to other sigh tings。 they were mapmak…ers； after all。
but did she climb down into the well we helped dig together and hold herself； the way i desired myself towards her with my hand？
we each now had our own lives； armed by the deepest treaty with the other。
“what are you doing？” she said running into me on the street。 “can’t you see you are driving us all mad。” to madox i had said i was courting a widow。 but she was not a widow yet。 when madox returned to england she and i were no longer lovers。 “give my greetings to your cairo widow；” madox murmured。 “would’ve liked to have met her。” did he know？ i always felt more of a deceiver with him； this friend i had worked with for ten years； this man i loved more than any other man。 it was ； and we were all leaving this country； in any case； to the war。
and madox returned to the village of marston magna； somerset； where he had been born； and a month later sat in the congregation of a church； heard the sermon in honour of war； pulled out his desert revolver and shot himself。
i； herodotus of halicarnassus； set forth my history； that time may not draw the colour from what man has brought into being； nor those great and wonderful deeds manifested by both greeks and barbarians。。。 together with the reason they fought one another。
men had always been the reciters of poetry in the desert。 and madox—to the geographical society—had spoken beautiful accounts of our traversals and coursings。 bermann blew theory into the embers。 and i？ i was the skill among them。 the mechanic。 the others wrote out their love of solitude and meditated on what they found there。 they were never sure of what i thought of it all。 “do you like that moon？” madox asked me after he’d known me for ten years。 he asked it tentatively； as if he had breached an intimacy。 for them i was a bit too cunning to be a lover of the desert。 more like odysseus。 still； i was。 show me a desert； as you would show another man a river； or another man the metropolis of his childhood。
when we parted for the last time； madox used the old farewell。
“may god make safety your panion。” and i strode away from him saying； “there is no god。” we were utterly unlike each other。
madoaid odysseus never wrote a word； an intimate book。 perhaps he felt alien in the false rhapsody of art。 and my own monograph； i must admit； had been stern with accuracy。 the fear of describing her presence as i wrote caused me to burn down all sentiment； all rhetoric of love。 still； i described the desert as purely as i would have spoken of her。 madox asked meabout the moon during our last days together before the war began。 we parted。 he left for england； the probability of the oning war interrupting everything； our slow unearthing of history in the desert。 good…bye； odysseus； he said grinning； knowing i was never that fond of odysseus； less fond of aeneas； but we had decided bagnold was aeneas。 but i was not that fond of odysseus either。 good…bye； i said。
i remember he turned back； laughing。 he pointed his thick finger to the spot by his adam’s apple and said； “this is called the vascular sizood。” giving that hollow at her neck an official name。 he returned to his wife in the village of marston magna； took only his favourite volume of tolstoy； left all of his passes and maps to me。 our affection left unspoken。
and marston magna in somerset； which he had evoked for me again and again in our conversations； had turned its green fields into an aerodrome。 the planes burned their exhaust over arthurian castles。 what drove him to the act i do not know。
maybe it was the permanent noise of flight； so loud to him now after the simple drone of the gypsy moth that had putted over our silences in libya and egypt。 someone’s war was slashing apart his delicate tapestry of panions。 i was odysseus； i understood the shifting and temporary vetoes of war。 but he was a man who made friends with difficulty。 he was a man who knew two or three people in his life； and they had turned out now to be the enemy。
he was in somerset alone with his wife； who had never met us。 small gestures were enough for him。 one bullet ended the war。
it was july
they caught a bus from their village into yeovil。 the bus had been slow and so they had been late for the service。 at the back of the crowded church； in order to find seats they decided to sit separately。 when the sermon began half an hour later； it was jingoistic and without any doubt in its support of the war。 the priest intoned blithely about battle； blessing the government and the men about to enter the war。 madox listened as the sermon grew more impassioned。 he pulled out the desert pistol； bent over and shot himself in the heart。 he was dead immediately。 a great silence。 desert silence。 plane