The Years That Followed

by Catherine Dunne

  Florencia takes her hand. “It’s hard, I know. I can’t even begin to feel what you have been through.”

  Pilar’s eyes fill. Don’t be kind to me, she thinks, or I will unravel. She tries to smile. “I don’t want to steal him away from anyone, you know, from his family. I just want to see him, to hear his voice. To know what he looks like, what his life looks like.” And then she breaks.

  Florencia says: “I know, I know. I will do my best for you. God is good.”

  * * *

  Pilar resigns herself to waiting.

  She fills the days with writing: letters to her son, letters he may never see, but letters she needs to write nonetheless.

  Softly, softly, Florencia says.

  She tells Pilar that she remembers the parents; remembers above all their desperation for a child. They were a lovely young couple, she says. In their late thirties at that time, they had given up hope of their own child after fifteen years of marriage.

  “I have a couple of addresses in Madrid where they stayed while they tried to adopt. They’d had a number of disappointments over the years.” Florencia stops, seeing Pilar’s face. “I’m sorry, Pilar. I know how painful this must be for you.”

  “Never mind. Go on, tell me the rest, please. I need to know it all.”

  Florencia nods. “The addresses go back to 1965, and they adopted Francisco-José in 1967. We have no guarantee that anybody who was living there sixteen or eighteen years ago is still around—or even alive.”

  “Can you let me know the addresses? The neighborhoods?” It is a forlorn hope, Pilar knows, but she has to try.

  Florencia shakes her head. “No. You must leave this to me.”

  And so Pilar writes, in the hope that someday she will be able to tell her son how much she has missed him.

  calista

  London, 1983

  * * *

  After Imogen’s funeral, Calista returns to London and pushes through the days.

  Yiannis comes with her. Once, before they had left Cyprus, Alexandros had pulled Yiannis roughly aside.

  “You are no longer my brother,” he said. Fury blackened his face. “You have betrayed me.”

  Calista watched as, slowly, Yiannis removed Alexandros’s hand from his forearm. “We are not having this conversation,” he said. “Your daughter has just died. My niece. Show some respect.”

  Alexandros roared: “You are a traitor to me and to this family! You have been sleeping with my wife! You have betrayed your own brother!”

  Sandra began to move towards Alexandros then, but he stopped her with one imperious gesture.

  “I am not your wife,” Calista said. “You made sure of that. You killed anything good we ever had together. Leave us alone.”

  Alexandros stepped forward and raised his fist. Instantly Yiannis shoved him, hard. Alexandros staggered backwards and fell over, sprawling on the floor of Petros’s living room. Sandra rushed towards him and he pushed her away, his rage reminding Calista of that night in their brand-new hopeful home: lifetimes ago. The night when she had listened to brash Californian women speak about those things in her own life that she did not understand.

  “Get out,” Alexandros bellowed. “Get out of here.”

  Only then did Calista see Petros in the doorway. Omiros stood beside his grandfather, his face white and terrified, his eyes huge as he looked at Alexandros, sprawled, filled with impotent rage.

  “Come, Calista.” Yiannis pulled her away out of the room, out of the house, into the car. “Airport,” he snapped at the driver.

  Calista felt numbness descend. Her son’s face haunted her then, and in the years that followed.

  * * *

  Back in London, Calista knows that Yiannis is fearful for her safety. Her despair after Imogen’s death frightened him, frightens him still.

  “Let me take care of you,” he says. He watches over her tenderly, holds her when she cries, takes her out of the flat, out of herself. She often resists; all Calista wants in the early days without her daughter is to curl up under the softness of her blankets and disappear.

  But Yiannis will not let her disappear. He takes her for walks—short walks at first. They stop for coffee in the fashionable cafes that are springing up all over London. They spend a lot of time with Anne and Aristides, whose kindness feels endless.

  * * *

  Once, after several months, Yiannis takes her back to Mayfair. Anne and Aristides are waiting for them outside Aphrodite. It is one of the better days, one when Calista feels a small nub of optimism, a kind of hopeful tranquillity that her life might even continue, as long as Yiannis is by her side.

  “Calista,” Aristides says, “we were hoping you would agree to meet us.”

  Anne is smiling. “We have something to show you.”

  “Come.” Aristides shepherds them away from the door of the gallery. “Follow me,” he says.

  Calista is puzzled. “Aren’t we going inside?”

  Yiannis squeezes her hand. “Just come with us,” he says.

  At the end of the street, Aristides and Anne stop outside a blue doorway. Calista is puzzled by the excitement she can see on Aristides’s face. “What?” she asks, smiling at him.

  He hands her a key. “Open the door.”

  Yiannis kisses her. “Do as the man says.”

  Calista is intrigued. She opens the door and steps inside, feeling the hollowness of the space around her. There is no furniture, no fittings; the floorboards are bare, and the windows have been painted over with white polish.

  “It’s completely empty—what am I supposed to see?” Calista says at last.

  “Your new gallery,” Aristides says.

  “We thought you might like to call it ‘Artemis,’ ” Yiannis says. “You know, a kind of companion for Aphrodite. They’re on the same street, after all.” He smiles at her.

  Calista looks at each of them in astonishment. “My new what?”

  “For Katerina Pontikou,” Anne says. “And also for Kate McNeill. We all thought it time they began working again. They deserve their own gallery.”

  Calista looks from one smiling face to the next. “But how?” She turns to Aristides.

  “Speak to this man,” Aristides says, gesturing towards his friend. “Yiannis is the expert in overseas investments.” He grins. “We are equal partners in setting you up here on your own. We will still do business, of course, you and I—mutually beneficial business. But Artemis is all yours.”

  Yiannis puts his arms around her. “Congratulations,” he says. “My very own Katerina-Calista.”

  * * *

  Calista throws herself into Artemis. Work consumes her. She has Yiannis; she has her photography; she has work that now feels new and significant. All of these things fill her with gratitude. Silently, she thanks Katerina Pontikou, the anonymous woman who has saved her life, twice.

  But she is also Kate McNeill. The pull of home after Imogen’s death becomes irresistible. But this time, she wants to go back to the city of her childhood.

  “Will you come with me to Dublin?” she asks Yiannis.

  He looks at her in surprise. “Of course. But I thought you couldn’t face your parents’ grief again so soon.”

  Calista shakes her head. “I can’t. Not just yet. I won’t go to see them, not this time. But I need to go back. I want to photograph the city I remember before it disappears.” She remembers Anastasios’s passion about preserving what was important before it became too late.

  “I’d love to,” Yiannis says. “You know that. And you know how I feel about your work. I’d be delighted to be your assistant.” He smiles at her. “Are you really ready?”

  “Yes,” she says. “But you’ll have to pretend to be my husband.” She laughs at his expression. “Irish hotels and bed and breakfasts are still very old-fashioned.”
r />   “I want nothing more than to be your husband,” he says softly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  * * *

  “I’ve never seen you like this,” Yiannis says to her during their two days in Dublin. “So engaged, so passionate about what you do. It’s the first time I’ve watched you work.”

  Work is like breathing, Calista thinks. “It helps,” she says. “It makes me feel I can recover.”

  Yiannis carries her tripod, the bags with her lenses, her jacket.

  “It rains here, even in July?” Yiannis is perplexed.

  Calista grins at him. “It’s Dublin. It rains all year round. But this July is better than most.” She takes his hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  She takes Yiannis to Howth. She photographs the fishermen as they unload their catch. She responds to their banter, giving as good as she gets. The pier is a loud shriek of seagulls. She and Yiannis take the newly opened DART all the way from Howth village to Greystones. He is taken aback as the train rounds Killiney Bay. “I never knew it was this beautiful,” he says.

  Calista photographs the amazement on his face as he looks out the window. She feels proud; not even the memory of Alexandros here all those years ago can taint her happiness.

  She and Yiannis walk the city streets together.

  “I don’t know which I like more,” Yiannis says as they are leaving. “The parks or the pubs.”

  They laugh. Calista’s brightest memory is seeing him in St. Stephen’s Green, crouching down, watching the small children feed the ducks. She sees the tender way he looks at them.

  I love this man, Calista thinks. More than I ever thought possible. Nothing can drive us apart now, not after all we’ve been through.

  Yiannis stands up at last and walks back to where she is waiting for him.

  “You’re looking thoughtful,” he says. Calista sees the concern in those kind eyes.

  “I’m thinking about us,” she says. “About our future. We have so much to talk about.”

  Yiannis takes her in his arms.

  “I’m ready, Yiannis,” she says. She looks up at him and sees the hope in his eyes. “For us, for marriage. For a child, if we are lucky enough.”

  Yiannis doesn’t speak. He pulls her closer, kissing the top of her head the way he did on that long-ago day in Limassol Airport.

  They stand, each holding tightly to the other, as the summer crowds part and make their leisurely way around them.

  * * *

  All through that long year, Omiros rejects her attempts to contact him. Calista will keep trying. She will never give up.

  But one day, she knows, she may have to accept defeat.

  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 alread
y 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.”