The Years That Followed (29 page)

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 docu
ments, 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 strangers. 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.

Calista will never forget his face as they stepped out of Prague Airport to hail a taxi. His eyes were dark with shock. He looked at her in amazement. “You never warned me it would be this cold!”

“You're the one who's the seasoned traveler!” Calista laughed. “What else is the middle of Europe going to feel like at Christmas?”

“Must be why I never traveled here in December,” he grumbled.

“Come on, follow me.” Calista took him by the hand. “I know where we can get the best mulled wine ever.”

Yiannis looked at her in surprise. “I thought you'd never been here before,” he said. “I thought that was why we chose this city together.” He looked crestfallen.

“I haven't.” Calista grinned. She waved her guidebook under his nose. “I just believe everything I read. Let's go—here's our taxi.”

She remembers how they'd walked the city in the snow, how they'd visited the castle and the museums and listened to music in all the concert halls dotted across the city. To Yiannis's own surprise, he'd loved the ballet.
Swan Lake
, Calista remembers. That was probably
one of the happiest nights of her life, sitting in that darkened, magical space, watching dancers glide across the stage. Yiannis held her hand throughout, turning to smile at her when something in the music moved him. Calista remembers how loved, how safe, how privileged she felt.

* * *

It is Yiannis who comes to tell Calista what has happened in the summer of 1983—six long years ago now.

He traveled from Limassol to London on the last flight, arriving well after midnight.

The sound of a key in the door puzzles Calista at first, then frightens her.

She puts her book facedown on the table and stands up from the sofa, tying the belt of her dressing gown more tightly around her. It is as though she is girding herself; she feels an alertness that is like a warning.

A moment later, he steps into the room. He looks crumpled; a rucksack sags across his shoulders.

“Yiannis,” Calista says, almost laughing with relief. “You startled me! I wasn't expecting you.” She begins to move towards him, then stops.

Something is not right. He has brought a strange feeling with him into the room, something that has not been there previously. The air seems to have stilled all around him, and he has not yet spoken. He looks at Calista, and she sees how gray his face is, how strained is the flesh around his eyes.

She feels a great surge of love for this man, a rush of sympathy for how suddenly tired and worn he seems. For the first time, Calista thinks how old Yiannis looks. She wants to comfort him, to care for him, the way he has so often cared for her.

But Yiannis stands there, facing her, his hands by his sides. How odd, Calista thinks. He has no luggage with him.

“Calista,” he says, and his voice breaks.

In two steps she is at his side. “Sweetheart, you look exhausted. Come and sit down.”

“Calista,” he says again, almost raising one hand, but letting it fall again at once. She sees, to her horror, that his eyes have filled.

Instantly Calista backs away from him. Somewhere, deep in her gut, she knows.

“What is it?” she says. “Tell me. Something has happened to my children. Tell me. Has something happened to my children?” She hears her voice become shrill; she hardly recognizes it as her own.

Yiannis nods, unable to speak. Calista sees the sweat on his forehead, although it is not warm.

“Tell me!” she screams. “Tell me! Tell me what has happened to my children!”

“Calista . . .” He moves towards her now, his arms open.

But Calista is beyond fear. She steps back farther, her hands warding off whatever news he is about to tell her. “Is it Imogen?” she asks.

Yiannis nods. “Yes,” he whispers. “My darling—”

“Don't,” she says. “Don't try and soften it! Tell me. Tell me!” Her voice fills the room, and Yiannis flinches. She keeps her arms extended against him. She cannot bear comfort. All she wants is to know what it is, this news he brings with him.

“There has been an awful accident,” he blurts. “At sea.”

Calista does not hear any more, although she knows Yiannis keeps speaking. She can see his lips move.

But she is howling, an unearthly sound that is high and deep and filled with despair, and she clutches at her hair and falls to her knees and wails and wails until she cries herself to quietness in the useless shelter of Yiannis's arms.

pilar

Madrid, 1983

Pilar settles herself comfortably into the hire car. Four hours along the motorway from Madrid to Badajoz, if she doesn't stop. She will, though, in Trujillo. She's always had a fondness for Trujillo. She likes its ancient air, its wide plazas, the way the bell towers at evening are conquered by flights of swifts, swooping and chittering as dusk leaches into darkness.

Pilar is filled with optimism these days. Florencia will soon be back, and Pilar's final search can begin in earnest. She knows that every day brings her closer to her son. She can feel it. And she has kept herself busy while she waits.

In the past year, Pilar has concluded some very satisfactory negotiations on another apartment building. Something for Francisco-­José, for his future, for the children he may have someday. Pilar is pleased with herself. No more poverty, Mamá, she thinks. Not for the next generation either.

She has installed Maribel and Alicia as the
porteras
of her new building. Pilar was truthful with them about her ownership. She'd watched as a mix of gratitude and envy washed across their faces; they had always been so transparent, those two. But Pilar did not reveal to them the full extent of her property portfolio; instead, she followed Señor Gómez's advice about playing her cards close to her chest. Never let the right hand know what the left hand is doing. Business is business.

Pilar has also kept her promise to Señor Gómez. She has visited
Paco a couple of times each year. Despite her urgings, he will not come to her in Madrid. His duty to the land and to his father, he tells her, must come first.

The first time she went back, Paco's joy at seeing her brought tears to Pilar's eyes. He was waiting for her as she made the final turn into the farm. She wondered how long he'd been standing there; she was at least an hour later than she'd hoped to be.

“Pilar,” he said, coming towards her as she stepped out of the car. They hugged, and Pilar was grateful for the few moments this gave her to hide her face. Although it had only been a couple of years since she last saw him—four, he later corrected her—Paco's physical resemblance to Señor Gómez had grown stronger with each passing year. A life on the land had not coarsened him. His features had all the elegant refinements of his father's.

Pilar's father, Miguel, did not seem at all pleased to see her. He was distant, monosyllabic, and turned his face away from her whenever she entered the room. She ignored him.

For the next few days, Pilar helped Paco around the farm. She went with him—only because he had begged her—to visit her brothers Javier and Carlos and their bitter wives, Mercedes and Paquita.

Once she went with him to Bar Jaime. She had never been there before, but Paco insisted that she visit with him. “It belongs to José Martínez,” Paco told her. “He owns his family vineyard now. He and his wife are really nice. Do you remember him?”

“I remember the name,” Pilar says. “If it belongs to José, why is it called Bar Jaime?” She is curious.

“It's named after José and Inmaculada's son, Jaime. He's away at school. The bar is for him when he finishes university—and the vineyard, too, I suppose, eventually.”

“Assuming he wants to come home,” Pilar said. “I wouldn't bet on it, if I were his parents.” She grins at Paco. “Torre de Santa Juanita for a twenty-something-year-old man? I don't think so.”

“Ah, but he has a lovely girlfriend called Rosa,” Paco says. “That would make a difference to any man.”

Pilar glances at her brother. She sees the sudden loneliness etched across his face. For a moment she is tempted to tell him about Francisco-­José, but she stops herself. You never knew where such a conversation might lead.

That evening, as they enter the bar, Pilar immediately feels its warmth, its lightness, its air of welcome and optimism; something unusual for the village—or at least for the village as Pilar recalls it. But then, she supposes, things can change.

“You remember José and Inmaculada?” Paco says, introducing Pilar to the smiling couple behind the bar. They shake hands.

“Yes,” Pilar says, surprised at herself. “I do remember your names. It was your parents who used to own the vineyard, isn't that right?”

“That's right.” José beams. “You have a good memory.”

“I left for Madrid twenty-six years ago,” Pilar says, “but some things about Torre de Santa Juanita remain unforgettable.” Everyone laughs.

“I would have been in my mid-twenties then,” José says. “I was tempted by the bright lights myself, but I took over the vineyard around that time.” He nods towards his wife. “So I stayed. And that's when we got married.”

“And I was a child bride,” Inmaculada jokes, “as you can clearly tell.”

It's an evening that Pilar still remembers with pleasure.

* * *

Before she returned to Madrid that first time, Paco asked her to accompany him to Badajoz. He had some business there, he said, but he didn't like driving on the main roads. Pilar can still see her father's sour expression as she and Paco drove off. He refused to go with them. He refused to waste his time, he said. Pilar did not encourage him to change his mind.

She wondered if her father still remembered—as she did—the last time, the only time, they visited that city together. Miguel took her there just the once, when Pilar can have been no more than seven. “She has reached the age of reason,” he insisted, when Pilar's mother tried to prevent him from taking her. “It is time she knew.”

Pilar had looked from one face to the other, bewildered, afraid that she was the unknowing cause of yet more trouble between Mamá and Papá. The house was filled with something uneasy all over again—something that felt heavier than air and might fall to the ground at any moment, bringing her father's rage with it.

“She's a child,” her mother said, warning her husband with her eyes.

But Miguel shrugged and took Pilar by the hand anyway, none too gently.

They arrived at the
plaza de toros
in Badajoz; all she remembers is being there and her father's words as they stood together, sharing an awkward closeness, looking out over what seemed to Pilar to be a vast, sandy wasteland.

“You asked me,” her father said, not looking at her but at something in the middle of the
plaza
that Pilar could not see, no matter how she strained, “about your grandfather and grandmother. Did you not?”

Pilar nodded, feeling guilty. Should she not have asked? The grim set of Papá's face made her wish she hadn't. Somehow, she knew then that she didn't want to know more. She didn't want to hear whatever it was that was making Papá look the way he did at that moment. She preferred his angry face, not this black and twisted one that looked, astonishingly, as if it might collapse into tears at any moment.

“They were murdered,” he said. His tone was cold, blunt. “My parents were both murdered. Think how lucky you are to have yours.” His arms were folded and held tightly against his chest, although it was not cold, not that day.

But it was, however, silent. No birdsong. No wind. No movement that created a rustling of any kind. The stillness made Pilar suddenly afraid. She wanted to go home, but her father had not finished yet.

“The fascists shot them,” he said, and something about his tone sounded almost curious, wondering, as if he still couldn't quite believe it himself. “And then they burned their bodies. Four thousand of them. This is what people do to one another.”

Pilar began to cry. She didn't know who the fascists were, and she didn't like this story.

The sound seemed to remind Papá of her presence. “What are you crying for?” he demanded. “Nothing bad has ever happened to you.”

Pilar had no answer for that. She remembers feeling that, in some way she did not understand, her escape from suffering must have been the cause of Papá's, maybe even the cause of her grandparents'. She felt guilt settle itself around her, a thick, hairy blanket that chafed against her skin every time she moved.

“Come,” her father said at last. “It is time to go home.”

Pilar does not remember the journey back to the farm either. But
that afternoon, the silence of the bullring, her father's face, his tightly folded arms, these have all stayed with her. The Butcher of Badajoz, she learned later. One of Generalísimo Franco's henchmen; one of the many atrocities of the civil war. And Juan Yagüe had done his butchering a mere three years before she was born. Pilar wonders now, as she has often wondered in the intervening years, what happens to people when all that brutality seeps its poisonous way through the generations.

As she drives the final few kilometers to the farm now, Pilar promises herself once again that she will try to be kind and tolerant towards her father. If not for his sake, then for Paco's. That day in Badajoz has come back to haunt her more than once.

This is what people do to one another.

Pilar does not forgive Miguel; she can never forgive him for the life he gave her mother. But she has often asked herself what drove him to become the man he was. His fists, his boot, his rage.

In Carlos and Javier both, Pilar has seen some of her father's darkness. She thinks of their wives, Mercedes and Paquita, and she wonders.

You never know what goes on behind people's front doors, she thinks. All those gleaming surfaces hiding something.