The English Patient - Michael Ondaatje

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  • Topic: Face, Desert, Villa
  • Pages : 202 (86814 words )
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  • Published : July 7, 2011
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Michael Ondaatje is a novelist and poet who lives in Toronto, Canada. He is the author ofIn the Skin of a Lion, Coming Through Slaughter, andThe Collected Works of Billy the Kid; three collections of poems,The Cinnamon Peeler, Secular Love, andThere’s a Trick, with a Knife I’m Learning to Do; and a memoir,Running in the Family. He received the Booker Prize forThe English Patient.

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In memory of Skip and Mary Dickinson

For Quintin and Griffin

And for Louise Dennys, with thanks

‘Most of you, I am sure, remember the tragic cir-cumstances of the death of Geoffrey Clifton at Gilf Kebir, followed later by the disappearance of his wife, Katharine Clifton, which took place during the 1939 desert expedition in search of Zerzura. “I cannot begin this meeting tonight without referring very sympathetically to those tragic oc-currences. “The lecture this evening ...”

From the minutes of the Geographical Society meeting of November 194-, London

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I - The Villa II - In Near Ruins III - Sometime a Fire IV - South Cairo 1930-1938 V - Katharine VI - A Buried Plane VII - In Situ VIII - The Holy Forest IX - The Cave of Swimmers X - August

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The Villa

She stands upin the garden where she has been working and looks into the distance. She has sensed a shift in the weather. There is another gust of wind, a buckle of noise in the air, and the tall cypresses sway. She turns and moves uphill towards the house, climbing over a low wall, feeling the first drops of rain on her bare arms. She crosses the loggia and quickly enters the house. In the kitchen she doesn’t pause but goes through it and climbs the stairs which are in darkness and then continues along the long hall, at the end of which is a wedge of light from an open door. She turns into the room which is another garden—this one made up of trees and bowers painted over its walls and ceiling. The man lies on the bed, his body exposed to the breeze, and he turns his head slowly towards her as she enters.

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Every four days she washes his black body, beginning at the destroyed feet. She wets a washcloth and holding it above his ankles squeezes the water onto him, looking up as he mur-murs, seeing his smile. Above the shins the burns are worst. Beyond purple. Bone. She has nursed him for months and she knows the body well, the penis sleeping like a sea horse, the thin tight hips. Hipbones of Christ, she thinks. He is her despairing saint. He lies flat on his back, no pillow, looking up at the foliage painted onto the ceiling, its canopy of branches, and above that, blue sky. She pours calamine in stripes across his chest where he is less burned, where she can touch him. She loves the hollow below the lowest rib, its cliff of skin. Reaching his shoulders she blows cool air onto his neck, and he mutters. What? she asks, coming out of her concentration. He turns his dark face with its grey eyes towards her. She puts her hand into her pocket. She unskins the plum with her teeth, withdraws the stone and passes the flesh of the fruit into his mouth. He whispers again, dragging the listening heart of the young nurse beside him to wherever his mind is, into that well of memory he kept plunging into during those months before he died.

There are stories the man recites quietly into the room which slip from level to level like a hawk. He wakes in the painted arbour that surrounds him with its spilling flowers, arms of great trees. He remembers picnics, a woman who kissed parts of his body that now are burned into the...
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