The Altogether Unexpected Disappearance of Atticus Craftsman (17 page)

“Franklin,” Gaby told him with the utmost urgency one Tuesday at eleven a.m. “Come home quick, I'm ovulating.”

And he raced home, ran up the stairs two at a time, stripped off in the hallway, and found her waiting for him in bed, legs open wide, music on. She asked him to go slowly, to concentrate on the baby, because she had read that conception was a conscious act of willpower, and then she stayed very still, lying on her back for an hour, the way her doctor had recommended, while he got dressed, said goodbye with one last kiss, and returned to the trompe l'oeil he had left half finished in his studio.

Sometimes he let himself think that Gaby had made a mistake marrying him, and this got him down. He hadn't managed to become the well-known artist in whose success she so believed, nor was he the fiery, dreamy lover she had met in Paris, capable of moving mountains, revolutionizing the art world, and achieving world fame.

“We'll be like Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo,” he used to say to her between kisses on the banks of the Seine.

“I hope not,” she replied. “Frida lost her baby and could never have children. And Diego cheated on her.”

“But they loved each other.”

“I suppose so, in their own way,” she conceded.

“I'll never be unfaithful to you,” Franklin assured her.

“And I'll wax my mustache,” Gaby promised.

Years had gone by. They had loved each other much more deeply than Diego and Frida could ever have dreamed and, all the same, thanks to some cruel twist of fate, they had been unable to conceive a child. No fame, no fortune, no family. In the end, his mother would be proved right: Franklin Livingstone was nothing but a worthless failure. He was no good to anyone, let alone sweet, loving Gaby. Maybe the best thing would be to leave her before it was too late. Open the door of the golden cage, set her free so that she would fly into another man's arms—someone compatible with her genetic code, the acidity of her uterus, or whatever it was that was stopping them from having children together. That he hadn't left yet was because deep down Franklin knew that breaking up with Gaby and taking his own life were, essentially, the same terrifying decision.

CHAPTER 27

O
ne December morning, Moira Craftsman woke up with a start. She had dreamed that a tribe of cannibals had taken her son Atticus prisoner, lowered him into a pot of boiling water, and were planning on eating him like a prawn, cooked and pink, while the boy screamed, “At least toss a few tea bags in the stew, you pack of savages!”

As a devoted disciple of Freud, Moira was a compulsive reader of
The Interpretation of Dreams
and was in the habit of asking her friends to let her analyze their dreams, from which she drew the most unexpected conclusions. It was obvious to her that guests at the house in Kent often dreamed of running water, streams, and waterfalls because the copper pipes made a tremendous noise when the boiler was on. If it was cold, they tended to dream of polar animals or white objects. If it was hot, they dreamed about airplanes not taking off. If they experienced a dizzying sense of speed—scenes that changed constantly, fast thoughts, races, flights, et cetera—she would lay the blame on an empty stomach.

Moira was more cautious when it came to erotic dreams. Desires, fears, and inhibitions were all tied up with an individual's private matters, she said, or his or her sexual history.

“We were making love in front of my stepmother.”

“You lack intimacy.”

“I was sleeping with an elephant.”

“You lack affection.”

“Our dreams expose what is missing from our everyday lives,” she would explain to her rapt audience, “but they also respond to external stimuli, noises, changes in temperature, or recent experiences. For example, following a traumatic experience, or after eating a lot, one is very likely to have nightmares.”

As for the predictive power of dreams, Moira was of the belief that, like all premonitions, only the ones that the dreamer really believed in would come true.

“I dream that I'm falling. The next day there's snow on the ground, and it's icy. I slip. I fall,” she would explain. “Does that mean that my dream has come true, or would I have fallen anyway?”

Moira Craftsman was a sensible woman. But that morning, after dreaming that her son was being cooked alive in a cauldron of tea, she pushed aside all her years of rationality.

“Wake up, Marlow, we're going to Spain!”

It was three weeks until Christmas and they hadn't heard from Atticus since August. However hard Marlow tried to convince her that all was well, that the boy was busy resolving a terribly complicated situation in Madrid and would be home soon enough, Moira suspected that her husband was hiding something from her. Marlow wasn't much of a talker, but the silence to which he had subjected her of late was going beyond a joke. He had even stopped saying good morning to her. He had been getting up in a hurry, jumping in the shower, grumbling something
incomprehensible from the bathroom, and racing out to the office without drinking his usual cup of coffee.

He had spent most weekends hunting in Scotland, in the Highlands, as he liked to call those impassable hills upon which roe deer, dogs, pheasants, geese, and men all ran amok: some fleeing from others, and others fleeing from their wives and from explanations they didn't want to have to give.

It crossed Moira's mind at one point that Marlow might be having an affair. She soon dismissed such a stupid notion.

No. Any other vice but women. Marlow preferred his club, his brandy, his games of bridge, and his hunts. He didn't have the time, or the motivation, to get caught up in an affair at this late stage of the game. Nor did he have any chance to, really. At work, Atticus kept an eye on him; elsewhere, his friends, mother, wife, and the headaches caused by his elder son Holden kept him busy.

But the silence . . .

“Atticus is in danger,” she said that morning, trying to get Marlow to understand. They were still in bed, her hair was a mess, and he was in his flannel pajamas. “We have to go to Madrid and bring him home as soon as possible.”

“What's got into you, darling?” he managed to stammer, having just woken up from a dream in which he had taken a long run up before jumping and taking off heavily and clumsily, like a goose.

“A mother knows when her child needs help,” Moira said, cutting him off, “and I can sense that Atticus is in real trouble, Marlow. We have to go and rescue him.”

Marlow sat up against the pillows. He scratched his head. He took his wife's hand.

“I tried to tell you a few days ago, Mo, but you were too tired. You're right, we must go to Spain. There's no other option.”

•  •  •

Moira Craftsman immediately sprang into action. She consulted her huge black planner, in which she kept track of all her engagements, and decided there was no way they could go and save Atticus before December 15. That was ten days away but, unfortunately, back in April she had accepted a dinner invitation from Lord Norfolk for that very Tuesday. What's more, on Thursday they had front-row tickets for
La Bohème
, bought seven months ago, before they sold out—after all, one has to be prepared. Then, on Sunday, the rector of All Saints College was coming to tea. They couldn't cancel a visit like that at such short notice. It was Monday, only six days until Sunday, and if they changed their plans now, the rector would crucify them for being so bad-mannered, and he would be entirely justified. And the following Wednesday, Moira had an appointment at the hairdresser's. Religiously, once every two months, she dyed her hair mahogany; otherwise the gray started to show. What's more, canceling would mean that the hairdresser would have to reorganize her entire schedule, and Moira didn't want to be responsible for such chaos.

She also needed to talk to the housekeeper, organize the pantry, pay the suppliers, prepare guest rooms, hire the help for New Year's Eve, sort out the menus, the Christmas tree, and the Christmas pudding, and many other things besides.

All told, the earliest they could leave was the fifteenth. And they would have to be back on the twentieth at the very latest because, if not, Christmas would be a complete disaster.

“Marlow and I have to go on an unexpected and urgent trip,” she explained over the phone to Victoria Bestman. “It's about Atticus. We're worried that something might have happened to him. We haven't heard anything from him since August.”

“Dear God!”

“I'm telling you because I don't think I'll be able to play bridge on the sixteenth. You'll have to find another partner.”

“The sixteenth! That's less than ten days away!”

“I know. It's all happened terribly suddenly, Victoria. I'm awfully sorry, but as I said, it's very urgent. It's about Atticus.”

“Oh, Moira, you poor thing! You must be so worried. I'd come and give you a hug, but as it happens, back in August, I promised I'd help with the fund-raising auction for the rectory today . . .”

“I understand, Victoria. An engagement is an engagement. Don't worry. I'll call you when I get back.”

CHAPTER 28

T
he journey in Arcángel's truck came to an end shortly before three o'clock. Granada had appeared in two parts: the first was modern and pretty uninteresting, the second, perched on a hill, was embroidered with narrow streets, white houses, and stunning views of the Alhambra.

To reach El Albaicín, they had to negotiate life-threatening hairpin bends and sheer precipices. They arrived at Soleá's family home, got out of the truck, and dragged their suitcases to a wooden door in the center of a stone wall, up which bougainvillea plants clambered.

Atticus had been unable to convince Soleá to stay with him in a charming little hotel that he saw on the way past. She got truly offended, saying she couldn't imagine anything worse than rejecting her mother's and Granny Remedios's hospitality, what an insult, only an Englishman would come up with an idea like that, and Atticus didn't dare contradict her. However, when the two of them were standing at her front door and there was no turning back, Soleá confessed that their visit was going to be a huge surprise for her family.