By the time I got to La Rambla, it was dark and most of the human statues had packed up for the day. I went to the Black Sheep to check if Atlas was there and found him sitting with a loud bunch of buskers at a long table.
“Hey, where’ve you been?” he asked.
“In Gràcia,” I said. “Mostly.”
“With Manu?”
“No. Manu’s gone.”
“Here, come and join us.” Atlas made space for me to squeeze in beside him on the bench and poured me a glass of beer from a pitcher. “Salud.”
“Salud.” I moved my glass in a half-circle to include everyone at the table. I recognized the operatic chef busker who juggled kitchen knives, and the woman who dressed up as a giant butterfly. I wasn’t sure who the others were. It was impossible to tell without their costumes on.
The buskers were speaking in a lot of differ
