The Years That Followed Read online

  “Wait,” Yiannis says. He looks unhappy. “I have told my father you came to me for help. I have said that natural justice demands he see you, that both he and my mother see you.”

  Something strikes Calista then. “By the way, what evidence does Alexandros say he has?”

  Yiannis looks at her. He seems wary, and Calista’s anger flares again, but she keeps it under control.

  “My father gave no detail.”

  “That’s convenient.” Calista allows the silence between them to thicken.

  “Do you know Hristina . . . ?” Yiannis begins at last.

  Calista feels the impact of her name as a physical blow. “Hristina Emilianides?” Hristina, who took her shopping and to the hairdressers’s. Hristina, who pretended to be her friend.

  He nods.

  “She has accused me of having an affair?”

  “Apparently so. Yes.”

  Calista shakes her head in disbelief. Hristina. How clever Alexandros is. She shivers.

  Yiannis looks at her, concerned. “Are you all right?” he asks. “I mean . . .”

  Calista shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I am not all right. How could I possibly be all right?”

  “Sit down, please,” Yiannis says. “Please don’t go. Let me see if I can find you somewhere to stay. Allow me to help you.”

  * * *

  A little later, Yiannis says: “I have booked you into the Asteria Hotel for the next five nights. It would compromise you to stay here any longer. It is not appropriate.”

  Calista nods. Not appropriate, she thinks bitterly. I’m the one who has to be appropriate, and I’ve done nothing wrong.

  Yiannis taps his pen a couple of times on the open pages of his diary. “My parents are very old-fashioned, very traditional people,” he says. “But they are also good people, people of their word. My father would be most unhappy if Alexandros was violent. Let me go to him right away.” Yiannis pauses. “May I now tell him all that you have told me? Do I have your permission?”

  Calista shrugs. “I’ve nothing left to lose, have I? He will either believe me or he won’t. But I would like the opportunity to face him, to tell him the truth, even if he doesn’t believe me. I’ll do whatever it takes to get my children back.”

  Yiannis stands up and reaches for his car keys. “I will go to him now,” he says. “And I will find out where the children are and let you know. That much I can promise you. Now, let me take you to the Asteria Hotel. You can have breakfast and wait for me there.” He glances at Calista’s dress. “Have you everything you need?”

  “I’ll get my case. It’s in the back of my car.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “What about your mother?” Calista asks suddenly.

  “My mother can often surprise me,” Yiannis says. “She chooses her battles. My father is a very strong-willed man. She knows how to get around him. I have often gone to her for help when my father was being . . . stubborn.”

  “How can they possibly believe I was unfaithful?”

  “Alexandros is their son,” Yiannis says, shrugging. “I’m sorry, but it’s as simple as that.”

  Calista wonders if she would feel the same way about Omiros: Would she still protect him, believe in him, love him, no matter what?

  Calista thinks she already knows the answer to that, and wishes she didn’t.

  pilar

  Madrid, 1974

  * * *

  Pilar is at her local fruit and vegetable market by six thirty. Mornings in late September are kind: the fury has gone out of the sun. There will be some heat later on, of course, but for now, the air is balmy. There is even a pleasant breeze. Pilar’s favorite stallholder, Nacho, greets her.

  “What’s good this morning, Nacho?” she asks.

  He grins, spreading his hands wide, lifting his expressive shoulders at the same time: all his produce is good. “Only the best for you, Señorita Pilar,” he says, “and at a very special price.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she says. “You’ve given me the same line every day for two years.” She consults her residents’ lists. “Right,” she says. “Let’s get started before the crowds arrive.”

  * * *

  Pilar makes her way back to Calle de las Huertas, several bulging plastic bags in each hand. For several months now, she has found that repetition, the routine accomplishment of mundane tasks, the familiarity of ordinary daily friendships, has helped. She is proud of what she has achieved: a bland, quiet, ordinary life.

  No more random men, no drinking whiskey alone in bars, no more self-destruction.

  Her panic attack on the Metro earlier in the year had been the catalyst for change. When Pilar told the young doctor she knew what she needed to do, she meant it. After she left the hospital, she slipped back into the portería late that morning, distributed the post as usual, carried out her residents’ instructions, supervised Rufina’s cleaning and polishing. Pilar was glad of the careful—they would have called it “respectful”—distance she had always maintained from her residents. It seemed that nobody had even noticed she was gone.

  The following morning, she phoned Maribel and Alicia and invited them to dinner. Then she wrote to her brother, Francisco-José, telling him she would visit Torre de Santa Juanita before the end of the month. Pilar kept her letter light, affectionate, full of fictional good news.

  Change is necessary, Pilar reflects now as she approaches her building, the bulging bags of fruit and vegetables evenly distributed between both hands. Change is good. Not because of any moral imperative; not because she feels guilty or remorseful about the past. Not even because that awful panic attack frightened her into submission, into making a fearful inventory of her life.

  No. Pilar is quite certain of that.

  Change is imperative if Pilar is now to pursue her decision, no matter how long it takes, no matter how much money it costs.

  After seven years, Pilar has made up her mind.

  She is going to do whatever it takes to get her boy back. Already, in a fat new diary, Pilar has listed all the places she intends to visit: the hostel, the clinic, the bishop’s palace, if necessary. She has dates, names, times, addresses, telephone numbers. All waiting.

  She has taken a year to prove to herself that she can change, to show herself, above all, that she has the courage, the tenacity, the will to follow Francisco-José to the ends of the earth.

  And she is ready to start now.

  calista

  Limassol, 1974

  * * *

  Calista wakes. Her thin, dream-filled sleep is pierced by a great commotion that has just invaded her bedroom in the Hotel Asteria. It takes a moment for her to come to, to realize that the ruckus is coming from the street below.

  Car horns are sounding, engines revving; men are shouting; the roar of traffic is all at once deafening. Occasional words float up to her bedroom window, but she cannot make sense of what they mean once she puts them together. She tries to concentrate, but the garbled phrases, the short, jagged sentences continue to crash against one another, their sharp edges blunting all meaning.

  Calista throws back the sheet and makes her way cautiously towards the window. She is frightened. The atmosphere outside has become charged. The car horns, the noise, the incessant movement of traffic lend an urgency to the voices below her window. And inside, there is not enough air to breathe. The July heat is already stifling, and the air-conditioning hasn’t been working properly for days.

  Calista glances at her watch. Two o’clock: she must have been asleep for over an hour. Yiannis is now two hours late. That’s either good news or bad news. Calista has given up trying to call it. The slow, steady leaching away of hope over the past few days has left her trembling on the brink of exhaustion. Without her children, she cannot think, cannot plan. It is as though the onslaught of grief has abruptly retreated, l
eaving her numb and empty in its wake.

  Yiannis has told her to hold firm, to wait in her hotel room until he has news from Petros. As she’d suspected, Alexandros had fled with his mother and Imogen and Omiros to the Troodos Mountains, to the house in Platres. They had gone there the day after Alexandros had swifted her children away from her. Calista has no way of reaching him there. The car she used to drive was gone. It had vanished without a trace the day before yesterday. And even if she had found a way to follow, her husband’s door would be locked and barred against her.

  Calista leans forward cautiously to try to see what is going on in the street outside her hotel. For a moment, she wonders whether something has finally spilled over politically; the last few days have been stalked by an escalating tension that has been vented on radio, on television, in the national newspapers. Calista has not engaged with it. It has been background noise, static on the airwaves of her personal plight. But she cannot ignore it any longer. Like a willful child, it has been plucking at her sleeve for some time and refuses to go away.

  She sees men gathered together in tight knots in the street below, in sprawling groups, in crowds whose contours continue to shift and change as she watches: a whole undulating sea of people, washing up in waves on the pavements. Most have transistor radios clamped to their ears; some are scanning newspapers. All are intent, gesticulating wildly, smoking, shouting news to one another.

  Calista watches, listens, tries to piece it all together. The cars are now barely moving; they block all the streets leading onto the square, and Calista suddenly panics. What if Yiannis cannot get to her? What if something has happened to the children, to him, and he is unable to reach her?

  Calista moves back from the window, not wanting to be seen, in case being seen is suddenly the wrong thing to do. As she makes her way towards the telephone, there is an urgent knocking at her door. She hesitates. She puts her ear to the wooden surface and hears: “Calista? Open the door. It’s me, Yiannis.”

  Washed with relief, she unlocks the door. Her brother-in-law is standing there, perspiration running in rivulets down his face. His hair is matted, plastered to his head. Dark circles bloom on the underarms of his shirt. And his brown eyes are alight with something that Calista thinks is fear.

  “Quickly,” he says, pushing his way into the room. “Take your handbag and your passport and follow me.”

  “But—”

  “Now!” he barks. “If you ever want to see your children again, you must trust me right here, right now. We must go. I will explain on the way.”

  “On the way where?”

  “Quickly,” he says, pulling her out into the corridor. “Not the lift: the stairs. Be quick.”

  Calista follows, her shoes making an anxious clacking sound as they descend the tiled steps to the basement.

  There is a taxi waiting there, its engine humming. Yiannis opens one of the doors. “Get in.”

  Calista obeys.

  When they start to move, she turns to Yiannis. Her head is pounding; she knows her face must be as white as his.

  “What’s happening?”

  “A coup,” he says. “President Makarios has just been deposed. All hell has broken loose. EOKA-B is in control. That’s all I know for sure.”

  Calista tries to remember what she can, but her brain has seized in terror. EOKA-B: General Grivas’s men, the men that Petros condemned over and over again as extremists in their demands for ­enosis—political union with Greece. Calista knows the organization was banned by Makarios, as recently as three months ago, in the midst of growing unrest. And now they have deposed the man they regard as a traitor.

  My children, is all Calista can think. How can I keep my children safe in the middle of all this?

  “Where are we going?” she asks Yiannis.

  He turns and looks at her. “To the airport,” he says. “You are going home. I have gotten you on a flight to London. From there, you can get to Dublin if you wish. It was all I could manage.”

  “No!” Calista cries. She raises her arms. Yiannis grabs both her fists and makes her look at him.

  “Listen to me,” he says. “There is talk of a Turkish invasion. I do not believe it is mere talk: I believe it is real, that it will happen in a matter of days. When it does, you might not be able to leave. They will close the airport. You must go now.”

  “But Imogen—”

  “Imogen is safe. Omiros is safe. I saw them last night with my own two eyes in my parents’ house in Platres. They are both well; they are both fine. But you must go now.” He pauses and leans closer to her. “For now, you must go, Calista. There is no other choice. When things calm down, you will come back.”

  He reaches into his pocket then and pulls out an envelope. “Take it.” He lowers his voice. “There’s three hundred pounds sterling in here. And an address in Palmers Green in London for Aristides, an old friend of mine. Go there. You can trust Aristides and his wife. I will get in touch with you as soon as I can.”

  “What about my babies?” Helpless, Calista clutches at Yiannis’s arm.

  “They are in no danger—trust me. But I cannot look after you and them and my father’s business and my father’s family in Nicosia; I simply cannot. Go until it is safe to return. I will bring you back, and you will see your children again. I swear it. But now you must go.”

  Calista turns her face away from him and looks out the window. She can no longer speak. The streets are heaving with people. News is spreading; people cluster everywhere around radios. They congregate on the pavements outside local shops. Nobody seems to have stayed indoors. It is as though this is news that can be absorbed only in the company of others; it is too much to deal with alone.

  Yiannis is right. Calista no longer has a place here.

  He touches her elbow. “You have your passport?”

  “Yes.” That and the clothes I stand up in, Calista thinks. “Yiannis, how will you keep in touch?”

  The taxi pulls up at the departures area. Yiannis pulls some drachma notes out of his pocket; at the same time, he nods towards the envelope he has just given her. “My friend’s address, in there,” he says. “I will telephone Aristides at home every week. Make contact with him as soon as you arrive. He will help you. Now put that money away. Keep it safe.”

  Calista puts the envelope in her bag and zips it closed. “Thank you.”

  “It is family money,” he says, somewhat curtly. “You are entitled to it. I will send more when I can. Open an account with the Cyprus Popular Bank in Green Lanes—Aristides will help you. I can transfer money to you there.”

  They run from the taxi into the chaos of the departures area. Terrified faces are everywhere, children screaming, baggage piled high and treacherous.

  “Quickly,” Yiannis says, pulling her by the hand. He stops for no one. He has donned authority like a suit of armor. He is untouchable, Calista thinks, filled with a bitter gratitude.

  They arrive at the gate, and Yiannis takes the ticket from her, waves it in the air, has himself called forward to a check-in desk. Calista has no time to think about the last time she was here, the two bald policemen, her children held by the hand. Then, she had been stopped when she wanted to leave. Now, she leaves when she wants nothing more than to stay. Her passport is approved, her boarding card issued.

  “Go now,” Yiannis says, giving her a gentle shove. “Do not linger.”

  She turns to say good-bye. Yiannis kisses her briefly on both cheeks, and she fights to keep her tears under control.

  “Don’t ever doubt it,” he says. “I promise you that you will see your children again.”

  It is too much. Calista sobs and throws her arms around Yiannis. She is about to move away, to say a last good-bye, when he pulls her closer. He says nothing, but his embrace is a powerful one; he puts one hand on Calista’s hair and presses his lips to her forehead.
>
  Calista takes a step back. She cannot speak. She looks at Yiannis, her eyes searching his. She sees her own shock, her own confusion, reflected there. She wants to stay, to continue the conversation he has just started, but it’s impossible. She is waved along impatiently, and the force of the crowd moves her towards the door that leads to the plane.

  The last thing she sees before she has to face forward once again is Yiannis, watching her. He raises one hand and stands there, the only solid, unmoving body in a throng of swarming, fearful people.

  pilar

  Madrid, 1974

  * * *

  Pilar hopes that Sister María-Angeles is not on duty this evening. Perhaps she’ll have moved on from the hostel and the laundry, and someone else will be in charge. It’s been seven years, after all, and people do move on—even at convents. Pilar would rather face anyone other than Sister High and Mighty herself.

  She steps into the hallway of the hostel and is immediately overwhelmed by all the familiar smells of the past. Top notes of beeswax and disinfectant, with an unpleasant undertone of onions cooking. There is also that peculiar smell that cold weather brings with it: an austere, hostile scent that reminds Pilar all too painfully of Torre de Santa Juanita. With an effort, she gathers her courage around her like a coat and marches towards the office.

  God could prove his existence right now, Pilar thinks. He could make sure that Sister Florencia sits behind this office door. Pilar knocks, twice. And holds her breath.

  The door opens, and Sister María-Angeles stands before her. It takes a moment before her eyebrows shoot up. She glares at Pilar, her pale cheeks coloring.

  “Well,” she says. Then: “Well,” again. “So you’re back.” Her words seem to say she had never doubted it, but Pilar can see her surprise.