The Altogether Unexpected Disappearance of Atticus Craftsman (15 page)

A
week after he arrived in Madrid, Atticus had moved into the flat on Calle del Alamillo and paid Señora Susana six months' rent up front; this amount, according to his calculations, was equivalent to less than a week living like a king in the hotel his father had booked for him.

It wasn't that he disliked hotel life. On the contrary, Atticus agreed that there was nothing better in the world than the absolute insouciance that comes from being a hotel guest: the discreet laundry service that asks no questions, the guiltless all-nighters, the permanent availability of the minibar and room service, the clean towels, the fresh flowers . . .

But an unyielding conscience, such as afflicts compassionate souls, had begun gnawing at his insides from the moment he crossed the threshold of the
Librarte
office and met the five victims of the magazine's dire economic situation.

If he was to follow his father's advice, he should simply have played the role of an unscrupulous businessman capable of leaving all sentimentalism to one side when it came to defending his own interests. No one but those five women was to blame for
Librarte
's failure.
“Don't forget, son, that we gave them the opportunity to succeed and they failed to take advantage of it. We gave them the means, we protected, supported, and advised them, just as we did with the Germans at
Krafts
, and while they managed to top the sales lists, that lot in Spain have only managed to ruin the business.”

“They have, I'll admit, achieved top marks when it comes to the art of messing up.”

But if, instead of following his father's cold instructions, Atticus let himself be guided by the warm beating of his tin heart, he had no choice but to be sympathetic toward those five women who were about to lose their jobs.

They already had names and faces, and he saw visions of them in the corners of his luxury hotel room, pointing accusatory fingers at him: “You gave up on me, you abandoned me, it's your fault that I'm living under a bridge, fishing for stinking carp to feed my children, washing clothes in the filthy water of the Manzanares, because you used me while I was useful to you and then threw me in the river.”

At times he was also confronted by the ghost of Karl Marx, despite being completely sure that Marx had never stayed at that hotel, which made him wonder why it really was that he used to see Tolkien's ghost in his room at Oxford. If such visions weren't tied to a physical space, as he had assumed at the time, then he was doomed because James Joyce might appear when he least expected it, furious with him for pretending to have read
Ulysses
from cover to cover when in fact he had only flicked through the Longman reader's guide.

Literary digressions and unfounded fears aside, Atticus Craftsman felt that it was terribly bad taste to go on enjoying
the pleasures of that ostentatious hotel while he was causing the girls at the office to suffer. If he did end up having to fire them, it would really be a slap in their faces to be staying in such an oasis of abundance.

That was when it occurred to him that he might rent a studio somewhere near the
Librarte
office—hence his unfussiness when it came to the imperfections of the flat on Calle del Alamillo, which did, he couldn't deny, have a certain charm to it.

Señora Susana had turned out to be a housewife dedicated to the causes of crocheting, dried flowers, housework, stainless-steel cutlery, and amber-colored Duralex glasses. Strangely, instead of breaking like any other member of their vitreous family when thrown forcefully against a hard surface, these glasses shattered into thousands of tiny crystals. These looked so like confetti that Atticus had hurled half a dozen onto the kitchen floor and delighted in the spectacle like a small boy.

He hadn't had time to fully admire the floral linings of the drawers, nor the wallpaper that adorned the backs of the wardrobes, nor the stuccoed walls in the hall, nor the collection of porcelain figures in the hall cabinet, because that earthmover Soleá Abad Heredia had convinced him that they should leave immediately for the Sierra Nevada, in whose foothills, she swore, they would find a treasure that had lain hidden for seventy years, waiting for Atticus Craftsman to unearth it.

“Don't bring heaps of paperwork,
Míster Crasman
,” she had warned him, “because you're not going to have time to work. My family is pretty intense, you'll see, they won't leave you alone for a minute.”

“Should I bring my overcoat?”

“What do you think, silly? It's boiling in Granada!”

So with his suitcase packed with clothes, his wash bag, his pillow, his kettle, and plenty of Earl Grey, Atticus decided that he was ready. This time he left behind the small erotic library because, given the way things seemed to be going, it seemed inappropriate to carry such an arsenal of debauchery.

“My cousin Arcángel is going to give us a lift, if that's all right with you, since he's been in Madrid for business and is driving back to Granada with an empty truck tomorrow.” Soleá had suggested this so expectantly that he didn't dare contradict her, despite having planned on hiring a two-seater soft top that would be more in keeping with her curves.

•  •  •

Soleá and Arcángel came to pick Atticus up at eight in the morning that Wednesday. They beeped the truck's horn and blocked the traffic in Calle del Alamillo while they waited for him to come out. The logo on the side of the truck read
ARCÁNGEL MELONES, GRANADA
, and inside it smelled like a village fruit shop, not that the Englishman noticed, having never smelled such a thing. Nor had he ever shaken a hand like Soleá's cousin's, with long nails—“y'know, for playing the guitar”—and hairy fingers.

Arcángel was wearing a black shirt open almost to his navel, and a gold cross the size of an Order of the Garter medal hung from his neck. He was sporting a gold watch, two or three rings, another couple of chains around his neck, and pointy shoes. He had skinny legs and wide shoulders, and was about Soleá's age, with a similarly intense gaze and the same manner—at once reserved and outraged, a mixture seemingly possible only in members
of their family, who appeared to be both ready to be best friends with anyone and constantly on guard, ever attentive to the slightest insult or lack of respect, ready to flip their lids or come to blows. Atticus reminded himself that he ought to tread carefully if he didn't want to end up in a brawl like the one he had with Soleá the day he met her.

Naturally, the three of them sat in the front of the truck, with Arcángel driving, Atticus by the window, and Soleá between them, somewhat squashed between their legs. To the Englishman, such proximity seemed embarrassingly invasive. He wasn't used to having a woman in his personal space. Nor was he used to greeting someone with a pair of noisy kisses, one on each cheek, mouths crossing in the middle, and between kisses, a breath, the smell of flowers. The cousins, meanwhile, would have found it strange to spend the four-hour journey in separate seats. They treated each other with joking familiarity, pinching and slapping, laughing a lot, and sometimes, if there was a lull in the conversation, bursting into song.

“Is that man your father, Arcángel?” Atticus asked, pointing to the photo of an older man, who didn't have many teeth and stared down from a metal frame stuck to the windshield.

Soleá and her cousin burst out laughing.

“That man is Camarón,” said Arcángel, with greater pride than if the photo had actually been of his father. “There's a CD in the glove box,
niña
,” he told Soleá. “Stick it in.”

Soleá leaned over Atticus's legs to get the CD. Atticus trembled. He was about to lift his hand and stroke her hair, but a weight, heavy as lead, kept his hand firmly pinned to the seat.

She put the radio on, inserted the CD, and the strains of a
Spanish guitar cut through the air, followed by the cries of a flamenco singer.

“This is the man in the photo,” said Arcángel.

Then he started singing at the top of his voice, accompanying the singer in his agony. Soleá clapped the rhythm and Arcángel pounded the steering wheel like a drum.

“Don't you sing?” Atticus asked Soleá.

“Badly,” she admitted.

And Atticus, respecting the sudden blush in her cheeks, didn't want to insist.

After a couple of hours, Soleá fell asleep with her head on her cousin's shoulder. They were crossing the Despeñaperros Bridge, the road winding through holm oak woods, when Arcángel suddenly took his eyes off the road and fixed them on Atticus.

“I'm not one to stick my nose in other people's business, but if you touch even a thread of my cousin's clothing,” he threatened, “I swear to God I'll cut your ears off.”

Atticus swallowed. A tight bend was coming up.

“Please,” he begged, “keep your eyes on the road, Arcángel. You don't need to worry about me,” he lied with a shaky voice. “I don't intend to court your cousin.”

“You can court her all you like,” replied Arcángel. “But if I find out you've touched an inch of her skin, listen here: I'll kill you.”

“Understood.”

“You married,
Míster Crasman
?”

“No.”

“Got a girlfriend,
Míster Crasman
?”

“No.”

“Then you can talk to her. That you can do. But no funny business. Is that clear?”

“If I misbehave with Soleá, I'll have you to answer to.”

“Right.”

Once that matter was settled, Arcángel switched his attention back to the road. Camarón continued to sing duets with the truck's owner, and Soleá carried on sleeping peacefully and lightly with a smile on her lips.

CHAPTER 24

A
t about nine in the evening, having first tried Shakespeare, then Stendhal, then the Brontë sisters, and ending up desperately, but unsuccessfully, seeking refuge in one of Corín Tellado's romantic novels, Berta Quiñones had to admit that some troubles can't be cured with books alone.

She couldn't turn up at Asunción's house and tell her about María's affair. She didn't usually keep secrets from her friend, and if it had been any other sort of problem—to do with work, health, or loneliness—she would have gone running to pour her heart out to her. But since it was a matter of infidelity, it seemed better to keep her worry to herself than spread it to Asunción, who had suffered enough with her own unhappy marriage to start sorting someone else's out. Although they never talked about it, Berta knew that Asunción had to summon enormous courage not to burst out crying every time she remembered her ex-husband and the Iberia flight attendant.

In the end, having rejected the option of talking to her best friend, Berta decided to go to Gaby's house to scrounge a cup of tea and some comfort. In Berta's eyes, Gaby and Franklin were the perfect couple. They adored each other.

“Come in, Berta, what a surprise.”

“Is Franklin in?”

“No way. He'll be back really late tonight. He's got a commission for a mural on the entrance to the Naval Museum. You wouldn't believe how good it's looking.”

“All the better, my love, because something bad has happened . . .”

“I can see that. You're pale as a sheet, Berta. Shall I get you a glass of wine?”

The two of them sat on the orange sofa in the living room. The sofa and a blob that looked like squashed fruit—a vinyl on the far wall—were the only touches of color in the room. Everything else—the shag carpet, the coffee table, the cylindrical standard lamp, and the life-size plastic sculpture of a greyhound—was as white as snow.

“Oh, Gaby! This is so horrid that I don't even know how to start telling you about it. I'm sorry to come bursting into your happy life with this.”

“We're all worried, Berta. Atticus Craftsman is probably going to fire us all. We know that. But it's not your fault, these things happen.”