Out in the Open

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FROM INSIDE HIS hole in the ground, he heard the sound of voices calling his name, and, as if they were crickets, he tried to pinpoint the precise location of each man within the bounds of the olive grove. The desolate howling of fire-scorched scrub. He was lying on one side, knees drawn up to his chest, with barely enough room to move in that cramped space. His arms either around his knees or serving as a pillow, and only a tiny niche for his knapsack of food. He had made a roof out of pruned twigs which he had piled on top of two thick branches that served as beams. Tensing his neck, he raised his head so as to hear better and, half-closing his eyes, listened out for the voice that had forced him to flee. He didn’t hear it, nor did he hear any barking, which was a great relief because he knew that only a well-trained dog could find him in his hiding-place. A gun dog or a truffle hound. Perhaps an English bloodhound, with sturdy legs and floppy ears, like the one he’d seen in a photo in a newspaper brought from the city.

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