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Authors: Shirley Hazzard
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murmurous season.
He explained himself. The third man, who came on slowly and was deferred to, was the village elder, and spoke some careful Chinese, while the others used dialect. This older man, lightly built, had possibly been tall until reduced by toil and time. Good face, hairless; slight smile, courteous and unsurprised. A blue cotton gown — faded to a chalky mauve and draped from a latch at one shoulder — cleared his ankles. The high soft circular collar was unfastened. A darker cloth had been wound about his head in a flat turban. Wide sleeves almost covered the clasped fingers. A saffron face with the Tibetan look common in that region, and the clear light eyes.
Summoning this figure, one year later, Leith was aware of the convex brow with its traceries of experience that had infinitesimally evoked the veined hill above them, and only now found its place in his mind.
Helen asked, 'What was the one book?'
And Benedict: 'The book comes later. What next?'
'The bomber had been there since 1942, off course in torrential rain. That is Yunnan, it is named for that: the low clouds and fog, the cloudy south. There was an explosion after the crash, then a great fire that, despite the rains, smouldered on overnight. The villagers struggled up in the wet, but explosions kept them off.' He did not tell that they could hear cries throughout the night. Later, they stripped the wreck of whatever had not burned. 'They took away some salvage and what they found in the cockpit. There were fifteen bodies, and they buried them farther down, under a cairn of stones.'
These had to be disinterred. Dismantling the cairn was rough work in the sun, but that was not the trouble. The remains had to be extracted and handled. The men worked in the sun, nearly naked, with cloths over their mouths. All were sick. They urged Leith to leave them: 'We're more accustomed.' He said, 'I may be more used to it than you.' There were identity discs, and scraps of writing like scorched papyrus. They sluiced water on their hands, bundles of camphor leaves were brought. When the work was done, they reburied the bodies and closed the cairn. He went downstream to bathe and wash his clothes. The smell would be weeks in his nostrils. The men came up as he was climbing from the water. When they pointed to the purple scar down all his side, he said, 'It was the war.' The war among his own people that waited, even here, perched on a hilltop.
In one of the dark houses, the elder showed him a heap of scraps: part of the flight manual intact in an asbestos box, some instruments of mangled metal. Leith wrote out the names, as far as he could decipher, and directions for finding the valley. He added underneath: 'Halifax bomber with complement of 15 RAF crash-landed in low cloud on flight from Calcutta to Kunming, June 1942. Thirteen RAF noncommissioned officers and two pilots, one of them acting navigator. Graves of all fifteen at this spot, recovered by villagers from wreckage farther up the mountain.'
He told the elder, 'When I reach Chungking, I can send a message. After a time, people will come, Englishmen. The bodies will be taken away.'
'To their families?' 'Yes.'
'To their tombs?' 'Yes.'
There was the matter of Peter Exley, whom Leith might visit at Hong Kong.
'Is he your best friend?'
Leith considered the schooldays question. 'Of surviving friends, he's one of those who've stayed in touch and write regularly. Inevitably, the intervals lengthen. We share a sort of bond. He believes that I saved his life.'
Benedict's whisper: 'And did you?'
'Not impossible. The event rushes at you, you act without reflecting.' He said, 'The Chinese hold that if you save a man's life you become responsible for him. Something of the kind has come about between Exley and me. He's impressionable, a dreamer for whom, yes, one's inclined to feel responsible.'
Ben said, 'We like the sound of that.'
'But then — he isn't lucky.' Unsuitability of saying this to that
He explained himself. The third man, who came on slowly and was deferred to, was the village elder, and spoke some careful Chinese, while the others used dialect. This older man, lightly built, had possibly been tall until reduced by toil and time. Good face, hairless; slight smile, courteous and unsurprised. A blue cotton gown — faded to a chalky mauve and draped from a latch at one shoulder — cleared his ankles. The high soft circular collar was unfastened. A darker cloth had been wound about his head in a flat turban. Wide sleeves almost covered the clasped fingers. A saffron face with the Tibetan look common in that region, and the clear light eyes.
Summoning this figure, one year later, Leith was aware of the convex brow with its traceries of experience that had infinitesimally evoked the veined hill above them, and only now found its place in his mind.
Helen asked, 'What was the one book?'
And Benedict: 'The book comes later. What next?'
'The bomber had been there since 1942, off course in torrential rain. That is Yunnan, it is named for that: the low clouds and fog, the cloudy south. There was an explosion after the crash, then a great fire that, despite the rains, smouldered on overnight. The villagers struggled up in the wet, but explosions kept them off.' He did not tell that they could hear cries throughout the night. Later, they stripped the wreck of whatever had not burned. 'They took away some salvage and what they found in the cockpit. There were fifteen bodies, and they buried them farther down, under a cairn of stones.'
These had to be disinterred. Dismantling the cairn was rough work in the sun, but that was not the trouble. The remains had to be extracted and handled. The men worked in the sun, nearly naked, with cloths over their mouths. All were sick. They urged Leith to leave them: 'We're more accustomed.' He said, 'I may be more used to it than you.' There were identity discs, and scraps of writing like scorched papyrus. They sluiced water on their hands, bundles of camphor leaves were brought. When the work was done, they reburied the bodies and closed the cairn. He went downstream to bathe and wash his clothes. The smell would be weeks in his nostrils. The men came up as he was climbing from the water. When they pointed to the purple scar down all his side, he said, 'It was the war.' The war among his own people that waited, even here, perched on a hilltop.
In one of the dark houses, the elder showed him a heap of scraps: part of the flight manual intact in an asbestos box, some instruments of mangled metal. Leith wrote out the names, as far as he could decipher, and directions for finding the valley. He added underneath: 'Halifax bomber with complement of 15 RAF crash-landed in low cloud on flight from Calcutta to Kunming, June 1942. Thirteen RAF noncommissioned officers and two pilots, one of them acting navigator. Graves of all fifteen at this spot, recovered by villagers from wreckage farther up the mountain.'
He told the elder, 'When I reach Chungking, I can send a message. After a time, people will come, Englishmen. The bodies will be taken away.'
'To their families?' 'Yes.'
'To their tombs?' 'Yes.'
There was the matter of Peter Exley, whom Leith might visit at Hong Kong.
'Is he your best friend?'
Leith considered the schooldays question. 'Of surviving friends, he's one of those who've stayed in touch and write regularly. Inevitably, the intervals lengthen. We share a sort of bond. He believes that I saved his life.'
Benedict's whisper: 'And did you?'
'Not impossible. The event rushes at you, you act without reflecting.' He said, 'The Chinese hold that if you save a man's life you become responsible for him. Something of the kind has come about between Exley and me. He's impressionable, a dreamer for whom, yes, one's inclined to feel responsible.'
Ben said, 'We like the sound of that.'
'But then — he isn't lucky.' Unsuitability of saying this to that
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