The Years That Followed (32 page)

pilar

Madrid, 1984

Ignacio Gómez has just telephoned. Ignacio is a very busy man.

Unlike his father, he does not make special allowances for Pilar. Gómez Senior was a man who always seemed to have arrived comfortably at his chosen destination. His was a still, grounded presence, filling each moment. He never rushed Pilar. She still misses him.

Ignacio, on the other hand, is constantly on the move: always going places but always too impatient to arrive. “Some more prospective tenants for you,” he's told her just now. “Look after them well, please.” There is no time for questions. “Call me later.”

Pilar's doorbell is pushed smartly; one loud peal bounces off the tiles of the foyer. She hurries towards the door. This is perfect timing. Both top-floor apartments have recently become vacant. Property values are on the rise again; Pilar wants to make a killing. She also wants to make a good impression. First impressions are important. She pulls open the heavy door to the street, and then it is as though everything begins to slow down.

Her surroundings grow still. They capture the earth's atmosphere and fold it away. Not even the most slender of sounds arcs its way out into the morning air. Pilar's movements become sluggish, her efforts at speech futile.

She is aware, too, that her mouth is opening and closing: a stranded fish on some startled riverbank. A riverbank above fast-flowing waters that lead only to the past. Almost two decades telescope into a narrow beam of light.

A beam that glints and shafts its way sharply through the glass of the front door; it illuminates the face of the man who now stands before her.

Because this man is Petros: Petros as he might once have been. A vigorous man in his fifties, when Pilar had not yet known him. That intense physical presence, the smooth bald head, dark beard, the brilliant eyes, although this man's eyes are green, not brown.

Time fractures. The years converge and dissolve. Pilar sees before her a strange kaleidoscope of lives lived and unlived.

Who is this man?

He has just spoken, although Pilar cannot hear a word he says. She forces herself to focus instead. She holds out one hand. “Pilar Domínguez-Lechón,” she says.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Alexandros Demitriades. My father, Petros, and Señor Alfonso Gómez were close colleagues for many years. He always spoke very highly of him.” He smiles a brilliant smile. “We are grateful for this introduction to you.” He turns for a moment towards the woman who has been silent all this time. “This is my wife, Cassandra.”

The woman leans towards Pilar and shakes her hand. She is beautiful, Pilar sees. An English rose. Blond, blue-eyed, with unlined, lightly freckled, creamy skin: the sort that has never seen too much sun. Pilar tries to pull her thoughts together. Her heart is pounding.

“I prefer to be called Sandra,” the woman is saying. “Much more modern, don't you think?” And her mouth smiles, a crimson bow that perfectly matches the shade of her dress.

“You are most welcome to Madrid,” Pilar says. And she smiles, despite the nausea that has just begun to crawl around her stomach. “I understand from Ignacio that you're interested in seeing the top-floor apartments.” Better now. This is surer territory. Pilar feels herself begin to quieten. A small area of interior calm has suddenly blossomed to her rescue.

“We are interested, yes,” Alexandros says. His expression is guarded.

Pilar is used to this. The negotiations have begun.

“Please,” she says, “come with me. You may take all the time you need to look around. When you are done, take the lift back down to the
portería
. I will wait for you there and answer any questions you may have.”

“Thank you,” Alexandros says. The three of them step into the lift together.

As they ascend, Pilar makes polite conversation about Madrid, about the area, about the exciting possibilities offered by the entire top floor.

But her mind is racing.

This man is Petros's son—there is no doubt about that—and the resemblance is remarkable. This is the once troublesome Alexandros, the man who took Petros away from her all those years ago. The man who is responsible for so many things.

And is this the young, naive girl Alexandros made pregnant? Somehow, Pilar doubts it.

Alexandros is something more, too; something that Pilar cannot quite adjust to. He is Francisco-José's half brother; her own son's half brother. Pilar is shocked at this certainty. She searches this stranger's familiar face as he speaks. She is desperate to see there some shadow of her own child.

“You are very kind,” Alexandros says as the lift reaches the sixth floor. “We will not detain you long; we have a flight to catch. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

“Not at all. It's a pleasure. Señor Gómez and I knew each other for many years. I will do whatever I can to help you.” There are nods and smiles, and Pilar opens the door to one of the sixth-floor apartments. It is looking well: the morning light makes it appear cozy and tranquil rather than old-fashioned and slightly shabby. Pilar knows that this spacious apartment is filled with potential.

She already senses Madam Sandra's keen interest, her critical eye.

“Take all the time you need,” Pilar says now, opening the door of the second apartment, “and I will see you downstairs when you are finished.”

Alexandros barely acknowledges her departure. Madam Sandra nods, her eye already taken by the views from the terrace.

Pilar leaves them to it, closes the heavy oak door, and flees.

yiannis

Limassol, 1985

Yiannis has just now returned to Limassol. It will be for the last time. There are loose ends to tie up, company business to see to before he washes his hands of all of it. Over the past two years, ­Alexandros's bitterness towards him has not lessened. If anything, it has increased.

“I'm not discussing it, Alexandros,” Yiannis said the last time his brother confronted him. “You treated Calista badly; you were unfaithful to her; you now have a new wife. Let it go. Let us be happy for however long we have together.”

Alexandros had glared at him. Yiannis pushed past him and began to organize the papers on his desk. But Alexandros would not move.

“What do you mean, I was unfaithful?” He sounded aggressive, but Yiannis knew his brother well enough to hear the layer of defensiveness that underpinned his question.

Yiannis stopped what he was doing and looked Alexandros in the eye.

“You think I don't know about Hristina?” he said softly. “You were sleeping with her from not long after Imogen was born. You think I don't know that?”

Alexandros stood up straighter. Yiannis remembered how he used to do this all the time as a small child, every time he told an untruth. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said. “If Calista told you that, then she's lying.”

Yiannis threw his hands up in the air. He no longer attempted to hide his frustration. “Why are we doing this? Why are you even
bothering? Calista knows nothing—I saw you with my own eyes. Now get out of my office, Alexandros. I have work to do.”

That was the last time he spoke to his brother. There will be no further confrontations. Alexandros and Sandra spend less and less time in Cyprus. Yiannis knows that they have now acquired a base in Madrid. Good riddance to them. He hopes they stay there.

Yiannis can now go about finishing his business here in peace.

* * *

Yiannis carries some boxes down to the car: the last remaining personal items from his office. He'll be fifty-eight in a few months, and he is looking forward to leaving this life behind. Yiannis thinks of Petros, sighing his peaceful way into the darkness of a winter night several months ago. He, Yiannis, wants his life to be different from his father's: slower, more intimate, more connected to the ones he loves. It feels good to be handing over the mantle of business to his brothers. Ari and Spyros are welcome to all of it, Yiannis thinks. He relishes this new freedom.

He longs for the future Calista has planned for them. Yiannis still thrills with gratitude to all the gods he no longer believes in that Calista loves him the way he has always loved her. A few months back, with Anne and Aristides as their witnesses, Yiannis and Calista married in their local registry office. Yiannis longs for a child. Calista thinks she is ready, but Yiannis is not so sure. He will never rush her. They have plenty of time to decide. In the meantime, he yearns for the peace and tranquillity of the woman he loves by his side. A new start; a quiet life.

It is what they both dream of, after all the years of chaos.

He knows, too, that Calista has already found their new home in Extremadura, already engaged the architect to transform it. The prophetic burn and glow of a loving future together has helped Calista, he feels, helped her in some small way to begin to bury the ghosts of the past.

Although Imogen will always be with them.

How could she not?

* * *

Spain is a part of the world with which Yiannis is unfamiliar. He has, of course, visited Madrid and Bilbao and Santander on his father's
business; but the wild and beautiful landscape of Extremadura is unknown to him.

It is unknown to both of them; that is why Calista has chosen it. She has family connections there, going back many years. Her maternal grandparents used to live there, he remembers, until the horrors of the civil war drove them out of their homeplace to the teeming anonymity of Madrid.

Yiannis unlocks the door of his car and seats himself behind the wheel. He glances at his watch. Nine p.m. Time he went home. He turns the key in the ignition. In his rearview mirror he sees the gleam of leather, the glint of light on a helmet. Odd; a motorcyclist in the car park, particularly at this time of night.

He pulls quickly out into the traffic and leaves the port of Limassol behind, heading towards the lights of the city and home.

* * *

Yiannis has seen the man on the motorbike several times over the past few days. At least, he's sure it's a man, the same man: tall, athletic-­looking, seemingly young. It makes him wonder.

The motorcyclist is, of course, unrecognizable. He is dressed head to toe in black. Black leather jacket, black leather trousers and boots, and one of those helmets with the darkened visor that makes the eyes invisible.

* * *

Yiannis parks in the underground car park of his building. He gathers his briefcase, his jacket, and the bottle of wine and the bread and cheese he's bought earlier and makes his way towards the lift. As he does so, there is the screech of rubber, the gunning of an engine, the stench of sudden heat. The noise is all at once tremendous in this greenish, low-ceilinged space.

Yiannis turns, knowing instantly what he will see.

The bike rears towards him, its front wheel lifting off the ground. For a moment, all Yiannis can think of is a boar, a matted, maddened, stampeding boar, making its murderous way towards him. He tries to step out of the way, but it's too late.

He feels himself tossed into the air, sailing away into the darkness. He feels a hot pain shooting across his chest. For a moment,
he worries about the wine bottle breaking, scattering shards of glass everywhere.

Then the boar roars on and Yiannis hits the ground, his head cracking open.

* * *

When they find him later that night, a young man and his wife returning from the theater, he is cold, his body already beginning to stiffen, his brown eyes open in surprise.

Around him, blood has blossomed everywhere, the color of a thousand poppies.

pilar

Madrid, 1985

Mr. Alexander has just shown Pilar around the finished apartment. His pride shimmers as he speaks. The living room is filled with what have to be souvenirs of the couple's foreign travels. Amid the tribal masks and glowing ceramics is a collection of small, silver-framed photographs.

Art nouveau: Pilar recognizes the style at once. Expensive. For a moment, something about the frames feels familiar; the ornate borders, the asymmetry of the design. She tries to remember where she might have seen them, to filter out other, similar memories. She knows the knowledge is packed away inside her head somewhere, but it keeps eluding her, no matter how hard she tries.

Pilar tries not to be obvious, but Mr. Alexander catches her looking. The photos are of a little girl of about seven and a toddler of around two, she guesses. Both children are dark and good-looking.

Mr. Alexander quietens at once. “My children,” he says. “Imogen and Omiros.”

Pilar understands that this is not an invitation. She murmurs something about such lovely children and swiftly changes the subject.

* * *

Florencia is keeping in touch. Pilar is grateful and impatient; she still doesn't know which feeling is the stronger.

“The baby's adoptive parents stayed with some friends in Madrid,” Florencia said when she telephoned. “Those people no longer live at
either of the addresses I have. But I've made contact with a daughter, and she's promised to get back to me.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Something of the truth,” Florencia replied. “I have to be discreet. I told her I had once been a nun and had met this couple many years ago. Some family matters have recently made it urgent that I contact them again.”

Pilar felt despondent. “And if she doesn't get back to you?”

Florencia hesitated. “Then there is one more route I can try. Don't give up hope, Pilar. We are making progress.”

Pilar put down the phone. For the rest of the afternoon she sat in her
portería,
watching without interest the comings and goings of her residents.

calista

Extremadura, 1985

It is late evening now, and Fernando, the architect, has just left.

Calista has made sure everything has been done according to Yiannis's wishes. He had loved the thought of this house, of their life here together. Calista has been careful to overlook no detail that might have given Yiannis pleasure.

The house has simple lines, light everywhere, breathing space. There is some small satisfaction in watching how it has all come together.

The garden, above all, is Calista's passion. She makes her way there now. This is where she most strongly senses Imogen and Yiannis's presence; their absence. Omiros is here, too, but that is a different kind of grief.

After Yiannis died, Calista made one last attempt to reclaim her son. She traveled to his boarding school outside Limassol and waited for hours until he finally agreed to see her. Seeing him in a uniform that looked much too big for his still-slender teenage frame, Calista wanted to crush him to her, to kiss his unruly black hair. He resisted every attempt to reach him.

Finally, Calista handed him a piece of paper with the address and telephone number of her new home in Extremadura.

“You are no longer my mother,” Omiros said. “You abandoned my father; you abandoned me. And then you slept with my uncle. You disgust me.”

“Please, Omiros. Take my contact details.”

“I don't want them,” he said. His eyes were cut stone. “Why would I want them?”

“In case you ever need me,” she said.

Her son looked at her. “I have my father,” he said. “Why would I ever need you?”

* * *

Calista loves these quiet garden hours. She loves the way everything thrives here. It reminds her of her garden in Cyprus.

She remembers the way Maroulla had written the names of native trees and plants in Calista's diligent notebook. Calista had looked them up in the dictionary and spent hours poring over their pictures in gardening books.

Mimosa; rock roses; anemones. Acacias; cyclamen; poppies. Calista loves their names, too, the way they sound when she speaks them, their taste unfamiliar on her tongue. Asphodel; bohemia tree; camel's foot tree.

Calista puts her watering can away and makes her way back inside.

She has, she supposes, made half a life.

And tomorrow is another day.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.