The Years That Followed

by Catherine Dunne

  * * *

  The first time Calista met Rosa and the Martínez family, she’d been charmed. “Welcome,” Rosa had said, smiling. “Welcome to Bar Jaime. We are so glad you have accepted our invitation.”

  It was Fernando who’d insisted Calista visit the only bar in Torre de Santa Juanita. “You never know,” he said, “when you might need your neighbors, and these are the best anyone could have. Very few people in the village get written invitations; I’d go soon, if I were you.” And he’d smiled. “They’re all dying of curiosity.”

  Rosa had taken Calista by the hand that first evening as soon as she’d arrived. She’d introduced her to the couple behind the bar, a tall man and a tiny woman in their early fifties, Calista guessed.

  “This is Inmaculada,” Rosa said, “and this is José, my future parents-­in-law.”

  “You are most welcome, Calista,” José said. “Inmaculada and I are delighted to meet you at last.”

  Calista started then as the door slammed open and a young man staggered in, carrying two crates of beer. He was tall and thin, his black hair thick and unruly. Calista thought that he would be handsome someday, once his features had grown and matured into his adult face.

  “Jaime,” Inmaculada scolded, “I’ve told you before—one crate at a time. You’ll hurt your back.”

  The young man grinned at her. “Still fussing, Mamá,” he said, “even after all these years.” He turned to Calista. “Welcome,” he said. “I’m Jaime, and Rosa has already told me all about you.” He wiped one hand on his shirt and then held it out to Calista. She shook it, laughing. She couldn’t help seeing the sudden mix of embarrassment and dismay on the faces of his parents.

  “Jaime!” Rosa said, shocked.

  He shrugged, grinning at all of them. “What? Everyone in the village knows that this bar is a hive of gossip.” He smiled at Calista. “You should know that. It is the staff of life around here. Rosa thrives on it. One day, I tell her, she will grow fat on it.”

  “Never mind that,” José interrupted. “Calista, please sit down, and Jaime will serve you some of our best rosé.”

  The bar was light and bright and welcoming. Calista made sure to compliment Rosa on the cheerful cushions, the posies of flowers on every table, the checked tablecloths. “This is lovely,” she said, and saw Rosa light up with pride.

  “We want to put our own stamp on it, Jaime and I. José and Inmaculada are very kind—they allow us to do what we wish. You must come and see us here, as often as you like,” Rosa said, her small face vivid with smiling. “We will feed you tapas and wine and gossip.”

  José and Inmaculada joined Calista at the table. Jaime served wine that came from the family vineyard, and all four raised their glasses to Calista.

  “Off you go now, you two, and earn your keep tonight,” José said to his son. “Look after your inheritance.”

  Calista still remembers how their conversation was animated and friendly, taking them well into the night. José told Calista about his vineyard, his pride in their slow production methods. “No shortcuts for us,” he said. “We want a high-quality product.”

  The vineyard would eventually be Jaime’s, he told her.

  “But not before he gets his university education,” Inmaculada interrupted. Calista recognized the motherly firmness in her tone. “It has been a bit of a battle, but we insist. Rosa and Jaime must have something to fall back on. This is not an easy life.”

  That was almost five years ago now. Calista can still remember that first evening, a kaleidoscope of impressions and feelings etched clear and deep into her memory. The warmth of José and Inmaculada; the friendliness of Rosa and Jaime; their enthusiasm as they embarked on their first grown-up adventure together. And then there were the greetings of the villagers who dropped in throughout the long evening for a coffee or a beer, unable to hide their sidelong curiosity.

  There was a moment, just one, when Calista was afraid that someone would ask her the most natural of questions: “Have you any children?” But nobody did, and the kindness of that discretion impressed her.

  When Calista left, she took away with her a sense of ordinary, daily happiness. It was a feeling she recognized, one of love and optimism, one that recalled her and Alexandros’s beginnings back in 1966.

  The year Calista seemed destined never to leave.

  * * *

  “I am taking you to Howth,” Alexandros is saying, “to the sea. All the way across the city”—he waves one arm as though Howth lay on the other side of the world, across vast blue oceans—“where nobody knows us. We can be private there.”

  Calista is glowing. It is Saturday; the May sunshine is at its height. She is sitting in Alexandros’s sports car, its red metal gleaming in the noon light. She feels free, grown-up, and she is in love. She has also escaped—for a day on Killiney Beach, she has told her mother, “with the girls.”

  Alexandros reaches across for Calista’s hand and kisses it. “You look wonderful,” he says. His voice is soft, his eyes bright with love. “I cannot wait until we are together, always.” They take a picnic, a basket that Alexandros has filled. It contains bread, cheese, wine, olives. And baklava. It is Calista’s first time tasting baklava. Alexandros feeds it to her, morsel by morsel. Calista loves its sweet honeyed stickiness. After lunch, they lie together among the rhododendrons, and Alexandros makes love to her slowly, sweetly. Calista can taste the honey on his lips.

  Only once during that perfect afternoon does his face darken. They are talking of their future, of their families, of a life together that is full of promise.

  “What is it?” Calista says. The sudden shadow on his face frightens her.

  Alexandros comes to sitting. Calista watches him. She feels something inside her tighten.

  He begins tearing at the grass, pulling out small clumps with his fingers. Calista notices how the dry, sandy soil still clings to the tiny roots. For a moment, she is dismayed. How has she upset him?

  “My brothers,” he says finally, the words suddenly accented again. “I have to fight them for everything.” He shakes his head. “They will not take me seriously.”

  Calista wonders. They will not, or they do not already? Sometimes, meaning and nuance stumble and fall between Alexandros’s two languages. “Why not?” she asks.

  He won’t look at her, but Calista sees that his frown has deepened. “They are so much older than I am; they think I am not capable of doing all the things they do.” He shrugs. “They keep control of the business between them, all of it. They do not leave any room for me.”

  Calista is puzzled. “But aren’t you learning extra skills here? That’s what my father said. He said the experience here and in London would be invaluable to you in the future.”

  Alexandros looks at her. “My father has sent me away for a year, to perfect my English, to learn how his colleagues in Ireland and England do business. That is all good, as far as it goes. The problem is that in my absence, I cannot know what is happening at home.”

  “But . . .” Calista begins. She doesn’t know what to say, but senses that some reply is expected of her. And then, just as suddenly as he has darkened, Alexandros brightens again.

  “Come,” he says. “I want to see the fishing boats in the harbor. I want to feed the seals. I will buy you an ice cream.” And he jumps to his feet, stuffing the wine bottle, the napkins, and the remains of the baklava back into the picnic basket. His whole stance is one of impatience. “Time to go. Come, stand up.”

  Obediently, Calista stands. She takes the hand that Alexandros offers her. Before they leave, he kisses her. “You make me happy,” he tells her. “I am happy you are mine.”

  Calista smiles at him. “So am I,” she says.

  She wants to return to the subject of his brothers, but Alexandros stops her. He places one finger on her lips, silencing her. “Follow me,” he says. />
  And she does.

  * * *

  Calista remembers how all those early days seemed to be infused with light. Her first thought each morning on waking was that Alexandros loved her. Her last thought at night was that Alexandros loved her. In between those two luminous moments, her day seemed to shimmer, filled with joy and promise.

  “We will be together very soon,” Alexandros would whisper as they lay in the narrow bed in his Dublin flat. “I just need to finish my time here to my father’s satisfaction.”

  “Do your parents know about me?” Calista asks timidly one afternoon.

  Alexandros lifts her hand to his lips. “Not yet,” he says, kissing her palm. “But soon.”

  Calista wants to ask, “How soon?” but she does not. She has already seen the way Alexandros’s face clouds over when she says or does something that displeases him. Calista is never sure what it is that displeases him, and so she grows careful. She will do anything to keep the love in his green eyes, the tenderness in his embrace, the certainty of his hand in hers.

  She worries, too, about being found out. They are very careful, she and Alexandros: they go together to parts of the city that María-Luisa and Timothy would never dream of visiting. But nonetheless, Dublin is small, tight. Everyone eventually knows everyone else.

  In 1966, it is also a city without red sports cars. Calista is afraid that Alexandros’s extravagance will get them noticed. But he waves away her fears. He will take care of things, he says.

  Alexandros knows what he is doing.

  * * *

  Once, though, before the skein of lies unravels, they risk a public outing closer to home. María-Luisa and Timothy are invited to dinner somewhere in Rathgar, and Alexandros insists that the city center will be safe for Calista and him to have their first proper evening out together. He wants to show her off, he says. She is lovelier than ever, he tells her, and he is proud to have her on his arm.

  Even her father has noticed a change. Somehow, the secret hours in Alexandros’s bed have transformed Calista in a way that can be seen by others—even if they don’t know what it is they’re seeing.

  “You’re blooming, my dear,” Timothy exclaims, casting an appraising eye over his daughter. Calista blushes, terrified that her father can see right through her. María-Luisa, luckily, is not there. But Maggie is. In the midst of serving potatoes au gratin, she looks up sharply and catches Calista’s eye across the table.

  Calista looks away. “Thank you, Dad,” she says. “I think I caught the sun this afternoon.”

  Afterwards, Maggie is waiting in the hall. She tugs at Calista’s sleeve as she tries to make her way past. “You be careful,” she hisses, and her eyes are full of warning. “I seen too many girls where I come from bein’ sent away for doin’ the likes of what you’re doin’.”

  Calista wrenches her arm free from Maggie’s grip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, her tone more haughty than she has intended.

  Maggie lets her go. “I know what I’m talkin’ about,” she says fiercely. “I’ve been fendin’ for myself since I was thirteen. I hear stories, all the time.” She pauses. “An’ all those girls—they thought they’d never be caught out neither. Do you want to end up like them—locked away in a nuns’ laundry, washin’ other people’s shitty sheets?”

  Calista runs up the stairs, her anger simmering. How dare Maggie. How dare she. She throws herself on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Alexandros has told her not to worry, that he knows about such things. Nothing can go wrong. She can trust him, he says.

  He will look after everything.

  * * *

  And now, Alexandros is waiting for her at the end of the street.

  Calista watches until her parents’ car has disappeared down the driveway. It is seven thirty; she has three full hours before she needs to make her way home again. She waits until Maggie has gone out into the back garden to put the vegetable peelings onto Timothy’s compost heap. Then she eases open the front door and flees.

  Calista can feel the thump of desire as she makes out Alexandros’s dark head at the steering wheel. He leans over and pushes open the passenger door for her. “You look beautiful,” he says as she swings her legs in, knees together in one smooth movement, just as María-Luisa has taught her. Alexandros takes her hand and kisses her fingers.

  “Where are we going?” she asks, breathless from running and from love.

  “We are going to the Trocadero,” he says. “I have already booked the table. Do you know it?”

  Calista shakes her head. She is glad she has taken extra care getting ready for this evening. Her maxi-dress is flower-patterned, swishy and daring at the neckline. It is yet another secret purchase; María-Luisa has no idea how her daughter’s savings book has come under attack. Calista removed it from her mother’s desk, the desk at which María-Luisa sits to write letters to Madrid, to pay household bills, to sail her tightly run ship of domesticity.

  Calista hopes her mother will not discover its absence for at least another couple of months. She refuses to think of this as theft; this is her money, her post office savings book in her own name. She’s seventeen, after all. Surely she has the right to spend her own money in any way she wishes? So Calista has argued with herself.

  Now she sees the way Alexandros is looking at her breasts. He can’t take his eyes off her. The dress has been worth however much it cost. Calista feels powerful and sexy, grown-up and clever. She sits back in the passenger seat, pleased with herself.

  * * *

  Everything about the Trocadero restaurant thrills Calista: the unfamiliar ambience, the candles and white linen tablecloths, the deferential and unobtrusive waiters. She is sure, too, that she can spot several famous faces from the Dublin stage. Last week, Timothy had insisted on taking the family to the Queen’s Theatre in Pearse Street to see The Shadow of a Gunman.

  “Part of your heritage,” he’d said. “You should get to know O’Casey.” Calista thought María-Luisa had been bewildered by the play, but she and Philip had both been starstruck.

  “But why?” her mother had asked at the interval. “Why must we see always the violence?”

  And Timothy had looked exasperated. “The play is part of the commemoration of the 1916 Rising, my dear.” His voice had had an unaccustomed sharpness. “Our children need to understand the history of their country, violence and all.”

  María-Luisa had been silent for the rest of the evening.

  Tonight, Calista is amazed to find herself in a restaurant such as this, looking as though she dines out surrounded by famous people every night of her life. Looking as though she belongs. Alexandros smiles at her, amused.

  The waiter arrives, murmurs a greeting, and places menus on the table in front of them. He starts to say something about the evening’s specials, but Calista no longer hears him.

  A young man has just approached their table. He is tall, fair-haired, well dressed. He is also clearly tipsy. Calista can see him draw nearer over Alexandros’s left shoulder. He leers at her, his unsteady gaze somewhere below her neckline. Calista blushes, looks away as he passes.

  Alexandros is watching her. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his hand covering hers.

  She shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says. “It’s just . . . I think that man is a bit drunk.”

  Alexandros pats her hand. His eyes narrow as he watches the man move away from them. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I will protect you.”

  Some instinct makes Calista hold her tongue. She feels a crackle in the air, an electrical current that has turned into something as lethal as desire. The tipsy young man, walking back again, has just now stopped at their table. Calista does not need to look up. She can feel his presence like a cold sigh across her forearm. The hairs on her arm lift; she sees the instant arrival of gooseflesh. And she is afraid.

  “My
compliments,” the younger man slurs at Alexandros. “You are in the company of the loveliest woman in the room.” He reaches out one hand; his fingertips graze Calista’s bare shoulder. She flinches, draws back from his touch.

  Alexandros ignites. He suddenly towers over her, over the tipsy man at her side, over the waiter, and then things get confused. The table leaves the floor miraculously, scattering wine glasses, flowers, cutlery; shards of glass stun the air. And then there is blood, on her dress, on the white linen napkin that lies across her knees, on Alexandros’s knuckles.

  In the scuffle, Calista cannot tell who is who. The waiters hurl themselves into the fray; she sees them try to separate the two flailing men—although Alexandros’s punches seem to land with a lot more accuracy than the younger man’s.

  And then she is at the door; they are both at the door, Alexandros’s rage still flaming. He drags her back to the car. He says not one word until he has pushed her into the passenger seat.

  “Don’t ever, ever again look at another man while you are with me,” he says. His grip on her wrist is painful, a burning sensation that frightens her.

  “I didn’t,” she sobs. “I did nothing. One minute he was nowhere, and the next he was standing there beside me—I don’t even know where he came from.”

  Alexandros releases his hold on her. He cups her chin with one hand, shakes his head, sorrowful at her lack of understanding. “This is how much I care for you,” he says. “How much I love you. No other man has the right.” He grips the steering wheel. “You must never do that again.” And he starts the car.

  Calista cannot speak. So this is what love is; this is how true love feels. All that she has just seen now means something new, something that has been transformed, transmuted, translated into an exciting and unfamiliar language.