VIII The Holy Forest
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KIP WALKS OUT of the field where he has been digging, his left hand raised in front of him as if he has sprai.He passes the scarecrow for Hana’s garden, the crucifix with its hanging sardine s, and moves uphill towards the villa. He cups the hand held in front of him with the other as if proteg the flame of a dle. Has him oerrace, aakes her hand and holds it against his. The ladybird cirg the nail on his small finger quickly crosses over onto her wrist.
She turns bato the house. Now her hand is held out in front of her. She walks through the kit and up the stairs.
The patient turns to face her as she es in. She touches his foot with the hand that holds the ladybird. It leaves her, moving onto the dark skin. Avoiding the sea of white sheet, it begins to make the long trek towards the distance of the rest of his body, a bright redness against what seems like volic flesh.
In the library the fuze box is in midair, nudged off the ter by Caravaggio wheuro Hana’s gleeful yell in the hall. Before it reaches the floor Kip’s body slides underh it, aches it in his hand.
Caravaggio glances down to see the young man’s face blowing out all the air quickly through his cheeks.
He thinks suddenly he owes him a life.
Kip begins to laugh, losing his shyness in front of the older man, holding up the box of wires.
Caravaggio will remember the slide. He could walk away, never see him again, and he would never fet him. Years from now on a Toronto street Caravaggio will get out of a taxi and hold the door open for a Indian who is about to get into it, and he will think of Kip then.
Now the sapper just laughs up towards Caravaggio’s fad up past that towards the ceiling.
“I know all about sarongs.” Caravaggio waved his hand towards Kip and Hana as he spoke. “In the east end of Toronto I met these Indians. I was robbing a house and it turned out to belong to an Indian family. They woke from their beds and they were wearing these cloths, sarongs, to sleep in, and it intrigued me. We had lots to talk about and they eventually persuaded me to try it. I removed my clothes and stepped into one, and they immediately set upon me and chased me half naked into the night.” “Is that a true story?” She grinned.
“One of many!” She knew enough about him to almost believe it. Caravaggio was stantly diverted by the huma during burglar-ies. Breaking into a house during Christmas, he would bee annoyed if he noticed the Advent dar had not been opened up to the date to which it should have beeen had versations with the various pets left alone in houses, rhetorically discussing meals with them, feeding them large helpings, and was ofteed by them with siderable pleasure if he returo the se of a crime.
She walks in front of the shelves in the library, eyes closed, and at random pulls out a book. She finds a cleariween two ses in a book of poetry and begins to write there.
He says Lahore is an a city. London is a ret town pared with Lahore. I say, Well, e from an even newer try. He says they have always known about gunpowder. As far back as the seveh tury, court paintings recorded fireworks displays.
He is small, not much taller than I am. An intimate smile up close that charm anything when he displays it. A tougho his nature he doesn’t show. The Englishman says he’s one of those warrior saints. But he has a peculiar sense of humour that is more rambunctious than his manner suggests. Remember “I’ll rewire him in the m.” Ooh la la! He says Lahore has thirteen gates—named for saints and emperors or where they lead to.
The word bungalow es from Bengali.
At four iernoon they had lowered Kip into the pit in a harness until he was waist-deep in the muddy water, his body draped around the body of the Esau bomb. The g from fin to tip te high, its nose sunk into the mud by his feet.
Beh the brown water his thighs braced the metal g, much the way he had seen soldiers holding women in the er of NAAFI dance floors. When his arms tired he hung them upon the wooden struts at shoulder level, which were there to stop mud collapsing in around him. The sappers had dug the pit around the Esau a up the wood-shaft walls before he had arrived oe. In , Esau bombs with a new Y fuze had started ing in; this was his sed one.
It was decided during planning sessions that the only way around the new fuze was to immu. It was a huge bomb in ostrich posture. He had e down barefoot and he was already sinking slowly, being caught within the clay, uo get a firm hold down there in the cold water. He wasn’t wearing boots—they would have locked within the clay, and when he ulleyed up later the jerk out of it could break his ankles.
He laid his left cheek against the metal g, trying to think himself into warmth, trating on the small touch of sun that reached down into the twenty-foot pit and fell on the back of his neck. What he embraced could explode at any moment, wheumblers tremored, whehe gaine was fired. There was no magic or X ray that would tell anyone when some small capsule broke, when some wire would stop wavering. Those small meical semaphores were like a heart murmur or a stroke within the man crossing the street ily in front of you.
What town was he in? He couldn’t even remember. He heard a void looked up. Hardy passed the equipment down in a satchel at the end of a rope, and it hung there while Kip began to ihe various clips and tools into the many pockets of his tunic. He was humming the song Hardy had been singing in the jeep on the way to the site— They’re ging guard at Bugham Palace— Christopher Robi down with Mice.
He wiped the area of fuze head dry and began moulding a clay cup around it. Then he unstopped the jar and poured the liquid oxygen into the cup. He taped the cup securely onto the metal. Now he had to wait again.
There was so little space between him and the bomb he could feel the ge in temperature already. If he were on dry land he could walk away and be ba ten minutes. Now he had to stand there beside the bomb. They were two suspicious creatures in an enclosed space. Captain Carlyle had been w in a shaft with frozen oxygen and the whole pit had suddenly burst into flames. They hauled him out fast, already unscious in his harness.
Where was he? Lisson Grove? Old Kent Road?
Kip dipped cotton wool into the muddy water and touched it to the g about twelve inches away from the fuze. It fell away, so it meant he had to wait longer. Wheton wool stuck, it meant enough of the area around the fuze was frozen and he could go on. He poured more oxygen into the cup.
The growing circle of frost was a foot in radius now. A few more minutes. He looked at the clipping someone had taped onto the bomb. They had read it with much laugh- ter that m in the update kit sent to all bomb disposal units.
When is explosion reasonably permissible?
If a man’s life could be capitalized as X, the risk at Y, and the estimated damage from explosion at V, then a logi might tend that if V is less than X over Y, the bomb should be blown up; but if V over Y is greater than X, an attempt should be made to avoid explosion in situ.
Who wrote such things?
He had by now been in the shaft with the bomb for more than an hour. He tinued feeding in the liquid oxygen. At shoulder height, just to his right, was a hose pumping down normal air to prevent him from being giddy with oxygen.
(He had seen soldiers with hangovers use the oxygen to cure headaches.) He tried the cotton wool again and this time it froze on.
He had about twenty minutes. After that the battery temperature within the bomb would rise again. But for now the fuze was iced up and he could begin to remove it.
He ran his palms up and down the bomb case to detey rips ial. The submerged se would be safe, but oxygen could ignite if it came into tact with exposed explosive. Carlyle’s flaw. X over Y. If there were rips they would have to use liquid nitrogen.
“It’s a two-thousand-pound bomb, sir. Esau.” Hardy’s voice from the top of the mud pit.
“Type-marked fifty, in a circle, B. Two fuze pockets, most likely. But we think the sed one is probably not armed.
Okay?” They had discussed all this with each other before, but things were being firmed, remembered for the final time.
“Put me on a microphone now a back.” “Okay, sir.”Kip smiled. He was ten years youhan Hardy, and no Englishman, but Hardy was happiest in the co imental disciplihere was always hesitation by the soldiers to call him “sir,” but Hardy barked it out loud ahusiastically.
He was w fast now to prise out the fuze, all the batteries i.
“ you hear me? Whistle.... Okay, I heard it. A last topping up with oxygen. Will let it bubble for thirty seds. Then start. Freshen the frost. Okay, I’m going to remove the dam,... Okay, dam gone.” Hardy was listening to everything and rec it in case somethi wrong. One spark and Kip would be in a shaft of flames. Or there could be a joker in the bomb. The person would have to sider the alternatives.
“I’m using the quilter key.” He had pulled it out of his breast pocket. It was cold and he had to rub it warm. He began to remove the log ring. It moved easily aold Hardy.
“They’re ging guard at Bugham Palace,” Kip whistled. He pulled off the log ring and the log ring ahem sink into the water. He could feel them roll slowly at his feet. It would all take another four minutes.
“Alice is marrying one of the guard. ‘A soldier’s life is terrible hard,’ says Alice!” He was singing it out loud, trying to get more warmth into his body, his chest painfully cold. He kept trying to lean back far enough away from the frozeal in front of him. And he had to keep moving his hands up to the back of his neck, where the sun still was, then rub them to free them of the mud grease and frost. It was difficult to get the collet to grip the head.
Then to his horror the fuze head broke away, came off pletely.
“Wrong, Hardy. Whole fuze head snapped off. Talk bae, okay? The main body of the fuze is jammed down there, I ’t get to it. There’s nothing exposed I grip.” “Where is the frost at?” Hardy was right above him. It had been a few seds but he had raced to the shaft.
“Six more minutes of frost.” “e up and we’ll blow it up.” “No, pass me down some more oxygen.” He raised his right hand a an icy ister being placed in it.
“I’m going to dribble the muto the area of exposed fuze —where the head separated—then I’ll cut into the metal. Chip through till I grip something. Get baow, I’ll talk it through.” He could hardly keep his fury back at what had happehe muck, which was their name for oxygen, was going all over his clothes, hissing as it hit the water. He waited for the frost to appear and then began to shear metal off with a chisel. He poured more on, waited and chiselled deeper. When nothing came off he ripped free a bit of his shirt, placed it betweeal and the chisel, and then bahe chisel dangerously with a mallet, chipping off fragments. The cloth of his shirt his only safety against a spark. What was more of a problem was the ess on his fingers. They were no lile, they were i as the batteries. He kept cutting sideways into the metal around the lost fuze head. Shaving it off in layers, hoping the freezing would accept this kind of surgery. If he cut down directly there was always a ce he would hit the percussion cap that flashed the gaine.
It took five more minutes. Hardy had not moved from the top of the pit, instead was giving him the approximate time left in the freezing. But in truth her of them could be sure. Sihe fuze head had broken off, they were freezing a different area, and the water temperature though cold to him was warmer thaal.
Then he saw something. He did not dare chip the hole any bigger. The tact of the circuit quivering like a silver tendril. If he could reach it. He tried to rub warmth into his hands.
He breathed out, was still for a few seds, an<bdi>99ｌib.</bdi>d with the needle pliers cut the ta two before he breathed in again. He gasped as the freeze burned part of his hand when he pulled it back out of the circuits. The bomb was dead.
“Fuze out. Gaine off. Kiss me.” Hardy was already rolling up the wind Kip was trying to clip on the halter; he could hardly do it with the burn and the cold, all his muscles cold. He heard the pulley jerk and just held tight onto the leather straps still half attached around him. He began to feel his brown legs being pulled from the grip of the mud, removed like an a corpse out of a bog. His small feet rising out of the water. He emerged, lifted 藏书网out of the pit into the sunlight, head and then torso.
He hung there, a slow swivel uhe tepee of poles that held the pulley. Hardy was now embrag him and unbug him simultaneously, letting him free. Suddenly he saw there was a large crowd watg from about twenty yards away, too close, far too close, for safety; they would have beeroyed. But of course Hardy had not beeo keep them back.
They watched him silently, the Indian, hanging onto Hardy’s shoulder, scarcely able to walk back to the jeep with all the equipment—tools and isters and blas and the rec instruments still wheeling around, listening to the nothingness down in the shaft.
“I ’t walk.” “Only to the jeep. A few yards more, sir. I’ll pick up the rest.” They kept pausing, then walking on slowly. They had to go past the staring faces who were watg the slight brown man, shoeless, i tunic, watg the drawn face that didn’t reize or aowledge anything, any of them. All of them silent. Just stepping back to give him and Hardy room. At the jeep he started shaking. His eyes couldn’t stand the glare off the windshield. Hardy had to lift him, in stages, into the passenger seat.
When Hardy left, Kip slowly pulled off his wet trousers and ed himself in the blahe there. Too cold and tired even to uhe Thermos of hot tea on the seat beside him. He thought: I wasn’t even frightened down there. I was just angry—with my mistake, or the possibility that there was a joker. An animal reag just to protect myself.
Only Hardy, he realized, keeps me human now.
When there is a hot day at the Villa San Girolamo they all wash their hair, first with keroseo remove the possibility of lice, and then with water. Lying back, his hair spread out, eyes closed against the sun, Kip seems suddenly vulnerable. There is a shyness within him when he assumes this fragile posture, looking more like a corpse from a myth than anything living orhuman. Hana sits beside him, her dark brown hair already dry. These are the times he will talk about his family and his brother in jail.
He will sit up and flip his hair forward, and begin to rub the length of it with a towel. She imagines all of Asia through the gestures of this one man. The way he lazily moves, his quiet civilisation. He speaks of warrior saints and she now feels he is oern and visionary, pausing only in these rare times of sunlight to be godless, informal, his head back again oable so the sun dry his spread hair like grain in a fan-shaped straw basket. Although he is a man from Asia who has in these last years of war assumed English fathers, following the<u></u>ir codes like a dutiful son.
“Ah, but my brother thinks me a fool for trusting the English.” He turns to her, sunlight in his eyes. “One day, he says, I will open my eyes. Asia is still not a free ti, and he is appalled at how we throw ourselves into English wars. It is a battle of opinion we have always had. ‘One day you will open your eyes,’ my brother keeps saying.” The sapper says this, his eyes closed tight, mog the metaphor. “Japan is a part of Asia, I say, and the Sikhs have been brutalized by the Japanese in Malaya. But my brhat. He says the English are now hanging Sikhs who are fighting for independence.” She turns away from him, her arms folded. The feuds of the world. The feuds of the world. She walks into the daylight darkness of the villa and goes in to sit with the Englishman.
At night, whes his hair free, he is once more another stellation, the arms of a thousaainst his pillow, waves of it between them in their embrad iurns of sleep. She holds an Indian goddess in her arms, she holds wheat and ribbons. As he bends over her it pours. She tie it against her wrist. As he moves she keeps her eyes open to withe gnats of electricity in his hair in the darkness of the tent.
He moves always iion to things, beside walls, raised terrace hedges. He ss the periphery. When he looks at Hana he sees a fragment of her lean cheek iion to the landscape behind it. The way he watches the arc of a li in terms of the space it gathers away from the surface of the earth. He has walked up Italy with eyes that tried to see everything except what was temporary and human.
The ohing he will never sider is himself. Not his twilit shadow or his arm reag for the back of a chair or the refle of himself in a window or how they watch him. In the years of war he has learhat the only thing safe is himself.
He spends hours with the Englishman, who reminds him of a fir tree he saw in England, its one sick branch, too weighted down with age, held up by a crutch made out of aree. It stood in Lord Suffolk’s garden on the edge of the cliff, overlooking the Bristol el like a sentinel. In spite of sufirmity he sehe creature within it was noble, with a memory whose power rainbowed beyond ailment.
He himself has no mirrors He s his turban outside in his garden, looking about at the moss on trees. But he notices the swath scissors have made in Hana’s hair. He is familiar with her breath when he places his face against her body, at the clavicle, where the bone lightens her skin. But if she asked him what colour her eyes are, although he has e to adore her, he will not, she thinks, be able to say. He will laugh and guess, but if she, black-eyed, says with her eyes shut that they are green, he will believe her. He may look ily at eyes but nister what colour they are, the way food already in his throat or stomach is just texture more than taste or specific object.
When someone speaks he looks at a mouth, not eyes and their colours, which, it seems to him, will always alter depending on the light of a room, the minute of the day. Mouths reveal insecurity or smugness or any other point on the spectrum of character. For him they are the most intricate aspect effaces. He’s never sure what an eye reveals. But he read how mouths darken into callousness, suggest tenderness. One often misjudge an eye from its rea to a simple beam of sunlight.
Everything is gathered by him as part of an altering harmony. He sees her in differing hours and locations that alter her voice or nature, even her beauty, the way the background power of the sea cradles overns the fate of lifeboats.
They were in the habit of rising with daybreak aing dinner in the last available light. Throughout the late evening there would be only one dle flaring into the darkness beside the English patient, or a lamp half filled with oil if Caravaggio had mae any. But the corridors and other bedrooms hung in darkness, as if in a buried city. They became used to walking in darkness, hands out, toug the walls oher side with their fiips.
“No more light. No more colour.” Hana would sing the phrase to herself again and again. Kip’s unnerving habit of leaping dowairs one hand halfway down the rail had to be stopped. She imagined his feet travelling through air and hitting the returning Caravaggio iomach.
She had blown out the dle in the Englishman’s room an hour earlier. She had removed her tennis shoes, her frock was unbutto the neck because of summer heat, the sleeves unbuttoned as well and loose, high up at the arm. A sweet disorder.
On the main floor of the wing, apart from the kit, library aed chapel, was a glassed-in indoor courtyard. Four walls of glass with a glass door that let you into where there was a covered well and shelves of dead plants that at oime must have flourished in the heated room. This indoor courtyard reminded her more and more of a book opeo reveal pressed flowers, something to be gla during passing, never entered.
It was two a.m.
Each of them ehe villa from a different doorway, Hana at the chapel entrance by the thirty-six steps a the north courtyard. As he stepped into the house he removed his watd slid it into an alcove at chest level where a small saied. The patron of this villa hospital. She would not catch a glance of phosphorus. He had already removed his shoes and wore just trousers. The lamp strapped to his arm was switched off. He carried nothing else and just stood there for a while in darkness, a lean boy, a dark turban, the kara loose on his wrist against the skin. He leaned against the er of the vestibule like a spear.
Then he was gliding through the indoor courtyard. He came into the kit and immediately sehe dog in the dark, caught it and tied it with a rope to the table. He picked up the densed milk from the kit shelf auro the glassroom in the indoor courtyard. He ran his hands along the base of the door and found the small sticks leaning against it. He entered and closed the door behind him, at the last moment snaking his hand out to prop the sticks up against the dain. In case she had seehen he climbed down into the well. There was a cross-plank three feet down he knew was firm. He closed the lid over himself and crouched there, imagining her searg for him or hiding herself. He began to suck at the of densed milk.
She suspected something like this from him. Having made her way to the library, she turned on the light on her arm and walked beside the bookcases that stretched from her ao unsees above her. The door was closed, so no light could reveal itself to anyone in the halls. He would be able to see the glow oher side of the French doors only if he was outside. She paused every few feet, searg once again through the predominantly Italian books for the odd English ohat she could present to the English patient. She had e to love these books dressed in their Italian spihe frontispieces, the tipped-in colour illustrations with a c of tissue, the smell of them, even the sound of the crack if you opehem too fast, as if breaking some minute unseen series of bones. She paused again. The Charterhouse of Parma.
“If I ever get out of my difficulties,” he said to Clelia, “I shall pay a visit to the beautiful pictures at Parma, and then will you deign to remember the name: Fabrizio del Dongo.” Caravaggio lay on the carpet at the far end of the library. From his darkness it seemed that Hana’s left arm was raw phosphorus, lighting the books, refleg redness onto her dark hair, burning against the cotton of her frod its puffed sleeve at her shoulder.
He came out of the well.
The three-foot diameter of light spread from her arm and then was absorbed into blaess, so it felt tgio that there was a valley of darkness between them. She tucked the book with the brown cover under her right arm. As she moved, new books emerged and others disappeared.
She had grown older. And he loved her more now than he loved her when he had uood her better, when she was the product of her parents. What she was nohat she herself had decided to bee. He khat if he had passed Hana on a street in Europe she would have had a familiar air but he wouldn’t have reized her. The night he had first e to the villa he had disguised his shock. Her ascetic face, which at first seemed cold, had a sharpness. He realized that during the last two months he had grown towards who she now was. He could hardly believe his pleasure at her translation. Years before, he had tried to imagine her as an adult but had ied someoh qualities moulded out of her unity. Not this wonderful stranger he could love more deeply because she was made up of nothing he had provided.
She was lying on the sofa, had twisted the lamp inward so she could read, and had already fallen deep into the book. At some point later she looked up, listening, and quickly switched off the light.
Was she scious of him in the room? Caravaggio was aware of the noisiness of his breath and the difficulty he was having breathing in an ordered, demure way. The light went on for a moment and then was quickly shut off again.
Thehing in the room seemed to be in movement but Caravaggio. He could hear it all around him, surprised he wasn’t touched. The boy was in the room. Caravaggio walked over to the sofa and placed his hand down towards Hana. She was not there. As he straightened up, an arm went around his ned pulled him down backwards in a grip. A light glared harshly into his face, and there was a gasp from them both as they fell towards the floor. The arm with the light still holding him at the neck. Then a naked foot emerged into the light, moved past Caravaggio’s fad stepped onto the boy’s neck beside him.
Anht went on.
“Got you. Got you.” The two bodies on the floor looked up at the dark outline of Hana above the light. She was singing it, “I got you, got you. I used Caravaggio—who really does have a bad wheeze! I knew he would be here. He was the trick.” Her foot pressed down harder onto the boy’s neck. “Give up. fess.” Caravaggio began to shake within the boy’s grip, sweat already all over him, ule out. The glare of light from both lamps now on him. He somehow had to climb and crawl out of this terror. fess. The girl was laughing. He o calm his voice before he spoke, but they were hardly listenied at their adventure. He worked his way out of the boy’s loosening grip and, not saying a word, left the room.
They were in darkness again. “Where are you?” she asks. Then moves quickly. He positions himself so she bangs into his chest, and in this way slips her into his arms. She puts her hand to his neck, then her mouth to his mouth. “densed milk! During our test? densed milk?” She puts her mouth at his neck, the sweat of it, tasting him where her bare foot had been. “I want to see you.” His light goes on and he sees her, her face streaked with dirt, her hair spiked up in a swirl from perspiration. Her grin towards him.
He puts his thin hands up into the loose sleeves of her dress and cups her shoulders with his hands. If she swerves now, his hands go with her. She begins to lean, puts all her weight into her fall backwards, trusting him to e with her, trusting his hands to break the fall. Then he will curl himself up, his feet in the air, just his hands and arms and his mouth ohe rest of his body the tail of a mantis. The lamp is still strapped against the muscle and sweat of his left arm. Her face slips into the light to kiss and lid taste. His forehead towelling itself iness of her hair.
Then he is suddenly across the room, the bounce of his sapper lamp all over the place, in this room he has spent a week sweeping of all possible fuzes so it is now cleared. As if the room has now finally emerged from the war, is no longer a zone or territory. He moves with just the lamp, swaying his arm, revealing the ceiling, her laughing face as he passes her standing on the back of the sofa looking down at the glisten of his slim body. The ime he passes her he sees she is leaning down andwiping her arms on the skirt of her dress. “But I got you, I got you,” she ts. “I’m the Mohi of Danforth Avehen she is riding on his bac<samp></samp>k and her light swerves into the spines of books in the high shelves, her arms rising up and down as he spins her, and she dead-weights forward, drops and catches his thighs, then pivots off and is free of him, lying ba the old carpet, the smell of the past a rain still in it, the dust and grit on her wet arms. He bends down to her, she reaches out and clicks off his light. “I wht?” He still has said nothing since he came into the room. His head goes into that gesture she loves which is partly a nod, partly a shake of possible disagreement. He ot see her for the glare. He turns off her light so they are equal in darkness.
There is the one month in their lives when Hana and Kip sleep beside each other. A formal celibacy between them. Dis-c that in lovemaking there be a whole civilisation, a whole try ahead of them. The love of the idea of him or her. I don’t want to be fucked. I don’t want to fuck you. Where he had lear or she had who knows, in such youth. Perhaps from Caravaggio, who had spoken to her during those evenings about his age, about the tenderowards every cell in a lover that es when you discover your mortality. This was, after all, a mortal age. The boy’s desire pleted itself only in his deepest sleep while in the arms of Hana, his asm something more to do with the pull of the moon, a tug of his body by the night.
All evening his thin face lay against her ribs. She reminded him of the pleasure of being scratched, her fingernails in circles raking his back. It was something an ayah had taught him years earlier. All fort and peace during childhood, Kip remembered, had e from her, never from the mother he loved or from his brother or father, whom he played with. When he was scared or uo sleep it was the ayah whnized his lack, who would ease him into sleep with her hand on his small thin back, this intimate stranger from South India who lived with them, helped run a household, cooked and served them meals, brought up her own children within the shell of the household, having forted his older brother too in earlier years, probably knowing the character of all of the childreer than their real parents did.
It was a mutual affe. If Kip had been asked whom he loved most he would have named his ayah before his mother. Her f love greater than any blood love or sexual love for him. All through his life, he would realize later, he was drawn outside the family to find such love. The platonitimacy, or at times the sexual intimacy, of a stranger. He would be quite old before he reized that about himself, before he could ask even himself that question of whom he loved most.
Only once did he feel he had given her bay fort, though she already uood his love for her. When her mother died he had crept into her room and held her suddenly old body. In silence he lay beside her m in her small servant’s room where she wept wildly and formally. He watched as she collected her tears in a small glass cup held against her face. She would take this, he ko the funeral. He was behind her hunched-over body, his nine-year-old hands on her shoulders, and when she was finally still, just now and then a shudder, he began to scratch her through the sari, then pulled it aside and scratched her skin—as Hana now received this tender art, his nails against the million cells of her skin, in his tent, in , where their tis met in a hill town.
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