In the Skin of a Lion - Michael Ondaatje [81]
He stood over Patrick. “He lay down to sleep, until he was woken from out of a dream. He saw the lions around him glorying in life; then he took his axe in his hand, he drew his sword from his belt, and he fell upon them like an arrow from the string.”
There was a knock on the door. Six o’clock. He said nothing. A knock again. Harris was concerned that Patrick would wake suddenly. “Come in,” he whispered. An officer efficiently stepped in and saluted. Harris put his finger to his lips before the man could bark out information. He pointed to the man on the bed.
– Take that blasting-box and defuse it. Let him sleep on. Don’t talk. Just take it away. Bring a nurse with some medical supplies here, he’s hurt himself.
– Patrick?
He woke slowly, Hana’s hand on his shoulder.
– Patrick? We have to go to Marmora.
– Five more minutes, ten more minutes.
– No, we have to go. I made a thermos of coffee for us.
– Thank you.
He felt his clothes wet with the sweat of sleep.
– I’m awake. Marmora. Okay.
On the balcony in the night air, he peered down into the landlord’s long green garden. The last of the previous day’s heat was still in the atmosphere. Hana locked up and they went down the two flights of metal stairway and then walked along Albany Street towards the car. The houses at this hour beautiful and large, stray lights on within them, and he could see the faint interiors, their privacy and character revealed, each room a subplot. His good arm was around Hana’s shoulder while she hugged the thermos to her.
– Tell me about her.
– She was your mother’s best friend. I’ll tell you the whole story.
The second-floor balconies curved out to the street. Odours from each hedge. Mr. Rivera hosing his garden at three A.M. having just returned from a night shift, private as they passed him. A dog’s chain hung off a step railing. They were off to guide Clara back to this street. He found it most beautiful, felt most comfortable at this hour when they often saw racoons pausing on steps seemingly tamed as if owning the territory of the porch.
They stopped by the Ford and unlocked the passenger door. He was about to climb over into the driver’s seat.
– Do you want to drive? he asked.
– Me? I don’t know the gears.
– Go ahead. I’ll talk the gears to you till we are out of town.
– I’ll try it for a bit.
Hana sat upright, adapting the rear-view mirror to her height. He climbed in, pretending to luxuriate in the passenger seat, making animal-like noises of satisfaction.
– Lights, he said.
BOOKS BY MICHAEL ONDAATJE
COMING THROUGH SLAUGHTER
This novel brings to life the fabulous, colorful panorama of New Orleans in the first flush of the jazz era; it is the story of Buddy Bolden, the first of the great trumpet players, some say the originator of jazz, who was a genius, a guiding spirit, and the king of that time and place.
Fiction/Literature/978-0-679-76785-5
THE ENGLISH PATIENT
Winner of the Booker Prize
During the final moments of World War II, four damaged people come together in a deserted Italian villa. As their stories unfold, a complex tapestry of image and emotion is woven, leaving them inextricably connected by the brutal circumstances of the war.
Fiction/Literature/978-0-679-74520-4
RUNNING IN THE FAMILY
In the late 1970s, Michael Ondaatje returned to his native country of Sri Lanka. Recording his journey through the druglike heat and intoxicating fragrances of the island, Ondaatje simultaneously retraces the baroque mythology of his Dutch-Ceylonese family.
Memoir/Literature/978-0-679-74669-0
ALSO AVAILABLE:
Anil’s Ghost, 978-0-375-72437-4
The Cinnamon Peeler, 978-0-679-77913-1
The Collected Works of Billy the Kid,
978-0-679-76786-2
Divisadero,