The Years That Followed Page 24

  Aiya bends down, and Imogen sees that she is nearly crying as well: her eyes are too shiny; even the cracks and lines underneath look all wet. She wraps one arm around Imogen, the other holding Omiros close. He looks at his sister, his eyes wide and staring.

  “Oh, child, child,” Aiya says. “I don’t know what to say to you, truly I don’t.”

  But Imogen feels that she is talking to herself and not to Imogen at all. She pulls away from Aiya, pushing back her grandmother’s hand, the one that wears all the heavy gold rings.

  Imogen understands that a misunderstanding must be a huge thing: something big enough to make even someone as old as Aiya cry. And she no longer wants to know what that is.

  Imogen backs away into the bedroom where she has just slept. Before Aiya can move to stop her or even say anything to her, Imogen pushes the door closed. With both hands, she turns the big metal key in the lock, the key that looks like a stick man with a big round head.

  She hears the lock click to. She walks over to the bed, lies down on top of it, and closes her eyes.

  Like Monkey: she wants to be like Monkey.

  She will stay here until her mummy comes back to fetch her.

  calista

  London, 1974

  * * *

  A couple of days after her arrival in Broomfield Close, Calista is woken in the early hours of the morning. She hears the urgency of voices from downstairs, and the insistent noise of a radio. Its volume has just been turned up. She gets out of bed and dresses hurriedly. Something has happened.

  In the kitchen, Aristides and Anne are sitting at the small table, a pot of tea between them. Aristides is smoking, and the ashtray in front of him is full to overflowing. Both of their faces are white, tense. It looks to Calista as though Anne has been crying.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “The Turks have invaded,” Anne says quietly.

  Aristides holds up one hand, demanding silence. Calista sits at the table beside him. He turns to her for a moment. “They have bombed Nicosia,” he says. “Thousands upon thousands have fled their homes. There is rumor and counterrumor, but that much is true. The airport is closed. It is good you left when you did.”

  Calista doesn’t reply. She feels sick. For a moment, she is almost grateful that Alexandros has stolen the children away to Platres; at least they will be safe there.

  “President Makarios?” she asks.

  “Safe, in London.”

  She nods. Just like her. How is she ever going to get back? Now Calista can see her children’s faces: vivid with love and terror. She forces herself to be calm. The two people in front of her are distressed enough. Calista owes it to them to sit and listen quietly, to wait.

  * * *

  Much later that day, Yiannis calls. He had phoned the day after Calista’s arrival, but they did not speak. Now, Calista hears Aristides’s raised voice. She creeps out onto the landing and listens. She can follow the conversation with ease; it is clear that Aristides is made unhappy by whatever news Yiannis is giving him.

  “How many refugees do they estimate?” he asks. “What! In the hundreds of thousands?” The hallway fills with his incredulity.

  After a moment, Calista hears her name being called and she runs downstairs, not caring that her eavesdropping will be obvious. Aristides hands her the phone.

  “Quickly,” he says. “It is Yiannis. The line may go dead at any moment. He wants to speak to you.”

  Calista takes the receiver, her hands already clammy, her heart pounding.

  “I haven’t much time,” Yiannis says. “I just wanted to let you know that today I have been to Platres, and the children are perfectly safe. I know it is not what you want, but trust me, right now the fact that Alexandros took them there is a blessing. Limassol is in complete chaos, trying to cope with the number of refugees.”

  “Are the children all right?” Calista wants to ask if they missed her, if they called out for her, and feels immediately ashamed. Her war, her suffering, now seems small in comparison to others’.

  “They are fine. My mother is looking after them. She sends her love to you, Calista. She does not believe that you have dishonored anyone. She has asked me to tell you that she will help you, but right now it is impossible. Do you understand?”

  Relief spills. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, I understand, and tell her thank you.”

  “You will need to be patient and wait until I can work something out. I will come to London as soon as I can. Do you have everything you need?”

  For a moment Calista is unable to answer that. Then she says: “Yes. Your friends are very kind to me.”

  “In the meantime, I will do what I can,” Yiannis says.

  “And you? Are you all safe? Are your father’s sisters all right?”

  “In our house in Limassol, yes,” Yiannis says. “Nicosia is a war zone. My aunts have lost everything, but they are safely here with my father. Every house in Limassol is bursting at the seams. It is a disaster, such a disaster.”

  Calista hears his voice break. The line crackles then, and she cannot hear what else Yiannis is saying.

  “Do you want to speak to Aristides again?” Calista is aware that he has opened the living room door and is standing almost at her elbow.

  “Yes,” she hears, but the rest of what Yiannis says disappears into static. She hands the phone to Aristides.

  “Yiannis?” he says. “News of our families? Your aunts in Nicosia, my brothers?”

  She sees him pass his hand over his eyes. All at once, the man seems smaller. It’s as though something vital continues to leach away as he stands in the hallway, the receiver grasped in one hand, his knuckles showing white.

  “I can’t hear you,” he says.

  A moment later, he replaces the receiver in the cradle and stands there, looking at it, one hand still resting on it as though reluctant to let it go.

  Calista is afraid to speak. Anne comes out into the hallway. Without a word she walks up to her husband, puts her arms around him, and pulls him close. His sobs are startling, a deep racking sound that chills the air.

  * * *

  “Mamá?”

  “Calista! Oh, thank God you’ve phoned! We’ve been out of our minds with worry. Where are you? Are you safe? Are the children safe?”

  “Yes. I’m in London, Mamá. I have something I need to tell you.”

  * * *

  As soon as she can, Calista flies back to Dublin.

  María-Luisa and Timothy are waiting for her at the airport. When she spots her daughter, María-Luisa opens both arms wide and Calista walks straight into them, sobbing at last despite the steeliest of resolves.

  “Child, child,” María-Luisa murmurs, “we are so happy you have come to us.” She draws back and looks at her daughter. She holds Calista’s face in both her hands. “News of the children?” she asks.

  “With Alexandros. They are safe.”

  * * *

  Back home, Calista says: “Things are bad. I need to tell you both what has happened.”

  Afterwards, Timothy pats his daughter’s back. “We will fight Alexandros,” he says. “We will help you get the children back. That’s a promise.”

  Philip is due back from San Francisco in two days’ time, and Calista begins to feel the tight circle of family embrace her once more.

  * * *

  On the day of Philip’s arrival, María-Luisa says to her: “We have a surprise for you. Some guests are joining us for dinner this evening. We’ll welcome Felipe home together.” She smiles at Calista. “We thought it might help to distract you.”

  Calista meets her twin at the airport. She remembers the last time they were here together: the day after the wedding, when she and Alexandros left for Cyprus. On that occasion, she’d had the most vivid of memories of their shared childhood: of how Philip
had taught her to roller-skate, patiently, doggedly, when she was nine.

  “You can do it, Cally!” His words, his voice, still ring clear in Calista’s head almost two decades later. The memory makes her smile all over again.

  Now, as she sees Philip emerge into the arrivals hall, she realizes how much she has missed him. “Cally,” he says, pulling her into a bear hug. “So happy you’re safe. So happy.”

  * * *

  That evening, Calista answers the door to a young man. He stands on the porch and looks at her shyly. He wears an ill-fitting suit, and his hands are clasped in front of his waistcoat as though he is not quite sure what else to do with them. Calista is puzzled at the way he stands there, waiting.

  “Yes?” she says, once she realizes he is not going to speak. “May I help you?”

  From behind the rhododendron bush in the front garden, a figure suddenly emerges. It takes Calista a moment. “Maggie!” she shouts. “Maggie!” She runs towards her, almost knocking over this unknown man in her haste to get to Maggie. The man grins, looking at them both in amusement.

  Maggie hugs her. “Welcome home, Calista,” she says. “You look wonderful—more beautiful than ever.” Her broad face is filled with delight. She gestures towards the unknown young man. “This is John, my husband. We are so happy to see you.”

  “Come in, come in! It’s wonderful to see you both!”

  Calista takes to John at once. It is good to see Maggie, so proud and smiling. To see her and her new husband share such everyday happiness.

  * * *

  “What now?” Philip asks, as soon as Maggie and John have left and Timothy and María-Luisa have gone to bed.

  “I’m going to stay on in London. Aristides says he has work for me in his gallery. I might even make a go of my photography again.”

  “What about Alexandros and the kids?” Philip is watching her keenly.

  “We’re working on it,” Calista says. “Yiannis is helping—trying to get Alexandros to agree to some sort of access. But things are too chaotic in Limassol right now. I’ll have to be patient. I miss them so much.”

  “Let me know if there is anything I can do to help, OK?” Philip takes her hands in his. “I have money. I have time. I can do whatever you need me to do. Just ask.”

  “I will.” She smiles. “What about things with you? How is San Francisco? And your work at the university?”

  “Great,” he says. “All good.” He stifles a yawn. “Sorry, Cally—that’ll have to keep till tomorrow. I’m still on San Francisco time; I really need to hit the hay.”

  “Of course,” Calista says. “I forgot. It’s just such a treat to be in the same house with you again.” She kisses him good night.

  Silence fills the room after Philip’s departure. It is not uncomfortable. Calista is reminded of all the things she has missed about her native city: those things which she hardly ever thought about while living there. The cool, open spaces of St. Stephen’s Green. The sea at Killiney and the majestic sweep of the bay. The cry of the gulls in Howth, swooping down to follow the fishing boats as they leave the harbor. And the tailored, symmetrical elegance of the city’s Georgian squares. She’d love to photograph them some day. She climbs the stairs, reluctant to let the day slip away from her.

  Calista sleeps in her old room that night. Philip is just down the hallway. Her parents are close by.

  Home. At last, Calista feels safe. But she dreams of her children. She sees them before her, at play in some strange, underworld garden. As she reaches out to them, they move farther away from her, their small bodies elusive and insubstantial. Calista tries to cry out, but her voice is paralyzed somewhere in her throat. When she wakes at last, she is cold, trembling, the bedclothes in disarray all around her.

  pilar

  Madrid, 1975

  * * *

  The clinic waiting room is just as Pilar remembers it. Crammed with pregnant women, toddlers, screaming babies swaddled in blankets. Some of these tired young mothers are no more than girls, Pilar thinks. Children having children of their own. Some are coughing; some look ill, worn out, as though their lives have already defeated them. As though they have nothing to look forward to but this.

  It is what Pilar has expected. Why should anything have changed? Why should anything be different?

  She turns away, unable to quell the pool of bitterness that gathers in her throat. She would have done better. She’d have been able to offer more to her son. Pilar should have gotten the courage from somewhere. She should not have let him be taken away from her and given to strangers.

  A sudden movement to the left makes Pilar glance in that direction. She sees, with a jolt of familiarity, a woman whom she recognizes. Her gray hair is swept up into a neat bun. Her blue overall is pristine, ironed, just the way it was when Pilar had seen her last. She moves a mop swiftly, methodically across the floor, taking care of spillages. Pilar freezes. Enrica, that was her name: Pilar remembers the woman’s moment of kindness to her, and she looks away quickly. It would not suit to have Enrica recognize her now. Pilar averts her eyes and makes her way purposefully towards reception.

  She looks up at the strip of wall above the hatch where the name of the doctor on duty used to be displayed. It still is; but this time, it’s a name Pilar doesn’t recognize. Hardly surprising, after more than eight years. She approaches the window. Behind it, a young postulant is filling out forms, her face a study in concentration.

  “Sister?” Pilar says softly. She half turns, making sure her back is towards Enrica.

  The young woman looks up, frowning. “Yes?” she says. “Can I help you? We are very busy this morning—an appointment may not be possible until sometime tomorrow . . .”

  “I’m not here for an appointment.” Pilar smiles. She lowers her voice. “I’m here to make a donation. My friends and I have always admired the work the clinic does in this area. It’s so important.”

  The young woman stares at her.

  “I was wondering if I might speak to the person in charge, just for a moment?” Pilar tries to make sure her expression is open, innocent.

  “Dr. González-Arías is very busy; he’s running behind . . . There’s so much—”

  “I wouldn’t dream of disturbing Dr. González-Arías,” Pilar interrupts. “I meant the sister in charge. Perhaps I could speak to Sister Florencia or Sister Magdalena or even Sister María-Angeles?” She hopes, whatever else happens, that Sister María-Angeles is not here today. Her name should be enough. And it is; Pilar’s apparent familiarity with the nuns who run the clinic makes the young postulant relax.

  “I’ll see who I can find,” she says. She hurries out into the corridor behind her, leaving the door open.

  Pilar remembers that corridor well. The small, cramped consulting rooms. The all-pervasive smells of disinfectant and poverty and desperation.

  “May I help you?”

  Pilar looks up, disappointed. That voice is not the voice she had hoped for. It is not the voice of Sister Florencia. An older nun stands before Pilar, her expression curious.

  “Yes,” Pilar says brightly. “I’d like to leave a donation with Sister Florencia. She helped a friend of mine once, some years ago, and she has never forgotten. I wanted to pass on her thanks to Sister Florencia myself.”

  The nun smiles—a faint, knowing smile that makes Pilar angry. “I’m afraid Sister Florencia no longer works here. She has moved on.”

  Pilar nods. “I see. Of course, it has been some time. I wonder, might you know where I could contact her? I’m happy to leave the donation with you, naturally, but I should like to speak to Sister Florencia myself.”

  The nun holds out her hand. “That’s very generous, and on behalf of the clinic, I thank you.”

  Pilar hands over the envelope. She waits while the nun turns it first one way and then the other, as though she has never seen a whi
te envelope before. Pilar has the impression that the woman is considering something. She seems to hesitate, and in that hesitation, Pilar allows herself a tiny moment of hope.

  “But I’m afraid I can’t help you with that,” the nun says at last. “I am new here—and I have no idea where Sister Florencia has been moved to. I’m sorry. Perhaps if you contact our Mother Superior—”

  “Thank you,” Pilar says abruptly.

  Mother Superior has been less than helpful, she wants to say. As has everyone else I’ve tried. You were my last hope.

  Pilar is suddenly at a loss. How could she have been so foolish as to come here, hoping for an answer, after all these years? She might have known that they would all close ranks against her. She sees the nun look at her, her expression expectant. Pilar says nothing.

  “Very well, then. I must get back to work. Thank you for the donation. Good morning to you.”

  Pilar watches as she swishes away, her long black habit a poignant reminder of the way Sister Florencia had left the hospital ward that day, with Pilar’s baby in her arms. Her eyes fill again as she remembers. That bright, sterile space where she saw Francisco-José for the first time, and for the last. All those other girls crowding around her, spilling their meaningless words of comfort.

  Pilar walks to the door and steps outside. She stays there for a moment, trying to quell the disappointment. Another dead end.

  She feels the door open behind her and moves to one side to let whoever it is pass by. She rummages in her pocket for a handkerchief. “Señorita?” she hears.

  Pilar turns.

  “I recognize you, señorita.”

  Pilar stares at her. She has no idea what to say.

  “Don’t worry,” Enrica whispers, glancing over her shoulder back towards the waiting room. “I will tell no one.” She pauses for a second. “You are looking for Sister Florencia, yes?”