The Years That Followed

by Catherine Dunne

  But now, everything is different. Life has given Pilar a second chance. All the years ahead are full of luminous promise.

  Pilar has learned how to be patient, how to behave, how not to rock the boat. Her graying hair, her hesitancies, and her stoop are part of the suit of armor she gathers around her while she deals with all those lives that inhabit her building. Pilar has learned to keep her gaze just below theirs; most of the residents prefer not to have eye contact. She has learned that they like to come and go unnoticed. She lets them believe they are indeed unnoticed.

  But, from the small rectangular window in the door of her portería, Pilar watches them. Waits until they leave to fulfill whatever purpose they have, to travel to whatever daily destination they have.

  In the mornings she ticks them off her list, one by one. In the same notebook, she keeps a tally of the money that each one owes her. She has learned, in the past, how it is often convenient for people to forget.

  She watches and waits, waits and watches.

  And she has also learned that with most of them, what she sees is merely surface. Underneath, she is sure, they are all hiding something.

  calista

  Extremadura, 1989

  * * *

  It is now late evening and the air is glowing. Calista doesn’t know how long she has been sitting here, gazing out the large circular window that captures the landscape below.

  This is her favorite time of day. She has always loved the way there is no dusk here. The way the day plunges bravely into night, with no wishy-washy hour of grainy light in between. The crickets continue their nightly racket, the smell of jasmine intensifies, and the great red ball of the sun disappears with predictable efficiency behind the horizon.

  Calista knows that if she keeps looking, she can postpone the moment that awaits her in the room at the top of the stairs, a room now shaded by the dying embers of evening.

  From here, Calista can see the lights of the nearby villages, the silvery gleam of painted houses, the serried groves of olive trees. Occasionally, a motorbike stammers along the road below her, punctuating the quiet air. She watches the way night settles across the countryside, the way shapes shift and alter in the rapid darkness. Hills become folded predators; farmers’ shacks menace the crouching fields. It is possible to see for miles: in the distance, a butter-colored moon spills stillness onto the darkness below.

  Here, at this vantage point right at the top of the hill, no approach, no retreat goes unnoticed. Calista had chosen this site so that nothing could ever again take her by surprise.

  She leaves the landing now and makes her way up the final steps of the stairs. She switches on all the lamps, illuminating the vast upper story—an open-plan living room surrounded by glass on all four sides. The soothing sea-green shades bathe this room in a wavery light during the hot afternoons. Then it is like being underwater, in a different element, where life ripples along at a different pace. Sometimes, when there is no air on either the upper or the lower terrace, Calista sits here for an hour or two, reading, dozing.

  She designed this house herself, along with Fernando, a young local architect who was keen to embrace her ambitious plans. Above all, he shared Calista’s enthusiasm for the work of Frank Lloyd Wright. “This will be my tribute to him,” Fernando had said, his eyes alight. “He is my hero.” The curving staircase, the light-filled rooms, the local stone which made the house seem to emerge, fully formed, out of the landscape: all had been talking points in the neighboring villages during the year of its construction.

  The mad, solitary Irishwoman: Calista had heard the whispers, the rumors, the speculation that animated the nighttime conversations in José and Inmaculada’s bar. She’d been amused by all of it at the time.

  These days, once night falls, one of Calista’s more constant routines is to watch with the darkness, and to remember. Once, Rosa asked her if being so visible made her feel vulnerable. “Don’t you mind?” she’d said. “The way that people can see when you’re alone?” The question had surprised Calista. She’d never thought about that, not here. Here, her house was her sanctuary. Within it, life was safe, orderly. Contained. That was why she had chosen the location in the first place. Besides, she was surrounded by so much rugged beauty.

  Calista has always wanted to believe that beauty is a protection in itself.

  She reaches into a cupboard and takes out a bottle of whiskey. She pours herself a generous measure and sits, facing the fireplace. No water, no ice in the whiskey. Her father had taught her that, a long time ago. He disdained such frivolous fashions, and Calista has followed his example. She allows herself to smoke only in the evenings, and she lights a cigarette now, drawing the smoke deeply, pleasurably, into her lungs. Her head feels instantly light. She sips at the whiskey. Soon, she will feel tired enough to sleep.

  As she smokes, she lets her eyes drift towards the gallery of black-and-white portraits that make up the one startling wall of the chimney breast. They are as familiar to her as her own face. In a way, they are her own face. Her gaze alights on the central photograph: a man, young, dark-haired, handsome, but not in any conventional way. He has a strong, commanding face; clear, brilliant eyes.

  Calista has kept this portrait of Alexandros, no longer out of love but out of the desire never to forget. On either side of this man, satellites orbiting the moon, are the bright faces of two young children. Smiling faces, unknowing faces, gazing off into the future.

  Tonight, Calista welcomes the unraveling of emotion that comes as she looks at him, at all of them.

  All that I’ve loved, she thinks. All that I have ever loved.

  She cannot put it off any longer. Calista sits back, nurses her glass, and allows herself, finally, to remember.

  pilar

  Madrid, 1989

  * * *

  Pilar cuts the string on the bundles of letters that Jorge, the postman, has just delivered. Juan Pablo is not here yet, and Pilar has begun to feel irritated. There is a lot to do today. Above all, Juan Pablo needs to see to the front door, which has once again begun creeping open of its own accord.

  Pilar begins to sort the envelopes into piles according to each floor. There are a few thick, creamy envelopes for Madam Sandra: invitations, Pilar presumes, to the cocktail parties that she seems to attend endlessly, and never in the same outfit twice. There are several for Mr. Alexander, too, who has numberless social occasions of his own.

  One of nature’s gentlemen, Juan Pablo likes to call him. Pilar isn’t so sure about that: there is a steel to Mr. Alexander, a central core of selfishness. Nobody becomes that kind of rich by being nice to other people. Pilar has no doubt that Mr. Alexander’s world revolves entirely around Mr. Alexander.

  Just like his father, Pilar thinks, the thought assaulting her out of nowhere. Stop right there, she tells herself sternly. Stop it at once. This is neither the time nor the place.

  * * *

  It is almost ten o’clock now, and Pilar is agitated. Juan Pablo has telephoned to say that he has been delayed, that there is a traffic accident. He has stopped off for a coffee; the police say the junction will take at least another hour to clear. He will be there as soon as he can. Pilar hates these sudden changes to her routine. She also hates it that Juan Pablo is lounging in a cafe somewhere chatting and smoking cigarettes while she is anxious to get on with the day’s tasks. But at least he rang; at least that.

  It feels that events this morning are lining up to conspire against her. There is no sign of Mr. Alexander, and neither is there a phone call to the portería from Madam Sandra.

  Pilar suddenly realizes that she hasn’t seen the owners of the top floor all weekend. In itself, that’s not all that unusual: Madam Sandra and Mr. Alexander often stay home for days on end, but they usually call on Pilar for something. They have visitors who arrive and leave loudly, their Mercedes-Benzes and chauffeurs waiting patiently outside unt
il well after midnight. The couple has always entertained lavishly. Their terrace, which wraps around the entire front of the building, is large enough to accommodate a table for twenty. The terrace itself is like a lush garden. Madam Sandra has filled it with exotic plants and shrubs, and Pilar has often admired the way the sound of cool, trickling water seems to come from every direction.

  Madam Sandra is an excellent cook. Pilar knows this because Mr. Alexander once told her so: told her the whole story of how he had stormed his now wife’s restaurant in the center of London and carried her off with him the very first time he had dined there. Madam Sandra was listening to this tale, one eyebrow arched at her husband’s effusiveness.

  “Don’t exaggerate, darling,” she said, but she was smiling. “You had to storm the citadel a little longer than you like to admit.”

  Mr. Alexander had shrugged good-humoredly but turned to Pilar, as though asking her to choose between his wife’s narrative and his. “Mine’s the better story, though, Pilar, isn’t it?”

  And she’d smiled, rightly guessing that no real answer was required.

  Pilar has often earned a quiet few thousand pesetas herself before the contract cleaners arrive to clear up after one of Madam Sandra’s posh dinner parties—either those that take place in the vaulted dining room or outside on the terrace. Pilar has never been asked to serve, though. Madam Sandra employs young, slim, handsome waiters for that. Never women, and Pilar has always found that interesting. She wonders whether Mr. Alexander’s wife needs to keep her husband’s wandering eye under control.

  Like father, like son.

  On party nights, the young waiters arrive in the late afternoon and are gone by eleven. They are all silent, dark-eyed, watchful; they look like brothers. Pilar is convinced that they, too, are Cypriots, although she has never heard them speak.

  All at once, Pilar realizes that not only has she not seen or heard from Madam Sandra and Mr. Alexander over the last three or four days, but neither have there been any deliveries of food, or wine, or flowers.

  Pilar is becoming more and more uneasy. Perhaps they have suddenly taken ill. Perhaps they are suffering from food poisoning; so much food goes off so quickly in this heat. Perhaps—and here Pilar begins to perspire—perhaps they already made an arrangement with her to look after things while they took a long weekend away, and Pilar has somehow forgotten. Mr. Alexander and Madam Sandra have always traveled a lot—sometimes at a moment’s notice, but they’ve never failed to let her know when they would be back.

  Pilar is sure she would never forget something as important as that. But she feels a chill flicker of doubt nonetheless, and, just in case, she riffles through the pages of her notebook in a fever of anxiety. Nothing. She gets up from her chair and begins to pace. The golden rule is that Mr. Alexander and Madam Sandra must never be disturbed. That has always been clear. That is one of the reasons they live on the top floor.

  Pilar can feel her anxiety grow. This Tuesday is also the day for the window cleaners. Madam Sandra never forgets: she is very methodical in her domestic arrangements. She likes to be present when the men arrive, but she never stays. She returns as soon as they have finished, inspects the work, and dismisses them when she is satisfied.

  Pilar glances at her watch. She will have to call Madam Sandra, if only to inquire whether there is to be any change to the day’s arrangements. The window cleaners will be here in half an hour. It’s most annoying that Juan Pablo is late. Pilar makes her way back to the phone in the portería, easing herself into the old armchair, positioned as usual for optimum viewing of the foyer. She hesitates, then lifts the receiver and dials the number of the top floor. There is no response. She tries again. Still no answer.

  Pilar replaces the receiver and sits for a moment, thoughtful. She has no need to consult her notebook to inform herself of what she must do in such extraordinary circumstances. She knows all the residents’ preferences by heart. She will try a third time to call them, and if there is still no response, then she will take the lift to the top floor. If the door is unanswered, she has permission to use her key and enter the apartment to supervise whatever work needs to be done. But this has never happened; Madam Sandra has never yet forgotten.

  Their phone rings out.

  Five minutes later, Pilar is at the heavy oak door that leads to the top-floor apartment. She hesitates before she knocks, pressing her ear to the warm wooden surface. She can hear nothing. She looks at the door’s glass eye, imagining herself being seen from the inside: foreshortened, fish-eyed, rigid with anxiety. Then she knocks, twice, waiting a couple of minutes each time for a response. One of them might be in the shower, or still asleep, or they might be . . . When there is no answer, Pilar inserts her key in the lock and pushes the door open.

  As she does so, the smell assaults her. She cannot avoid it: the force of its onslaught makes her stagger. For a strange moment, Pilar remembers the mouse, caught in a trap in the corner of her bedroom downstairs. She’d forgotten she’d set it, and the sweet, sickly scent of decay had driven her mad for days until she found the small, weeping, blackening corpse, tracking it down by making her way around the apartment on her hands and knees.

  This here, she thinks suddenly, must be some mouse.

  “Mr. Alexander,” she calls, standing with one foot just over the threshold, ready, always ready, to retreat. “Madam Sandra?” She can hear the appeal in her voice. There is a stillness to the room that is unnerving. As though nothing has moved here for days. She can hear the low hum of the air-conditioning; but despite its coolness, the air is thick with something that Pilar does not have the words to name. She feels her knees begin to tremble. Her palms are damp, the key sticky in her grasp.

  She opens the door to the vast living room. Nothing. Frightened now, compelled to move forward yet dreading what she might be about to discover, Pilar puts her hand on the bedroom door.

  “Señor?” she calls. “Señora?”

  When she pushes her way in, the overpoweringly fetid air makes her gag. Her eyes water. The angry, insistent buzzing of a million glassy flies, their bodies fat, their wings blue-veined and translucent, tries to drive her back. Our territory, they say, swooping around her head in a cloud of rage. Ours.

  Pilar puts one hand to her mouth—she cannot be sick, not here. With the other, she tries to wave away the flies. But what she sees has made her throat close over. She is unable to speak. Around and around inside her head, the words of her mother’s prayer keep pulsating. The holy words seem to mimic the furious rhythm of the bluebottles’ buzzing. Almighty God, have pity on us, help us in our hour of need. Almighty God, have pity on us, help us in our hour of need. Over and over again it goes.

  But Pilar knows that the woman on the bed before her is beyond pity, beyond help. She is naked, her body marble-like against the blood-soaked satin sheets. Her arms are by her sides, her palms facing upwards as though in supplication. Underneath her breast, there is a single, scarlet wound. Pilar begins to shake, but something drives her forward.

  She moves away from Madam Sandra, trying not to look back. She calls out Alexander’s name: “Mr. Alexander, are you here? Mr. Alexander?” But there is no reply. Pilar pushes open the bathroom door. At first, she cannot make out what she is seeing. There are signs of struggle everywhere: towels are strewn across the floor, toiletries scattered; shards of glass crunch underfoot. Everywhere there is a buzzing blue cloud of flies, drunkencrawling, sated. A great mound of white stuff in the bath, slumped to one side, looks for all the world like a wash-day bundle, just like in the launderette where Pilar once worked during her early days in the capital. She comes closer, still calling Mr. Alexander’s name.

  And then she sees Mr. Alexander’s head, just visible beneath the taps. The smoothness of the skin, the now delicate contours of his familiarity fill Pilar with an agonized tenderness. For one crazed moment, she longs to reach out and touch that forehead in all
its vulnerability. She recoils at once, her hands flying to the base of her throat, guarding herself against attack. Mr. Alexander is dressed in his white bathrobe, one foot protruding palely at an odd angle. Underneath this foot, the bath is filled with an opaque red-black substance, one that looks both thick and sticky, its surface dotted with the bloated bodies of bluebottles.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God. Jesus help me.” Pilar stands there, rocking back and forth to the heartbeat of her whispered words of prayer. She cannot think of what else to do. The rocking is silent, comforting. Perhaps she’ll do nothing at all—just stand here and wait until . . .

  Finally, Pilar jerks into awareness: What am I doing? She finds sudden strength in her legs, just enough to flee. And then she runs, weeping, out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, out the door towards the lift, keeping one hand clapped over her mouth, just in case. She knows that she shouldn’t touch anything: something she has learned from all those cop shows she watches on late-night TV. She covers one hand with her apron and pulls the apartment door closed behind her. She cannot shake off what she has just seen. Wave after wave of nausea fills her mouth with a sickly, watery substance. She clings to the metal bars of the lift door. What is she going to do?

  The police. She must call the police.

  Pilar pulls open the door of the lift, hardly hearing the metal shriek. She tries to push the button for the ground floor, but her fingers won’t work properly; they feel like someone else’s, someone without strength or endurance. She tries to breathe deeply, to still the trembling of her hands. Suddenly, the lift jerks into life and begins its slow, almost rocking descent. She fumbles in the pocket of her apron, grips the single key to the portería, prays that she will not meet any of the residents when she reaches the entrance foyer. All she wants is to get to her telephone: that solid, black Bakelite instrument that will allow her to relinquish responsibility for the horror she has just witnessed.