The Years That Followed (28 page)

“Come inside, Imogen. I need to speak to you.”

Imogen leaves her rucksack in the cupboard under the stairs and hangs up her school jacket. She is aware of time passing slowly. She does everything Aiya taught her to do, hoping this will somehow take away the sad tightness that has taken over her father's face as though it belongs there for good. She steps into Bapi's study, and Papa closes the door behind them.

Across Bapi's desk, photographs are strewn and pages and pages covered with Mummy's writing—handwriting that Aiya used to call “distinctive”—all loops and curls, big letters that Imogen had begun to find easier and easier to read for herself, with just a little help from Aiya.

“I'm not angry at you,” Papa begins. “I just need to know . . .”

But Imogen hears no more. Papa's bald head reminds her of the horrible men on that horrible night who stopped them from going to visit Abi María-Luisa. And Imogen can't help herself. Sobs arise from deep inside that heart-place which has been feeling numb since Aiya died. Imogen sees her mother; she sees her aiya; she sees the secret visits to the villa. She cries and cries and doesn't even care that she can hardly breathe and that Papa has discovered her secret and will be angry with her all over again.

“Don't,” Papa says. But his face isn't black. It looks weak and sorry, and its shape keeps changing as though it doesn't know what kind of face it's supposed to be anymore.

From nowhere that she can name, something pure and clean and angry rises in Imogen and spills out of her mouth before she can stop it. “Mummy wrote those letters to me,” she cries. “They're mine! Aiya promised they were our secret. Hers and mine and Mummy's.”

She watches as Papa moves back from her as though she has slapped his face, or is about to. “You are right,” he says. “I am profoundly sorry—very sorry indeed.” His face is calm, serious. “I did not go looking for your secret. But I have the task of looking after Aiya's papers. I found these without meaning to.”

And then something astonishing happens. Papa gathers together all the pages and photographs and puts them back into Aiya's secret box and hands the box to Imogen. “These are yours to keep,” he says.

Imogen does not know what to say. It's as though all of her words are locked up in the box in her hands, along with the letters and the photographs. Papa kisses her on the forehead. “It seems that Aiya knew best. Aiya was the one who did what was right for you.” His voice trembles, and he stops. Imogen thinks he is finding it hard to say all the words. But she doesn't break the silence, because she knows it is still his turn to speak.

Then Papa sighs and pinches his eyes shut with his thumb and middle finger. It makes his nose look really big. Imogen hears him swallow a sob that is trying hard to escape. “I think . . .” he says. “I think it's time we arranged for you and Omiros to spend some proper time with Mummy. What do
you
think?”

Imogen clutches the box of secrets to her chest. It feels as though her inside-place has finally blown wide open. Her heart has started
to beat again. She looks at her papa's face, and it has a bright shadow of something she saw once before, a long time ago, on that summer day when he'd taught her to sail.

Then she's laughing and crying all at the same time. “Promise?” she says.

Papa crushes her to his chest. “I promise,” he whispers. “I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.” And he smiles.

calista

London, 1977

Yiannis comes to find her at Aphrodite. Calista is surprised to see him. It is shortly after Maroulla has died, and the brothers—Yiannis, Ari, Spyros, and Alexandros—have all had their hands full trying to manage Petros.

“My father has just given up,” Yiannis tells Calista over the phone a couple of weeks after his mother's funeral. “He says he doesn't want to live without her. He doesn't sleep, barely eats. We're trying to invent ways to keep him busy. I think it'll be another month or so before I can get back to London. Will you be OK?”

Calista smiles at that. “Of course. I miss you,” she says. “But Petros needs you. I'll be fine; just come when you can.”

And so she's surprised to see Yiannis cross the threshold of the gallery little more than a week later.

“Close early,” he says. “I've cleared it with the boss.”

“But how?”

Yiannis takes both of her hands in his. “I'm taking you to lunch, at Alexandros's request. We can go wherever you choose. I have some good news.”

Calista is almost too terrified to hope. “Tell me,” she says, her mouth suddenly dry. She can feel her hands start to tremble. “I'm not moving one more step until you tell me. Can I see my children—both my children?”

Yiannis's smile tells her everything. “Yes. Yes, you can. Your daughter gave Alexandros a piece of her mind. My father supported
her. Alexandros has agreed that you can come to Limassol and spend a full week with them. He will take them to you. Let me tell you all about it over lunch.”

* * *

At the end of April, Calista flies to Limassol. She has booked into the Asteria Hotel, her room there crowded with memories. Alexandros drives Imogen and Omiros to meet her on the afternoon of her arrival. Calista is nervous. She knows she must give Alexandros no reason to change his mind.

All the power in this situation is his. All the power must remain his. His territory, his rules of engagement.

* * *

She watches from the hotel foyer as Alexandros's Mercedes pulls up outside the main door. She remains seated: he will bring the children to her; that is the agreement. Calista waits, her heart full as she sees Omiros step carefully out of the back of the car. How tall he's grown, she thinks, but she shouldn't be surprised: it's been three years. Her son is now a sturdy five-year-old. Imogen bounces out, her eyes already searching for her mother.

Alexandros turns off the engine and opens the driver's door. He says something to the children, and they move closer to him. He locks the car and puts the key in his pocket. Everything is done with a careful deliberation that tells Calista he knows she is watching him. And that he will make her wait.

He hasn't changed, Calista thinks. As smooth and imposing as ever. The hotel's glass doors part obediently, and Alexandros comes in with the children. He nods to Calista. His greeting is stiff and formal. “Good afternoon, Calista,” he says. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

Calista is polite, reserved in turn. She cannot help but feel astonished that this is all he says, that this is all she will say: “Hello, Alexandros. Thank you for bringing the children to me.” She waits for a moment, then turns to him quietly. “Please accept my condolences on the death of your mother.”

He nods. “Thank you.”

It feels surreal. This is a man she once loved, a man who once loved her. A man whose family was once entwined in every detail of
her daily life. Calista waits in silence. All the things she wants to say must remain unspoken.

Alexandros has both of the children by the hand. Calista sees how watchful her son and daughter have become. They will not move without permission. She looks at Alexandros, her face a question.

He nods.

In the middle of the hotel's foyer, Calista bends down, holds her arms out, and says softly: “Omiros, Imogen. How wonderful to see you both. I've missed you so much.” She keeps her voice low; she must not overwhelm them, particularly Omiros.

Imogen runs to her at once, but Omiros hangs back. Calista watches as longing and hostility battle their way across his features.

Alexandros touches his son on the shoulder. His voice is stern. “Go to your mother, Omiros. Do as we have discussed.”

The small boy makes his way towards Calista, step by reluctant step. She feels emotion gather, but she will not let it show. Instead, she smiles and smooths his dark hair away from his forehead with one hand. “It is good to see you,” she says. “You have grown very tall. I am so happy to be with you.”

Finally, the child moves closer. Calista puts one arm around him, gently, and presses him to her. Imogen has already folded herself into her mother, both her arms around Calista's waist.

“Come,” she says. “Let's sit down and have something to drink, and some ice cream. Do you still like honey ice cream?”

Omiros nods, his expression shading from shyness to uncertainty. He continues to glance back over his shoulder to where Alexandros still waits.

I'm a stranger to him, Calista thinks. A stranger to my own son. She wonders how much he remembers, how much he has absorbed since her leaving. “Let's sit over here, shall we?”

Both children move obediently towards the seating area with the low glass coffee table.

“I'll be back for them at nine o'clock sharp,” Alexandros says now. His tone is brisk, businesslike. “Tomorrow, Saturday, you may keep them with you all day and overnight. On Sunday, they will come to church with me. Afterwards, we'll discuss the rest of the week.” He gets ready to leave.

Imogen and Omiros are already seated, their legs dangling over
the cushions of the deep leather couch. Omiros's feet do not yet reach the floor. Calista is struck by how small they both look. In the grown-up surroundings of an anonymous hotel, how small and vulnerable. She turns to Alexandros.

“Thank you,” she says. “I want you to know how grateful I am for this.”

His answering nod is curt, dismissive. “I will see you later.”

He turns and walks away from her. Calista sees the way Omiros's eyes follow his father, the way Imogen smiles at her brightly, eagerly.

It will always be like this, Calista thinks. I will always have Imogen.

But Omiros will never forgive me.

pilar

Madrid, 1981

Pilar often watches the students as they make their way to and from school past her building on Calle de las Huertas. She watches them again this morning as she waits for some prospective tenants to come and view her vacant apartment on the third floor.

Pilar is amused by the antics of the young people outside her door. She sees how they travel in packs, the girls shrill and emphatic, the boys loud and awkward. Their bodies have not yet caught up with their sophisticated image of themselves, despite the cigarettes they smoke, the words they hurl at one another, the pushing and the shoving as the boys jostle loudly for position.

From time to time, one of these teenagers makes Pilar take a second look. His hair stands up in dark spikes, a line of fine, upright trees growing from the front of his forehead to the nape of his neck. He is clearly popular. Girls crowd around him; boys follow in his wake.

Pilar watches him, and she wonders. From time to time, she still allows herself to dream. In the absence of certainty, fantasy brings a comfort of its own.

The doorbell peals and Pilar starts, her daydream dissolving. It is Jorge, with his sack of mail over one shoulder. Pilar is irritated by his grin; he clearly believes he has caught her napping. But she mustn't annoy him. Jorge's local knowledge is immeasurable. You never know when you might need someone like Jorge. She opens the door.

“Good morning,” Pilar says. She hopes he isn't angling for coffee; she hasn't the time this morning.

“How's it goin'?” he replies.

Pilar waits for him to hand over the bundles of letters. She can see them in his hand, already neatly bound together with string. But he hesitates. Pilar grows impatient.

“I've a bit of a favor to ask,” he says.

“Yes?”

Where is he going with this? Pilar wonders.

“My young lad collects stamps, particularly foreign stamps. He has whole albums full of them. I was wondering . . .” He starts fumbling at the bundles of letters.

“Spit it out, Jorge: I've some tenants arriving in a minute—just let me know what you want. I'll help if I can.”

“It's just that on one of these envelopes here, there's some stamps I've never seen before. I haven't been prying, Señorita Dóminguez, but you have a letter from Peru and . . .”

Pilar doesn't hear any more. She yanks both bundles from Jorge's hand. She wants to run to the sanctuary of her
portería
. She begins to turn away, her mouth dry, her hands all at once clumsy and hesitant. It's from her. It has to be.

“Keep them for me, won't you?” Jorge calls. “My boy would love to have those stamps. All those different-colored stone heads. OK?”

Pilar doesn't look up. “Yes, yes,” she says, “I will. I'll keep them for you, of course.” She wants to rip the envelope apart, to devour the words. Florencia's words about her son. At last. After all these years.

But she has to wait. A middle-aged man and his wife are just now stepping into the entrance hall as Jorge is making his exit.

“Señorita Domínguez?” the man asks. He looks anxious.

Pilar folds the letter in two and slips it into her apron pocket. She must hide her agitation. “Yes,” she says. “Good morning.”

She notices that the woman's coat is not the best quality. Her shoes are worn, and her gloves have seen better days. It's highly unlikely that these two have the kind of money to rent an apartment in a building such as this. But right now, Pilar doesn't care about that.

She extends her hand. “You're very welcome. It's a pleasure to
meet you both. Please, follow me and let me show you around. Then we'll have coffee and I'll answer any questions you may have.”

Just get rid of them as soon as possible. She leads them towards the lift, and they follow.

Pilar can hear the rustle of the envelope as she walks. She can feel the heat of the paper against her skin.

imogen

Limassol, 1981

It is the morning of Omiros's ninth birthday. Imogen, his big sister of fourteen, is looking after him for the day. Papa has given her money to take Omiros and some of his friends to lunch. Later, Papa will come to meet them both at the yacht club, and there he will present his son with his very own Mermaid sailing boat. Imogen has been trusted to keep the secret.

“You ready, Omiros?” Imogen calls.

He comes running out of his bedroom. Bapi Petros is in the hallway, waiting.

“Happy birthday, Omiros,” Bapi says as Omiros jumps down the last three steps, landing just shy of his grandfather's feet. Imogen notices that Bapi is getting more and more unsteady these days, that he has to use his walking stick a lot.

Eleni comes fussing over, hurrying her way out of the kitchen towards him. Imogen and Omiros don't need a nanny anymore, of course, but they have allowed the fiction to continue that they do. They are willing conspirators with their father.

“Petros needs to be looked after now,” Papa had said recently. “But he doesn't like the idea. Eleni will stay on here with us and help him—but you must never say anything about that, do you understand?”

Imogen had sighed to herself at that. Sometimes adults could be very stupid. Why would either she or Omiros say anything that might upset Bapi Petros? Often, the only person who made him unhappy
was Alexandros himself. Particularly now that he had a new woman in his life.

When Papa introduced Sandra, he'd been all smiles. But Imogen wasn't fooled. She knew by the way he tapped his fingers on the tabletop that he was nervous.

“This is Sandra, everyone,” he said, leading a tall, fair-haired woman into the living room, where they all had to sit politely, waiting to meet her. Sandra had the kind of beauty that so many of Imogen's friends admired, but she didn't. The peachy, freckled skin, the blue eyes that always looked cold, the severe, tailored elegance of her expensive clothes.

“Well, Cassandra, really,” she'd said, with her bright painted smile. “But everyone calls me Sandra. Much more modern, don't you think?”

Bapi had said something that sounded like a grunt. He didn't get up out of his chair, although he did shake hands with the foreign woman. Imogen had had to stifle a giggle at the rude noise he'd made. What's wrong with a good Cypriot girl? Imogen had heard him demand one night. Why do you keep bringing all these foreigners home?

For a moment, Imogen felt indignant on her mother's behalf, angry at Bapi Petros. Afterwards, though, she was pleased that Bapi disliked Sandra just as much as she did. Omiros didn't seem to care either way, as long as Sandra didn't take up all of Papa's time, which she didn't, not yet.

Mummy knew about her. She said so the last time she was here. “I've heard about her, yes,” she said. “Uncle Yiannis told me when he was last in London. I understand that they are engaged to be married.”

“I can't stand her,” Imogen blurted. “She's so fake.”

“Sweetheart, you have to make an effort.”

Imogen didn't want to make an effort. She didn't want any new woman, any Sandra, taking her mother's place.

“Listen to me,” Calista said, sitting beside her on the bed in her hotel room. Imogen thought her mother's face was suddenly serious. It was the way she always looked when she had something important to say. “People are entitled to another chance if their marriage doesn't work. If Sandra makes Papa happy, that can only be good for you and Omiros.”

Imogen decided to change the subject. “Why can't I come and live with you in London?”

She already knew the answer to this, but that didn't stop her asking again.

“Your father won't hear of it, so there's no point in us even discussing it. Not just yet. Maybe when you're sixteen,” Calista said. “Things should be easier then.”

“But that's two whole years!” Imogen protested.

“It won't be long in passing, I promise you. In the meantime, we'll just have to take every chance we can get to be together, and you have to help me to not make your father too mad, OK?”

Imogen nodded and managed a watery smile.

* * *

And now Imogen is seated at a long table with seven nine-year-old boys. They are all eating and shouting and being disgusting. Seven nines are sixty-three, she calculates: I'm surrounded by sixty-three years of mischief. Some of the boys are even throwing food at one another, and Imogen has to yell at them to stop.

Omiros hasn't wanted Mummy here for his birthday, and Imogen feels sad about that. She has seen the way her mother's face closes over each time Omiros tells her to go away. She's tried to comfort Calista.

Maybe next time
, she says.
Maybe next time.

Next time, Imogen hopes she will be one year closer to going to London. One year closer to leaving Papa and Sandra behind.

One year closer to freedom.