The Altogether Unexpected Disappearance of Atticus Craftsman

by Mamen Sánchez

  She also told Bernabé about Barbosa, but presented him as a partner in crime rather than a lover. She explained that it had been the Pirate’s idea, after she mistakenly paid him twice for the same invoice, and everything started from there, they split everything down the middle, like Bonnie and Clyde, but without the sex. Definitely no sex. She explained as well that at one point she had got scared because she wanted to stop stealing, but he made her carry on, threatening to harm the kids if she told on him, so she had no choice but to continue doing wrong without benefiting from the thefts. By the end he was keeping everything. All she had left was her fear.

  And that was true. It was almost entirely true.

  Strangely, the flame of María and Bernabé’s lost love was rekindled in prison. For some mysterious reason, on the three or four times they were allowed to be alone in the small cell in Yeserías, their passion was so devastating that it smashed through concrete walls, and behind them lay a white sandy beach, a perfectly tranquil sea, a full moon, and a starry sky.

  So when, at the beginning of May, her four-and-a-half-month sentence complete, María breathed her first lungful of freedom and found Berta, Asunción, Soleá, and Gaby waiting for her outside with their arms full of flowers, hugs, and forgiveness, the first thing she did was tell them about her unexpected pregnancy, a child conceived behind bars, oh well, we’ll tell everyone it was on a beach down south.

  “We’ll have to go together to buy maternity dresses for Berta’s wedding,” said Gaby suddenly and to everyone’s surprise.

  “You too, honey?”

  “Yes! Me too, María, just like you! Due in December.”

  They hugged long and hard, jumping and laughing hysterically. There was no pretty garden to sit in and tell each other the details, so the five members of the Librarte team sat in the shade of a maple tree in the first green space they came across, at the junction of two roads.

  “It was a few months ago, right, Asunción? Franklin told me that he wanted to go back to Argentina. He said he thought it would be best for both of us,” said Gaby. “He even bought a ticket.”

  “But, sweetie,” said Berta in shock, “there’s no couple in the world more in love than you two. What had got into him?”

  “I had,” said Gaby. “I wouldn’t stop going on about having children, I didn’t talk about anything else. I made him read books about pregnancy, take vitamins, make love in the weirdest positions, have heaps of tests. I was so obsessed with having a baby that I couldn’t see what was in front of my eyes. Poor Franklin started thinking that we could never have kids.”

  “So he thought that you could get on with it if he left,” said María.

  “That’s when I spoke to Asunción,” said Gaby, nodding toward her friend, “and she gave me the key to everything. I went home, found him crying, I threw him onto the bed—”

  “Okay, okay,” interrupted Berta somewhat violently, “we don’t need all the details, we can imagine the rest.”

  “I’m not imagining anything!” said Soleá. “Come on, I want details!”

  “Well,” Gaby went on, “I kissed, bit, and scratched him all over, and I convinced him that there’s nothing in all the world that can make me happier than being with him. And at that moment I realized I was telling the truth. Our marriage is already the loveliest family in the world, with or without kids. So I stopped obsessing about pregnancy. I completely forgot about the whole thing, and when I went to see the gynecologist last week, she said I was two months pregnant.”

  “There’s nothing like a bit of distraction for getting pregnant,” said María. “As soon as I get distracted, pow!”

  CHAPTER 55

  The dresses were made to fit their different-sized bellies. María’s was twice the size of Gaby’s because she was expecting her fourth baby while her friend was having her first, but they were the same cherry red to match the bride’s bouquet.

  Berta chose to wear a white suit, because she thought that at her age and size it was silly to stuff herself into one of those long silk and organdy dresses or shove a tiara and a lace veil on her head like a princess. She wore white flowers in her hair. On her finger was the engagement ring that Manchego had given her when they got back from Granada; around her neck, the pearl necklace that her four best friends had given her; in her hands, a bunch of wild peonies.

  The service was held early so it wouldn’t interfere with the solemn Mass for Carmen, patron saint of Ortigosa de Cameros, which made most people in the village happy. They didn’t want to miss the wedding. Their little Berta, the girl with braids and glasses, was now a radiant bride.

  The groom arrived from Nieva in a car full to bursting with his parents, still looking astounded, and the witnesses, Macita, Josi, Carretero, and Míguel, all wearing incredible suits, the same color as the morning coat that Prince Charles wore to Prince Felipe’s wedding, the day that half of Spain learned you should wear gray to daytime ceremonies.

  Manchego, meanwhile, had been determined to wear the National Police Corps full dress uniform—peaked cap, blue jacket with gold buttons, tie, and white gloves—despite his mother’s objection that it looked horribly plain without medals or the saber she had begged him to borrow for the occasion. Many of his police colleagues were also in uniform, which scared a lot of the little kids and old folks from the village, the only groups who still feared authority, but the single and married women loved it. They succumbed to the undeniable attraction of a man in uniform, better still a police or army uniform, with the corresponding connotations of power and authority that last until the morning after a night of lovemaking when the man wakes up naked and defenseless, his uniform crumpled at the end of the bed, and the woman asks what happened to turn her handsome prince into a hairy frog in a matter of hours.

  Macita stopped the car at the entrance to San Martín church, at exactly 11:00 a.m. on a warm July 16, in front of the small group that had formed in the portico. Manchego was pushed out, followed by his cortège of parents and witnesses, and strode into the church to the sound of applause, on the arm of his mother, who was squeezed into a sky-blue suit with lace edging, holding an antique fan and wearing little heels.

  Under her gold canopy and surrounded by irises, the Virgen del Carmen held the Christ child in her arms and awaited the procession. The first rows of the church were already filled with guests, the women and girls in typical dress with cloth skirts, embroidered shawls, silver brooches, and their hair scraped up into buns on top of their heads, while the men wore neckerchiefs, berets, sashes around their waists, and vests. Carmen’s day was important, and everyone had to open trunks, air out shawls, check that there were no marks from the previous year, backstitch sleeves, starch shirts, sew buttons on firmly, try on skirts—Oh, look how you’ve grown, my girl—let down hems, find ways of doing up the little bows or polishing espadrilles.

  Berta arrived fifteen carefully calculated minutes late so as to look neither too eager nor too laid-back. Bernabé drove her in his Rodius, from which he had previously removed the three kids’ car seats, candy wrappers, and sand from the park. He stopped in front of the church and waited patiently for his eleven passengers to alight: the bride, María and her three children, Asunción, Gaby, Soleá, Asunción’s two sons, and Atticus Craftsman, looking like a dandy with his light-colored jacket, double-breasted vest, yellow tie, sky-blue shirt, messy hair, and cold hands.

  He was the one all the girls noticed. They ignored the uniforms, transfixed instead by his English aristocrat’s demeanor, his slight limp, and his half smile. But on seeing the attention he paid to Soleá, a tanned beauty in a backless dress who wore her long hair loose, they didn’t dare approach him in case the wild animal bit them.

  Berta’s father wasn’t there to give her away, so she walked into the church on the arm of the mayor, an old schoolmate. Until the day before, Berta hadn’t remembered much about him except his wicked ways, his name, Anselmo, and how bad he was at dancing the paso doble. The women in the portico sho
uted to tell her how gorgeous she looked, the altar boy rang the bells, and the inhabitants of surrounding villages were confused by the time because the main Mass had always been at twelve.

  Manchego was waiting at the altar. He turned toward the door so he could see Berta come in. And he gazed at her with the eyes of his soul, which don’t see age or extra pounds, only the marvel of a shared heart, and he saw her as a twenty-year-old, firm of flesh, ripe of mouth, pale and radiant, his bride.

  She held out her hands to him and said “I love you” without the priest’s permission. They held hands through the whole ceremony, until the time came to exchange rings, and then they cried, sighed, laughed, and after hearing the magic words, “I now pronounce you man and wife,” they kissed, this time with the priest’s blessing. The priest was moved as well, but he tried not to let it show so he didn’t set an uncomfortable precedent that he would have to grudgingly repeat at other weddings with couples who were less in love, lest people thought he had favorites.

  Grains of rice and flower petals rained down on them as they left the church. They received hundreds of hugs and then went back into the cool church to participate in their first public ceremony as husband and wife.

  The solemn procession of the Virgen del Carmen was led by the band with their piccolos and drums, followed by the dancers wearing espadrilles and colored skirts, then the men carrying the Virgin. Last came the people of Ortigosa, following the patron saint who protects their land and families, brings together friends and couples, watches over sleep, and cures illnesses, who comes in secret to watch a birth or accompany a death, and is the reason why half the girls in Ortigosa are called Carmen.

  Everyone walked precariously down the steep cobbled streets toward the village square, until they reached the oak tree that towers over the bullring, and there they let the Virgin rest for a while, so the women could bring her flowers, dancers could devote to her their hours of practice, their ribbons and sticks, and their hopes. Then, on the men’s shoulders once more, to the San Miguel church and the main Mass and then vermouth in the square, with the band playing paso dobles, until it was time to eat.

  After the appetizers, the newlyweds and their guests walked up to Berta’s grandfather’s allotment, across the street from the house, next to the old telegraph office. The same allotment where some naughty boys, who were no doubt present at the meal, once hid to play a trick on a dreamy girl who used to sit by the attic window.

  The long table had been laid for fifty and was a bit wobbly given the natural slope of the ground, but it was very pretty with wildflower centerpieces, antique chinaware, jugs of Rioja, all under a huge grapevine dripping with fruit.

  Manchego raised his glass.

  “Thank you all for being here, for bearing witness to the love that Berta and I share, and for being part of our story. We never would’ve caught Barbosa without your help, and we never would’ve met if it wasn’t for him either. So here’s to the Pirate, I hope he comes out of prison a man, in the broadest sense of the word, and that he’s lost his taste for abusing women, the son of a bitch, Christ on a bike—”

  “Hey, Manchego, Mancheguito,” Berta cut him off. “It’s all over now.”

  “To the son of a bitch Barbosa,” shouted Manchego before downing his wine.

  There was also dancing. At nine o’clock in the square, the village made the most of the fact that the Starlight band had been hired for the fiestas. They played a mixture of paso dobles and Lady Gaga covers in a brutal mishmash of tradition and modernity until ten thirty, when silence fell for the fire bull to pass through.

  Berta had told her friends to come in comfy clothes and not to wear heels, because the thing with the bull was serious; she still got scared stiff when she thought about it. But they didn’t pay her any attention. They waited with bated breath for Adalberto to come out carrying the fire bull, a frame covered in fireworks; they were all terrified because he couldn’t see well under his costume and his arms were getting burned. He started running, forgetting that some people were outsiders, rich kids from Madrid, and didn’t know that the bull would charge and the spectators had to get out of the way—instead, they stayed stock-still, like half-wits, and he had to shout, “Move!” before he flattened them. What a scene, five policemen and their wives, and the smell of their scorched uniforms.

  Berta had gone up to the balcony of the casino and was shouting like mad from there, because Manchego had started running behind the bull, trying to wrestle him into the fountain, “You’re going to burn yourself, you idiot!” while Adalberto was trying to escape up the street.

  Finally, the lads from the village rugby-tackled Manchego into the fountain. Nothing serious, just a short dip in cold water and cow spit.

  “Let’s get you out of those clothes,” said Berta, trying not to laugh, more relaxed now, in the big bedroom of her parents’ house. “Get into bed, go on, or you’ll catch cold and we won’t have a honeymoon.”

  “I don’t need to warm up,” he said, letting her fuss over him. “You might not believe it, but I’m burning up inside.”

  Berta undid the gold buttons of his jacket, took off his shirt, unbuckled his belt.

  Manchego held her as if she was his first love, with a mixture of curiosity and fear, with closed eyes and open hands.

  And they shared fifty years of love in a single night, with sparks that burned down to embers, like two lit torches that would never go out again.

  CHAPTER 56

  Moira Craftsman flatly refused to go back to Granada to attend the “silly nonsense” of her son’s Spanish wedding. She later found out that the most surprising things happened during those three days and nights: Men tore off their shirts and danced bare chested, the newlyweds were lifted aloft under a shower of sugared almonds, and Atticus’s tie was cut off and pieces of it shared among the guests.

  She decided to ignore the music that echoed in her head for those three days and instead dedicated herself body and soul to the final preparations for the proper wedding, which would take place on the first Saturday of September at their house in Kent.

  Fortunately, the bride hadn’t shown the least interest in being involved in organizing the event because, as Atticus had explained somewhat harshly over the phone, Soleá believed they were already married, according to Catholic and Gypsy customs, and she would rather go on their honeymoon in Ibiza, where the sunsets were an incredible color.

  After that, Moira couldn’t shake the sound of the springs in a beaten-up old bed in Ibiza, and the banging of a headboard against a wall. It kept her awake for ten nights in a row. When she closed her eyes, she clearly saw a little whitewashed house, surrounded by pine trees and pots of flowers, furnished with wicker chairs and Mexican rugs, the colored walls decorated with the strangest of objects. At the back, under a canopy made of colored sarongs, she saw a bed covered in cushions, and Soleá naked on the bed, tousled hair, clinging to Atticus as if she might strangle him. He loved her in a way that made him tear, hurt, and strain, because he had discovered a new way to breathe without air, and he had realized that he couldn’t go on living without Soleá.

  The scene was so violent that white feathers flew out from the pillows, they tore the sheets, and broke the bed. But they carried on making love on the floor, not realizing that the walls of the house were starting to shake and the foundations to crumble.

  • • •

  The invitations had been sent out in May, inside huge envelopes lined with rose-patterned tissue paper and accompanied by elegant cards giving details of the time, place, dress code, wedding list, local hotels, a map, and the announcement that there would be a special menu for vegetarians, celiacs, and those with lactose intolerance and nut allergies.

  Of course, the dress code was none other than light-colored morning coats for the men and cocktail dresses with hats or fascinators for the women. There was a line indicating that the mother of the groom would be in lilac so that others wouldn’t wear the same color and steal any thund
er from the person whose big day it really was.

  Because one thing was clear: Given Atticus’s disastrous choice of wife, Moira had to take the reins and do what would have been expected of a more respectable bride, however exhausting the job that had fallen to her proved to be.

  First she had to choose the dress, either Alexander McQueen or Stella McCartney, of course, and have Grandmother Craftsman’s diamond bracelet set in a silk tiara to be worn over the lace veil.

  She ordered the shoes from Stuart Weitzman, even though she would have preferred something more traditional, but when she walked past the window, she saw a pair so scandalously delicate that she had to go in and try them. As luck would have it, her feet were the same size as Soleá’s, so Moira could feel for herself how comfortable and soft they were and secretly planned to sneak into her daughter-in-law’s room after the wedding and collect them, along with the tiara, the veil, and the dress, because she couldn’t let Soleá shove those beautiful things into her grandmother’s attic. No, Moira would keep them and, perhaps, if the time came, they could be used again, when Atticus came to his senses and remarried, this time to an elegant English girl, of course.