The Altogether Unexpected Disappearance of Atticus Craftsman Read Free

thousand leather-bound volumes, some of which were genuine treasures. It was Atticus’s favorite place to spend the lonely afternoons of his confinement, watching the rain on the windowpanes, remembering Lisbeth, stoking the fire, and dipping into those books that, until then, had seemed like nothing more than decoration. He discovered ancient philosophies, avant-garde ideas, priceless etchings, black-and-white postcards from places that no longer existed, shocking perversions, saintly lives, Byron, Keats, and Beckett—all these mixed together in both the library and his mind as a sweet-and-sour concoction.
    Weekends at the house were lively. His parents returned from London, their friends came to visit, Holden brought little Oliver in a sling on his back, and the library became a lounge where they drank tea and talked loudly.
    On Sunday afternoons, Atticus would feel strangely anxious as he waited for them all to bundle back into their cars and disappear down the chestnut-tree-lined drive. Only then, finally, could he regain control of his army of stories and poems.
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    While his knee healed, his mind expanded, and his spirit absorbed feelings that belonged to other people but became his own.
    He returned to Oxford a different man. A braver one.
    He went to find Lisbeth at the museum, whisked her away from the ticket desk, and led her through the cobbled streets of the city center to his college’s small chapel, which was always empty. Inside, he closed the door, lifted the cover on the piano, played “Bridge Over Troubled Water” in memory of the fateful day of the boat race, played “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head,” stroked the soft skin of her hand, touched her hair and her face, and asked, “Do you want to see my room?”
    They slept in each other’s arms in the narrow bed. Female visitors were not allowed in Exeter College, but the porter, Mr. Shortsight, was inclined to turn a blind eye—he knew how to feign deep sleep in the armchair in the porters’ lodge and, what’s more, enjoyed hearing the nocturnal sighs of forbidden lovers. The only condition, and all the students knew this, was that they had to make sure their clandestine visitors left before dawn. The head porter came on duty at seven o’clock sharp, with his reading glasses on and a list of infractions in hand.
    Lisbeth was a light sleeper. She woke up before Atticus. She was sitting up against the pillow, waiting for him to open his eyes, when she found herself face-to-face with a man who looked about eighty, smoked a pipe, and was accompanied by a tiny Hobbit. He said good morning, walked from one side of the room to the other, buttoned up his vest, and vanished.
    â€œI think I just saw Tolkien’s ghost,” she whispered to Atticus.
    He silenced her with kisses.
    Anyway, it must have been true that the ghosts of old professors wandered through those rooms. There were inexplicable gusts of air, whispers in the night, and stifled bursts of laughter, and on some mornings the grass in the quad was covered in footprints.
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    The graduation ceremony was solemn and formal, with students in caps and gowns, tourists convinced they had jumped back in time, and bells pealing wildly and joyfully.
    Saying goodbye was heartbreaking. Many friendships, many projects, many loves would come to an end now that they were graduating.
    Lisbeth returned to the small island of Guernsey, lost in the English Channel. Atticus set off with a backpack on his back to travel the world: He visited Europe, Saudi Arabia, India, Istanbul. He then settled in London, near Knightsbridge, two blocks from the offices of Craftsman & Co., where he started working for his father. Little by little he left behind the sweet memories of his first love and swapped them for ones with different flavors: sharp, spicy, rich, and exotic. He bought a classic Aston Martin, just