an.

    Tonightdinnerwasbeingpreparedbythesapper.Caravaggiowasnotlookingforwardtoit.Onemealinthreewasalossasfarashewased.Kipfouablesaedthembarelycooked,justbrieflyboiledintoasoup.Itwastobeanotherpuristmeal,notwhatCaravaggiowishedforafteradaysuchasthiswhenhehadbeenlisteningtothemanupstairs.Heopehecupboardbehesink.There,edindampcloth,wassomedriedmeat,whichCaravaggiodputintohispocket.

    “Igetyouoffthemorphine,youknow.I’magoodnurse.”“You’resurroundedbymadmen...”“Yes,Ithinkweareallmad.”WhenKipcalledthem,theywalkedoutofthekitandontotheterrace,whoseborder,withitslowstonebalustrade,wasrihlight.

    Itlookedtgiolikeastringofsmallelectridlesfoundindustychurches,ahoughtthesapperhadgooofarinremovingthemfromachapel,evenforHana’sbirthday.Hanawalkedslowlyforwardwithherhandsoverherface.

    Therewasnowind.Herlegsandthighsmovedthroughtheskirtofherfrockasifitwerethinwater.Hertennisshoessilentoone.

    “IkeptfindingdeadshellswhereverIwasdigging,”thesappersaid.

    Theystilldidn’tuand.Caravaggiobeheflutteroflights.Theyweresnailshellsfilledwithoil.Helookedalongtherowofthem;theremusthavebeenaboutforty.

    “Forty-five,”Kipsaid,“theyearssofarofthistury.WhereIefrom,wecelebratetheageaswellasourselves.”Hanamovedalongsidethem,herhandsinherpocketsnow,thelovedtoseeherwalk.Sorelaxed,asifshehadputherarmsawayforthenight,nowinsimplearmlessmovement.

    Caravaggiowasdivertedbythestartlingpresehreebottlesofredwihetable.Hewalkedoverahelabelsandshookhishead,amazed.Hekhesapperwouldn’tdri