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fficial when the film went to the milan 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 a man 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 moment into 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 her something。 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； the automobile purring； serene as ink within the summer night。 for the rest of the evening during the villa cosima gathering he had been looking at the photographer； spinning his body away whenever she lifted the camera to photograph in his direction。 now that he knows of its existence he can avoid it。 he moves into the range of her dialogue； her name is anna； mistress to an officer； who will be staying here in the villa for the night and then in the morning will travel north through tuscany。 the death of the woman or the woman’s sudden disappearance will 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 stops at the gravel path and moves slowly over the grit。 he looks up at the villa cosima； at the square moons of window。 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 in mid…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 photographed earlier in the crowded party； for by accident he stands the same way now； half turned in surprise at the light that reveals his body 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 her about the other person in the room。 a naked thief。 a naked assassin。 should he move—his hands out to break a neck—towards the couple on the bed？
he hears the man’s lovemaking continue； hears the silence of the woman—no whisper—hears her thinking； her eyes aimed towards him in the darkness。 the word should be think…ering。 caravaggio’s mind slips into this consideration； another syllable to suggest collecting a thought as one tinkers with a half…pleted bicycle。 words are tricky things； a friend of his has told him； they’re much more tricky than violins。 his mind recalls the woman’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 an arrow upon him。 the light moves from her face down onto the body of the general； over the carpet； and then touches and slides over caravaggio once more。 he can no longer see her。 he shakes his head； then mimes the cutting of his throat。 the camera is in his hands for her to understand。 then he is in darkness again。 he hears a moan of pleasure now from her towards her lover； and he is aware it is her agreement with him。 no words； no hint of irony； just a contract with him； the morse of understanding； so he knows he can now move safely to the verandah 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 only way he could get past guards was to be revealed as an innocent。 he had stripped pletely and left his clothes in 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 evening’s invitation； alfresco； was that it？ or seduction 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 yards away。 so a long theatrical walk； and caravaggio now having to perform it； watched with quiet suspicion and scornfully by the two bookended sentries； the ass…and…cock walk； pausing at a section of mural to peer at a painted donkey in a grove。 he leans his head on the wall； almost falling asleep； then walks again； stumbles and immediately 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 tuesday during the war； in order to save his disguise and his life。 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 the room that is being guarded。 laughing； he staggers back； peeved at his woeful failure； and slips into the next room humming。
he opens the window and steps out onto the verandah。 a dark； beautiful night。 then he climbs off it and swings onto the verandah one level below。 only now can he enter the room of anna and her general。 nothing more than a perfume in their midst。 printless foot。 shadowless。 the story he told someone’s child years ago about the person 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 clothing thrown onto chair backs； dropped upon the floor。 he lies down and rolls across the carpet in order to feel anything hard like a camera； touching the skin of the room。 he rolls in silence in the shape of fans； finding nothing。 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 the vehicle 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 the flow of thought the way his wife used to do。 he watches her sniffing him out； searching for the trace。 he buries it and looks back at her； knowing his eyes are faultless； clear as any river； unimpeachable 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 a question as a dog would when spoken to in a tone or pitch that