The Altogether Unexpected Disappearance of Atticus Craftsman (30 page)

She hardly slept that night, bathed in sweat, tossing and turning on the mattress she had chosen solely because he had slept there, sometimes getting up to look out the window, straining to hear the distant sound of his guitar, his foreign accent, his childlike laughter, recalling the kiss, the beach, the color of the sea, the smell, the taste, the softness, the hand spread out on her stomach, the heat.

She got up when it was still dark, sticky with sweat, and went down for breakfast.

Granny Remedios, who never slept, was awake and waiting for her, propped up on the cushions of her deathbed. However, in contrast to the lamentable state she had been in recently—her moans and cries of “Take me, Virgen del Carmen, take me, Jesus, oh, the pain!” her faints and other torments such that Soleá had begged the Lord to take her grandmother so she wouldn't suffer anymore, so she might rest in peace—Granny Remedios looked fit as a fiddle and was grinning from ear to ear.

“Come 'ere, Soleá,” she said under her breath so as not to wake the children, grandchildren, nephews, and nieces who were spread around her bed, awaiting her death, taking turns to stay by her side at night.

The fire was lit. The whole house was sleeping silently.

“My girl, you look like a lost soul,” she whispered to her granddaughter, who flopped down next to her. “You're shaking, your feet are freezing, and you're all hunched over. Have you finally realized?”

“Realized what, Granny Remedios?”

“What do you think, Soleá? That you're in love with Tico and have been since the day you met him, since you brought him here, since you two first laughed together, since you both drank our
Candela's tea, since you jumped out the window so you wouldn't bump into him.
Niña
, if that's not love, then God knows what is.”

Soleá lowered her eyes. The white sheet looked pink in the glow from the fire, her grandmother's hands were lined with deep paths, her eyes were two mirrors that had seen so much, her words were truths that cut like knives.

“But I didn't—”

“Of course you didn't know. Sometimes, the person in love is the last one to realize. But Tico, he knew it from the first moment. He wouldn't have followed you to Granada if he hadn't known, he wouldn't have spent days in this house shelling beans, he wouldn't have learned to play the guitar, he wouldn't have walked back from the beach—he walked three days and nights, that's what he told me—just to be at your side. He knows it, Soleá, but he's English, sweetheart, and he doesn't understand that we do things differently here. He doesn't understand that you can turn up one night at your girlfriend's father's house, take her away, and give her a child—that's what your grandfather did to me—and rip your shirt open and beat your chest, and fight savagely for her if they won't let you marry her because you're only a cattle trader and you don't have a fortune, and take her back to your village, quick as lightning, to the hills, love her furiously, tenderly, passionately. Tico's cut from a different cloth. He acts like he doesn't want to get his clothes dirty, Soleá, but in reality he's desperate to eat you up. I can see it in his eyes every time you come downstairs and walk straight past him. It's as if his body lights up when he sees you and switches off again when you leave.”

Soleá felt that rain of burning truth cascade over her and remained silent, while her eyes focused on counting the wrinkles
on her grandmother's hand. She knew that Remedios, who was an expert when it came to human emotions, was absolutely right.

“So what do I do now? How can I tell him I'm in love with him when I've treated him so badly?”

“You don't have to tell him anything, girl. Just keep quiet, let him come to you, and be ready for him. No one likes to feel as if he's been trapped. You leave it to me. Tell him I'm dying and he has to come and see me because I won't live through another night.”

“Oh, Granny Remedios, don't scare me!”

“But I'm only pretending, Soleá, my girl, you silly thing. Haven't you worked out that I've been in this bed for four months, healthy as a horse, waiting to see if you'll make up your mind to go for Tico?”

Soleá couldn't believe what she was hearing. Remedios was smiling beautifully, as if it was absolutely fine to give them all the scare of their lives by telling them she was dying. The cousins had come from Antequera, they were sleeping piled on top of one another, afraid to leave her bedside in case the Lord suddenly came for her in the night.

Remedios slipped out from between the sheets, small and wrinkled as she was, her hair all messed up, her nightgown threadbare from lying in bed for so long. She said, “What a relief, Soleá, I was going to catch something bad cooped up in there. Your mother is such an awful cook! What a relief that I can take over the kitchen again, my Manuela was going to starve us all to death!”

Some of the cousins who were sleeping in the living room stirred. The fire crackled in the hearth and Granny Remedios did some yoga stretches.

“Don't look at me like that, close your mouth before the flies get in,” she told her granddaughter. “Go and find Tico and tell him I'm dying, go on. Tell him I've got something important to say to him before my time is over. A big fat secret that I don't want to take to my grave.”

After her stretches, Granny Remedios went back to her impression in the mattress, pulled the sheets up to her nose, put on her invalid's face, and shouted, “Virgen del Carmen, take me soon!” A distant cousin finally woke up from her deep sleep, approached the deathbed, touched the old woman's forehead, thought to herself that she didn't have a fever, and asked if she wanted anything for breakfast.

“
Migas
with bacon and a fried egg,” replied Remedios, who might have been dying but certainly hadn't lost her appetite.

CHAPTER 47

T
he only prayers Soleá knew by heart were the Lord's Prayer and Hail Mary. She made the rest up to suit the occasion: “Virgen del Carmen, patron saint of sailors, save me from this shipwreck” or “Sacred Heart of Jesus, have a heart,” prayers that were hardly liturgical but truly sincere, because she wasn't the kind of person who thinks of Saint Barbara only in a thunderstorm. No, Soleá thanked God every day for the good things in her life: her mother, her grandmother, her siblings, the fifty members of her extended family, her colleagues at
Librarte
, her work, her flat in Madrid, and even the spicy potatoes they made in the bar on the corner. And to this list she now added Atticus Craftsman's green eyes when he stared at her back.

She carried on up the steep little street to Dolores's cave, praying under her breath all the way, oblivious of the fine rain, like angels' tears, that was falling and making her hair wet and frizzy, soaking the hem of her long skirt and her ankles. She asked the Virgin Mary—because you're a woman and you'll understand better than the others—to help her find her way out of the impasse of her love for Atticus Craftsman, that pale, clumsy Englishman who wasn't at all religious, which the poor thing couldn't
help, because, you see, Virgin Mary, he was born into a family of agnostic Protestants, although Granny Remedios had managed to pretty much convince him that heaven existed when she told him it was like having tea with Soleá for all eternity.

Up until that moment, Soleá had done everything she could to avoid opening the doors to her heart. They were locked shut, surrounded by crocodile-infested water, defended by an army of prejudices and customs that would be tough to dismantle now that she had fed them so fervently. And yet, with every step she took through the rain, a tower or a battlement fell, the drawbridge was lowered, offering him a way to get into the castle, the heart of darkness, where she was waiting for him, asleep, or rather, unconscious, unaware that only his kiss could save her, only his love could redeem her, only his company could be her heaven.

The cave was firmly closed. Atticus Craftsman was sleeping beside the only window, next to the door. Soleá knocked once, twice, three times, waited, and knocked again.

At last she heard the sound of scraping metal—oh, he was so clumsy!—and then the lock clicked, the door opened, and a warm darkness seeped out, carrying with it the smell of the tourists' cigarettes, spilled wine, the spoils of the night before.

“Soleá,” said Atticus, surprised, his hair messed up, wearing only his undershirt and Ralph Lauren boxers.

“Granny Remedios is dying,” she blurted out. “She's asked for you, she wants you to go there, she's got a secret she wants to tell you before she dies.”

Atticus Craftsman's reaction to that news was far from the cold response Soleá had expected. All of a sudden, he hugged her as if she was a life raft, crying inconsolably like a child, his tears soaking her hair. She was the granddaughter, the one who should
have been in pieces, but instead she remained calm, stunned to find the man she secretly loved in her arms, unsure what to do or say in the face of such an outpouring.

“Your hands are freezing,
míster
,” she managed to whisper. “Put something on or you'll catch cold.”

But because he carried on hugging her like a big brown bear and she didn't really know what to do with her arms, which were hanging down by her sides, she decided to hug him back, but more in the way you hug a small boy than a boyfriend: with a touch of compassion and pity. Softly, to see if he would calm down so the two of them could set off down to the Heredias' house, where Remedios was waiting for them in perfect health, anxious to cast the spell that she planned to use to sort out her granddaughter's messy love life.

In fact, there was no need for the grandmother, or anyone else, for that matter, to intervene in this story of deception and disillusion. All they needed was for Soleá, there at the top of the hill, under the lintel of the cave door, to confess to Atticus Craftsman that she was crazy about him, despite being terrified by his English education, his addiction to Twinings Earl Grey, his vegetarianism, his slight limp that was a constant reminder of that fateful day on the Thames, his fierce father and his uptight mother, his aristocratic, antiquated, and cold Englishness, and his freezing-cold fingers, which that day at the beach had crawled over her back, her waist, and her belly button before coming to rest on the curve of her stomach.

“Come on,
Míster Crasman
, Granny Remedios is dying to see you.”

Atticus dried his face on the blond hairs of his forearm. He sniffed, ducked his head, and went into the cave. A couple of
minutes later he emerged wearing a black shirt, black trousers, and a black belt, carrying a black umbrella, which he used to protect Soleá from the rain that was still falling on her wet hair.

If it wasn't for his wheat-colored hair and the white skin of his neck and hands, anyone would have taken him for a true Gypsy. Because that was what Atticus Craftsman was becoming: He was becoming Tico from Dolores's cave, the guy who played the guitar with all his heart and sang the saddest
soleás
in all of El Albaicín.

And so, slowly but surely, under the December rain, the two of them made their way to the Heredias' house and went into the living room where the family was keeping watch over Remedios night and day so she wouldn't be alone when God came for her.

“Granny,” said Atticus.

“Tico, my boy,” she replied from her deathbed. “Come close to me, here. And the rest of you, get out,” she ordered, echoing the words of Lola Flores: “If you love me, get out.”

The grandchildren, nephews, and nieces went off to eat bread rolls drizzled with olive oil and drink coffee. They left Remedios, Atticus, and Soleá alone, telling one another old secrets.

“Tell me, Tico,” began Remedios, “let's see, why did you come to Granada?”

Atticus squirmed in his seat.

“I came to buy some poems,” he confessed. “Because I thought you were different, Granny, I thought you had some unpublished papers belonging to Federico García Lorca hidden in the attic and you were too ashamed to let anyone see them.”