“I was leaving the Gilf Kebir. I had gone there to collect someone. In late August. Nineteen forty-two.” 

“During the war? Everyone must have left by then.” 

“Yes. There were just armies.” 

(“The Gilf Kebir.” 

“Yes.” 

“Where is it?” 

“Give me the Kipling book... here.” 

On the frontispiece of Kirn was a map with a dotted line for the path the boy and the Holy One took. It showed just a portion of India—a darkly cross-hatched Afghanistan, and Kashmir in the lap of the mountains. He traces his black hand along the Numi River till it enters the sea at 23°3o’ latitude. He continues sliding his finger seven inches west, off the page, onto his chest; he touches his rib. 

“Here. The Gilf Kebir, just north of the Tropic of Cancer. On the Egyptian-Libyan border.” )

"What happened in 1942? " Caravaggio asks.

And the English patient begins,"I had made the journey to Cairo and was returning from there. I was slipping between the enemy, remembering old maps, hitting the pre-war caches of petrol and water, driving towards Uweinat. It was easier now that I was alone. Miles from the Gilf Kebir, the truck exploded and I capsized, rolling automatically into the sand, not wanting a spark to touch me. (In the desert one is always frightened of fire. )