“Caravaggio thinks he knows who you are,” Hana said. 

The English patient said nothing. 

“He says you are not English. He worked with intelligence out of Cairo and Italy for a while. Till he was captured. My family knew Caravaggio before the war. He was a thief. He believed in ‘the movement of things.’ Some thieves are collectors, like some of the explorers you scorn, like some men with women or some women with men. But Caravaggio was not like that. He was too curious and generous to be a successful thief. Half the things he stole never came home. He thinks you are not English.” 

She watched his stillness as she spoke; it appeared that he was not listening carefully to what she was saying. Just his distant thinking. (The way Duke Ellington looked and thought when he played “Solitude.”) 

She stopped talking.