The Altogether Unexpected Disappearance of Atticus Craftsman by Mamen Sánchez Page A

clearly: She had taken Atticus to see the flat after work that very Monday, at about half past seven, the same day they had welcomed him with hot chocolate and churros.
    Because it wasn’t far from the office to Calle del Alamillo, Atticus said he would rather walk than get a taxi. He took off his jacket and tie, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and undid his top two buttons. He ruffled his blond hair (he sported an English haircut—in other words, a mop seemingly chopped at random), doused himself with cologne, and, when they went out into the street, took a deep breath, then coughed.
    Berta walked beside him on the narrow pavement down the tiny streets to the old building where Señora Susana was waiting for them in her Sunday best. She was holding the keys to her son Gabriel’s flat, ready to show them around the sweet, welcoming, cool space with two balconies, which was arranged with a grandmother’s attention to detail so the Englishman would like it. “Believe me, Míster Crasman , it’s a real bargain.”
    Tiny particles of dust caught the light and danced in the still air in the hallway. Mingled with the smell of boiled vegetableswas the aroma of Mediterranean pine, thanks to an air freshener that Señora Susana had placed on the landing, lest the inevitable stench of cabbage put the foreigner off.
    But Atticus appeared immune to anything negative. That afternoon he had a certain something in his gaze, as if stunned or bewitched, and everything seemed fine to him. Fine that the fuses sometimes went and you had to push them back up with a broom handle. Fine that the pipes were made of iron and first thing in the morning the water came out the color of pee. Fine that there was no elevator, no doorman, no garage. Fine that the floorboards creaked and there was only a gas stove. Fine that from time to time you had to order a gas bottle and connect it under the sink. All fine. Even the price.
    Berta and Señora Susana decided to celebrate the deal at the bar downstairs. They said goodbye and hailed a taxi for Atticus, who still looked stunned and whose mind was clearly elsewhere: Who knows in which corner of Soleá’s undulating geography or the pools of her catlike eyes?
    The two women were walking the two hundred meters separating them from their slices of tortilla when Berta stopped dead just as they were passing the El Alamillo taco place.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Señora Susana asked when she saw Berta go pale and stop dead in the middle of the pavement.
    â€œNothing, nothing,” replied Berta.
    â€œYou look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
    And in fact Berta had seen something. No more and no less than a couple, a man and a woman, who should not have been there—or anywhere else, for that matter: The woman was María. The man was not her husband.
    Berta felt feverish, as if she had the flu, and the back of her neckwas throbbing. Señora Susana was discreet in her own way and, despite being a lonely old lady, decided not to ask any questions. Instead, when they got to the bar she started nattering about other things in the hope of soothing Berta’s obvious agitation. All Berta wanted was to finish the tumbler of wine and run home to her books, where true love was still possible.
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    Four months earlier, on January 6, Three Kings Day, a day she would never forget, Berta had gone out for a stroll around Plaza Mayor. The square was still full of Christmas stalls, and Berta had stopped to look at the ones that sold expensive, but exquisite, little earthenware figurines of shepherds and sheep. Her mind was set on finally buying another Melchior, because the little gold box that hers carried had broken ages ago, and even though she had fixed it with superglue, you could clearly see the join. In spite of the cold, the square was full of families—the kids trying out their new bikes—and street musicians were playing