The Altogether Unexpected Disappearance of Atticus Craftsman (24 page)

“Life.”

“You can't thank life for life; it would be like saying good night to the night itself. Which makes no sense no matter how you look at it.”

“Then I must believe in God.”

“Right. Hey, Tico, you want to marry my Soleá, don't you?”

“I've never thought about getting married, Granny.” Atticus had learned to give ambiguous answers as a way to combat Remedios's conversational maneuvers.

“I didn't ask if you want to get married in general, like you might ask a person if he wants to have some fun or wants to travel, Tico,
niño.
I asked you if you want to marry my Soleá.”

“There's a lot of Soleá to Soleá.”

“Listen, Tico.” The old woman was losing her patience. “Do you know what
pelar la pava
means?”

“No.”

“Well,
pelar la pava
is the same as chatting and shelling beans, but with the granddaughter instead of the grandmother, do you see?”

Two months had passed since he had arrived in Granada; July was almost at an end and August was hot on its heels. Soleá got more beautiful every day, every afternoon they went out for a walk, but she still called him
Míster Crasman
and politely addressed him as
usted
, and every day Atticus fought against the animal instinct to devour her before the moon was up.

Atticus was getting mixed messages from Soleá. On the one hand, she treated him with astounding familiarity, joking with him, scolding him, and confiding in him exactly as she did with her cousins, but she definitely wouldn't let him respond in the same way. The day he dared to give her bottom a friendly pinch,
which was something all the men in the house seemed to do to all the women, without exception, including the grandmothers, and were usually just pushed away with a laugh, Atticus got a resounding smack. Soleá slapped both his cheeks and stood waiting for his reaction, coldly observing his browbeaten look, his apologies in English, his blundering attempts to regain balance, and his plea that she wouldn't say anything to Tomás, I beg you, he'll kill me. This last bit was the only thing that softened her stony heart.

On the other hand, he also found it difficult to guess what she felt and work out what she really wanted from him. If she caught him looking at another girl, Soleá would get in a huff, storm off in the middle of the street, and spend a couple of days not talking to him. But if she felt that he was watching her too much, if she felt that he was following her like a shadow through the parched streets, or if they met in a corridor and he held her gaze, then she made it clear that his presence bothered her. She would suggest that he go out for a bit of air,
it feels a little oppressive in here
,
Míster Crasman
, and shoo him away like a bothersome beggar.

Then Atticus would hug his guitar, walk away from the Heredias' house, wander up and down the streets, and sit down on any old corner to practice his new, solitary passion. Sometimes tourists would leave coins in his hat as they watched him tear at the strings of his wooden lover.

Then there was the question of accommodation. Soleá was still flat-out refusing to let Atticus get a room in a hotel, but he felt that if he was to stay any longer, which looked likely, he wanted to contribute in some way to supporting the family. He suggested it to Manuela, the mother, and she got horribly offended. He asked Tomás, Soleá's brother, and he stopped speaking to him. In the end, Soleá
asked him earnestly to stop embarrassing her family with the envelope of notes he kept flashing around. He was unable to make her understand that he hadn't wanted to boast, quite the opposite, Soleá, I can't believe you could think such an awful thing of me. Eventually he decided that the only way to shake off the terrible feeling that he was scrounging his meals was to buy a tourist ticket every night to the show at the cave, watch the performance, and leave a tip.

“You fancy one of the girls, don't you?” Soleá said to him one evening with her eyes half closed.

“I do?”

“Otherwise why d'you come to the cave every single night?”

“To see you, Soleá,” he replied.

“Stop messing with me,
Míster Crasman
, I know what you're like.”

Granny Remedios had picked up on this state of tension and disillusion—if nothing else, old age brings wisdom—and she thought the gringo could do with a little nudge to help him win Soleá over. The old woman knew Soleá was ready to be won over, you could see it from the way she came down in the morning all done up and asking for him—Where's
Míster Crasman
, is he up yet? So she lay in wait until the opportunity arose to intervene in her granddaughter's fate.

In the first week of August, Atticus received a call from England. His father wanted to know how he was getting on. Atticus had no choice but to lie. He made something up about studying the business and assured him that he would have good news soon. Then he asked if his father knew of anywhere in Spain that sold Twinings Earl Grey, his favorite kind of tea, because otherwise he was going to have to order some from England, which
would be complicated. His father promised to find out, and they hung up.

Because this conversation took place in the courtyard, Manuela, Remedios, and the girls couldn't help listening through the kitchen window and asked Soleá to translate what the
míster
was saying to his father.

“He's not talking about us,” Soleá explained. “It seems he's run out of tea and wants to buy more.”

“Tell him there's a woman who lives on the way up to Antequera who makes herbal teas!” her grandmother suddenly exclaimed.

“But Granny Remedios,” said Soleá in surprise, “they sell the kind of tea he wants in all the supermarkets.”

“You tell him,” the old woman replied, “then I'll explain how to get there. Tico!” she shouted out the window, “come over here. I'll tell you where you can get some lovely tea!”

Two days later, on August 10 at precisely 8:00 p.m., Atticus Craftsman went on the strangest adventure of his life, driving Arcángel's truck with Soleá fanning herself at his side, the picture of Camarón staring at them from the windshield while his voice strained to be heard over the noise of the motor. Before they set off, Atticus took out his cell phone, called home, waited for the tone, and when he heard the answering machine kick in he decided to leave a message so that his father wouldn't waste time with an exhaustive investigation of Spanish tea distributors: “Leave it to me, Dad. I've got it all under control.”

CHAPTER 38

S
eñá Candela had discovered the calming effects of valerian, the hallucinogenic properties of jimson weed, the digestive qualities of chamomile, and the therapeutic benefits of quinine long before herbalist's shops, artichoke tablets, and Schweppes tonic came into fashion. The only thing that took her by surprise was the appearance of Coca-Cola—so similar to the sarsaparilla root beer they had always drunk and yet so successful. She had spent many years investigating the therapeutic properties of wild herbs, but she would never have imagined that such benefits could be reaped from selling them wholesale. She only ever asked for a donation in return for her masterly formulas, and the line that formed outside her house stretched around the block. Her husband, Agustín, kept an eye on the variety of people, some in pain, others heartbroken. Unlike his wife, he took advantage of the clients, whom he arranged not in the order of their arrival—which would have been the fair way to do it—but according to the tip he pocketed, so that the rich always went before the poor. Señá Candela turned a blind eye, because she didn't want Agustín to leave her at this late stage of the game—she was well over eighty—but in
return she dedicated much less time and energy to the first in the line than the last.

“Give Agustín fifty euros and tell him to put you at the back,” Granny Remedios told Soleá, knowing that plenty of people had already worked out about the difference in treatment and did their best to stay at the back of the line.

As a result, it was a strange sort of line that formed. At the front were the rich outsiders, who were oblivious of the mad logic whereby the more you gave, the worse off you were. Then came the poor from the village and those from elsewhere. Then the rich from the village and, finally, the few who were able to precisely calculate their place in the line relative to the size of the bribe they gave.

Agustín pocketed the fifty euros that Soleá gave him and then put the three or four clients who arrived later in front of them, despite their protests.

“I don't get it,” said Atticus.

“Because you're English,
Míster Crasman
, and you lot have a different way of lining up.”

The house was identical to all the others, whitewashed, with iron bars in front of the two windows that faced the street. The door was open, but to get inside you had to pass through a beaded curtain that tinkled musically. The interior smelled like boiled vegetables.

“What's cooking, Señá Candela?” Soleá asked as the old woman kissed her affectionately.

“Cabbage for dinner,” she replied jokingly before looking Atticus up and down. “So you're Soleá, our Remedios's granddaughter,” she added, “and this is the Englishman.”

“
Míster Crasman
,” said Soleá before Atticus had time to open his mouth.

Atticus held out his hand to shake the old woman's, but she took the opportunity to flip his over.

“My Lord, what luck!” she exclaimed. “Your luck line goes right from one side to the other. Your love line is another matter,” she added and then, pointing to a seat, “sit down.”

They both silently obeyed the order, like a pair of infantry soldiers.

Atticus had brought one of his last tea bags with him. He took it out of his pocket and showed it to the old woman.

“I would like to buy a large quantity of this tea,” he said.

“Give that here,” she replied.

She ripped the sachet open, let the contents fall into the palm of her hand, tried it with the tip of her tongue, and said, “Twinings Earl Grey.”

“Remarkable!” exclaimed Atticus.

“It says so on the label,
míster
,” the old woman pointed out. “I'll go and see if I've got any in the store.”

Señá Candela got up and left the living room, leaving behind her a strange smell, like that of a wheat field at dawn.

“Is she a witch?” asked Atticus in a hushed tone.

“She's more like an old-fashioned psychiatrist, the kind who doesn't have a certificate on the wall but cures people all the same,” replied Soleá, amused. “She's an old friend of my granny's, godmother to my uncle Manolo, the one who owns Manolo's Bar. She knew we were coming because my granny phoned her.”

Atticus looked around. The living room was welcoming, shady and cool. The only furniture was the small round table they were sitting at, an old spice cabinet with lots of drawers, and three or four framed photos from Easter celebrations featuring la Virgen de la Macarena and el Cristo de la Legión. On the table
stood a kettle, several cups, a set of scales, and a locked metal box where Señá Candela kept the money.

Atticus and Soleá remained in silence until the old woman came back, carrying a heavy packet.

“You're in luck,” she told Atticus. “I've got two kilos.”

That packet could have contained tea or animal feed; there was nothing to guarantee where it had come from or the state it was in.

“Try some,” she said, dropping a pinch into the strainer she had placed on top of one of the cups and pouring hot water over it. “You too, girl,” she added, pouring a cup for Soleá as well.

Her expectant look meant they couldn't refuse the offer. They both drank the black tea with a certain amount of apprehension and then, to Soleá's surprise, Atticus shouted, “It's perfect! Bona fide Twinings Earl Grey!”