The Years That Followed

by Catherine Dunne

  My photographs, Calista thinks. She hangs up Alexandros’s jacket, retrieves the briefcase, and comes back to the table. “Shall I take these out of your way?” She gestures towards the plates and dishes that are scattered over the table.

  Alexandros nods, all of his concentration now focused on his cigar.

  When Calista returns, there are two fat envelopes in front of him. She recognizes at once where he’s had the prints developed: Anastasios Papadopoulos, the island’s most famous photographer. He smiles at her again.

  “Anastasios says that these are quite good.” Alexandros nods at her approvingly. “Not of a high standard, of course, but not bad at all.” He pauses. “I am glad you have made such good use of my camera.”

  “I’m pleased you like them.” Calista keeps her voice steady, casual.

  Alexandros pushes one of the envelopes towards her. Slowly, with fingers that want to tear it open, to spill the eager photographs across the table, Calista pulls out a bundle of glossy black-and-white prints. Her fear subsides at once. The photographs are good; very good. She has captured something fleeting, something elusive. There is almost a gentleness to Alexandros’s face in some of the images, a vulnerability that is seldom there in reality.

  He had sat for her patiently one night, allowed her to move around him, obeyed her requests that he look this way and that. It had been one of their better evenings: one where tenderness continued, where they had even laughed together. She has captured those moments of intimacy, too; there is a palpable connection with her, the photographer, although she is invisible. Even beyond the frame, her presence is a potent one.

  Calista feels as though something inside her has taken flight.

  Alexandros liked having hobbies. They rarely lasted more than a month or two. Painting had been one such passion, brief, fleeting, until it became apparent that he lacked both talent and patience.

  Then he became obsessed with classic motorbikes, until Maroulla put her foot down. And then the photography started. Alexandros arrived home one evening with two bags stuffed with lenses, tripods, light filters. He spent weeks poring over manuals, taking photographs, experimenting with timers. Calista had been fascinated from the beginning.

  She reaches now for three of the portraits and sets them out before Alexandros on the table. She stands beside him and begins to pull each of the images closer, one by one. “You look so handsome,” she says softly. “I love your eyes in this one. And here”—she draws the second one towards him—“your expression is strong and kind at the same time.”

  Alexandros nods, allowing Calista to place one hand on his. He does not pull away from her.

  “I’d love to have these enlarged, to have them framed. They will look wonderful on our own wall someday.” Calista holds her breath.

  Alexandros finishes his whiskey. “We can arrange that,” he says, and Calista thinks he is pleased. “I will speak to Anastasios.”

  “Oh, please, let me do it,” Calista says quickly. “Let me choose the frames and have everything done in time for your birthday. Please, I’d like that—to be able to give you a gift that I’ve made, something unique.”

  Calista wonders if she has gone too far. But Alexandros smiles at her. “All right,” he says. “I will arrange for Haridimos to drive you there. Let me speak to him in the morning.” He puts his arm around Calista’s waist. “Let’s go to bed,” he says. “You can clean all of this up”—he waves one hand, dismissing the table—“in the morning.” He stands up, and Calista follows.

  One of the good nights, she thinks. If only she can keep this mood; if only Imogen doesn’t wake. If only, if only.

  Maroulla will not be impressed to find her dining room in disarray, but Calista no longer cares. Another evening has passed, quietly. The camera is still hers. The portraits are a success.

  And she has the result she was looking for. She has now earned the exquisite opportunity to leave this house on her own, even for a couple of hours, and to learn how to breathe again.

  * * *

  Other than some day trips with Imogen to the beach and a couple of visits to Ireland when her daughter was still a small baby, Calista’s daily routine is unfulfilling and unbending. She is aware of a growing restlessness, a need to do something with her life that feels solid and significant.

  “Like what?” Philip had asked on her first trip back to Dublin. He’d flown home to meet her, and they were having lunch together in the Gresham Hotel. Imogen was in the delighted care of her grandparents. Timothy and María-Luisa were captivated by their granddaughter’s small, busy presence.

  “I don’t know,” Calista confessed. “I just have this sense that doing the rich-woman charity stuff and looking after Imogen is not enough. Besides, we’ll be hiring a nanny soon. Maroulla insists. It’s as though it’s some kind of status thing. Then what will I do with myself?” Calista was aware that she was not being wholly truthful with her twin. It saddened her; she didn’t like keeping things from him, but she couldn’t share Alexandros’s darker side with anyone. She felt an obscure sense of shame, as though her husband’s rages were somehow her fault.

  Philip grinned. “Have another baby, why don’t you?”

  Calista looked around for something to throw at him.

  Alexandros followed her to Dublin at the weekend, as he usually did, but Calista had had almost a full week to catch up with Philip, to chat with Maggie, to watch her parents enjoy Imogen.

  “She’s so like you used to be,” María-Luisa said, smiling at her daughter. “Headstrong. Determined. Full of adventure.”

  Together they watched as Imogen played in the back garden, climbing up onto the creaky swing, whose seat Calista and Philip used to share. She slept in Calista’s old bedroom and sat at Calista’s former place at the dining room table. “Holding court,” Timothy commented. “Just as you used to do.”

  One afternoon, Calista came back to discover that her daughter had dived into a box containing some of Calista’s childhood books and dolls. “Where did these come from?”

  “Your father brought them down from the attic,” María-Luisa said proudly, as though Timothy had performed some feat of astounding valor.

  Calista grinned at her father, who was looking both embarrassed and pleased with himself.

  “It’s not often your mother has her grandchild to dote over,” he said. “Just doing whatever I can to help.”

  María-Luisa turned quietly to Calista, her dark eyes alight with mischief. “Yes,” she said, “as you can see, your father himself is quite indifferent to my grandchild.”

  * * *

  Later, just before Alexandros arrived, María-Luisa surprised Calista. They were washing up after dinner. Imogen was already asleep, Maggie was at the cinema, and the house had descended into a friendly, contented silence. It was the sort of silence Calista recognized instantly. She wished she could fold it away somewhere and take it back to Cyprus with her.

  “You are happy, you and Alexandros?”

  The abruptness of her mother’s question took Calista aback. She kept her eyes down, looking at the soapy water in the basin, seeing the way the bubbles clung to her arms. “Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

  María-Luisa nodded. “Good. I ask because you are young, and because a new husband and a new country and a new baby all at once are a lot to deal with. I know this myself. You must come to me if you are not happy. You must not endure alone.”

  Calista looked at her mother in astonishment. What else was there about this woman that she couldn’t predict? It felt as though a stranger were standing beside her, speaking calmly and directly, her familiar hands busy with the drying of dishes.

  “I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

  “Good,” María-Luisa said. “I am happy to hear that. You know where we are if you need us.”

  * * *

  When her weekly escap
es begin, when her photography lessons become a reality, Calista is struck by the elderly kindliness of Anastasios, right from the start. He prepares coffee for her on each of their mornings together, on a tiny gas stove in the corner of his studio. This is a task he undertakes each time with his slow, unfailing courtesy. He is eager to share with her the secrets of the darkroom. In that bright and cluttered studio, Calista feels her small world finally begin to expand.

  “You have talent,” Anastasios says to her on that first day. “Real talent. I tell you now that you have the makings of a first-class photographer.” And he smiles. “You will not be like me, taking pictures of children on their birthdays, or the occasional wedding and christening here on the island.” He shrugs, spreading his hands. “You are already better than that.”

  Calista is not sure what to say.

  Anastasios nods his head, as if Calista has spoken. “This, I think,” he says, his tone thoughtful, “this will be our secret. I will teach you what I know; you will learn and practice, practice, practice.” He gestures towards the far wall of the studio. “I have hundreds of rolls of film in those cupboards—many will soon be out of date. We will start with those. And you,” he says, “you will repay me by helping me to remember my English. My sons tell me it is important to speak English.” And he shrugs again, as if to say English doesn’t matter to him; what matters is the respect of his three sons.

  Calista feels a sweet swell of gratitude. Anastasios waves away her thanks. “This makes an old man very happy,” he insists. “My sons are not interested in the business. Now at least I know my skills will live.”

  As Calista watches her photographs ghost into life for the first time, she is immediately reminded of María-Luisa and her Polaroid camera on the day of Mary Peters’s ninth birthday. She can see the three pink-bowed girls at the party, watching as their own likenesses become shiny, vibrant, living things. And then there are Anastasios’s books, shelves and shelves of books. He and Calista look through them frequently together: large glossy volumes on Henri Cartier-Bresson, on Dorothea Lange. Calista cannot get enough of them.

  “I will keep these safe for you,” Anastasios says. He does not look at her as he speaks. But as he turns the pages, Calista feels certain of something.

  He knows. Anastasios knows what she is hiding.

  They will never speak of it, of course. But for the first time since her arrival in Cyprus, Calista begins to feel at home.

  * * *

  During the months that follow, Anastasios feeds what has become almost a physical need within Calista, a need like thirst or hunger. The images she has so recently captured with Alexandros’s camera often startle her as they emerge through the waters of their chemical wash. The process is an absorbing one; it becomes an addiction. Developing her own work is something that gives Calista a separate existence, one beyond the tentacles of anxiety that define her daily life.

  This new work becomes a creative focus that makes her alive and free again. She almost holds her breath; as the months go by, Calista prays that Alexandros will continue to allow her these mornings with Anastasios. She has been careful to take dozens of portraits of him, of Petros and Maroulla, of Imogen.

  Maroulla, in particular, is delighted with the results. “We will get Yiannis, and Ari and Spyros, and all the girls—you will take family photographs of all of us, Calista, yes?”

  Calista agrees. She will do anything to make sure that Alexandros continues to grant her this precious measure of freedom.

  * * *

  On their mornings together, Anastasios travels the island with Calista. He takes her back to Lefkara. Calista does not tell him she has been before, that its magic has long since faded. They go on to Omodos and Lakki; the villages are populated with fishermen, with farmers, with lace makers. Anastasios watches as Calista takes photographs of men and women at work, of the boats, the nets, the sowing and the reaping, the weathered faces and sinewy hands that inhabit all of these ancient tasks.

  “The world is changing,” Anastasios says quietly. “Even here. We need a record of how things are now. We need to protect our heritage as much as we can.” He teaches Calista to be a quiet, unobtrusive presence; she learns about light, angles, perspective. “Above all,” he tells her, “a photograph is a moment of stillness, of silent insight. You can learn all the technical stuff. It is the eye that is paramount: the eye of the soul.”

  The old man’s face is intent now as he develops the series of black-and-white portraits that Calista has taken. His gnarled fingers tremble as he pegs the shiny sheets of photographic paper onto the makeshift line that stretches all the way across the studio space.

  Calista waits. She is watchful, tense, hopeful. She does not rush him. Anastasios is a man who cannot be hurried.

  Finally, he sits and lights a cigarette. He shakes his head.

  “They’re not good enough,” Calista says. Her voice is flat, a dull surface that stretches over the open ground of her disappointment.

  “No, they are not.” He looks at her, his gaze direct, unfaltering. “They are not ‘good enough.’ ” His voice becomes so quiet that Calista has to strain to hear him. “They are wonderful.”

  “What?” Calista is startled. “What did you say?”

  The old man’s smile broadens. His eyes are lively, mischievous. “Wonderful. I say they are wonderful!” And he is shouting, delight carved into all the planes and angles of his face.

  And then Anastasios stands and pulls Calista into a mad dance around the studio, his feet stamping and crossing, lifting and jumping as though he has suddenly shed fifty years.

  After a few moments, both of them breathless with laughter, Anastasios releases her. He pats his chest. “Too much,” he says, “too much excitement for an old man in his seventies. Now”—his tone becomes abruptly serious—“we are going to sell your work. There is a market for portraits like these, and that market is the private galleries of London. Trust me, I worked there for many years—I know what I am talking about. There is an agent I know. He will not cheat you; he knows his job; he will take twenty percent of everything you earn.”

  Calista feels her happiness drain away. Dismay takes its place. “Anastasios, I cannot possibly—”

  “Wait,” he says. “I have not finished. You will take my grandmother’s name—first name and surname both. You will become Katerina Pontikou: a mysterious, anonymous photographer from somewhere around . . . Nicosia. A recluse, I believe. I will keep the money safe for you. Nobody needs to know.” He wags one imperious finger at Calista. “And I mean nobody. Do you understand?”

  Calista can finally speak. “Yes,” she says, her voice hoarse with emotion. She wants this. Wants it so badly she can taste it. But she must not cry. Anastasios has often told her how much he loathes weeping women. “I understand. Are they really that good?”

  “Yes,” Anastasios says. “You are really that good.”

  The richness of the old man’s praise, his faith in her, the possibility of a future of her own: all these things fill Calista with an optimism that makes her feel she can bear anything now.

  And she will, above all, work to earn her own money.

  She exults in that secret sense of independence and all it will bring with it.

  * * *

  Calista is brought abruptly back to the present when the telephone rings. Its shrillness pulls her away from that grainy black-and-white borderland between past and present where she seems to exist most fully these days.

  Quickly, she leaves her study and goes downstairs. She lifts the receiver, interrupting her own mechanical voice on the answering machine. “Hello?” she says. She sounds a little breathless, but still calm and quiet. As though this is just a normal day, any old Wednesday, with nothing at all out of the ordinary. She is just a woman answering the phone as she prepares to go to lunch with friends.

  As she speaks, Calista see
s something glint on the tiles, just out of reach. A sliver of glass from her shattered perfume bottle. She must make sure to clean up any dangerous shards that still remain. It wouldn’t do to step on them in bare feet.

  “Ah,” a voice says in English. “Good afternoon. I wonder if it would be possible to speak with Calista McNeill—Calista Demitriades, please?” A man who sounds unsure.

  “This is Calista McNeill,” she says. “How can I help you?”

  “Miss McNeill, my name is Alexios Apostolou. I am a lawyer, based in Cyprus. I am calling you on behalf of your son, Omiros Demitriades.” The voice pauses.

  “Is everything all right? Is my son all right?” Calista allows a sprinkling of anxiety to pepper her words. She has practiced this often enough. She thinks the tone is just right.

  “Omiros is fine. Please, allow me to reassure you of that. However, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  “What?” Calista says. Her tone rises just a touch. “What sort of bad news? Why can’t Omiros call me himself? What’s wrong?”

  She hears the man draw one deep breath. Calista feels almost sorry for him. She wonders how old he is, what he looks like, whether he has ever had to deliver bad news such as this before.

  “Your son has left for Madrid in the care of his uncles, Ari and Spyros Demitriades. I’m afraid there seems to have been a dreadful accident involving his father, Alexandros, and his stepmother, Cassandra.”

  “What sort of an accident? What’s happened to them? Are they badly hurt?” Calista can see herself standing in the hallway of her Spanish home, speaking calmly on the phone. It is as though she is two people: a casual outsider and a reluctant participant. So far, her performance is just as she would have wished it to be.

  “I’m afraid we have very few details. Other than that this is a dreadful tragedy.”

  “What do you mean, tragedy?” demands Calista, as though the gravity of the situation is only now becoming clear to her.

  “I’m very sorry to tell you that your former husband is dead, Miss McNeill, along with his wife, Cassandra. I’m very sorry indeed.”