Hour of the Crab by Patricia Robertson

Author:Patricia Robertson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781773101613
Publisher: Goose Lane Editions
Published: 2021-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

A new arrival, a grizzled elderly man, brought him a message: Don’t lose heart, help is coming. The man had no idea who the message was from. Kassim? It seemed unlikely. His family? When nothing happened he decided the message was a mistake. Or perhaps the sender had been arrested, too. Half the city seemed to be incarcerated now, judging from the numbers of new arrestees, the rumours about the mobilization of the army.

One morning the cell door opened and Nicolás was ordered out. Stiff from inactivity, he could hardly walk. The guards took him into a kind of reception area where other guards sat at computer screens, and where a man he didn’t recognize stood on the other side of a glass wall. Tall, erect, turning his old Guardia Civil cap in his hands, his face so aged Nicolás could have wept.

–Abuelo, he said, but it came out in an indistinct croak.

The guards led him to a door at the far end of the glass wall and handed him over to his grandfather, who took his arm. –Don’t talk, he said, and led Nicolás outside. Around the corner one of the antique motorbikes from the Guardia’s early years was parked at the curb. –Here, his grandfather said, and helped him onto the back of the bike. –Can you stay upright? Nicolás put his arms round his grandfather’s waist and hung on shakily as they growled their way through the streets, empty except for the soldiers guarding each intersection. At the sight of the old man’s cap with its Guardia insignia, they snapped to attention and saluted.

On the outskirts of the city they began a slow climb into the hills. Where were they going? Wherever it was, they were taking back roads rather than the main highways. It was all he could do to hang on and not pass out. The day lengthened; he was starving and dying of thirst; yet still they rode on into a brilliant cold twilight. The stars were coming out when they turned onto a dirt track and entered what must once have been a village, though it stood in ruins. His grandfather pulled up outside one of the derelict houses, parked the bike, and half-carried Nicolás inside. A couple of beds, freshly made up, and a rough table and chairs, and a wood stove. His grandfather helped him to one of the beds and made him lie down. Then he went outside and Nicolás heard the sound of a well handle being pumped. His grandfather came back inside and held a glass of water to Nicolás’s parched lips. Afterwards he made a fire in the stove, heated water in a basin, and tenderly bathed Nicolás’s battered face.

–Nieto mío, he said sorrowfully, over and over. –What have they done to you?

–How did you find out where I was? His voice cracked as though it too had been beaten.

–An old colleague. His grandfather made a dismissive gesture. –We’re not all on the side of the government, you know.

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