The Years That Followed (11 page)

pilar

Madrid, 1966

Sister Florencia has said something, but Pilar hasn't heard her. The young nun's eyes are troubled and the words she speaks sound soft and compassionate, but Pilar has no wish to understand what she's saying.

“I'm afraid there is no doubt, Pilar. You are pregnant. Perhaps fifteen or sixteen weeks—have you not felt any quickening?” Sister Florencia places one hand on Pilar's abdomen. She looks anxious.

Pilar takes her hands away from her ears. It's no use trying to pretend any longer. Petros told her so many times not to worry, that he knew about such things. That he would never let this happen. What is she going to tell him? What will he say?

At first, Pilar has denied the evidence. Periods can be erratic for all sorts of reasons, as she knows from her experience in the past. Perhaps she is run-down again, tired, anemic; it happens. And it has been a particularly busy few months, with some changes of tenants, some unpleasantness about a flood, the need to call the police to intervene in a loud and bitter domestic dispute. So yes, that's probably all it is. Overworked, exhausted, lacking in iron. Her mother had always been a great believer in iron.

“Quickening?” she asks now, uncertain. It feels like an ancient word, as old as life itself. Although Pilar cannot remember having heard it before, she suddenly understands exactly what it means.

Sister Florencia nods. “Yes—just very faint movements, like fluttering.”

Pilar rests her head in her hands. She cannot look Sister Florencia in the eye. Perhaps three weeks ago, at the cinema with Maribel on one side and Alicia on the other, Pilar had felt faint but discernible tremors deep inside her somewhere: a sense of the flapping of tiny wings. Given where she was seated, she could not show panic. Instead, she sat still, rigid, her eyes on the screen, oblivious to the comedy that so delighted the audience. Pilar can't even remember the film's name anymore. All she remembers is that it was one of those nonsensical comedies about love triangles, the sort of film so beloved of Maribel and Alicia. Something about love's enchantment, Pilar realizes now, bitterly.

Even then, she knew. And the past week or so has confirmed it. The growing tautness of the skin on her breasts; the tiny appearance of fine blue veins; the annoying swelling of her ankles. And then there were those tiny shiftings, always increasing in intensity, that kept her alert and restless at night as she waited for them to happen again, needing to be sure they were real. With each agitated hour, her terror grew. It was desperation that drove her, eventually, to seek out Sister Florencia's clinic. At least there, she knew, she would be treated with kindness.

Petros has not been to Madrid for more than three months. His business has taken him elsewhere, he says. He telephoned Pilar once, recently; his voice was soft, apologetic.

“I am sorry, truly I am. I have some pressing business matters to deal with at the moment. I don't know when I'll be in Madrid again. I will let you know immediately, of course, if things change. But right now, there are some difficulties that demand my attention.”

What about me?
she wanted to cry.
There are some difficulties here, too. What about me?

Pilar could feel her panic grow, its fingers closing steadily around her throat. She couldn't tell him her suspicions, not over the phone. In all their time together, Petros has never once told Pilar that he loves her. Despite her resolve, Pilar has told him, many times, but has promised herself—and Petros—that she will never make any demands.

The rational, adult part of Pilar understands whenever Petros reminds her that he is, after all, a married man, a family man, that he is not free to love Pilar in the way that she would wish.

But she had hoped. God, how she had hoped.

Pilar clutched the receiver to her ear, trying not to panic. Then
she was angry—not so much at him as at herself. Just another stupid woman, she raged. How could she not have taken her mother's words to heart? To live her life unbeholden to any man.

She knew that she must not make Petros angry with her now. If she made him angry, she might never see him again. Her voice, when she heard it, was both strained and shrill. “For how long do you think? I mean, how long will your business take to fix?”

There was a silence. When he spoke, Pilar could hear the disapproval in her lover's tone. “It will take as long as it takes,” he said.

There was another, lengthy silence. Then Petros spoke again, his voice kinder this time. “I know you are disappointed. So am I. I will come back to Madrid just as soon as I can. In the meantime, you have my private number. I should be back in Cyprus at the end of this month. Call me then and we'll see.”

“Pilar?”

She looks now into the kind eyes of Sister Florencia. “Yes.” She can hear the heartbeat of defeat that pulses low and steady beneath the surface of that single word.

“I can find you somewhere, a place where you can have your baby.” Sister Florencia takes her hand and grips it firmly. “I will help you find the courage. Afterwards, there are many good families looking for children, Catholic families who can give your baby a good home.”

Sister Florencia is offering Pilar a solution of sorts. A solution that is still some months into the future, a very different future from the one Pilar has been imagining, but nonetheless, she can feel the flood of relief it brings with it. Perhaps, just perhaps, her life might not be over forever because of this. She might be able to survive after all.

But for one fractured moment, Pilar wavers. A baby. Perhaps a baby—
his
baby, after all—might sway Petros. He had spoken often to Pilar about duty, about responsibility and loyalty. Might his own child—albeit one born out of wedlock—be enough to lure her lover back to her?

And what if she were to keep the child, anyway, Petros or no Petros? Pilar imagines the sudden, defiant shape of the baby in her arms, the sweet weight of its downy head, the warm softness of its skin. She shakes herself, wrenching the thought away. A sob struggles at the base of her throat, smothered in something gritty, like sand. No. Impossible. Completely. Impossible.

Señor Gómez. The tenants, the neighbors, the people at the market. The priest. Maribel and Alicia. Petros. Even her family. The shame of it all. Pilar shudders.

She will tell none of them. Not ever. Particularly Petros. She will plow her own furrow, just as Mamá had always told her.

“What do you think?” Florencia is waiting.

“Will I be able to keep on working in the meantime?”

“Of course. You are tall; you are very slim—your clothes can help to hide it for months. But there is a clinic you must go to right away—I'll give you the address. It's for—”

“Fallen women,” Pilar says grimly. And she remembers Sister María-Angeles and her face on the day Pilar had stormed out of the hostel. Won't
she
be pleased? Pilar thinks. Another arrogant, sinful, wayward girl finally brought to book by God. Pilar no longer believes in God, but nonetheless, she is impressed by His capacity for revenge, or punishment, or whatever it is that brings a small life such as hers to a sudden full stop.

Sister Florencia looks at her. “No. Please don't think of it like that. The clinic is for you—for your health and the baby's. This will be the greatest gift you can give your child.”

Pilar's eyes fill at last. Baby. Child. Yours. Pilar doesn't know if she can bear it. She fights for control. When she speaks, her voice is steady. “I don't want anyone to know,” she says. “Nobody at the hostel. I'll go to the clinic and I'll go wherever you say to have the baby, just not there. You have to promise me.”

Sister Florencia nods. “I promise. I promise I will keep your secret for you. Come to me for help at any time. I will never turn you away.” She hands Pilar a piece of paper.

Pilar wants to thank her, but she can't. She feels that if she opens her mouth, she will howl. Instead, she glances down at the address Sister Florencia has handed her. An address in one of Madrid's poorest barrios. A piece of paper that has been many times folded, just like the one Mamá had given her almost ten years ago, its surface ghosted with flour. How long ago all of that feels, that day when she'd fled Torre de Santa Juanita for Madrid in search of a better life.

A life that was not to be an echo of her mother's. A life constructed only by Pilar. A life that was not to be defined by any man.

Pilar puts the piece of paper in her handbag. She does not want to think about Mamá right now, or about her escape to Madrid, or about Señor Gómez. She most particularly does not want to think about Petros, about all the parallels that are looming up at her like the hard, straight tracks of a railway.

My life has not been an escape after all, she thinks. Just the same old journey as my mother's, begun at a different station but ending up in the same place.

Right now, those metal tracks are bars that have constructed a cell, a prison of Pilar's own unhappy making.

* * *

At the end of September, Pilar summons the courage to call Petros's private line. She knows he is never at the office in August. He ­retreats—his word—to his family and his home in the mountains, somewhere called Platres. Pilar prays he will answer his phone.

He does, and his voice is confiding and regretful: “I have to tell you, Pilar, that my youngest son, Alexandros, got some young girl pregnant. It was not wholly unexpected, but my wife and I are most unhappy with the situation.”

Pilar hears the click and hiss of a cigarette being lit, smoke being drawn deeply into the lungs.

“They are married now and living here with us. We had to do the honorable thing. I'm sure you understand. My family needs me now. I will speak to you again when I can. But I want you to know—”

Pilar slams down the phone. Petros's words feel as though they have chiseled their way into the air around her before hammering themselves into her skull.

My youngest son got some young girl pregnant.

So has his father, she screams silently. So has his father. But she is the only one who can hear the pounding of blood in her ears, the taste of fear in her mouth.

At that moment, Pilar knows, bitterly, that she is on her own.

* * *

In February 1967, the child is born.

His eyes are pools: brilliant sea-green eyes. His hair is black and stands up in a comical series of tufts on the crown of his head. His
face seems to Pilar like that of an old man: wrinkled, careworn, wise. For a newborn, he rarely cries.

Sister Florencia is with Pilar again this morning. She has wrapped the baby in a soft blanket and hands him to his mother. “Just for a few minutes,” she whispers. “It is important to say good-bye.”

Pilar feels that her insides have turned to stone. Numbness is preferable to the two days since his birth: raw hours of endless, blunt pain, knowing she will never see this child of hers again.

Pilar brings her lips to the baby's forehead. “His name is Francisco-­José,” she says. “After my eldest brother—but he is not to be called ‘Paco.' ” She looks at Florencia, her eyes fierce. “This boy will have his full name, his full life. Will you tell them that?”

Sister Florencia nods. “I will tell them of your wish, of course,” she says. “They are a nice young couple. Your son will have a good life.” Her hands are gentle. “Let me take him, Pilar. If you hold on too long, it will become all the harder to let him go.”

Suddenly, she is gone, Francisco-José along with her. Her black habit swishes around the open door; it closes immediately behind her. The last glimpse Pilar has of her boy is the trailing end of his baby blanket, a bright exclamation of loss against the dark serge of Sister Florencia's habit.

Pilar wails. It is a sound that carries her along on its swelling tide. It is something that exists independently of her, bigger than she is, more alive than she is. She feels a pair of arms around her, the warmth of a woman's voice in her ear.

“Be strong,” the woman whispers. “You will get over this, I promise you. Just as I did.”

Pilar looks up, startled. The woman smiles. “My name is Enrica,” she says. “My baby was born here ten years ago. I survived. You will, too.”

“How.” It is not a question. Pilar's voice is flat and dull. Tears pour down her cheeks, and she doesn't bother to wipe them away. The world is empty now.

“Work. Family. Friends. Keeping busy.” Enrica places a tray on the table beside Pilar's bed. “I've brought you some soup and bread. Eat, just a little. And we'll talk.”

When Enrica leaves at last, summoned sharply back to work by one of the nuns, Pilar becomes aware of the other girls who now come
to surround her, their hands, their words, their meaningless, flapping attempts at comfort.

Pilar bats them all away, her arms flailing, her body thrashing around in the bed.

Then she turns her face to the wall.

calista

Extremadura, 1989

Calista struggles into standing at last.

Her legs have begun to feel stiff and sore, and one of her feet has gone to sleep. There is no point in sitting here on the hall floor any longer. She needs to get a grip. To do nothing is dangerous.

Calista pauses for a moment and massages the sole of her foot, feeling the blood begin to circulate again, its sudden, tingling return to life almost painful.

The shattered perfume bottle still lies on the floor where it fell. Calista steps over it carefully. She'll deal with it tomorrow. She'll deal with everything tomorrow.

She climbs the stairs, one hand on the banister, and makes her way towards the living room. It is not her usual time of evening to have a drink, but Calista no longer cares. She pulls open the cupboard door and pours herself a large measure of whiskey. She paces the room, glass in hand, and lights one cigarette after another. She is far too restless to sit. She glances out the window and sees what usually soothes her: the evening light is softer, kinder, as the air acquires its end-of-day stillness. The landscape has not yet shaped itself for night.

As Calista pauses at the window, her eye is caught by a small figure in the distance, its busyness in direct contrast to the tranquillity of the fields and the olive groves that surround it. Calista stops for a moment and looks more closely.

It is a woman, an elderly woman in black—no doubt a widow who has dressed in this way ever since the death of her husband,
possibly decades before. Calista doesn't know her, but she knows who she must be, knows of the extensive Domínguez family to which she clearly belongs. The elderly woman below her now begins sweeping outside the house with a concentrated vigor. The brush arcs around her with an efficiency that is the product of a lifetime of cleaning. A lazy veil of dust rises, and the woman becomes only partly visible. Just as suddenly as she began, the woman stops her busy sweeping. Then she shrugs, as though answering some inaudible command. She turns stiffly and disappears inside the house, closing the door behind her.

Of course, Calista thinks. The concentration, the vigor, the energy, despite the stiffness in the knees—they all remind her, suddenly, of Maroulla, of her tirelessness leading up to the day of Imogen's christening. It was a lavish affair. Petros and Maroulla spared no expense.

Their large garden was transformed into a flower-filled, shady expanse with what seemed like hundreds of people coming and going, pressing gifts into the new parents' hands.

It was also, of course, the time when Calista first met Yiannis. That momentous week in July 1967.

* * *

Yiannis arrives home three days before the christening. He is to be Imogen's godfather, and he comes laden with all the traditional gifts: clothes and jewelry for the baby, a gold bracelet for Calista.

Calista is in the shadiest part of the garden, playing with Imogen now that the evening air is cooler. She looks up as Alexandros calls her name. He is walking towards her, away from the house, and there is another man at his side. Instantly, Calista knows who he is.

Maroulla has been fussing for days. Everything inside and outside the villa has been prepared for Yiannis's return. Watching their approach, Calista is struck by the ways in which this man is different from Alexandros. It is clear that the two are brothers: Yiannis is as tall as Alexandros; his build is similar, but his physical presence feels calmer, quieter. Nor does he have Alexandros's brilliant green eyes. His face is kind, Calista thinks.

She wonders now whether Alexandros has at last forgiven him for not attending their wedding. She stands up at once, gathering Imogen into her arms. She holds out her hand. “You must be Yiannis,” she says, smiling.

“Yes indeed my big brother, another important man.” Alexandros grins, slapping Yiannis on the back. Calista is not convinced by the show of affection. Alexandros has lingered a little too long on the word “another.”

“Calista,” Yiannis says, bowing his head and taking her hand in his. He bends as though to kiss it, but stops just short, reminding Calista of Alexandros's similar gesture on the day they'd first met. It startles her: not so much the gesture as the feeling that that first meeting now seems like centuries ago.

Yiannis leans towards Imogen, his face already broad with smiling. The baby responds, her eyes locking on to his. Her normally serious expression softens at last, and she smiles back. “And this is my new niece.” Yiannis looks up at Calista. “Imogen, isn't that her name?”

“Yes—and you are privileged. She doesn't smile at just anyone!”

“A beautiful name,” Yiannis continues. “It is good to remind children of their heritage. And a beautiful little girl, too, of course,” he adds hurriedly.

“Well, you'd have to say that, wouldn't you? You're going to be the doting godfather, and I'm the new mother. It would be rude of us not to think her beautiful.”

Alexandros laughs. “I can see that the two of you are going to get along,” he says. “I will leave you here to get acquainted. I must go to my father. He needs my help.”

Yiannis nods, and Alexandros walks away quickly. As he leaves, the air seems to thicken with something other than the fact of his departure. Neither Yiannis nor Calista says anything. It is he who breaks the silence at last.

“Come,” he says, “let us sit down. I was very sorry not to be able to attend your wedding, but I'm afraid I was in the middle of some serious negotiations and I simply could not get away.”

Calista likes the way he acknowledges this. “Well,” she says, surprised at her own archness, “it was all rather sudden, you know.” And she grins at him.

He laughs again, nods his head in a kind of quizzical agreement that makes him look much younger. “So I've heard. Nothing wrong with that. I'm a great believer in youthful passion.” He looks around. “I think you could do with a glass of champagne. I certainly could. May I get you one?”

Calista nods. “Please.”

“Back in a moment.”

Calista watches as he walks back towards the house. She hears the sound of laughter inside and is grateful for the excuse the cool garden gives her. She prefers to be here.

“So now you're home again in Cyprus,” Calista says lightly as Yiannis returns to the table. She accepts the glass he hands her, nods her thanks.

“Indeed.” Yiannis smiles at her. “Home at last. I've missed it. It's not easy being so far away from everyone.” He raises his drink to her; Calista tips hers to meet it. There is the muted chink of glass on glass.

Home indeed, Calista thinks. I wonder; do you know, Yiannis, what your parents are hoping and planning for? She has already overheard several conversations between Petros and Maroulla about their hopes for their eldest son's future.

Calista also knows that Imogen's christening party will be an opportunity to gather together all the young, eligible, well-connected women that her parents-in-law regard as suitable daughter-in-law material. Calista has heard the names, has been able to put two and two together. It has made her angry, the way they stop discussing the subject whenever she, Calista, is present. It's as though she is the mistake they wish to avoid repeating.

“It must be difficult for you, to be so far away from home, particularly at a time like this,” Yiannis says.

Calista is surprised at his directness. And grateful: Alexandros has never acknowledged her homesickness. He becomes impatient when she speaks of Dublin as home. “Yes,” she says. “It is difficult.” She turns her face away for a moment. “Imogen makes up for so much, but—” She shrugs. “I never really understood what home was until I left it.”

Yiannis smiles. “I am familiar with that feeling. Sometimes it is a physical ache.” He looks at her. “Negotiating another language can be difficult, too. Alienating, even.”

He understands, Calista thinks. He really understands.

“Yes” is all she can manage.

He leans towards her. “If you feel that there is anything—”

Maroulla has suddenly appeared beside them. Calista is startled. She has not noticed her approach. She speaks rapidly to Yiannis, and Calista knows by her tone that she is displeased.

Yiannis stands up. He smiles at Calista. “We must go in. Some guests are arriving. All are anxious to see Imogen. Come, we'll talk later.”

Calista is reluctant to move. She regrets leaving this conversation almost before it has begun.

* * *

“Who
are
all these people?” Calista asks on the day of the christening, bewildered, looking around at the groups of well-dressed strangers sipping champagne, laughing, and devouring canapés.

Alexandros sighs. “Calista, you must concentrate, try harder to remember.” He gestures around him. “These are all friends of the family, cousins, neighbors, many business associates of my father. My father is an important man, you know.”

Calista does indeed know. Calista cannot help but know. She is reminded of this fact, the fact of Petros's importance, all the time. Today there are businessmen everywhere, talking business. There are women, too, of course, but they float around the edges: they revolve around the center, bringing drinks, smiling; taking care of children, smiling. Stepping carefully across the grass in their high, expensive shoes. And smiling, always smiling.

For one sharp, intense moment, a moment with bitterness biting at its jagged edges, Calista wishes she were not surrounded by quite so much importance. She longs instead for the presence of her own family, a family that now feels loving, ordinary, unremarkable. A family that is, above all, hers.

Philip's frequent letters have helped keep Calista company during the past year; she is happy their closeness has continued, nourished by the words they write to each other. Philip's new life in Oxford feels oddly familiar to Calista, sometimes as familiar as their shared past life in Dublin. He helps her to imagine his days: days crammed with friendships, with studies. “
And as for the sense of freedom
,” Philip wrote to her recently, “
I can be myself here in a way I never could in Ireland. That is the biggest gift of all,
Cally. To be able to live my own life in my own way.
”

María-Luisa and Timothy telephone her each week. Ever since Imogen's birth, Calista has felt a sea change in her relationship with them, particularly María-Luisa. “Now,” her mother had said to her,
shortly after Imogen's birth, “you have your own daughter; now you will understand.”

All three of them have arrived this morning. Calista loves showing off how much Imogen has grown since they last saw her as a tiny three-week-old baby. A baby who even then had a serious gaze and a mind of her own.

On that occasion, everyone, including María-Luisa, had been charmed. Calista was happy that day, watching as her mother thawed. Philip grinned over at his sister and gave her an emphatic thumbs-up.

María-Luisa was shocked, though, at the prospect of such a long delay between Imogen's birth and her christening.

“You cannot wait for another five months, Calista, surely!” She did not attempt to hide her agitation. “The child needs to be baptized at once. Such a delay would be unthinkable in Spain, even in Ireland. What is this about?”

María-Luisa often got upset around her children's religious observances. Back in Dublin, as young teenagers, Calista and Philip would often avoid Sunday Mass together, each swearing the other to secrecy. They knew their parents trusted them; to disobey filled them both with a mix of guilt and defiance. Here in Limassol, Calista had fainted on two successive Sunday mornings at the lengthy Greek Orthodox services. “
Three hours long
,” she'd written to her twin
.
“
Can you imagine? And we thought half an hour was bad!
”

Maroulla had decided that Calista should be excused from the services, at least until the baby was born. To Calista's relief, Alexandros had agreed. Calista was still hoping to use her small daughter as an excuse not to attend for another few months.

“It's the custom here, Mamá. We will wait for the summer to christen her, when Yiannis returns and the weather is fine. He's to be her godfather; that's the tradition. Imogen was born in Cyprus; we must follow Cypriot customs.”

María-Luisa did not look convinced. Timothy intervened, and the conversation was not pursued any further.

“Besides”—Calista smiled at her—“it means you will all have to come back again and share the day of the christening with us. That can't be bad, can it?”

* * *

She feels relieved when the christening party is over and all the guests have gone. The day has been crammed with people. Now Calista relishes the silence. She likes the still evening air that has settled over the garden. Her parents and Philip have just gone back to their hotel.

Calista sees Alexandros at the other end of the garden, deep in solitary conversation with his father. She hopes he will not do anything to spoil what remains of today. His temper is getting shorter. Calista believes that she is not the only one to have noticed. From time to time, she sees the sharp glances Maroulla throws at Alexandros, the quick frown, the abrupt shake of her head when she manages to catch her youngest son's eye.

Yiannis comes to sit with her. “A lovely day,” he says, smiling at her. “But you must be tired by now.”

“A little.” Calista waits for him to speak again.

“I'm sorry that we were interrupted the other night. I was enjoying our conversation.”

He pauses, and Calista has the sense that he is weighing his words.

“You know my father is retiring in a few months' time.” It is hardly a question. The whole island knows. The preparations for the three-day celebration are already well under way.

Calista nods.

“I am the eldest,” Yiannis goes on. “I am just about to turn forty. My father finally thinks I'm adult and experienced enough to take over the business.” He glances over to where Petros and Alexandros are sitting.