The Years That Followed (19 page)

“Such a handsome man, your Alexandros,” one of the women remarks. “And he clearly adores you.” Someone else makes a joke about Irish sirens and how sweetly songs must have been sung and spells woven in order to snare the unwary Cypriot sailor. All the women laugh, and Calista smiles politely.

She sits, her hands clenched around her glass of champagne, her mouth clamped shut.

* * *

As they leave the restaurant, Alexandros holds Calista's hand, puts one arm around her shoulder. He stops walking, just for a moment, and stands facing her while he pins her wrap in place. “It's a little cool, my dear,” is what he says. Calista will always remember that. She thanks him, says what a lovely time she's had, walks on with her arm in his.

They enter the lift in the underground car park, and Calista watches as Alexandros presses “level two.” And then he punches her.

She is thrown backwards, her shoulders connecting painfully with the stainless-steel wall behind her. At first, she doesn't know what is happening. The lift, she thinks, puzzled: something's wrong with the lift. Why has it jerked like that?

Then Alexandros brings his face close to hers, so close that the pores of his skin seem huge. That is all Calista can focus on: they fascinate her, those pores, their size, their oily blackness.

She knows better than to ask, but she asks anyway. Shock makes her brave. “What have I done, Alexandros? Why are you so angry with me?”

He pulls away from her. “You need to ask?” He seems puzzled.

“Yes. I need to ask. What did I do to make you angry?”

The lift comes to a halt; the doors part smoothly. Alexandros turns his back on her and begins walking towards the car. Calista runs after him, begging for an explanation. She hates herself, but she begs nonetheless. “Alexandros, please, speak to me. Please, Alexandros.” She is suddenly terrified that he will drive off and abandon her.

He finally comes to a halt and looks at her over the roof of the car as he opens the driver's door. He points his finger at her. “The Englishman,” he says. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Calista freezes. What Englishman? Her husband is mad, she suddenly thinks. Quite mad. Before she can reply, there is a squealing of tires against the synthetic floor of the car park, and Alexandros accelerates away from her. Calista watches as the car speeds up the ramp, brake lights red for an instant, before they disappear into the night.

She doesn't know how long she stands there, shivering. She cannot think, can only feel where the side of her jaw has begun to throb. She touches it, her fingers trembling. It hurts. How is she going to get home?

Calista hears voices in the distance, laughter. Instinctively, she hides behind one of the concrete pillars. She hears people call good night, cars starting; there is the shriek of tires again, and then she sees Yiannis. He waves after a couple of the departing cars, then stops to light a cigarette. He is only a few yards away from her. Relief makes Calista suddenly weak. She holds on to the pillar and calls his name, softly, so as not to startle him.

His eyes widen when he sees her. “Calista! What's wrong? What are you doing here? Where's Alexandros?” He looks around him, confused. Then he throws his cigarette on the ground and walks towards her quickly, his face filling with concern.

“He's gone,” Calista says. She cannot look at him, so she looks at the ground instead. “Alexandros has gone.”

“Gone?” he repeats.

“Yes—we . . . had a bit of a misunderstanding.” Calista raises her head, looks directly at her brother-in-law. She makes sure that her hair falls across her left cheek, hiding her jaw. She hopes that admitting to a misunderstanding with Alexandros will be enough, that Yiannis will not ask any more. All couples have rows, after all. Believe what I'm saying, she thinks, and just take me home. And soon she can feel the ground begin to sway and lurch beneath her feet again. She clutches at the pillar, and Yiannis reaches out to her. He takes her arm.

“Come with me,” he says. He walks her towards his car, opens the door, and eases her gently into the passenger seat. Then he reaches into the back and hands her a bottle of water. “Here, drink this,” he says, and then: “Lean forward, put your head down for a moment. You're very pale.”

When she can finally speak, Calista says: “Thanks, Yiannis. I'm fine now.” Then it strikes her. Alexandros will be furious if Yiannis drives her home. It would mean that his eldest brother knew what he had just done, and she would suffer for that. She sits up straight. “I must be going, really. I should get a taxi.”

“Nonsense. You'll do no such thing. I'll take you,” Yiannis begins, but Calista stops him.

“No, please. Alexandros wouldn't like it if . . .” She trails off.

“If what?” Yiannis says. And then, immediately: “Calista, what on earth has happened to your face?” Quickly, too quickly, he has reached out, and his hand brushes against the side of her jaw. Calista shivers; his touch is ice against the hot ache that simmers underneath the surface of her skin. She tries to turn away from him, but he won't let her go. He is silent for a moment, and then, in a voice filled with disbelief, he says: “Alexandros hit you.” It is not a question.

Calista says nothing.

“My God.” He sits back in the driver's seat, his face aghast. In
the cold artificial light of this sudden underworld, his features look almost green.

“Please,” Calista says, her voice much calmer than she feels. “Just put me in a taxi, Yiannis, please. I don't have any money with me, but—”

“Stop,” Yiannis says. He raises both hands in the air. “Money is not an issue—please do not even mention it. If that is what you wish, I will of course find you a taxi.” He lowers his hands and grips the steering wheel again, although he is not about to drive anywhere. His knuckles show white against the dark leather. Calista risks a sidelong glance at him and sees the grim set of his face. She is afraid that she has just made everything worse.

“Sit until you feel better,” Yiannis says quietly. “Then I will take you across the road to the bar. They will call us a taxi from there.”

As Calista sips at the water, something strikes her. “Who is the Englishman?” she asks. “The Englishman who was there tonight?”

Yiannis looks at her, surprised. She can see that he thinks it an odd question. “David Wright,” he says. “We'll be doing a lot of business with his firm in the future. Alexandros brought him on board.” Yiannis stops, suddenly understanding. “He admired you,” he says quietly. “He said so to Alexandros—I was there. Is that what this is about?”

Calista lifts her head and looks at Yiannis. “I must have shaken his hand,” she says. “I don't even recognize his name. Jemal was the only one I spoke to.” Then she covers her face with her hands and sobs. Calista no longer cares that Yiannis knows, no longer cares what the family might say. It isn't her family, after all. Nothing on this island is hers except her children and this shame. She wants all this grief, all this helplessness to end.

“Calista,” Yiannis says. He goes to place his hand on her shoulder. Without meaning to, Calista flinches. She moves away from him, pressing herself against the passenger door, poised to escape.

“I'm sorry,” he says. He raises his hands again, this time in surrender. His voice is quiet. “Forgive me. I will, of course, respect your privacy.”

Calista nods without looking at him. “I'm better now,” she says. She opens the door of the car and steps out, the smell of tires and heat and rubber suddenly making her nauseous again. She stands up
straight. Hang on, she tells herself. Just get a grip; get yourself out of here and home.

Home. The thought of it fills her with sudden yearning. Her Dublin bedroom, crammed with cumbersome furniture and the smell of familiarity. Philip's room down the hallway. Maggie's blunt affection.

Calista is all at once overwhelmed by the memory of her last visit to Dublin, during the summer of 1973.

They were on Killiney Beach, she, her parents, and the two children. It was one of those glorious sunny days, a surprise event in any Irish summer. María-Luisa had brought a picnic, and Timothy came laden with buckets, spades, a fishing net for Imogen, and deck chairs. Calista laughed at their enthusiasm.

“You used to love your fishing net,” Timothy insisted. “We'd stand at the water's edge for hours. You'd never catch anything, of course, but that didn't seem to matter. Having the possibility was the point.”

Calista watched them—her father with Imogen, paddling, her mother cuddling Omiros. She remembered the stolen, secret day on Killiney Beach with Alexandros, and her eyes filled. Horrified, she turned away from her mother. She couldn't let her see; she mustn't let her see. Nothing must spoil this beautiful morning. Calista tried to control the tears, but memories of that awful dinner party a few weeks back, with the American women, Cindy and Zoe, were suddenly too much for her.

María-Luisa touched Calista on the shoulder. “What is it, my dear? What's wrong?”

Calista shook her head, half tearful, half smiling. “I miss home,” she said. “I miss you and Dad and Philip. I wish I didn't live so far away.” She bit her lip. Enough.

“I know. We wish it also. I know how hard it is.” María-Luisa took Calista's hand and squeezed it. “We are so happy to have you. You must come to us if we can help to make things easier. Ask for anything you need, anything at all.”

That is what home is, Calista thinks now. The unwavering affection of her parents. A sanctuary for her and her children. Somewhere she can breathe.

That's what Calista wants.

She wants to go home.

* * *

Alexandros never speaks of that night afterwards. He doesn't even ask how she got home. Calista never mentions it. But it is there between them. A solid edifice of change. It is the night that Calista makes her decision, and she still remembers the exact moment at which she did.

Yiannis pays the taxi driver to take her back to Alexandros. The man's face lights up at the generous tip. Yiannis turns to Calista to say good night, and his face is troubled. She sees that his eyes are filled with questions she cannot answer. For a moment, she thinks he is about to say something to her, and she cuts him off. She can't bear to have his sympathy, his words of comfort.

“Good night, Yiannis,” she says quickly.

“Good night, Calista.”

She can see his reluctance in the way he steps away from the taxi. Calista leans back her head. The interior of the car smells of pungent air freshener, and she can feel her stomach begin to shift again. She fumbles at the handle and opens the window, just a crack, and allows the cool night air to wash over her, to cleanse her. Then she closes her eyes and asks herself: What am I doing?

Calista is no longer sure how she has ended up living a life that was never meant for her. She cannot pinpoint the precise moment when her future had fallen away from her and another had taken its place.

The only thing she is certain of is that she has become a refugee, fleeing from a present that is not of her making.

And, perhaps more than anything else, she is tired of feeling ashamed.

pilar

Madrid, 1974

When Pilar wakes, she does not know where she is. The room smells of sweat and sex and something else she cannot name, not yet. Her mouth is dry and gritty. Her head has started to pound. She begins to ease herself into sitting and feels the cheap quality of the nylon sheets underneath her naked legs. Light has begun to filter through the badly fitting curtains, but not enough to give her an idea of what time it might be.

The body in the bed beside her stirs, and suddenly Pilar remembers. The bar. The night before. The young man with the whiskey. Oh God.

He wakes now, and in the gray dimness of the early light, Pilar makes out his shape as he props himself up on one elbow.

“Good morning,” he says.

Pilar comes immediately to standing. “Good morning.” She hears him fumble at the lamp as she pulls her clothes towards her, dressing as quickly as she can.

“Hey, what's your hurry?” he says.

Pilar hears the sharp click of a switch, and light pools abruptly around his bedside table. She sees the glasses, the cigarette butts, the remains of a cheap bottle of wine. The young man turns to look at her, his eyes hopeful.

Nausea clenches a fist at the base of Pilar's throat. “I'm late for work,” she says, and smiles at him.

He frowns, looking at his watch. “It's not even five,” he says.

Pilar leans forward and kisses him lightly. “I start at six,” she says. “I'm a nurse. I have to fly.”

“When can I see you again?” The young man—what was his name?—is already struggling with the sheet, his feet seeking the floor. He grabs a piece of paper and a pen, thrusts them at Pilar. “Will you write down your number for me?”

“Of course.” Pilar takes the pen and paper from him. Past experience has taught her to be cautious in these situations. You never know when a man might turn nasty. She scribbles a fictional number and hands the piece of paper back to him. “Call me tonight,” she says. “I should be home by eight.”

He grins at her. Pilar feels the lightness of relief settle around her. It's OK. He's not going to make any trouble. She has no memory from the time they left the bar together last night. But she's not telling him that. Her nausea increases.

“I'll call you then,” he says. “That was great. Let's do it again soon.”

Pilar flees.

* * *

Outside, the day is struggling towards dawn. Pilar needs a coffee, badly, but she is afraid to linger in the neighborhood in case Eduardo—­that's his name—tries to pursue her. She hurries down the steps of the Metro, already planning her journey home; she'll take a detour or two, just in case.

She'd been followed only once before: just once, but that man's silent tenacity had frightened her. She'd spotted him on the Metro, pursuing her, then again on the bus, and finally in El Corte Inglés, where she had taken refuge. She'd hidden in the women's changing rooms for over an hour, finally slipping out through a fire door that someone had carelessly left open. At the time, Pilar had promised herself never again. She'd spent days looking over her shoulder afterwards. At night, she dreamed of being trapped, or being held captive. The dreams paralyzed her, and she would wake, sweating, her heart hammering.

But three, maybe four months later, she broke that promise to herself, and the whole cycle started all over again. The thrill of the unknown, the sharp, jagged edge of danger, the satisfaction of the conquest. It all helped her to forget; it helped to fill that place where her courage should have been.

Where her son should have been.

Pilar buys her ticket now and boards the first train. It is almost empty: just some sad-eyed men and women on their way to, or from, some dead-end job, the kind the night city specializes in. Nobody speaks. A few people smoke. The train rattles its way towards the next stop.

Suddenly, Pilar cannot breathe. It is as though she has a stone in her chest. Somebody's fist is around her heart, squeezing. The light in the carriage turns blue and grainy, everything slows down, and Pilar is afraid she is going to be sick. She tries to stand, but her legs no longer work. The last thing she sees is a startled, unshaven face looming over her, the mouth making soundless words of comfort, or blame, or anger; Pilar cannot be sure.

And then, all the rest is darkness.

* * *

The hospital doctor looks to be about fourteen. Pilar is shocked. How can she trust the diagnosis of a child? She struggles into sitting. She's not sure how much time has passed since they brought her here. One day? Two? The residents of her building won't be pleased to find her missing.

The doctor doesn't bother with the formalities. “You had a panic attack, Señorita Domínguez,” he says. “Your heart is fine. Your bloods are fine. When you feel up to it, you can go home.”

“Panic attack?” Pilar looks at him blankly.

“Yes. When you are under a lot of stress, the body can often mimic the symptoms of a heart attack. Very frightening, but essentially harmless.” He pauses and looks at her more kindly. He flips over a page on his clipboard. “What age are you, señorita?” he asks.

“Thirty-five.”

He frowns and looks at her more closely. “Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”

Pilar thinks about that. “Yes,” she says slowly. “Yes, I have.”

“I can prescribe something for you, if you like. Or we can try to arrange an appointment with the hospital psychiatrist.”

Pilar looks at him in horror. “No,” she says. “No, I'll be fine. I know what I need to do.”

She isn't going near any psychiatrist. Nor is she going to succumb
to Valium or any of its sisters; she has already seen what that did to Señora Ochoa—third floor right—last year. The woman had become listless, vacant-eyed, hardly able to carry on a conversation. No, Pilar isn't having any of that.

She starts to get out of bed.

“Just a moment,” the doctor begins, but Pilar holds up one hand.

“You said I could go.” Her voice is firm, steady. “I am going home. As I say, I know what I have to do.”

The young man shrugs. An even younger-looking nurse helps Pilar to her feet.

“There is still some paperwork . . .” the doctor begins.

“Fine,” Pilar says. “Where do I sign?”