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

unless she drenched herself in perfume; she hoped this was only temporary. She helped find work for immigrant women in the parish. She cooked for her sons. She considered her boss, Berta, to be her best friend, and was capable of saying things like, “I’ve already been married and divorced, thank God,” without tears betraying her apparent bravery.
    So when Berta called at nine in the morning that Sunday in May, six and a half years after her first living death, Asunción was reminded of the day the flight attendant rang the doorbell. She felt the floor trembling beneath her feet and heard the clang of her soul falling down the kitchen steps. She went to church for ten o’clock Mass, crossed herself, knelt, and used all five senses to pray. She sent a distress flare to the Lord.
    â€œFather, if it is Your will, take this cup away from me. Don’t let me lose my job, dear God, please, I beg you. Let Your will be done, but please could that will not be to leave me in the street, if possible. I understand that wars, famine, and all that take precedence. If You’re too busy, ask one of the saints to help me. One who doesn’t have many devotees. San Pantaleón or San Lamberto or San Vito who, with a name like that, will surely get me out of this fix.”
    Once she had placed her trust in God, Asunción crossed the street and ordered a dozen croissants, some tortel cakes, and five ensaimada buns, because, as they say in Spain, bread helps you swallow your sorrow. She guessed that Berta would have already put the coffee on.

CHAPTER 13
    W hat took place at exactly quarter past eleven that Sunday morning in the Librarte office wasn’t a meeting among five civilized women but rather a coven of merciless witches who resorted to the dark arts and black magic in an attempt to dodge the misfortune that was set to descend upon them.
    They arrived one by one, in the usual order: Berta, Soleá, María, Asunción, and Gaby. All terrified, all trying to disguise the extent of their anxiety with exaggerated gestures. They normally greeted one another with a simple “Good morning,” but that Sunday they hugged and kissed as if they were at a school reunion and hadn’t seen one another for twenty-five years. They breakfasted on Berta’s coffee and Asunción’s pastries, and talked about children, books, and theater opening nights to pass the time until the awful moment when they had to confront reality.
    In the end, Berta had no choice but to talk. She explained that she had called them at such an ungodly hour—sorry, girls—on a Sunday because she needed to give them some terrible news. It couldn’t wait until Monday because, after thinking long and hard about it, she had arrived at the conclusion that, perhaps,among the five of them, they might be able to come up with a way to sort things out and avert disaster.
    â€œThe disaster is the magazine getting closed down, right?” grasped María.
    â€œIt seems so.”
    Sounding shriller than usual, Berta explained how Mr. Bestman himself had called the previous afternoon to inform her of Mr. Craftsman’s imminent visit.
    â€œThe big boss? Marlow Craftsman?”
    â€œNo, my love. His son.”
    â€œWhat son?”
    Berta had to give the girls a rundown of the Craftsman family. She told them about the aristocratic grandmother; about Marlow, the managing director; about Moira, the elegant wife; about Holden, the rebel; and about Atticus, the designated heir, who at that moment must have been landing in Madrid with their termination letters neatly stacked in his briefcase.
    â€œAccording to Bestman, the magazine’s losses are inexplicable, enormous, and too great for the company to absorb,” Berta told them, devastated. “What’s more, he says that Librarte hasn’t managed to make a name for itself among Spain’s literary publications, that it has no renown and no