The Years That Followed

by Catherine Dunne

  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 y
ou 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.

  pilar

  Madrid, 1986

  * * *

  “What did you say?”

  Florencia is smiling. Her real name is Isabel, but Pilar cannot learn to call her anything except Florencia.

  “The parents are not unwilling,” Florencia says, “but it is difficult for them. This initial resistance is normal. We must be gentle, let them take their time. The fact that they have not said no is positive. We must build on that. The next step is to tell their son about you. They have promised to do so in the next few weeks. This is progress, Pilar, I promise you. Keep your heart up.”

  “When will I know?”

  “As soon as I do. The day you see me on your doorstep is the day you’ll know they’ve said yes.”

  * * *

  And now Florencia is here. She is here. Pilar feels her legs weaken. She tries to hurry to the door, hardly able to believe Florencia’s smiling face.

  She wastes no time. “They’ve said yes, Pilar. The boy has always been aware that he was adopted. They want to meet you; all the family wants to meet you.”

  Pilar feels suddenly terrified. “What if I am not what he imagines? What if I disappoint him?”

  Florencia puts one arm around Pilar’s shoulders. “Your son wants to get to know you, Pilar. This is not the time to let your courage fail you.”

  Pilar feels her hands begin to tremble. Florencia is handing her a letter, but she cannot reach out to grasp it.

  “Tell me,” she begs. “Just tell me what it says.”

  * * *

  Afterwards, Pilar cannot speak. She hardly hears what Florencia says to her. Only the soothing refrain—the words that Pilar has never before believed, not once—words that she now hears repeated over and over again.

  God is good. God is good.

  calista

  London, 1988

  * * *

  Calista waits at the almost-empty bar. It is still early. Retsina cools in the bucket on the counter. The watery beads on its surface are glittering, reflecting the lights above. A nondescript young man slides onto the barstool beside her.

  Go away, Calista thinks. That’s meant for someone else.

  The man nods in her direction. “Wine of our homeland,” he says in Greek. Smiling at her.

  Calista ignores him, pretends she doesn’t understand. She lights a cigarette. She looks towards the bar, seeing the young man’s face partly reflected in the mirrors there. His features are broken up by the many images of bottles, glasses, containers of kalamata olives.

  His appearance looks strangely fractured. His glasses with their thick black frames and magnified lenses make him look like some strange, unearthly creature.

  “I miss the poppies and anemones of Cyprus,” he says, so softly that Calista is not sure she has really heard him.

  She freezes.

  “I miss the poppies and anemones of Cyprus,” he repeats, looking straight ahead. His tone is low and insistent.

  Calista collects herself. She stubs out her cigarette. “I do, too. You?” she says.

  “Me.”

  She swallows. Nods. She has not expected to feel such fear.

  “Kitchen,” he says. “In five minutes.”

  “But—”

  “Madam,” he says, still looking straight ahead, “the chefs have not arrived as yet. You must trust me in this, if you are to trust me in everything else.”

  * * *

  Aristides would never do business with any of those people, he’d told Calista many times. Thugs, all of them. They abuse the trust of their British hosts. They are nothing other than scum, a disgrace to their nation. Aristides would cross the street from them, he said, if they ever dared to enter his neighborhood.

  * * *

  Calista lights another cigarette. Her hands are openly shaking now. Yiannis, my love. I know of no other way. I cannot live half a life. My grief consumes me.

  With you, I might have forgiven him for Imogen. I might have forgiven him for turning Omiros against me.

  A life without you, and I cannot do any of these things.

  * * *

  Calista waits the five minutes, smoking. Then she makes her way to the kitchen.

  “Target?” the man asks without preamble.

  “Alexandros Demitriades and his wife, Cassandra.”

  He frowns. “Both together?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tricky.” He pauses. “Location?”

  “Madrid. That’s all I know.”

  “Method?”

  Calista hesitates. She feels no emotion: no rage, no grief. No regrets. “Nothing quick. I want the woman to go first. Make sure the man knows what’s coming.”

  He is looking at her intently now. “Message?”

  “Tell them Imogen and Yiannis sent you.”

  He holds out one hand. “Contact number for you?”

  Calista hands him a slip of paper.

  “We will meet again,” he says. “Once more, and not here. I will get in touch with you.”

  Calista nods. “What is your name? What do I call you?”

  He hesitates. “Call me Damiano.”

  “When will we meet again?”

  “When I am ready. We will meet in order to arrange the transfer of funds to Zurich. Half in advance, half once the transaction is completed.” He waits.

  “Anything else?” Calista says. It feels like a strange question, but there seems to be something unfinished here.

  The young man looks at her. “No details,” he says. “No attempts at further contact. If you do, our arrangement is terminated immediately.”

  “I understand.”

  “Should I need to contact you, we will use a code word.”

  Calista waits.

  “Aphrodite,” he says, and walks away from her.

  Calista watches him disappear out through the back door into an alleyway.

  Then she walks quickly to the ladies’ room. Once inside the cubicle, she pulls a wig, a scarf, and a pair of Jackie Onassis sunglasses out of her bag. The same ones she had worn that first time she’d traveled back to Cyprus in secret to see her small daughter.

  Calista checks her reflection quickly. She sees no one as she leaves; the door to the street swings closed behind her.

  Her hands are trembling. She walks away in the direction of the main road and hails a taxi. “Heathrow,” she says.

  Madrid, she thinks, as the taxi speeds her away. You couldn’t have chosen better, Alexandros.

  Poetic justice, after all these years.

  Poetic justice.

  * * *

  “Come with me to Madrid,” Yiannis had said once.


  But Calista shook her head. “I don’t want to go to Madrid.”

  Yiannis had read her expression immediately. He didn’t speak for a moment, and when he did, his voice was gentle. He pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “I can help to dispel the bad memories.”

  But Calista was adamant. “No. Never again. I never want to set foot in Madrid again.”

  Alexandros loved Madrid. Calista always believed that he loved it because his father had loved it. He was eager to emulate everything Petros did. For Alexandros, his father’s approval was oxygen.

  “Wonderful city,” Petros used to enthuse. “Great people, and great business opportunities. I have some very valuable contacts there. Particularly in property. You should look at the property market in Madrid, Alexandros. Make a killing.”

  Calista and he had traveled there together, a short break when Imogen was still very small. A long weekend in April, she remembers. And she also remembers Alexandros’s disappointment. He’d left too late to make appointments; he’d been unable to reach his father’s colleagues. And everything Calista said and did during those days irritated him.

  His bad mood escalated. On the evening before they were due to fly back to Cyprus, Alexandros slapped her face. It was the only time he had ever struck Calista in such a public place, and she remembers the searing sense of shame. Calista felt that she was the one who had done something wrong.

  The hotel foyer fell silent instantly. Waiters stopped in their tracks.

  Calista waited, frozen, certain that someone would come to them. But nobody did. All the faces before her looked down, or to the left, or off somewhere into the middle distance, unseeing.

  Alexandros took Calista by the arm and marched her towards the lift.

  As they crossed the wide, hushed space, Calista could hear the foyer slowly come to life again. Waiters attended to their customers. Guests began to talk among themselves.