The Years That Followed Page 28

  All the power in this situation is his. All the power must remain his. His territory, his rules of engagement.

  * * *

  She watches from the hotel foyer as Alexandros’s Mercedes pulls up outside the main door. She remains seated: he will bring the children to her; that is the agreement. Calista waits, her heart full as she sees Omiros step carefully out of the back of the car. How tall he’s grown, she thinks, but she shouldn’t be surprised: it’s been three years. Her son is now a sturdy five-year-old. Imogen bounces out, her eyes already searching for her mother.

  Alexandros turns off the engine and opens the driver’s door. He says something to the children, and they move closer to him. He locks the car and puts the key in his pocket. Everything is done with a careful deliberation that tells Calista he knows she is watching him. And that he will make her wait.

  He hasn’t changed, Calista thinks. As smooth and imposing as ever. The hotel’s glass doors part obediently, and Alexandros comes in with the children. He nods to Calista. His greeting is stiff and formal. “Good afternoon, Calista,” he says. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

  Calista is polite, reserved in turn. She cannot help but feel astonished that this is all he says, that this is all she will say: “Hello, Alexandros. Thank you for bringing the children to me.” She waits for a moment, then turns to him quietly. “Please accept my condolences on the death of your mother.”

  He nods. “Thank you.”

  It feels surreal. This is a man she once loved, a man who once loved her. A man whose family was once entwined in every detail of her daily life. Calista waits in silence. All the things she wants to say must remain unspoken.

  Alexandros has both of the children by the hand. Calista sees how watchful her son and daughter have become. They will not move without permission. She looks at Alexandros, her face a question.

  He nods.

  In the middle of the hotel’s foyer, Calista bends down, holds her arms out, and says softly: “Omiros, Imogen. How wonderful to see you both. I’ve missed you so much.” She keeps her voice low; she must not overwhelm them, particularly Omiros.

  Imogen runs to her at once, but Omiros hangs back. Calista watches as longing and hostility battle their way across his features.

  Alexandros touches his son on the shoulder. His voice is stern. “Go to your mother, Omiros. Do as we have discussed.”

  The small boy makes his way towards Calista, step by reluctant step. She feels emotion gather, but she will not let it show. Instead, she smiles and smooths his dark hair away from his forehead with one hand. “It is good to see you,” she says. “You have grown very tall. I am so happy to be with you.”

  Finally, the child moves closer. Calista puts one arm around him, gently, and presses him to her. Imogen has already folded herself into her mother, both her arms around Calista’s waist.

  “Come,” she says. “Let’s sit down and have something to drink, and some ice cream. Do you still like honey ice cream?”

  Omiros nods, his expression shading from shyness to uncertainty. He continues to glance back over his shoulder to where Alexandros still waits.

  I’m a stranger to him, Calista thinks. A stranger to my own son. She wonders how much he remembers, how much he has absorbed since her leaving. “Let’s sit over here, shall we?”

  Both children move obediently towards the seating area with the low glass coffee table.

  “I’ll be back for them at nine o’clock sharp,” Alexandros says now. His tone is brisk, businesslike. “Tomorrow, Saturday, you may keep them with you all day and overnight. On Sunday, they will come to church with me. Afterwards, we’ll discuss the rest of the week.” He gets ready to leave.

  Imogen and Omiros are already seated, their legs dangling over the cushions of the deep leather couch. Omiros’s feet do not yet reach the floor. Calista is struck by how small they both look. In the grown-up surroundings of an anonymous hotel, how small and vulnerable. She turns to Alexandros.

  “Thank you,” she says. “I want you to know how grateful I am for this.”

  His answering nod is curt, dismissive. “I will see you later.”

  He turns and walks away from her. Calista sees the way Omiros’s eyes follow his father, the way Imogen smiles at her brightly, eagerly.

  It will always be like this, Calista thinks. I will always have Imogen.

  But Omiros will never forgive me.

  pilar

  Madrid, 1981

  * * *

  Pilar often watches the students as they make their way to and from school past her building on Calle de las Huertas. She watches them again this morning as she waits for some prospective tenants to come and view her vacant apartment on the third floor.

  Pilar is amused by the antics of the young people outside her door. She sees how they travel in packs, the girls shrill and emphatic, the boys loud and awkward. Their bodies have not yet caught up with their sophisticated image of themselves, despite the cigarettes they smoke, the words they hurl at one another, the pushing and the shoving as the boys jostle loudly for position.

  From time to time, one of these teenagers makes Pilar take a second look. His hair stands up in dark spikes, a line of fine, upright trees growing from the front of his forehead to the nape of his neck. He is clearly popular. Girls crowd around him; boys follow in his wake.

  Pilar watches him, and she wonders. From time to time, she still allows herself to dream. In the absence of certainty, fantasy brings a comfort of its own.

  The doorbell peals and Pilar starts, her daydream dissolving. It is Jorge, with his sack of mail over one shoulder. Pilar is irritated by his grin; he clearly believes he has caught her napping. But she mustn’t annoy him. Jorge’s local knowledge is immeasurable. You never know when you might need someone like Jorge. She opens the door.

  “Good morning,” Pilar says. She hopes he isn’t angling for coffee; she hasn’t the time this morning.

  “How’s it goin’?” he replies.

  Pilar waits for him to hand over the bundles of letters. She can see them in his hand, already neatly bound together with string. But he hesitates. Pilar grows impatient.

  “I’ve a bit of a favor to ask,” he says.

  “Yes?”

  Where is he going with this? Pilar wonders.

  “My young lad collects stamps, particularly foreign stamps. He has whole albums full of them. I was wondering . . .” He starts fumbling at the bundles of letters.

  “Spit it out, Jorge: I’ve some tenants arriving in a minute—just let me know what you want. I’ll help if I can.”

  “It’s just that on one of these envelopes here, there’s some stamps I’ve never seen before. I haven’t been prying, Señorita Dóminguez, but you have a letter from Peru and . . .”

  Pilar doesn’t hear any more. She yanks both bundles from Jorge’s hand. She wants to run to the sanctuary of her portería. She begins to turn away, her mouth dry, her hands all at once clumsy and hesitant. It’s from her. It has to be.

  “Keep them for me, won’t you?” Jorge calls. “My boy would love to have those stamps. All those different-colored stone heads. OK?”

  Pilar doesn’t look up. “Yes, yes,” she says, “I will. I’ll keep them for you, of course.” She wants to rip the envelope apart, to devour the words. Florencia’s words about her son. At last. After all these years.

  But she has to wait. A middle-aged man and his wife are just now stepping into the entrance hall as Jorge is making his exit.

  “Señorita Domínguez?” the man asks. He looks anxious.

  Pilar folds the letter in two and slips it into her apron pocket. She must hide her agitation. “Yes,” she says. “Good morning.”

  She notices that the woman’s coat is not the best quality. Her shoes are worn, and her gloves have seen better days. It’s highly unlikely that these two have
the kind of money to rent an apartment in a building such as this. But right now, Pilar doesn’t care about that.

  She extends her hand. “You’re very welcome. It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Please, follow me and let me show you around. Then we’ll have coffee and I’ll answer any questions you may have.”

  Just get rid of them as soon as possible. She leads them towards the lift, and they follow.

  Pilar can hear the rustle of the envelope as she walks. She can feel the heat of the paper against her skin.

  imogen

  Limassol, 1981

  * * *

  It is the morning of Omiros’s ninth birthday. Imogen, his big sister of fourteen, is looking after him for the day. Papa has given her money to take Omiros and some of his friends to lunch. Later, Papa will come to meet them both at the yacht club, and there he will present his son with his very own Mermaid sailing boat. Imogen has been trusted to keep the secret.

  “You ready, Omiros?” Imogen calls.

  He comes running out of his bedroom. Bapi Petros is in the hallway, waiting.

  “Happy birthday, Omiros,” Bapi says as Omiros jumps down the last three steps, landing just shy of his grandfather’s feet. Imogen notices that Bapi is getting more and more unsteady these days, that he has to use his walking stick a lot.

  Eleni comes fussing over, hurrying her way out of the kitchen towards him. Imogen and Omiros don’t need a nanny anymore, of course, but they have allowed the fiction to continue that they do. They are willing conspirators with their father.

  “Petros needs to be looked after now,” Papa had said recently. “But he doesn’t like the idea. Eleni will stay on here with us and help him—but you must never say anything about that, do you understand?”

  Imogen had sighed to herself at that. Sometimes adults could be very stupid. Why would either she or Omiros say anything that might upset Bapi Petros? Often, the only person who made him unhappy was Alexandros himself. Particularly now that he had a new woman in his life.

  When Papa introduced Sandra, he’d been all smiles. But Imogen wasn’t fooled. She knew by the way he tapped his fingers on the tabletop that he was nervous.

  “This is Sandra, everyone,” he said, leading a tall, fair-haired woman into the living room, where they all had to sit politely, waiting to meet her. Sandra had the kind of beauty that so many of Imogen’s friends admired, but she didn’t. The peachy, freckled skin, the blue eyes that always looked cold, the severe, tailored elegance of her expensive clothes.

  “Well, Cassandra, really,” she’d said, with her bright painted smile. “But everyone calls me Sandra. Much more modern, don’t you think?”

  Bapi had said something that sounded like a grunt. He didn’t get up out of his chair, although he did shake hands with the foreign woman. Imogen had had to stifle a giggle at the rude noise he’d made. What’s wrong with a good Cypriot girl? Imogen had heard him demand one night. Why do you keep bringing all these foreigners home?

  For a moment, Imogen felt indignant on her mother’s behalf, angry at Bapi Petros. Afterwards, though, she was pleased that Bapi disliked Sandra just as much as she did. Omiros didn’t seem to care either way, as long as Sandra didn’t take up all of Papa’s time, which she didn’t, not yet.

  Mummy knew about her. She said so the last time she was here. “I’ve heard about her, yes,” she said. “Uncle Yiannis told me when he was last in London. I understand that they are engaged to be married.”

  “I can’t stand her,” Imogen blurted. “She’s so fake.”

  “Sweetheart, you have to make an effort.”

  Imogen didn’t want to make an effort. She didn’t want any new woman, any Sandra, taking her mother’s place.

  “Listen to me,” Calista said, sitting beside her on the bed in her hotel room. Imogen thought her mother’s face was suddenly serious. It was the way she always looked when she had something important to say. “People are entitled to another chance if their marriage doesn’t work. If Sandra makes Papa happy, that can only be good for you and Omiros.”

  Imogen decided to change the subject. “Why can’t I come and live with you in London?”

  She already knew the answer to this, but that didn’t stop her asking again.

  “Your father won’t hear of it, so there’s no point in us even discussing it. Not just yet. Maybe when you’re sixteen,” Calista said. “Things should be easier then.”

  “But that’s two whole years!” Imogen protested.

  “It won’t be long in passing, I promise you. In the meantime, we’ll just have to take every chance we can get to be together, and you have to help me to not make your father too mad, OK?”

  Imogen nodded and managed a watery smile.

  * * *

  And now Imogen is seated at a long table with seven nine-year-old boys. They are all eating and shouting and being disgusting. Seven nines are sixty-three, she calculates: I’m surrounded by sixty-three years of mischief. Some of the boys are even throwing food at one another, and Imogen has to yell at them to stop.

  Omiros hasn’t wanted Mummy here for his birthday, and Imogen feels sad about that. She has seen the way her mother’s face closes over each time Omiros tells her to go away. She’s tried to comfort Calista.

  Maybe next time, she says. Maybe next time.

  Next time, Imogen hopes she will be one year closer to going to London. One year closer to leaving Papa and Sandra behind.

  One year closer to freedom.

  pilar

  Madrid, 1981

  * * *

  By the time the new tenants finally leave, Pilar has become a fever of impatience. She’s waved away their bank statements, their letters of reference, their identity cards. Next time, she’s said; next time you’re passing will be fine.

  She locks herself into the portería and pulls the crumpled envelope out of her apron pocket. She opens it carefully, seeing that Sister Florencia has written her return address in Lima across the flap at the back. Pilar takes care not to damage it.

  Inside there are two closely written pages, flimsy airmail pages that feel to Pilar much too insubstantial to carry the weight of the news that they surely must contain.

  “My dear Pilar,” she reads, “what an extraordinary thing to hear from you.”

  Pilar’s eyes devour the words, quickly scanning the lines to find what she is looking for. She will reread the letter in its entirety later, but for now, all she cares about is finding out where Florencia sent her son.

  “I kept my own diary in those days,” Florencia writes, “in which I noted the mother’s name, the child’s date of birth, and the names of the adoptive parents. Addresses of adoptive parents are less reliable—couples came from all over Spain, staying with relatives in Madrid, going home when the babies were born.”

  Give me whatever you have, Pilar thinks. Just tell me.

  “I always felt uncomfortable with the secrecy, the lack of documents, the way children just sailed off into the unknown, citizens of some shady underworld. Now that I have two babies of my own, I understand all too well what your grief must have been.”

  Pilar skips to the final paragraph. She cannot bear the agony of waiting any longer.

  “We have another eighteen months here in Lima. I want my children to go to school in Madrid, to know their cousins and their grandparents. I hope that by the time we come back, my own parents will have learned to forgive me.”

  Pilar feels her dismay begin to grow.

  “I will of course meet you on my return. I have none of my personal papers from the convent with me—I left them in a safe place in Madrid. Here in Lima, my husband and I—what a strange word! I never thought to write it about my own life; Antonio is a good man, a loving husband and father—we run a clinic together for mothers and babies. Our aim is to support the young women to keep their children, not give them away to strang
ers. It is a struggle; the concept of sin is still a strong one.”

  Pilar begins to weep with frustration. Another eighteen months. A whole year and a half. Francisco-José is already fourteen years of age.

  “Please feel free to write to me again. I will help you in any way I can on my return. But please remember that these things, as Antonio and I have learned, must be treated with delicacy. I will try to contact the adoptive parents on your behalf in the first instance. We must remember that they have raised your son for many years; we cannot descend upon them like some avenging angel from the past. We must respect their needs, too. But have courage, my dear—and believe me: we will do all we can to find your son. God is good.”

  Is he? Pilar thinks bitterly. Is he really? He hasn’t been all that good to me.

  She folds the letter and places it in the drawer of her dressing table. She will read it again later, and many times over.

  For now, she has read enough. For now, she must do what she has learned to do so well over the years.

  Pilar will wait. She will work; she will save; she will find ways to fill all the empty days until Florencia’s return.

  Pilar will watch, and Pilar will wait.

  calista

  Extremadura, 1989

  * * *

  Calista looks out over the midday landscape of Extremadura. The heat of noon has begun to haze and shimmer above the surrounding fields.

  She is thinking about Yiannis. About the ten years they had, the love they shared. Recently, she’d gone looking for a box of photographs from the early 1980s, a series of color prints from the weekends she and Yiannis spent together. She had stored them on a high shelf in the study, unable to bear looking at them before now.