Out in the Open

by Jesús Carrasco

  ‘Bloody hell, Colorao! Didn’t I tell you to leave me in peace? What the fuck do you want now?’

  The bailiff’s voice echoed around the room as he turned his head towards the door. The door creaked very slowly open and the breeze from the street made the flames flicker. Standing on the threshold, holding the deputy’s shotgun, the goatherd cut a faintly ridiculous figure: his bent back, his baggy trousers and his face gaunt from exhaustion and years of hardship. He was so weak he could hardly stand and had to lean against the door frame so as not to fall over. He was breathing hard.

  ‘Go away, old man.’

  The goatherd did not move, the eyes of the double-barrelled shotgun fixed on the bailiff’s head. He tried to say something, but choked and coughed. Without lowering the shotgun, he spat out a bloody gob of spit, then said:

  ‘Come here, boy.’

  With the bailiff’s hand still grasping his shoulder, the boy did not move.

  ‘You’d better drop the shotgun, old man, or you’re going to regret it for what little remains of your life.’

  ‘Lie down on the ground, boy, and cover your ears.’

  The goatherd’s voice sounded as firm as the handshake of a strong young man. It had a stone-hard quality that came from some hitherto unknown place inside the old man, a voice completely out of keeping with the spectral figure saying the words. An Angel of Fire come to break down walls. The boy obeyed that second order and very slowly shrank back, leaving the bailiff standing, his hand poised like a pincer where the boy’s shoulder had been. The bailiff was paralysed not by fear, but by astonishment.

  ‘You haven’t got the balls, goatherd.’

  ‘Don’t look, boy.’

  A noise, cavernous and absolute, as if emerging from the end of a long tube. A buzzing in his skull and a deafness that would take days to disappear entirely. Many of the pigeons who soiled the filthy houses with their excrement escaped through the sunken roofs and flew off wildly in all directions. The boy felt the body fall at his side as the displaced air pressed up against him. The tiled floor received the man’s body and the boy felt the vibration. In his bewilderment, he heard the last sound the bailiff made, that of his skull hitting the ground. Like a very ripe pumpkin. The thick skin that yields only to the machete or the bullet, its filling of dense, tightly packed, floury pulp spilling out. A single blow and it was all over.

  When the boy finally opened his eyes, the goatherd had come into the room and was leaning against the table. The boy didn’t know how long he had kept his eyes closed. He could feel liquid coming out of his ears. A small plume of smoke was still issuing forth from the barrel of the shotgun and a sulphurous cloud was rising up into the gaps between the roof beams. Next to him lay an incoherent, lifeless heap of bones and muscles. The warmth of that body close to his. The goatherd’s voice reaching him as if in a paraffin-drenched dream. A scream opening its way through the inflamed ducts of his ears. Growing in volume. Then just a few seconds later, the voice of the old man shouting:

  ‘Look at me, boy! Look at me!’

  The boy directed his gaze at the place where the old man’s voice was coming from and there met his grave eyes, trying desperately to distract him from the sight of the bailiff’s shattered head. The goatherd held out his forefinger and pointed at his own eyes. ‘Look – at – me,’ he said with exaggerated gestures. ‘Look – at – me,’ he repeated, meanwhile beckoning to him.

  The boy crawled over to the goatherd and there, grasping the edge of the table, he managed to stand up with his back to the bailiff. The old man put his hands to the boy’s face and the blood from the boy’s ears stained his palms. He made the boy turn his head and pressed it against his own broken body. The boy’s jaw dropped and trembled as if he were shivering. His eyes empty. The dog poked its nose round the door, but did not come in.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Still stunned by what had just happened, the boy took hold of the goatherd’s arm and was about to place it round his own shoulders intending to help him walk, but, just then, he saw the bowl of walnuts on the table. He released the goatherd’s arm and stood before the bowl. The old man observed him in silence. The boy remained for a while staring at the bowl, his clenched fists resting on the tabletop. Then his head drooped as if his neck had suddenly lost all substance, and he began to sob, a nervous, pent-up sobbing that left him almost unable to breathe. The goatherd let him cry for a while, then placed one hand behind the boy’s head and guided him to the door.

  In the doorway, the boy dried his eyes on his dirty sleeve, again positioned himself beneath the old man’s arm and, together, they went out into the warm, still night. They crossed the small square and headed for the well, the old man dragging his feet, and the boy like a rather feeble crutch supporting the weight of a man who could barely stand. When they reached the well, the boy helped the goatherd sit down with his back against the wall. The crescent moon had still not risen, and it was hard to see further than fifteen or twenty yards ahead. The only source of light was the bailiff’s improvised lamp, whose yellowish glow was still percolating out through the open door of the inn. The boy sat down next to the goatherd, and there they stayed, without saying a word, until they fell asleep, leaning one against the other.

  The boy woke with a start. He had been resting on the old man’s bony shoulder, muttering incoherently, when his body gave a sudden jolt and he slumped into the goatherd’s lap. He sat up, feeling utterly confused, as if under the influence of ether. He looked at the old man next to him, leaning against the stone wall of the well.

  ‘I was having a bad dream.’

  The old man said nothing.

  ‘The bailiff’s deputy was trying to burn me.’

  ‘He won’t harm you again.’

  ‘What did you do to him?’

  ‘Much the same as I did to his boss.’

  The boy put his hands to his ears because he could still hear a kind of whistling coming through his ears via his brain. He glanced around him and could see only stars twinkling above and a half-moon surrounded by a milky aura. There were no signs of life at the inn or anywhere else. A warm breeze blew in from the west, bringing with it the smell of juniper or pine needles.

  ‘Where’s Colorao?’

  ‘Don’t worry about him now. We have to leave here as soon as possible.’

  ‘Are we going north?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what will we do when we get there?’

  ‘We’ve got a long way to go before we have to think about that.’

  ‘I’ll go and get the donkey, and then we can leave.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

  The boy thought for a moment.

  ‘The goats, boy, they’re all we have.’

  The boy and the dog walked down the middle of the street, heading south. A cat emerged from one of the abandoned houses and walked noiselessly across their path. Just before it reached its destination, the cat stopped and regarded him coolly. Then it continued on its way, more slowly this time, and slipped under a door hanging from its hinges.

  Just as the goatherd had told him, the donkey was waiting at the entrance to the village, tethered to some railings, and the bailiff’s motorbike was parked a little further on. He stroked the donkey’s head, feeling its hard angular skull. Then he untethered it, and they left the village and set off to the oak wood.

  As they climbed the hill, he could not work out how long he and the goatherd had slept nor how long it would be until dawn, but he knew that he must hurry. He slapped the donkey on the rump a few times, and their pace quickened. Shortly before they reached the wood, the dog ran on ahead and, by the time the boy had got to the corral, he found the three goats running round and round inside with the dog scampering about outside. He removed the undergrowth that had served as a gate and, in a moment, the goats were out, kicking the air. He loaded up the donkey with the old man’s belongings and the nearly empty flasks.

  They went back down to the v
illage almost at a trot and when they arrived, the boy stopped to study the bailiff’s motorbike. He approached it warily. He viewed it with different eyes now. The wide handlebars, the sturdy wheel fork and the curved number plate above the front mudguard like a figurehead. The sidecar with its rounded chassis, the seat in which he had so often been hidden away. He ran his hand over the nose and the windscreen as if he were stroking a horse. Then, leaning in, he saw, on the seat, the blanket with its oilcloth edging and jumped back as if the blanket had suddenly burst into flames. He grabbed the donkey’s halter and left as quickly as he could.

  When he reached the well, the old man was still sitting where he’d left him. He went over to announce his return and to receive new orders.

  ‘Give the goats some water to drink.’

  The boy took one of the flasks from the panniers, poured some water into the bowl and held it to the goatherd’s mouth. The man drank the slimy liquid and shot the boy a meaningful glance.

  ‘OK, I’ll do the goats next.’

  The boy lowered the earthenware pitcher into the well and hauled up some water for the animals and, when they had drunk their fill, he crouched down beside the shepherd.

  ‘Now gather together all the food you can, fill the flasks with water and put them on the donkey.’

  ‘I don’t want to go back inside the inn.’

  ‘Would you rather go hungry?’

  ‘I just can’t do it. That man . . .’

  ‘He won’t do anything to you now, he can’t.’

  ‘I’m afraid.’

  ‘Just don’t look at his head.’

  At the front of the inn, the boy found the bailiff’s whip lying on the bench. He picked it up and waved it around as if it were a fly swat. He noticed that the leather on the handle and the stitching were so worn that you could almost see the cane beneath. It ended in a kind of triangular tongue, whose shape the boy had seen before on the old man’s body.

  He stood at the dark door, brandishing the whip before him. From inside came the familiar meaty aromas as well as a slightly pestilential smell he hadn’t noticed before. He leaned blindly into the black room and felt the weight of what had happened in that place. The dense atmosphere of an old sacristy, where the ceremonial robes had been woven at the very beginning of time and where the walls had for centuries absorbed the cries of altar boys, orphans and foundlings. Pain and charity. Death relegated to a corner. Putrefaction now worming its way through unspeakable sins.

  He retched and almost vomited. Then he turned and met the eyes of the old man sitting by the well. He took a deep breath, shook his head to clear his mind and, finally, went in, feeling his way along the walls with the whip as his only defence. Dragging his feet so that he didn’t step on anything, he reached the place where the meat was hanging. He took half a dozen of the remaining sausages and strung them over his arm.

  Having established a route, he brought the donkey to the porch, tethered it to the iron ring on the wall and went back and forth until he had filled all the available space in the panniers with sausages, flour, salt, beans and coffee. When there was no more room, he returned to the well with the donkey and tethered it there. He spent a long time hauling up water and pouring it carefully into the narrow mouths of the flasks. He spilled quite a lot, drenching the panniers and the sides of the donkey which, now and then, reached round to try and lick away this new irritant. Meanwhile, the dog and the goats competed for every trickle.

  During all this coming and going, the goatherd had remained leaning against the wall, his head drooping on his chest. When the boy had secured the load with the straps, he covered the whole thing with the blanket, so that the old man could still ride on the donkey’s back. He then squatted down beside the goatherd and said:

  ‘I’ve finished loading the donkey. We can go now.’

  The goatherd said nothing, didn’t even move, and the boy feared that he was dead. He put his ear to his mouth, but heard nothing. Frightened, he felt the old man’s motionless arm. ‘Sir,’ he said, and the goatherd moved, wearily shaking his grimy head. His eyes opened, and they resembled the dull, worn edges of ancient coins. He murmured something. The boy moved closer, almost pressed his head against the old man’s chest and heard those same murmured words.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t understand.’

  ‘You must bury the bodies.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bury the bodies.’

  The boy stood up and looked around him. The village street was lined with shadows and crumbling walls. The sky kept its usual distance. The boy threw his head back and gave a long outbreath. He felt close to exhaustion and all he wanted at that moment was to return to his hole in the ground, to that warm, damp pit where he had drowsed and slept on the first night of his escape. The primordial hole dug out of our one true mother, the earth. The place where the temperature never changes and where the sun never penetrates and where the roots drill into the clay and hold the soil together against wind and rain. He looked at his trembling hands and sighed. The donkey laden and ready to go, and, beside him, like a troubling reflection, the old man telling him to do something that went entirely against his instincts: burying those bastards, providing them with a safe haven from wild beasts, where they could wait for the final judgement.

  The boy again crouched down next to the old man.

  ‘I can’t do it alone.’

  ‘You’ll have to.’

  ‘There’s no spade, no pickaxe.’

  ‘If you don’t bury them, the birds will eat them.’

  ‘What does that matter now?’

  ‘It matters.’

  ‘Those men don’t deserve it.’

  ‘That’s why you must do it.’

  They agreed that they wouldn’t bury the bodies, but would put them somewhere out of reach of dogs and crows. The goatherd explained to the boy where to find the deputy’s body and how he should drag him over to join the other two bodies.

  ‘Go to the inn and bring the sack of chestnuts here. And don’t look at the bailiff.’

  The boy did as the old man asked and emerged from the inn dragging a sack half filled with chestnuts. Following the goatherd’s instructions, he took it over to the donkey, untied the string and, lifting up the blanket, poured part of the contents of the sack into the panniers, with most of the chestnuts slipping into any available gaps among the food, flasks and tools.

  With the sack in one hand and the halter in the other, the boy led the donkey over to where the deputy’s body was lying on a bench at the back of a derelict house. On the ground, on its side, lay the flask of wine he had taken from the inn. His horse was tethered to a post supporting a withered vine trellis. It pawed the ground nervously when it heard them approach. The boy tried to reassure it by patting its cheek. Thinking that the horse must be thirsty, the boy untethered it in order to take it over to the well, but the horse took fright and galloped off towards the south. The boy regretfully watched it disappear up the hill to the wood. They could have done with a horse like that.

  The light from the moon did not reach the place where the body was lying, and the boy could only make out its general shape. The goatherd had told him not to look at the man’s head. ‘Now that he’s dead, you have nothing to fear from him,’ he had said, but standing there before the body, the boy felt incapable of doing what he had to do. He imagined the goatherd looming out of the darkness with a stone in his hand.

  What the old man did not tell him was that the deputy had been awake when he’d found him. That he was wandering drunkenly around a dusty corral, stumbling over feeding troughs and baskets. That he was singing and praying, his tongue inflamed with drink, and that his face was already the face of a condemned man. Nor did he tell him that, in his drunken delirium, the deputy had confessed everything: the motorbike, the trophy room, the boy’s father, the blanket, the silo, the taxes, the Dobermann, the boy. The boys.

  Nor did he explain how, after listening to what the deputy had to say, he had led him
over to the bench and helped him lie down on the hard stone surface. Not a word about his own subsequent rage, not a word about the expiation of sins on a sacrificial altar.

  The old man had merely said to the boy that, before he dragged the man’s body over to the inn, he must put the sack over his head, like a hood tied around the neck. ‘Don’t look at the man’s face. It will only upset you.’

  At first, he resisted approaching the corpse and struggled to manoeuvre the sack. Face averted, he patted the man’s lifeless chest, trying to locate the head. He touched something wet on the man’s shirt and drew back for a few seconds. Still with eyes averted, he rolled up the mouth of the sack, placed it over the deputy’s head and pulled the sack down until it touched the surface on which the body was lying. He then slipped the sack over the man’s head until he thought the whole head was inside, then unrolled the sack and tied it around the man’s neck with a piece of string. When he was sure the hood would not come off, he pulled hard at the man’s legs until the body fell to the ground. On the bench were large gobbets of blackened blood, fragments of brain matter and bleeding remnants of scalp.

  He tied the deputy’s ankles together and attached the rope to the donkey’s halter, as the old man had told him to do. It took a long time to reach the inn, because he had to force the already heavily laden donkey to walk backwards. When they reached the inn, the boy tried to get the donkey to reverse through the door, but the animal refused, unable to see what lay in the thick darkness behind him.

  Outside the door, the boy detached the man’s ankles from the donkey’s halter and let his feet fall to the ground. He then grabbed his trouser legs and pulled as hard as he could, but he couldn’t get the body to move so much as an inch. He tried again several times, but each time he fell back, exhausted, unable to shift it.

  There was still no sign of daybreak, but he reckoned that it would not be long before the sun came up. He felt incapable of moving the man’s body on his own. For a moment, it seemed to him that it really didn’t matter if the man stayed where he was. His quarrel was with the bailiff, not the deputy. He looked across at the well. The goatherd was sitting very still, with the dog at his side and the goats scattered nearby. An idea came to him.