Page 137 of Atlas: The Story of Pa Salt
‘Superb! What about family? Did he ever take a wife?’
Evelyn sighed. ‘Yes. Her name is Giselle.’ I notice her eyes dart over to Monsieur Landowski, who gave her a sympathetic look in return. ‘She is a very temperamental lady, who has never approved of my close relationship with my son. Over the years, I have seen less and less of him.’
I was heartbroken to hear it. ‘Oh Evelyn. How terrible.’
She nodded. ‘What’s worse is that I am yet to meet my granddaughter. She is already five years old, but Giselle will not let me see her.’
I was perplexed. Louis and his mother had been so close. ‘But your son adores you. Surely, despite whatever Giselle says to him, he would not allow your relationship to become damaged?’
‘A man in love is a man intoxicated. And, unfortunately, Giselle is my Louis’s poison.’ She emitted a sad sniff.
‘What is your granddaughter’s name?’
‘Marina,’ Evelyn replied wistfully.
‘What a beautiful name.’ I didn’t know what else to say. ‘I hope you will meet one day.’
‘As do I, Bo. Anyway, will I make up your bed? Your room is much the same as it was twenty years ago.’
Landowski baulked. ‘I’m sure we can upgrade him from the attic bedroom to the guest suite, if that would suit, boy?’
‘Oh, I do not wish to trouble you. I will happily stay at a hotel if—’
Landowski burst out laughing. ‘We housed you for all those years! I’m sure we can cope with one more night, can we not, Evelyn?’
The evening was spent drinking bottles of wine from the Côtes du Rhône, and discovering how those I had once known had gone on to spend their lives. Landowski and Evelyn still had the same sparkling energy inside of them, even though their bodies, like mine, had aged. After dinner, I walked up the stairs to my old bedroom at the back of the house. The bed, which as a child I had found the height of luxury and comfort, now felt minuscule and lumpy. Nonetheless, I slept dreamlessly, helped by the copious amounts ofvin rougeI had consumed that night.
The next morning, three men arrived to box up the statueof Lucía and transport it, along with myself, to Paris’s Gare de Lyon.
‘I have sent word to the Alhambra that you are on your way, and should be there within five days,’ Evelyn explained. ‘There is one change in Barcelona, where the freight employees will move the statue for you. They will also arrange transport from the station in Granada to the Alhambra Palace.’
‘Thank you, Evelyn. You are still organising my life, all these years later.’ I hugged her tightly, then went to shake Monsieur Landowski’s hand.
‘It was good to see you, boy. The question I must inevitably ask is... will you ever be back?’
‘With a fair wind, Monsieur Landowski. I very much hope our paths will cross again.’
He laughed. ‘Indeed. I am glad that your time in the Landowski household has taught you well.’ He put a slightly frail hand on my shoulder. ‘Love is all there is. Now, go and find her, boy. Whatever it takes.’ He raised a finger, as if remembering something, and disappeared into the house. He returned with a straw bag that clanked with every footstep. He handed it to me, and I looked inside to see four bottles of the Côtes du Rhône we had been enjoying last night. ‘For the trip,’ he winked.
‘Thank you.’
‘But be careful.’ He put his hand to my cheek and looked me dead in the eye. ‘Everything in moderation, eh?’
I nodded. ‘Goodbye, Monsieur Landowski.’
Thevin rougemade my journey across Europe a fairly painless experience, and it has since rolled into a hazy blur in my mind. I became quite friendly with the train guards. We tradedstories and sips of alcohol, and played cards too. Conveniently, I was able to win some pesetas from them, for I realised that I was heading to Spain with no local currency. I actually became quite accustomed to the idea of such an existence – always on the move, with no need to think too hard about things. Perhaps this was the future for me.
The change at Barcelona was smooth, just as Evelyn had promised. I slept for the final leg of the journey, rocked gently by the movement of the carriage on the tracks and the darkness of the enclosed space.
I was woken by a bright, searing light which covered my face, as two members of station staff in Granada pulled the side of the carriage open. My head was pounding.
‘Señor? Por favor apártate del camino.’
I hardly spoke a word of Spanish. And, unlike the first time I set foot in Norway, I didn’t have two multilingual friends to assist me.
‘Salga, por favor,’ they gestured for me to leave the carriage.
I hauled myself up, and stepped out into the morning heat, which made me feel sick and dizzy.
