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uch will be anonymous and silent in their darkness。 the intimacy of her body or the body of her language in his ear—as they lie upon the air pillow he insists on blowing up and using each night。 he has been charmed by this western invention。 he dutifully releases the air and folds it into three each morning； as he has done all the way up the landmass of italy。
in the tent kip nestles against her neck。 he dissolves to her scratching fingernails across his skin。 or he has his mouth against her mouth； his stomach against her wrist。
she sings and hums。 she thinks him； in this tent’s darkness； to be half bird—a quality of feather within him； the cold iron at his wrist。 he moves sleepily whenever he is in such darkness with her； not quite quick as the world； whereas in daylight he glides through all that is random around him； the way colour glides against colour。
but at night he embraces torpor。 she cannot see his order and discipline without seeing his eyes。 there isn’t a key to him。
everywhere she touches braille doorways。 as if organs； the heart； the rows of rib； can be seen under the skin； saliva across her hand now a colour。 he has mapped her sadness more than any other。 just as she knows the strange path of love he has for his dangerous brother。 “to be a wanderer is in our blood。 that is why jailing is most difficult for his nature and he would kill himself to get free。” during the verbal nights； they travel his country of five rivers。 the sutlej； jhelum； ravi； chenab； beas。 he guides her into the great gurdwara； removing her shoes； watching as she washes her feet； covers her head。 what they enter was built in ； desecrated in and built again immediately。 in gold and marble were applied。 “if i took you before morning you would see first of all the mist over the water。 then it lifts to reveal the temple in light。 you will already be hearing the hymns of the saints—ramananda； nanak and kabir。 singing is at the centre of worship。 you hear the song； you smell the fruit from the temple gardens—pomegranates； oranges。 the temple is a haven in the flux of life； accessible to all。 it is the ship that crossed the ocean of ignorance。” they move through the night； they move through the silver door to the shrine where the holy book lies under a canopy of brocades。 the ragis sing the book’s verses acpanied by musicians。 they sing from four in the morning till eleven at night。
the granth sahib is opened at random； a quotation selected； and for three hours； before the mist lifts off the lake to reveal the golden temple； the verses mingle and sway out with unbroken reading。
kip walks her beside a pool to the tree shrine where baba gujhaji； the first priest of the temple； is buried。 a tree of superstitions； four hundred and fifty years old。 “my mother came here to tie a string onto a branch and beseeched the tree for a son； and when my brother was born returned and asked to be blessed with another。 there are sacred trees and magic water all over the punjab。” hana is quiet。 he knows the depth of darkness in her； her lack of a child and of faith。 he is always coaxing her from the edge of her fields of sadness。 a child lost。 a father lost。
“i have lost someone like a father as well；” he has said。 but she knows this man beside her is one of the charmed； who has grown up an outsider and so can switch allegiances； can replace loss。 there are those destroyed by unfairness and those who are not。 if she asks him he will say he has had a good life —his brother in jail； his rades blown up； and he risking himself daily in this war。
in spite of the kindnesses in such people they were a terrible unfairness。 he could be all day in a clay pit dismantling a bomb that might kill him at any moment； could e home from the burial of a fellow sapper； his energy saddened； but whatever the trials around him there was always solution and light。 but she saw none。 for him there were the various maps of fate； and at amritsar’s temple all faiths and classes were wele and ate together。 she herself would be allowed to place money or a flower onto the sheet spread upon the floor and then join in the great permanent singing。
she wished for that。 her inwardness was a sadness of nature。 he himself would allow her to enter any of his thirteen gates of character； but she knew that if he were in danger he would never turn to face her。 he would create a space around himself andconcentrate。 this was his craft。 sikhs； he said； were brilliant at technology。 “we have a mystical closeness。。。 what is it？” “affinity。” “yes； affinity； with machines。” he would be lost among them for hours； the beat of music within the crystal set whacking away at his forehead and into his hair。 she did not believe she could turn fully to him and be his lover。 he moved at a speed that allowed him to replace loss。
that was his nature。 she would not judge it in him。 what right did she have。 kip stepping out each morning with his satchel hanging off his left shoulder and walking the path away from the villa san girolamo。 each morning she watched him； seeing his freshness towards the world perhaps for the last time。 after a few minutes he would look up into the shrapnel…torn cypresses； whose middle branches had been shelled away。 pliny must have walked down a path like this； or stendahl； because passages in the charterhouse of parma had occurred in this part of the world too。
kip would look up； the arch of the high wounded trees over him； the path in front of him mediaeval； and he a young man of the strangest profession his century had invented； a sapper； a military engineer who detected and disarmed mines。 each morning he emerged from the tent； bathed and dressed in the garden； and stepped away from the villa and its surroundings； not even entering the house—maybe a wave if he saw her— as if language； humanity； would confuse him； get； like blood； into the machine he had to understand。 she would see him forty yards from the house； in a clearing of the path。
it was the moment he left them all behind。 the moment the drawbridge closed behind the knight and he was alone with just the peacefulness of his own strict talent。 in siena there was that mural she had seen。 a fresco of a city。 a few yards outside the city walls the artist’s paint had crumbled away； so there was not even the security of art to provide an orchard in the far acres for the traveller leaving the castle。 that was where； she felt； kip went during the day。 each morning he would step from the painted scene towards dark bluffs of chaos。 the knight。 the warrior saint。 she would see the khaki uniform flickering through the cypresses。 the englishman had called himfato profugus—fate’s fugitive。 she guessed that these days began for him with the pleasure of lifting his eyes up to the trees。
they had flown the sappers into naples at the beginning of october ； selecting the best from the engineering corps that were already in southern italy； kip among the thirty men who were brought into the booby…trapped city。
the germans in the italian campaign had choreographed one of the most brilliant and terrible retreats in history。 the advance of the allies； which should have taken a month