The Altogether Unexpected Disappearance of Atticus Craftsman (32 page)

“Would you look at that, I'm cured!” shouted Remedios from halfway down the stairs. “Everyone can go home and Manuela will let you all know about the wedding.”

“Who's getting married, Granny?” asked one of Soleá's sisters in amazement.

“Who do you think? Your sister and Tico, for God's sake.”

Moira Craftsman, who had managed to stay conscious for a couple of minutes, fainted heavily again. And she hadn't even understood what Remedios had said. It was enough for her to see the huge smile on Atticus's face and the blush on Soleá's to understand that the dark-skinned woman with witch's eyes, wide lips, toasted skin, and curly hair was—unless Freud stepped in—in all likelihood the mother of her future grandchildren.

This time she had fallen so deeply unconscious that they decided to rush her to the health center that the Andalusian regional council had opened three streets from the house, to see if modern medicine was capable of reviving her.

CHAPTER 49

G
ranada had never shined so much as on that sunny afternoon after the rain: The orange trees were a glistening green, the geraniums were overflowing like whole forests, and a fresh dusting of snow lay on the mountain peaks like icing on cakes.

Atticus and Soleá went up to the San Miguel lookout point from where they could see the Alhambra, Granada's second sun, waking up, stretching, shaking itself out, and glowing.

As they gazed at that magical scene, Soleá learned that Atticus had the warmest heart in all of England. His hands were still freezing, the poor thing, but the blood that rushed through his body was boiling hot. Everything about him was scalding hot: his kisses, the passion of his words, his downy blond skin, and his eyes, if he opened them, or if not, his eyelids.

If it was a single kiss, it was the longest in history. If there were several kisses, Soleá didn't know where one ended and another began; they were all like water from the same stream. Kisses that destroyed bridges, waterlogged crops, swept livestock away, and flooded houses. Mud up to knee level, the dog on the roof, rescue helicopters, and fallen trees.

Atticus received Soleá's kiss like a hard-won trophy, the prize
for his efforts, the boat race, at long last the cup for Oxford, after seven years of disappointment, the taste of glory. While he nibbled her lips, he revisited one by one the scenes from his erotic library, which he had left behind in the flat on Calle del Alamillo—what an oversight—in the hope of putting them into practice as soon as this no-nonsense woman let him unbutton her shirt and rip off her skirt, something he thought might be tricky, because Soleá, while they were kissing, had already slapped him when she felt his hand trying to make tracks for her cleavage.

“Why not?” he had pleaded with her, his face red and stinging.

“Because I don't want you to,” she had replied.

So as not to drag out any longer the agony of wanting to touch her and not being able to, Atticus asked her to marry him, as soon as possible, that very day, or tomorrow, at the cathedral, in a little chapel, out in the countryside, just the two of them or with the fifty cousins from Antequera. He didn't have a ring, so he gave her the gold crucifix that hung from his neck, so the Gypsy Christ could bless their union. He pulled it off over his head, placed it on Soleá's chest, and the heat it held made a mark, like a tattoo, in the shape of a cross, that he had to kiss better. More kisses.

He did it by the book, Soleá later told her mother and grandmother: on one knee, the classic formula, first in Spanish—“
¿Te quieres casar conmigo?
”—then in English—“Will you marry me?”—because it had always been his dream to ask the hand of the woman of his dreams in the language of Shakespeare. And Soleá said “
sí
” and then “yes,” and then, finally, she let him kiss one of her breasts, the right one, not because she wanted him to but because the cross had burned her.

CHAPTER 50

M
oira Craftsman soon came around from her “emotionally triggered panic attack,” as it was diagnosed by a doctor who had to check three times that the electronic cuff wasn't broken because each time it gave a blood pressure reading of one sixty over one hundred. At Atticus's insistence, the doctor prescribed two cups of Twinings Earl Grey tea, conceding that, “It can't do her any harm, she is English, after all.”

At around seven in the evening, the Craftsmans, Berta, María, and Inspector Manchego were finally able to settle into their charming little hotel, a pretty house with a courtyard and flowers. They were all exhausted from the journey, the emotion, and the hospital visit.

Why Moira didn't notice the cross that hung from Soleá's neck is a mystery that will never be solved. She didn't say a word on the matter; it was enough for her to feel the icy cold of her son's hands to know that something serious was going on, and to fear the worst. She ordered soup, a French omelet, and a cup of tea; she complained because the soup had bits of chickpeas floating on the surface and the omelet was less like a soufflé and more like the sole of a shoe. She cried for a while, and around nine o'clock
she fell fast asleep. Marlow read until the words started to blur in front of his eyes. Then he turned off the bedside light and fell into a deep, snoring, whistling sleep.

Inspector Manchego sat with his ear pressed against the door and took all of this in. After all, it was his job to protect these people around the clock and deliver them safely back to Scotland Yard along with their son, Atticus, the missing person, you'll never believe where he turned up, in perfect health, and all thanks to the investigative prowess of Inspector Manchego, who should be made superintendent and given a medal for bravery.

Berta, meanwhile, after ensuring that the Valium, blessed Valium, had finally done its work against María's stubborn insomnia, went out onto the balcony for some air and came across the sturdy backside of Inspector Manchego, who had his ear against the Craftsmans' door, his back tense, his gun at his waist.

She hesitated, unsure whether or not to sneak back to her room and avoid another confrontation with him. She still hadn't managed to forgive him for all the unfair accusations he had hurled at her and the people she most cared about. Kidnapping, obstruction of justice, theft, capital flight, fraud . . . Manchego had deeply offended her, she felt like she had been seriously let down and, however much he had apologized afterward—“Forgive me, Berta, you know I didn't really mean it, I said that in the heat of the moment, I love you, do you hear, I love you, there you go, three words I've never said to any woman”—the fact that he had embarrassed her still tipped the balance more toward resentment than compassion.

However, the trip to Granada, the persistent morning rain, and Manchego's look of a helpless little boy who has put his foot
in his mouth but later feels bad and grovels for forgiveness—all three softened her heart like a boiled potato.

“Fancy a cigarette?” she said to his back.

Manchego spun around, moving his hand to his gun.

“My God, Berta, you scared me to death!” he protested. “Don't do that. It's dangerous to frighten an officer when he's on duty. I'm armed and I'm jumpy.”

“Okay,” she replied. “I can see you're jumpy, so a cigarette and a bit of a rest will do you good.” Then she added, “Are they sleeping?”

“Like two freakin' little angels.”

“María's finally managed to get to sleep as well.”

“So it's just us two still awake. Have you noticed how empty the hotel is?”

He was right. It was December 18, a Monday, and they had the hotel to themselves, with its Andalusian courtyard, its wooden balconies, and its geraniums.

“People are saving for Christmas.”

“Must be.”

Thinking of Christmas made Berta's heart sink. She would normally decorate the
Librarte
office. She would buy a Christmas tree, cover it in baubles, buy poinsettias to put on the desks, spread a velvet cloth over the photocopier and place the nativity scene on top of that, and put a bottle of cider in the fridge, to celebrate with her colleagues on the morning of December 24. “Here's to my good friends, God bless you, I hope the Three Kings bring you lots of presents, and may next year be the best one yet.”

But this year was a mess: The office had just been closed
down, they were all out of work, María had turned out to be a liar, a thief, and a traitor. True, she had been forced into it, beaten and threatened by a heartless man, but she was a crook nonetheless. It was her fault that the magazine and the girls' lives were ruined.

“What have you got planned for Christmas?” Manchego asked her.

“Other than taking some cookies to María in prison, not much,” she replied, feeling resigned to sadness.

“Right.” Manchego sighed.

“And you?”

“I was thinking of going to Nieva. Do you know, it's three years since I've spent Christmas with my family.”

“How come?”

“Well, Berta, the truth is,” Manchego replied, “every time I go home they ask me if I've been promoted, if I've got a girlfriend, if I've solved any important cases, and I get the impression they're disappointed every time.”

“This year's different, though.”

“Workwise, yes,” he replied. “Girlfriendwise, no.”

Berta felt heat rising through her whole body. Like when she was a girl and drank hot wine in the village square and her ears would start throbbing, her legs would start wobbling, and her eyes would fill with tears.

Manchego hadn't lit the cigarette. He was holding it between two fingers that were trembling as much as Berta's legs. He suddenly fell silent. Their eyes spoke for them, the feelings of hurt giving way to something else. Somewhere along the way, these two had shed their pride, their singletons' peculiarities, their love of solitude, and they met midway between hope and fear.

“Maybe we can do something about the girlfriend thing,” said Berta, drawing a bit closer to Manchego.