KATHARINE sits in the car, putting her pictures into the Herodotus. It's full of ALMÁSY'S HANDWRITING, PHOTOGRAPHS, SOME PRESSED FLOWERS. She deciphers a page of his words and drawings. It's almost exclusively about her, the lines studded with Ks.
She reads, astonished, then looks at him as he and two of the three Bedouin circle the area of the cars in ever-widening circles, like water-diviners, like Kip searching for mines.
Almásy suddenly drops to his knees and begins to shovel into the sand. He pulls out A CAN OF WATER. Turns to Katharine and holds it triumphantly in the air.
INT. THE PATIENT'S ROOM. DAY
THE PATIENT: You like him don't you? Your voice changes.
HANA:
I don't think it does
(a beat) Anyway,
he's indifferent to me.
THE PATIENT: I don't think it's indifference.
Kip comes bounding in with a fresh can.
THE PATIENT: Hana was just telling me you were indifferent--
HANA (appalled): Hey!
THE PATIENT: --to her cooking.
KIP:
Well, I'm indifferent to cooking,
not Hana's cooking in particular.
(stabbing at the tin with a bayonet)
Have either of you ever tried condensed milk sandwiches? They're very good with salt.