The Altogether Unexpected Disappearance of Atticus Craftsman (23 page)

B
erta's nativity scene was set up in a prominent corner of the living room, between the potted ficus tree and a portrait of her parents. She had covered a small folding table with a red velvet cloth and arranged the stable, the empty crib, Mary and Joseph, the Three Kings (Melchior in his red cape), the donkey and the ox, a bit of moss, a starry background, two cork mountains capped with floury snow, and the baby Jesus hidden in a music box that, when you opened it, played “Silent Night.”

She was weeping like a helpless lamb and made a gesture to say,
Don't make a sound, Manchego, poor María has finally fallen asleep on the sofa, don't wake her.
All of this, along with the nativity scene, took the inspector right back to childhood memories of icy streets and sharing hot wine in the square, singing “Christ the savior is born,” stockings hanging from the chimney, new shoes, a ball, and a Scalextric set.

The guys had stopped the car in a no-parking zone at the top of Calle del Alamillo. Macita and Josi had stayed there, with the lights off and their collars turned up, one smoking a cigarette and the other biting his nails. Míguel and Carretero had gone with Manchego to the door of Berta's building and then carried on without
him to the end of the street, where at that moment they were both standing and keeping watch, beating off the cold as best they could, on the lookout for anyone prowling about who might fit the description of “some tough-looking guy,” which was all the information they had about Barbosa's appearance. Inspector Manchego had gone up the poorly lit staircase to the third floor, left-hand flat, and bumped right into the Sacred Heart pendant and the hand-shaped knocker, identical to the knocker at his house in Nieva. There was also a bell, but, given the circumstances, he decided to knock quietly and wait for Berta, who was in a real state, to open the door after checking through the spy hole that it was him.

She invited him in, offered him coffee, and asked him to take a seat next to the window. From there they could keep an eye on what was going on in the street without being seen, just like from the attic window in the first house in the village, the one opposite the telegraph office.

“If he decides to show up tonight, I swear to you he'll end up sleeping in a cell,” Manchego assured Berta between sips of sweet, black coffee.

“What a swine! What a total swine!” she repeated, shaking her head, unable to believe that anyone so cruel as César Barbosa could exist.

“So, María,” said Manchego, nodding in her direction, “was seeing this guy behind her husband's back.”

Berta nodded sorrowfully.

“Since when?” asked the inspector.

“As far as I know, for about the last year,” she replied. “But it started turning nasty in May, when he found out that María was about to be laid off. That's when the swine began threatening her and hitting her.”

“Because she was going to lose her job?”

“He said she was stupid, incapable of keeping a job as simple as hers, that she was a worthless piece of shit, that kind of thing.”

“What does he do?”

“He's a photographer. Freelance. One of the ones we sometimes get to do jobs for the magazine. That's how they met. Rue the day.” Berta clenched her fists angrily, as though she felt somehow responsible.

“I'll see if we have a file on him as soon as I get to the station tomorrow. These offenders tend to be reoffenders,” said Manchego, trying to play it cool. “We can use the text message as evidence. But first we have to convince María to report him.”

“I don't see how we'll get her to do that,” Berta replied. “She's scared to death of what'll happen if Bernabé finds out. Think about it: She's married, she's got three kids. She's convinced that something will happen to her kids if she talks, because this Barbosa is a real monster, or Bernabé will kick her out.”

“That's what's so frustrating. Christ on a bike, women like María refuse to come forward and the abuse just escalates.” Manchego scratched his neck.

“How long might he get?” Berta asked.

“For threats, anything from six months to three years.”

“And physical abuse?”

“Two to five years.”

“So if we did manage to get him put in prison, even being optimistic, he'd be out in a couple of years.” Berta looked him right in the eyes. “And María wouldn't have a family.”

“I understand,” Manchego replied.

All of a sudden, and for the first time in her life, Berta felt the shared intimacy of hot coffee and hushed conversation, and, once
more, she was the little girl with braids and glasses hiding behind the lace curtains of a lonely window. Despite the painful circumstances, it was a strangely pleasant sensation that tingled its way across her skin, stilled her trembling hands, calmed her upset stomach, and banished the cold that had settled in her body.

Inspector Manchego's presence in her living room felt remarkably like a tree under which Berta might shelter in a storm: big, firm, and strong. A beech, or an oak, like the ones that cover the hills around Cameros.

Berta had told Manchego to put his cell phone on vibrate so as not to wake María unless it was strictly necessary. Its mechanical sound startled them sometime after half past one in the morning.

“Manchego,” said Macita, “a rough-looking guy's just gone past. We followed him at a distance so he wouldn't suspect anything. Have a look out the window and call Carretero if we need to take action.”

The inspector sprang up. He startled Berta and made the coffee cup wobble on its saucer. María opened her eyes before they woke her, as if some kind of survival instinct alerted her to the danger as she slept.

“What's going on?” she managed to say, somewhat shaken.

But Berta and Manchego didn't answer. They were both scrutinizing the dark street from the window, waiting for the figure of Barbosa to suddenly appear out of the mist. Which is exactly what happened next. Under the streetlamp on the opposite side of the road, a bulky form gradually took the shape of a person—one with two-day-old stubble, a swaying seafarer's gait, a tattoo, no doubt, under his leather jacket, and a lit cigarette.

“Barbosa!” said Berta, shocked, when she recognized him.

“The locksmith!” exclaimed Manchego at the same time, still incapable of understanding what a few minutes later, when his head was level enough to think it through, was clear as day: César Barbosa and Lucas the fake locksmith were one and the same delinquent.

Manchego opened the window, took out his gun, aimed at the streetlamp, and roared “Stop!” without calculating the opportunities for escape that were open to the Pirate, who was twenty years younger than him and his guys. He tore off like a hare, swerving around Macita and Josi, who by chance found themselves in front of him, and disappeared in the opposite direction down the street, the same street that was home to Berta, Señora Susana, and her tenant Atticus Craftsman, whereabouts unknown since the end of May.

The situation was either the result of a cosmic coincidence of supernatural dimensions or there was a logical explanation. The seven people present were about to discover just how the pieces of the puzzle fitted together, as they sat in Berta's living room, their hearts racing, and talked nonstop through the night.

CHAPTER 37

W
e had two choices, to diversify or specialize, and in the end we decided to specialize, because I've always done really well with melons but had no luck with oranges. That's life, what can you do?”

Arcángel liked to talk. This was becoming clear to Atticus, particularly in contrast to his own reserved nature. Like father, like son. “You talk, I'll listen and, in return, you teach me to play the guitar” were the terms Atticus proposed and which Soleá's cousin gladly accepted because, like he said, until the melons ripened for the next load to Madrid he didn't have much to do, apart from playing in Dolores's cave. Dolores, Atticus had learned, was Potaje's mother, and Potaje had turned out to be Soleá's uncle and not her cousin.

Arcángel was the grandson of Consuelos, another of Remedios's sisters, and because he was the eldest of Manuela's nephews, it had fallen to him to take charge of the fruit business when Soleá's father, Pedro Abad, died. Tomás had told his mother and sisters that he would rather make a living from music because horticulture clipped his wings and withered his soul. Manuela, a young widow with four single daughters, knew that she was better off selling the land and the trucks to someone in the family so
that, at the very least, the name of the business wouldn't change. Arcángel, however, paid no heed to this wish, the result being a thorny issue that was best avoided,
míster
, why dig up old bones.

Aunt Consuelos had healing powers. Soleá's great-grandmother used to say that her labor pains and afterpains had vanished the moment Consuelos came into the world; her body relaxed completely and her own heartbeats synchronized with the baby's. It was true. It was an inexplicable phenomenon: Anyone who came close to Aunt Consuelos (close being less than fifteen centimeters away from her chest) noticed that his or her own pulse slowed down—the woman had a pulse rate like a lizard at rest—and that all worries and stresses gradually disappeared.

For a few years, she had been well known in Granada as “the pain lady,” a title she hated because she said it referred to the problem and not the solution. Her own name, Consuelos, which means “comfort” and was given to her by her mother precisely because of her gift, would have done the job perfectly well. In the end, though, that's what people are like, what can you do? When she turned seventy, she closed the small clinic she had set up on Camino del Monte, scared she would die in the middle of a session and take the patient with her. But now she was over eighty and saw her life unfurl before her like that of an ancient ficus. She had begun to lose her fear of death and was pondering the idea of opening up shop again for the time she had left. Because people with a gift like Aunt Consuelos's might never die, they could go on living forever, in slow motion, like Ravel's
Bolero
, do you know the one? The one you can play all day, that starts where it ends and vice versa. Shall I play a bit for you,
míster
?

Arcángel, with his messy hair and his long nails, taught guitar to Atticus in the courtyard at Soleá's house, at any time between
eleven in the morning and two in the afternoon, according to what was on the menu that day. The classes were structured around mealtimes because Atticus had developed an unhealthy appetite for the stews that Granny Remedios cooked on her open fire, the smell of which wafted out into the courtyard. As soon as the oil started to heat up and the onion began to brown, Atticus lost interest in guitar chords and became obsessed with the blessed cooking pot. At that point, Arcángel knew it was better to leave the class for the next day. He would get up out of his seat and say, “You're quite the musician,
míster
,” giving him a pat on the back. Then Atticus would go into the house, following the smell of frying onions, and say hello to Granny Remedios, who would reply, “Well, here you are again, Tico,
niño
,” handing him a sharp knife so he could help chop the vegetables.

Sometimes the broad beans needed shelling, so they would sit across from each other at a small table and pass the time discussing serious matters. She liked his way of speaking, with that funny accent of his, and would ask him things about his home, his family, the countryside near where he lived, and would listen in amazement, sometimes in dismay, like when she found out that he had spent his childhood at boarding school, or when Atticus said in passing that he couldn't remember his father hugging him a single time in all his life.

“Do you believe in God, Tico?”

“I think this life is all we've got, and we should be thankful for it.”

“Thankful?” Granny Remedios had the ability to flip the meaning of anything she didn't agree with to align it with her own beliefs. “So then of course you believe in God, Tico,
niño
, think about it, who are you thanking?”