Die rich with lovers and tribes

************這篇影評可能有雷************

"I was in a British plane filled with German gas. When they shot me down, they called me English patient."
People inquired his name and where he was from, but he never spitted out a word. This man just fell from the sky in one day, lost his memory, and burnt like a toast.
"I'm dying, my friend. Why would you care where I'm from."
This man could speak so many languages, knew the name of every song, and had an obsession on Herodotus. When he still had a face and a name, he traveled around the desserts in Egypt, as a member of the Royal Geographical Society. And yes he used to have a hometown, Hungary, and people called him a Count.
For those people of his kind, who loved freedom and abhorred ownership, you would always imagine them to be alone. He was the Herodotus of his own kingdom, jotting down everything that was going on with a pair of keen eyes and a quiet heart. Yet when he saw this woman by the fire, the single woman like Herodotus' queen of Lydia, his body shattered in the whistling wind of Sahara dessert.
The night it came the sandstorm and they were trapped in a jeep. Sands were gradually piling up to swallow them, but laughters came out of the dim car light. His stories about winds flew through the window-- the Ghbli wind in Tunis, the Haramatan like raining blood, the Ajeja and whiling wind in Morocco, and the Simoon and the marching troop. What a mirror of his own life! They were both rootless and borderless, the wind and the patient. He wanted to stop for her but she end up dying for him, for her love for him, and for his name.
So his face was burnt, his name was forgotten. A group of Arabian saved him. A Canadian nurse and a Sikh soldier took care of him. The war brought together people all around the world, but prejudice and hatred dissected them. Why would it matter where one was from? The patient did not care about this any more. Without a name, he had finally unshackled the chain. He was ready to go to her.
"Betrayal in war is childish compared to betrayal in peace." And love in war did not ask for your origin.
There she waited and smiled in the palace of wind, where people die rich with lovers and tribes.