Out in the Open by Jesús Carrasco Page B

his helmet. His hair was drenched in sweat. He ran his hands over his face as if he were washing it and used his fingers to comb back his wet hair. From the sidecar he took out a brown felt hat, fanned himself with it for a few seconds, then put it on his head, carefully adjusting it over his eyes.
    â€˜Good afternoon, old man.’
    â€˜Good afternoon, sir.’
    â€˜Oh, so it’s “sir” now, is it?’
    The bailiff’s voice rang out among the stones. Hidden behind the wall, the boy felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and noticed a liquid warmth running down his tense legs, soaking his boots. The urine flowed over the leather and left a small damp patch on the ground. If he stayed where he was, they would be sure to find him the moment they came round to his side of the wall.
    â€˜It’s a hot day.’
    â€˜Certainly is.’
    The goatherd bent down, reached for the wicker handle of the flask, but lacked the strength to pick it up.
    â€˜Something to drink?’
    â€˜Don’t mind if I do.’
    The bailiff gestured to one of the men, who rode over to the goatherd. He was so big he made his horse seem small. He and the horse stood motionless next to the goatherd, who again bent down and tried to pick up the flask. The horse’s belly was almost immediately above him. He took the flask in both hands and, closing his eyes, managed to lift it up to waist height. The rider reached down to receive the flask and rode back over to his boss, who uncorked it and took a long drink. The water ran down his chin and onto the dusty scarf round his neck. When he’d finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and returned the flask to the man who had brought it to him. That man then backed his horse up slightly and offered the flask to the other rider, who, instead, poured water over his face, neck and shirt.
    â€˜Go on, Colorao, have a drink!’
    The red-haired man waved him away.
    â€˜Maybe the old man’s got some wine.’
    â€˜He probably has.’
    â€˜I once met a man who hadn’t drunk water in twelve years.’
    â€˜Oh, piss off.’
    The bailiff turned and shot them a look that was enough to silence the two men immediately.
    â€˜We’re after a boy who’s disappeared.’
    The goatherd stared at the horizon and frowned, as if trying hard to remember. He weighed up the situation presented to him by that arrogant bailiff.
    â€˜I haven’t seen a living soul in weeks.’
    â€˜You must get lonely.’
    â€˜The goats keep me company.’
    The red-haired man stood up in his stirrups as if to air his crotch or to peer over the wall. He scanned the wall from end to end for any clues. He was like an engineer come from the big city to certify officially that the castle was indeed a ruin.
    â€˜I’m sure they must give you no end of amusement.’
    The rider who had picked up the flask gave a loud guffaw, and the bailiff allowed himself a faint smile. The old man remained utterly impassive, as did the man they called Colorao, whose mind was clearly on other things. A few seconds passed in silence. The old man was just about managing to remain on his feet. The bailiff stroked his chin while he considered his next question.
    â€˜You’ve come a very long way with your goats.’
    â€˜I’m a goatherd, I have to keep moving on in search of fresh pastures.’
    The red-haired man pulled on his reins and his horse reared up. He then rode towards the far end of the wall around which the boy had escaped, while the bailiff stayed behind with the old man. The latter forced himself not to follow the other man with his eyes because, if he did, that would only confirm what the bailiff already seemed to know. The red-haired man rode slowly round the wall, but by the time he had crossed to the other side, the boy was no longer there. He dismounted and walked the entire length of the wall, failing to notice the