The Years That Followed Page 14

  This is the answer, she realizes. Of course it is. How could she have been so stupid? It is up to her now, all of it. She must keep things right. She must fit in, adapt, be beautiful. If only she had known it was something as simple as this.

  And so time passes.

  Calista organizes fund-raising lunches with Hristina and her friends Thegnosia and Evradiki. She shops. She begins to pick up more and more phrases in Greek. She agrees, finally, to a nanny for Imogen. She even bows to Maroulla’s choice in this: Eleni, a woman in her early forties, small, dark, not at all attractive to men. Calista meets her mother-in-law’s eyes that afternoon, the afternoon when the choice is finally made, and nods her agreement.

  She understands. Her mother-in-law is a wise woman.

  The days are filled. Calista approaches contentment.

  Nevertheless—she can’t help it—although she faces forward, from time to time she cannot resist glancing back over her shoulder.

  pilar

  Madrid, 1968

  * * *

  Señor Gómez leans across the desk and shakes Pilar’s hand. “Congratulations,” he says, “you are now part owner of a most prestigious apartment building on Calle de Alcalá.” He smiles at her. “What an impressive property portfolio you’re putting together!”

  Pilar pushes the signed documents towards him. “Not bad for someone from the wilds of Extremadura,” she says softly. She replaces the cap on Señor Gómez’s elegant fountain pen and hands it back to him. “I want to thank you once again for all you have done for me.”

  Señor Gómez waves away her thanks. “I admire all you’ve achieved, Pilar. Your mother would have been proud of you.”

  Pilar doesn’t flinch. She can still feel the tender weight of Francisco-­José in her arms. Ever since she let him go, there has been an ache that never fades, a dull-edged longing that seems to be the same size and shape as that small, firm body. Pilar thinks of her mother, of her gentle eldest brother, and there is the bitter taste of irony in her mouth as she looks at the man who is, even now, speaking to her. He never knew about Paco; of course he never knew.

  “Now go celebrate,” Señor Gómez is saying. “I’ll treat you to lunch later.” He stands up and escorts Pilar to the door, one gentlemanly hand under her elbow. “Usual place, at two thirty?”

  “Usual place, two thirty.” Pilar shakes his hand gravely, as has become their custom. She wonders how much he knows about her. He has never mentioned Petros; she has never permitted an occasion to develop when he might. Neither has he ever alluded to Pilar’s sudden return to the family farm in January and February of last year, other than to ask occasionally after her father’s health. He accepted her explanation that Miguel had taken ill, that she had to go home and help out for as long as she was needed. Still, the man is no fool.

  Pilar walks out of the office and onto the Madrid streets, which are already thronged at this early hour. People spill out of the Metro stations, clutching bags and briefcases, faces filled with hope, despair, boredom.

  Francisco-José will have celebrated his first birthday already. Pilar tries to imagine what that might have been like, what her son might now be like. Sometimes these imaginings torment her. Other times the images are gentler, and she takes comfort in the belief that she has done her best for him. He now has a father, a proper father, as well as a mother, a proper family—something she could never have provided.

  And her secret is safe; she is sure of that. Sister Florencia has been unwavering in her support. With her help, Pilar had disappeared from Madrid for the month leading up to Francisco-José’s birth, when even the most shapeless of sweaters and the baggiest of skirts were having difficulty hiding her condition. She stayed with a kindly family in Calle Jaime Roig in Valencia.

  Maribel and Alicia, too, understood that there had been a recent catastrophe in Pilar’s family in Extremadura. They had been sympathetic, happy to look after the building, grateful for the generous amount Pilar paid them.

  “The owners insist,” Pilar told them. “They are very happy to take my recommendation and wish to compensate you for the short notice.” Pilar still follows Señor Gómez’s advice to keep her cards close to her chest. Maribel and Alicia had no idea that Pilar was a woman of such substantial means. When she returned to Madrid a week after Francisco-José’s birth, Pilar picked up the threads of her daily existence again as though nothing had happened.

  But the loss of her child has created a chasm in Pilar’s life that needs to be filled over and over again, something that is both restless and relentless. Pilar has found a couple of ways to feed it, to still its ravening demands. One is to increase her visits to Calle Santa Catalina, to Alcocer Anticuarios.

  She makes her way there now, knowing that Señor Bartolomeo is always pleased to see her. This time, at her request, he has put aside for her some nineteenth-century jewelry: an emerald and pearl necklace, with matching earrings and bracelet. He has promised an emerald and diamond ring, too, to complement the set. It will take him a little time, he says, to find the perfect one. This week, Pilar has already bought some new and elegant evening wear—black, tailored, severe—and she will dress up again for her visit to the opera at the Teatro Real on Saturday night.

  Pilar loves this anonymous visibility. The power to turn heads, to see and be seen and yet remain unknown.

  She loves the power that money brings.

  The longing that it stills.

  * * *

  The bell above the door jangles discreetly as Pilar enters. She is surprised to see two other people there before her. She cannot remember the last time the shop in Calle Santa Catalina served more than one person at a time. But she is happy to wait. There is so much to look at here.

  Señor Bartolomeo is giving his customers his quiet, undivided attention. “The frames are art nouveau,” he’s saying, “dating from approximately 1906. Sterling silver, of course. Beautiful objects, sir, and these are quite rare.” Bartolomeo is speaking in perfect, accentless English.

  Pilar glances at the couple standing to her right. For an instant, she is shocked. The man is tall, dark; an imposing physical presence. Pilar is becoming accustomed to this sensation of startled familiarity. So many men she sees seem to bear an imprint of Petros, as though they are shadows, paler, ghostly versions of the man she still loves. But she has learned not to hope.

  Nonetheless, she sees his ghosts everywhere—in the theater, at the opera, sometimes strolling around the market on a Sunday. Pilar looks away quickly. The woman who is with this man is slender, fragile somehow. She wears her long, dark hair up, and her face is partly obscured by large sunglasses. Jackie Kennedy sunglasses; Pilar has never liked that style.

  “I’ll take them,” the man says. He puts the last of the silver frames down on the counter and reaches into his inside pocket.

  Bartolomeo inclines his head. “A wise choice, sir. These will increase greatly in value over the years. And in the meantime”—he smiles—“you can enjoy displaying your family photographs.”

  Pilar can see that Bartolomeo directs this last comment towards the young woman—much younger than the man who must be her husband; they are both wearing similar wedding rings—but she does not respond. Pilar is intrigued. She is no more than a girl, but in her silence there is the air of someone already defeated.

  “Are you enjoying Madrid?” Bartolomeo asks politely as he wraps up the frames.

  “Yes indeed. April is the perfect month to visit the city. I come in springtime whenever I can.” Impatience lurks beneath the surface of the man’s reply.

  “Cyprus must also be beautiful at this time of year.” Bartolomeo hands over the parcel and smiles at each of the customers in turn.

  Pilar feels the shock of his words. She half turns. She looks again at the couple, more carefully this time, trying not to stare. Other than Petros, Pilar has never come across anyone from Cyprus.
For a moment, she feels the urge to speak; but what on earth would she say? Do you know the city of Limassol? Do you know a man called Petros Demitriades, the man I used to love—the man I still have the misfortune to love? How absurd that would be.

  The man nods now at Bartolomeo, a curt, dismissive gesture. “Indeed,” he says. Then: “Thank you for your help. Good morning.” And he makes to leave, hesitating for a moment as he looks in his wife’s direction. “Come, Calista,” he says.

  She turns towards the door, and then, even through the sunglasses, Pilar sees it. The young woman’s left eye is almost completely closed. Pilar can see a bruise the size and shape of a perfect rose. For a moment, she cannot move.

  On the day before Pilar’s First Communion, Mamá’s face had looked just like that. The house that morning was silent, a brittle, explosive silence that made even Pilar’s brothers quieten. After breakfast, Abuela Loló appeared suddenly at the door, slamming it back against the wall as she made her entrance. That was odd: Abuela Loló never called that early. And she never made an entrance like that.

  Pilar remembers how Mamá stretched out one hand as though she wanted to halt her mother’s advance. Seven-year-old Pilar was puzzled; Abuela Loló was always welcome in their house. Mamá said so, many times, as though expecting someone to defy her. Papá stood up from his breakfast, taking a long time to come to his feet. And still nobody said anything.

  As Pilar watched, she became astonishingly aware that Abuela Loló was carrying something that looked like a long, shiny stick. It took her a moment to realize that it was Abuelo Edelmiro’s shotgun, the one he always kept wrapped in an oiled blanket, safe in the locked cupboard in the barn.

  But now it was in Abuela Loló’s hands, and she raised it to her right shoulder, squinting as though the light suddenly bothered her eyes. “You lay one hand again on my daughter,” she said, “and I will blow your brains out.”

  And then she fired. The shot whizzed and zinged well above Papá’s head, but still he ducked. The pellet lodged with a dull thunk in the brick wall behind the kitchen table.

  Pilar’s ears started to sing, and she did not hear what else was said, or shouted, among the grown-ups. All she knew was from that day on, Papá took his rages out on things and not people. He destroyed books, broke shelves, threw plates and saucepans. But, as far as Pilar knew, he never touched Mamá again.

  Some men use their fists as a weapon, Mamá used to say, but other men use love.

  Pilar watches now as the young woman walks towards the door of the shop. She raises one hand and pushes her dark glasses more firmly into place. Then she leaves, closing the door behind her. She follows her husband down the crowded street.

  Pilar stands in the glittering shop, watching as the young woman disappears into the distance.

  Bartolomeo waits. Pilar doesn’t know whether he has seen what she has just seen. She knows of no way to ask him. She knows of no way that he could offer a reply.

  “Señorita Pilar,” he says and smiles, “how good to see you again.”

  calista

  Extremadura, 1989

  * * *

  The doorbell rings.

  Calista is at her desk, dealing with the morning’s post. The sudden pealing startles her. People do not arrive unannounced at her home. She makes her way quickly from her study to the living room window and looks out. There is a police car parked right outside.

  For a moment, Calista panics. She considers not answering the door. Is this how she is to receive the news? Is this how Omiros chooses to tell her? She breathes deeply, trying to calm the hammering of her heart.

  She knows she can’t hide: her car is outside; it is clear that she is at home. When the bell sounds again, Calista runs downstairs and composes herself before she opens the door, smiling.

  “Good morning,” she says. Enrique, the local Guardia Civil, is on her doorstep.

  “Good morning, Señora McNeill,” he says, bowing slightly.

  “What can I do for you?” He is on his own; the passenger seat of the police car is empty. So it’s unlikely he is the bearer of bad news. Calmer now, Calista can hear her voice above the beating of her heart.

  Enrique looks uncomfortable. “I am very sorry to tell you that there have been some break-ins recently in the nearby villages. Not in Torre de Santa Juanita, of course,” he adds hurriedly, “but we are visiting all of the more . . . isolated houses, to make sure you are happy with your security.”

  Calista knows that instead of “isolated,” Enrique means “wealthy,” but she is grateful for the information nonetheless. “Thank you, Enrique. I have an alarm, and it’s been serviced recently. I think everything is secure.”

  “Windows?” he asks, looking up.

  “Yes, I lock them at night.”

  He nods. “Good. Too many . . . strangers around these days.” He looks embarrassed. “We must be careful. Call us if you have any concerns.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  Calista watches him leave. She knows that he wanted to say “foreigners,” but hesitated in case he insulted her. She also knows that he means immigrants—a debate that has been growing in recent months even in the smallest bars and tavernas of Extremadura.

  Calista goes back upstairs. As she watches from her living room window, she thinks of Alexandros, of that moment of surprise, of terror, as a stranger entered his home. What did he think? Did he have time to resist, or was it all over too quickly?

  Calista stands, motionless, as the police car makes its way back towards the village. She must make sure to lock and bolt all the windows and doors, even during the daytime. The policeman’s visit has stirred something, a sense of vulnerability that has taken her by surprise.

  As she turns around, ready to go back to her study, the morning sun catches Imogen’s portrait, and the child’s face seems to shimmer in the bright, brittle light.

  Her gaze alights on her mother and follows her as she makes her way slowly across the landing.

  * * *

  It is midsummer 1968.

  Imogen is sixteen months old, a swift and curious toddler. It is evening, and Calista keeps watch for Alexandros’s arrival. She practices nonchalance before the mirror above the buffet. First she tilts her head to one side, then the other. She smiles. Alexandros has told Calista recently that she is no longer attractive when she does not smile.

  She walks around the dining room table, touching the cutlery, moving the crystal a fraction to the right, a fraction to the left. She stops herself when she realizes what she is doing and presses her hands to her sides and smooths the fabric of her dress. “I’m turning into my mother, Imogen,” she says. “That’s what I’m doing.”

  The child smiles up at her. She is playing, an array of toy boats around her, Monkey clutched tightly to her chest. From time to time, Imogen slaps the shiny surface of the coffee table with delighted hands. Sometimes she follows her mother around the room. She often walks too quickly and topples over. But she gets up again at once. Calista loves her determination.

  Calista kneels on the floor beside her now. “Clap hands,” she says. “Clap hands till Papa comes home.” Imogen laughs. “Now,” Calista tells her, “we must get ready to meet Papa at the door; he’ll be here very soon.”

  Tonight, she and Alexandros will be alone. Petros and Maroulla always go out for dinner on Thursdays, and Iliada, the housekeeper, has the evening off. Calista stops for a moment and hears the scrunch of tires on gravel. She checks her reflection once more, quickly, and smooths her hair, allowing it to fall over one shoulder. She applies a little more lipstick. She holds Imogen as close to her as she can.

  Calista reaches the door just as Alexandros enters. He throws his keys on the hall table, his jacket and briefcase on the antique chair that Maroulla has placed over to the right. Calista pretends not to see. Maroulla has asked her son, sharply, on several occasions,
not to leave anything on that small chair; it is a family heirloom, too delicate to support any weight. Calista will move Alexandros’s things later, when he isn’t watching.

  “Welcome home!” Calista says now, taking a step towards her husband. She settles Imogen on one hip and lifts her face to be kissed.

  “Hello,” Alexandros says, although whether to her or to Imogen, it’s impossible to tell. The baby holds out her arms to her father, and Calista silently thanks her. Perhaps this will be one of the good evenings after all.

  “Hello, sweetie,” he says, kissing Imogen on the cheek. She smiles at her father, one small hand reaching out towards his face. Alexandros kisses her again and turns to Calista. “We are alone tonight?” he asks.

  “Yes,” she says. “We have the whole evening. Dinner’s ready. I’ll put Imogen to bed in a few minutes. Let me get you a drink first.” Calista makes her way swiftly towards the drinks cabinet.

  Imogen has begun to wriggle, her eyes searching for her mother. “She’s getting tired,” Calista says quickly. Alexandros does not like Imogen to cry.

  Without a word, he hands the baby back to Calista and takes his drink from her. Imogen has now begun to grizzle.

  “I’ll just run upstairs with her. Then we can have dinner in peace.” She flees.

  * * *

  After dinner, Alexandros smiles at her.

  “I have something for you,” he says.

  “Really?”

  Alexandros nods. He lights a cigar, taking his time to roll it between his fingers, to observe the way the flame catches the tip and makes it pulse and glow. He likes to indulge in this ritual: one that Calista hates. It has been used too often to make her wait. Then he exhales slowly, watching the way the smoke curls bluely towards the ceiling.

  “Get me my briefcase from the hall,” he says.