The English Patient 精彩片段：
V Katharine
THE FIRST TIME she dreamed of him she woke up beside her husband screaming.
In their bedroom she stared down onto the sheet, mouth open. Her husband put his hand on her back.
“Nightmare. Don’t worry.” “Yes.” “Shall I get you some water?” “Yes.” She wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t lie back into that zone they had been in.
The dream had taken place in this room—his hand on her neck (she touched it now), his anger towards her that she had sensed the first few times she had met him. No, not anger, a lack of interest, irritation at a married woman being among them.
They had been bent over like animals, and he had yoked her neck back so she had been unable to breathe within her arousal.
Her husband brought her the glass on a saucer but she could not lift her arms, they were shaking, loose. He put the glassawkwardly against her mouth so she could gulp the chlorinated water, some coming down her chin, falling to her stomach.
When she lay back she hardly had time to think of what she had witnessed, she fell into a quick deep sleep.
That had been the first recognition. She remembered it sometime during the next day, but she was busy then and she refused to nestle with its significance for long, dismissed it; it was an accidental collision on a crowded night, nothing more.
A year later the other, more dangerous, peaceful dreams came. And even within the first one of these she recalled the hands at her neck and waited for the mood of calmness between them to swerve to violence.
Who lays the crumbs of food that tempt you? Towards a person you never considered. A dream. Then later another series of dreams.
He said later it was propinquity. Propinquity in the desert. It does that here, he said. He loved the word—the propinquity of water, the propinquity of two or three bodies in a car driving the Sand Sea for six hours. Her sweating knee beside the gearbox of the truck, the knee swerving, rising with the bumps. In the desert you have time to look everywhere, to theorize on the choreography of all things around you.
When he talked like that she hated him, her eyes remaining polite, her mind wanting to slap him. She always had the desire to slap him, and she realized even that was sexual. For him all relationships fell into patterns. You fell into propinquity or distance. Just as, for him, the histories in Herodotus clarified all societies. He assumed he was experienced in the ways of the world he had essentially left years earlier, struggling ever since to explore a half-invented world of the desert.
At Cairo aerodrome they loaded the equipment into the vehicles, her husband staying on to check the petrol lines of the Moth before the three men left the next morning. Madox went off to one of the embassies to send a wire. And he was going into town to get drunk, the usual final evening in Cairo, first at Madame Badin’s Opera Casino, and later to disappear into the streets behind the Pasha Hotel. He would pack before the evening began, which would allow him to just climb into the truck the next morning, hung over.
So he drove her into town, the air humid, the traffic bad and slow because of the hour.