The Years That Followed (33 page)

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.

As they walked towards their room, Calista had to fight the urge to run down the stairs, out the door, and into the blessed cool of the city streets.

But where would she go? Who could she turn to? How could she pay for anything?

And so she stood, trembling, as Alexandros opened the door of their room and pushed her roughly in before him.

pilar

Extremadura, 1986

The drive to Torre de Santa Juanita passes in a blaze of summer color. The door of Bar Jaime is festooned with balloons and streamers.

Pilar answered the letter Florencia had handed her that day, answered it immediately and at length. “They are happy to know it is you,” Florencia said. “My first letter frightened Inmaculada, I think. But the boy's response has been so loving that she is ready. Go carefully, Pilar.”

After that, there was no more need for the written word.

José Martínez telephoned her at once. “We can't believe it,” he said. “After all these years! You were so close! Jaime can't wait to meet you. We are so happy you got in touch.”

Pilar could hear the emotion in his voice. She recognized it as her own.

“You are welcome to our family, Pilar. Inmaculada joins me in this. Please, come and see us as soon as you can.”

Pilar remembers above all the joy she felt. She could almost believe Sister Florencia's words: that God was good. Maybe kindness and compassion do survive, she thinks now, no matter what people do to one another.

She remembers her father that day in Badajoz and wishes that some joy, at least, had been his before he died.

* * *

Two young people are standing outside the door of the bar when Pilar pulls up. She is in no doubt about who they must be. She's already
heard so much about Jaime and Rosa; she's even seen some photographs. She laughed when she saw her son's unruly hair, still sticking up just as she imagined. Jaime, her son. Rosa, soon to be his wife.

She parks the car and begins to walk, still hesitant, towards them. Jaime leaves Rosa's side and walks towards her. His strides are long and loping, his face open and smiling. His hair sheens blue in the light.

He is so like my mother, Pilar thinks.

“Francisco-José,” she says at last. For a moment, she cannot say more. The sight of her son fills her with pity for Petros, for Alexandros, for all that they have lost. She will tell her son, someday, about the man she loved, the man who was his father. But she will never tell him about Alexandros. He must always remain a secret.

The young man called Jaime holds out his arms. “Mamá Pilar,” he says.

After a moment, he reaches for Rosa. “Meet your new daughter,” he says, grinning. “Rosa, meet Mamá Pilar.”

* * *

José and Inmaculada approach her the moment she comes into the bar. Pilar rushes to speak before they do. She needs them to feel her gratitude. “Thank you,” she says. She takes Inmaculada's hands in hers. “My dearest wish was to see my son, to hear his voice, to make sure he was happy. Thank you. Thank you both.”

Inmaculada's smile is tentative. “You are welcome,” she says. “We look forward to getting to know you properly.”

“He was christened Jaime Francisco-José Martínez,” José says. “We remember well what that nun told us. We hope you can see that he lives a complete life.”

Pilar looks at the man, at his shining eyes. “He is indeed living a complete life,” she says, “thanks to you both.”

Later that day, the bar is full. Paco is there, of course, all smiles. “A nephew,” he keeps saying. “How about that!”

No sign of her brothers Javier and Carlos, or their wives or daughters. Pilar doesn't care; the shedding of this secret is such a good thing. She feels light and free and happy.

Rosa approaches. Pilar thinks she looks shy.

“I'd like you to meet a very dear friend of ours,” she says. An el
egant woman with steel-gray hair stands at Rosa's side. In her late thirties, Pilar reckons, and so beautiful. She is struck by the woman's sad eyes, despite her lovely smile.

“This is Calista,” Rosa says. “All the way from Dublin, but a native of Torre de Santa Juanita now. Isn't that so, Calista?”

Calista smiles. “I'm certainly here to stay, no matter what,” she says. She shakes Pilar's hand, and Pilar is reminded of the similar formality of Madam Sandra. No cheek-kissing here.

“Calista lives in that beautiful house on the hill,” Rosa says. “Still the talk of the village.”

“You're welcome to come and visit,” Calista says to Pilar. “Anytime. I understand you're from around here? One of the Domínguez family? I think I know your cousins.”

What a small world, Pilar thinks.

Then Jaime is at her side. “Mamá Pilar?” he says. “Just for a moment?”

She follows him over to the counter where José has opened a bottle of champagne. “Our first vintage.” He grins. “To be improved upon.”

Pilar smiles. “I don't think it could be,” she says, looking around her. “I don't honestly think it could be.”

EPILOGUE

pilar

Madrid, 1989

It was inevitable, and Pilar knows that.

Three weeks of police interviews, of forensic intrusion into her life and her building, and the story will still not go away.

Detective Sánchez has been particularly tenacious. “I want you to take a look at some photographs with me,” he says.

He reaches for a manila file that lies on the floor beside him and takes out a sheaf of shiny, slippery photographs. Some of them begin to slide off his knee onto the floor, and Pilar catches them, glancing down as she does so.

She sees a young man's face looking back at her. He is dark, bearded, heavy glasses partly obscuring his eyes.

“Do you recognize him?” the detective asks. “Take a good look.”

“No,” Pilar says. “I've never seen him before in my life.”

She is sick of photographs. Yesterday afternoon's pictures of the dead bodies had appalled Pilar almost more than the actual discovery of them. Those black-and-white images were starker than the real thing somehow, as though they revealed some essential truth that had remained hidden behind the shocked shadow of reality.

Their light was sharper; the surroundings lost all their softness, all their familiarity. It was like looking into another room, into the harshness of a parallel universe, one that mocked her with its superficial resemblances to this one.

And then, of course, there was the shock of recognition: in death, Mr. Alexander looked even more like his father. It was as though
Petros were here, even now, haunting her from within the frames of the police photographs.

Pilar is terrified by the thought that he might arrive on her doorstep at any moment. Does he know? Will he come? Is Petros even alive anymore? Pilar has never been able to find the words, no matter how relaxed the conversation, to ask Mr. Alexander about his family.

Pilar looks through the glossy photographs now, one by one. She shakes her head. “I might have seen some of these people before, but I really can't be sure. And they all seem to be so alike.” She can feel herself getting agitated again.

“It's OK,” the detective says. His tone is soothing, reassuring. “We can leave them for now. Talk me through your daily routine.”

And Pilar obeys, for at least the fourth time. Running errands, accepting deliveries. Supervising the dusting, the hoovering, the polishing. She's said it all before.

He nods. “I understand.”

And so it goes for days and days, over and over again. Until she and the detective could have written the script between them.

Pilar is impatient. She wishes it was all over. It is time she was on her way to where Jaime and Rosa and her grandchild are waiting for her. To where real life now awaits her, after all these years. She is impatient to get back to it again. Soon she will leave Madrid for good.

She's going home at last. Back to her roots. Back to her own family.

* * *

Pilar is furious; there is an interview with a “close friend” in today's paper, and it has Juan Pablo's footprints all over it. When this is all done and dusted, Pilar will wait for the furor to die down completely, and then she will fire him.

* * *

Pilar is about to sit and have her morning coffee when the bell rings. One long blast, one short. Speak of the devil: Juan Pablo's calling card.

Pilar stands up from the table. Coffee slops into the saucer as she does so. Irritated, she makes her way out into the foyer and pulls open the front door. She is about to say something sharp to Juan Pablo, but his face stops her.

“What is it?” she asks. “What's wrong?”

“I need to talk to you.” He looks nervous.

Pilar turns on her heel. “Come in,” she says without looking at him. He follows her without a word.

“There's something I need to say to you,” Juan Pablo begins.

“Get on with it, please,” Pilar says. “I have a lot on my plate today.” If he's not careful, she'll fire him right this minute for having such a big mouth.

“Back in May, it might have been early June,” Juan Pablo rushes forward, “a man came asking for you.”

“For me?”

“Yeah. I was doing my usual maintenance stuff when he rang the doorbell. I thought he might have wanted to rent one of the third-floor apartments. I let him in, and we had a chat in the hallway.”

“What did he want?”

Juan Pablo looks uneasy. “I don't really know. He stayed for a while, chatting, and then he left.”

“You don't really know?” Pilar looks at him in disbelief. “You let him in. You stood there talking to him. He must have asked you something. What did he say?”

“Well, he just went on about the neighborhood, really, and if it was easy to find apartments to rent, and then he asked if I knew of some family called Muñoz. He thought they lived on the sixth floor, somewhere along the street, but he couldn't find them. He said it was a real sign of a posh neighborhood when people didn't have their names beside their doorbells.”

“Go on.” Where is he going with this?

“I told him it wasn't in this building, anyway—that Mr. Alexander had the whole sixth floor to himself and his wife, and he definitely wasn't Muñoz.” Here Juan Pablo grins, triumphant. “I told him Mr. Alexander's name, and he laughed. Said he wouldn't be able to spell that in a fit, and no wonder it wasn't on his doorbell.”

Juan Pablo laughs again and lights himself a cigarette. He seems to be enjoying himself.

God above, Pilar thinks. What has he done?

Juan Pablo shifts on his chair. “He seemed to know a good bit about you. Said he'd heard you ran a really good show here.”

“What did he look like, this mystery man?” she asks.

“He was youngish, tall. I don't think he was Spanish; he was fluent an' all, but there was something a bit odd about his accent.”

“What else?”

“He had dark hair and a dark beard, and his eyesight wasn't good. He had on those glasses we used to wear as kids—you know the ones I mean. I thought they'd gone out with the dodo.”

“What kind of glasses?”

“The ones like bottle ends,” Juan Pablo says. “You know, the ones that magnify your eyes and make them look huge.”

Pilar nods. “Anything else?”

“No, not really. I don't think so.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I'd forgotten all about him, but the cops kept prodding and prodding, and then I remembered.”

“Did you say anything to them?”

Juan Pablo shakes his head. “Nah. I'd never be able to recognize the guy again anyway, so I said nothing. Just wanted you to know, in case, like, they come back again asking.”

“And you're sure he was here just that one time?”

“Yeah—I only met him the once, anyway.” Juan Pablo drags again on his cigarette. He looks uncomfortable. Pilar is sure he's hiding something.

A memory begins. “When did the door start acting up?” she asks. “Was it before or after that?”

“After,” Juan Pablo says at once. “I know it was after. I wrote down the date I tried to fix it so's I could tell you.”

Pilar looks at him. “I'm only going to ask this once. Did you leave that man alone, at any stage, that day?”

Juan Pablo shifts in his chair. “He asked to use a bathroom. I let him into one of the empty apartments on the third floor.”

“And?”

“Then Señora de Moreno nabbed me. You know, the one with the leaking washing machine?”

“I know who Señora de Moreno is, and I know all about her washing machine. How long were you gone?”

“Not long—just a few minutes. When I came back, he was gone.”

“Is that everything?”

“Yeah, I think so. I wanted you to know. Should I say anything? To the cops, I mean?”

Pilar thinks of Petros, of Alexandros, of Francisco-José: all the ties, all the complex, secret connections that bind them together. Then she thinks of her residents. She thinks of herself, of the new life that is waiting for her. She will not have that endangered. What had puzzled Pilar before is clear to her now. Juan Pablo had let a murderer into her building. With his talk and his absences and his carelessness, he had literally opened the door to death. Pilar makes her decision. She looks Juan Pablo in the eye and speaks softly.

“If you say anything, anything at all, I'll fire you,” she says. “You've already said enough. Let it go.”

Juan Pablo looks embarrassed, then relieved. “That's what I thought,” he says. He stands up. “I'm happy to let it go. I'm sure it's not important anyway. He was probably just a random stranger.” He stubs out his cigarette.

“Yes,” she says. “A random stranger.”

“You off on your holidays soon?” Juan Pablo asks.

“Yes,” Pilar says, feeling suddenly happy. “Off on my holidays.”

To my son. To Rosa, my daughter. To my grandchild, María Dolores. To spend time with them and with gentle Paco.

“Right, then,” he says. “See you the first week in September. Give my regards to Extremadura.”

Pilar lets him out and closes the door firmly behind him.