The Years That Followed (14 page)

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.

My photographs, Calista thinks. She hangs up Alexandros's jacket, retrieves the briefcase, and comes back to the table. “Shall I take these out of your way?” She gestures towards the plates and dishes that are scattered over the table.

Alexandros nods, all of his concentration now focused on his cigar.

When Calista returns, there are two fat envelopes in front of him. She recognizes at once where he's had the prints developed: Anastasios Papadopoulos, the island's most famous photographer. He smiles at her again.

“Anastasios says that these are quite good.” Alexandros nods at her approvingly. “Not of a high standard, of course, but not bad at all.” He pauses. “I am glad you have made such good use of my camera.”

“I'm pleased you like them.” Calista keeps her voice steady, casual.

Alexandros pushes one of the envelopes towards her. Slowly, with fingers that want to tear it open, to spill the eager photographs across the table, Calista pulls out a bundle of glossy black-and-white prints. Her fear subsides at once. The photographs are good; very good. She
has captured something fleeting, something elusive. There is almost a gentleness to Alexandros's face in some of the images, a vulnerability that is seldom there in reality.

He had sat for her patiently one night, allowed her to move around him, obeyed her requests that he look this way and that. It had been one of their better evenings: one where tenderness continued, where they had even laughed together. She has captured those moments of intimacy, too; there is a palpable connection with her, the photographer, although she is invisible. Even beyond the frame, her presence is a potent one.

Calista feels as though something inside her has taken flight.

Alexandros liked having hobbies. They rarely lasted more than a month or two. Painting had been one such passion, brief, fleeting, until it became apparent that he lacked both talent and patience.

Then he became obsessed with classic motorbikes, until Maroulla put her foot down. And then the photography started. Alexandros arrived home one evening with two bags stuffed with lenses, tripods, light filters. He spent weeks poring over manuals, taking photographs, experimenting with timers. Calista had been fascinated from the beginning.

She reaches now for three of the portraits and sets them out before Alexandros on the table. She stands beside him and begins to pull each of the images closer, one by one. “You look so handsome,” she says softly. “I love your eyes in this one. And here”—she draws the second one towards him—“your expression is strong and kind at the same time.”

Alexandros nods, allowing Calista to place one hand on his. He does not pull away from her.

“I'd love to have these enlarged, to have them framed. They will look wonderful on our own wall someday.” Calista holds her breath.

Alexandros finishes his whiskey. “We can arrange that,” he says, and Calista thinks he is pleased. “I will speak to Anastasios.”

“Oh, please, let me do it,” Calista says quickly. “Let me choose the frames and have everything done in time for your birthday. Please, I'd like that—to be able to give you a gift that I've made, something unique.”

Calista wonders if she has gone too far. But Alexandros smiles at her. “All right,” he says. “I will arrange for Haridimos to drive you
there. Let me speak to him in the morning.” He puts his arm around Calista's waist. “Let's go to bed,” he says. “You can clean all of this up”—he waves one hand, dismissing the table—“in the morning.” He stands up, and Calista follows.

One of the good nights, she thinks. If only she can keep this mood; if only Imogen doesn't wake. If only, if only.

Maroulla will not be impressed to find her dining room in disarray, but Calista no longer cares. Another evening has passed, quietly. The camera is still hers. The portraits are a success.

And she has the result she was looking for. She has now earned the exquisite opportunity to leave this house on her own, even for a couple of hours, and to learn how to breathe again.

* * *

Other than some day trips with Imogen to the beach and a couple of visits to Ireland when her daughter was still a small baby, Calista's daily routine is unfulfilling and unbending. She is aware of a growing restlessness, a need to do something with her life that feels solid and significant.

“Like what?” Philip had asked on her first trip back to Dublin. He'd flown home to meet her, and they were having lunch together in the Gresham Hotel. Imogen was in the delighted care of her grandparents. Timothy and María-Luisa were captivated by their granddaughter's small, busy presence.

“I don't know,” Calista confessed. “I just have this sense that doing the rich-woman charity stuff and looking after Imogen is not enough. Besides, we'll be hiring a nanny soon. Maroulla insists. It's as though it's some kind of status thing. Then what will I do with myself?” Calista was aware that she was not being wholly truthful with her twin. It saddened her; she didn't like keeping things from him, but she couldn't share Alexandros's darker side with anyone. She felt an obscure sense of shame, as though her husband's rages were somehow her fault.

Philip grinned. “Have another baby, why don't you?”

Calista looked around for something to throw at him.

Alexandros followed her to Dublin at the weekend, as he usually did, but Calista had had almost a full week to catch up with Philip, to chat with Maggie, to watch her parents enjoy Imogen.

“She's so like you used to be,” María-Luisa said, smiling at her daughter. “Headstrong. Determined. Full of adventure.”

Together they watched as Imogen played in the back garden, climbing up onto the creaky swing, whose seat Calista and Philip used to share. She slept in Calista's old bedroom and sat at Calista's former place at the dining room table. “Holding court,” Timothy commented. “Just as you used to do.”

One afternoon, Calista came back to discover that her daughter had dived into a box containing some of Calista's childhood books and dolls. “Where did these come from?”

“Your father brought them down from the attic,” María-Luisa said proudly, as though Timothy had performed some feat of astounding valor.

Calista grinned at her father, who was looking both embarrassed and pleased with himself.

“It's not often your mother has her grandchild to dote over,” he said. “Just doing whatever I can to help.”

María-Luisa turned quietly to Calista, her dark eyes alight with mischief. “Yes,” she said, “as you can see, your father himself is quite indifferent to my grandchild.”

* * *

Later, just before Alexandros arrived, María-Luisa surprised Calista. They were washing up after dinner. Imogen was already asleep, Maggie was at the cinema, and the house had descended into a friendly, contented silence. It was the sort of silence Calista recognized instantly. She wished she could fold it away somewhere and take it back to Cyprus with her.

“You are happy, you and Alexandros?”

The abruptness of her mother's question took Calista aback. She kept her eyes down, looking at the soapy water in the basin, seeing the way the bubbles clung to her arms. “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”