The Years That Followed (12 page)

“I see,” Calista says. She already knows this. Everybody knows this.

“His age and pressure from my mother have meant that my father has finally agreed to retire. She is concerned about him. He has been traveling far too much recently, and she worries about his health.” Yiannis looks at Calista now, and there is a question in his gaze. He waits for her to speak.

“I understand that,” she says at last. “Of course. It's natural that you would take over the business. But there
is
something I should like to ask you.”

Yiannis inclines his head. “Please, ask me anything at all.” Again he waits, and Calista is unsure how to phrase her question.

I am now a father, Alexandros had ranted to her recently, his face alight with anger, and still my brothers treat me like the office boy.

“What about Alexandros's future?” Calista asks.

Yiannis looks at her, measuring her. “What do you mean?”

“Isn't there a place for him?”

“Of course there is a place for him. A very specific place, already with his name on it. He knows that. But before he can call it his, Alexandros must learn the ropes, just as I had to.” Yiannis pauses. “This is how we do things, Calista. Alexandros needs to learn patience.”

He leans towards her, and she sees that Yiannis's brown eyes are kind. They regard her keenly. He lowers his voice, even though there is no one close enough to them to hear. “We are very conscious of Alexandros's new responsibilities. He will not have to wait for long; but he needs to learn more . . . tactful ways of doing business, both within the family and outside it.”

Calista lowers her eyes. There is nothing she can say.

“I have offended you. I am sorry,” Yiannis says quietly. “I shouldn't be telling you even this much, but it is difficult . . . May I be honest with you?”

Calista nods and looks up at him again, quickly. “Yes, of course; please do. I'd like you to be.”

“I have taken this opportunity to speak to you when perhaps I shouldn't, but I understand that it has been very difficult for my mother and my father to see you and Alexandros so . . . unsettled. We are doing everything we can; perhaps it is Alexandros himself who needs to do a little more.” Yiannis is speaking more quickly now.

She feels her eyes fill, but she will not turn away from him. “I know,” she says at last. “I know that Alexandros needs to do more. Thank you for telling me.”

Calista has begun to walk more softly around her husband in the last few months, particularly since Imogen's birth. She is wary of giving his anger a chance to ignite. Sometimes it ignites anyway, and Calista never knows what word of hers, what look, what gesture has lit the fuse.

And there was one time, just the one . . . but Calista doesn't want to think about that now. Besides, Alexandros was so sweet, so remorseful afterwards. It will never happen again, she knows that. She has Alexandros's word.

Yiannis takes a business card out of his wallet. “Here,” he says. “Have this. This must be a confusing world for a young woman not
schooled in our ways. I will help you navigate the waters in any way I can.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

Once the days that surround the christening are over, Calista escapes more and more. Haridimos, the sweet, elderly driver who has worked for Petros and Maroulla for decades, takes Calista and Imogen under his wing. He speaks to Calista in slow, patient Greek, and takes the time to teach her the words for simple, everyday things.

“Would you like to go to the beach with Imogen?” Alexandros asks her at the beginning of the blessed cool of October. “My mother has suggested that Haridimos drive you. It is beautiful at Evdimou and Pissouri at this time of year. You will like it.”

“Yes,” Calista says at once. She is keen to leave the house, to feel the sea breeze on her skin. To breathe easily again.

Haridimos takes Calista to the turquoise-colored waters of Evdimou on that first day. The beach is almost deserted; there are only a few, scattered families with small children along its silky sands. Haridimos makes sure that the parasol is secure, that Imogen is sheltered and comfortable.

From him, Calista learns the words for “sea,” for “sand,” for “swimming.” She tries them out, over and over again.
Thalassa. Ammos. Kolimbo
.

“Good.” Haridimos keeps nodding. He smiles at her. “You learn good. You learn very good.”

Imogen loves the water. She shows no fear. For a full, freedom-­filled month, Calista goes wherever Haridimos suggests. He drives a little farther each time. Once he takes her to Kakopetria, right in the middle of the island. “My village,” he tells her.

Calista meets his cousins, his elderly neighbors, the local priest. High in the foothills of the northern Troodos Mountains, Calista learns that the village name means “the Evil Rocks.”

“Life very hard,” one of the villagers tells Calista. Rocks had to be cleared from the harsh land before crops could be planted. In many ways, the village reminds Calista of the more desolate parts of Connemara in the west of Ireland, a place she had visited while still a schoolgirl.

* * *

Once, as Calista sits reading in the living room, Imogen asleep beside her at last, she hears Maroulla's approach. Her mother-in-law's high heels clack across the tiled floor; Calista has come to dread the sound. She glances at her own bare feet and feels immediately guilty. She puts down her book. What has she done wrong now? Calista can see the determination on her mother-in-law's face, in the purposeful way she puts one foot in front of the other. In the way her hair lifts away stiffly, blackly, from her pale, broad forehead.

Calista sighs. She should be familiar with the feeling by now: that of always falling short. Earlier, Imogen gave in and finally slept in the cradle at her mother's feet. Calista has, all along, resisted the idea of a nanny. She wants to look after Imogen herself, she says, at least for the first year or so. She has not won that battle, not yet, but she senses, for now at least, Maroulla's indulgence. The truth is that Calista is afraid to let her baby go. She has no one else. As long as she is responsible for everything about Imogen's life, she has someone to hide behind.

The last several months have been exhausting, and although Calista tries really hard, it seems that Alexandros does not understand. They spent the whole month of August in Platres, in Petros and Maroulla's house in the Troodos Mountains, escaping the cruel heat of Limassol. Ari and Spyros, along with Eva and Dorothea and all their daughters, came and went with bewildering frequency. They were all casually kind and welcoming and busy and absent; it was a dance, and Calista felt that she would never learn the steps, never move with grace and freedom through all these unspoken relationships and obligations and fallings-out and in again. She was drowning in family. Ever since their return to Limassol, Alexandros has been working a lot, and Calista has sunk gratefully into the silence and serenity of his many absences. Instead, she reads. Philip sends her parcels of books:
The Complete Works of Shakespeare
, the plays of Oscar Wilde, and, recently, novels by Iris Murdoch.

Now, as her mother-in-law reaches her, Calista is aware of the book in her lap and the way the words still burn behind her eyes. She hopes that Maroulla will go away; the fictional waters of
The Unicorn
in which she, Calista, has been floating are much more startling and compelling than her real life. But Maroulla looks even more
determined. Calista can see that her mother-in-law is stitching some sentences together before she speaks.

“This morning,” she says finally, and Calista can see that she is struggling to explain. “You go, Hristina. She come now, for you.”

Calista is at a loss. “What?”

Maroulla becomes impatient. “Hristina, good friend. Daughter. You go.” And she starts to shoo Calista off the sofa.

Calista has no idea what is expected of her. But now Maroulla is smiling. She's waving her hand in the air, apparently at the black helmet of her recently waved hair. “For hair,” she says. “For hair.”

For her? Calista thinks, and then the light dawns. “Hairdresser?” she says.

“Yes!” Maroulla looks triumphant.

She wants me to go to the hairdresser, Calista thinks. What on earth . . . ? “But Imogen—”

“I stay, I stay,” Maroulla insists. “You go. Have coffee. Some shopping. Go.”

At that moment the doorbell rings, and the maid, Agathi, ushers in a tall, elegant young woman. Hristina's white suit is faultless. Her eyes are warm as she greets Maroulla. She kisses her on both cheeks, and there is a rapid exchange in Greek, none of which Calista is able to catch. As long as the conversation is slow and pedestrian and deliberate, Calista manages to understand and to make herself understood. She spends a long time getting her questions right, can even ask them with confidence, but she is all too often dismayed by the speed and complexity of the response.

Now Hristina turns to face Calista. “Hello,” she says in English. “We have met once, perhaps twice before—but always too many people.” She smiles. Calista can see that the smile does not reach her eyes. “I am Hristina, a friend of the family. I come to spend this morning, this afternoon with you.”

Calista knows exactly who she is. She is one of those elegant females whom Maroulla would like as a daughter-in-law. Calista begins to bristle. She doesn't want to spend the morning with Hristina. What she'd really like is to spend some time with María-Luisa, or Maggie. Or Philip: particularly Philip.

Why can't all these people just go away and leave her alone?

At that moment, Imogen shifts in her cradle, murmuring in her
sleep, her small thumb making its way towards her mouth. Hristina glances down at her. “Such a lovely baby,” she says. “You must be so proud.” She looks away almost at once, her gaze resting on Calista's face.

“Thank you.” Calista begins to soften, as she always does when she looks at her baby, this new and magical being who has suddenly arrived and taken over her life. A life that seems to have shrunk in size even further: a life defined by feeds, nappies, cries, whole nights of disturbed sleep. This young woman dressed in white has brought something else from the outside along with her: the air of a larger universe, one that Calista has barely thought about.

And then she thinks: Why not? Maybe Hristina is nice enough, and it might be good to get away from the house, just for a little while.

Maroulla is now beaming. “You go, yes?” Her eyes are kindly, Calista realizes. She feels this kindness as an almost physical shock. The woman is trying to help. “Thank you, Maroulla,” she says. “It is very good of you.”

But Maroulla waves her off.

* * *

In the car, Hristina says: “Maroulla worries that you spend too much time alone.” She glances across at Calista. “The baby is now eight months, no?”

Calista nods. “Well, nine,” she says. “It has all been so fast, I can hardly count it. To be honest, it feels like a bit of a blur.”

Hristina pulls out onto the main road. “You must do other things, too,” she says. “I am very happy to show you around, to take you to the hairdresser, and afterwards perhaps some shopping? And some friends of mine will meet us later. Perhaps we will take an aperitif together.”

She glances at Calista's dress, and Calista sees herself just then as others must. The realization startles her. Her cotton dress is cool and easy to wear, but it now looks dull and shapeless. She feels embarrassed when she compares herself to Hristina's cool, tailored whiteness. No wonder Maroulla has decided enough is enough. For a moment Calista wonders what María-Luisa would say, and she's sure she knows the answer.

“Shopping?” she says. Calista hopes she doesn't sound stupid, but
there is something missing here. Shopping means money, and Calista does not have any money.

“Yes, of course, shopping.” Hristina smiles, but she doesn't look at Calista. She keeps her eyes on the road ahead. “I will take you to Aggelopoulos in Agiou Andreou Street—and then we can charge whatever you choose.”

“Charge?”

Hristina looks surprised. “To Alexandros's account.” She glances towards Calista. “Perhaps,” she says carefully, “perhaps Maroulla did not have enough English to explain. You buy whatever you need in the shops. I will show you where. When you decide what you want, all you have to do is sign in Alexandros's name—you do not need to have any money. Do you understand?”

Calista nods. Of course. The memory of María-Luisa's weekly trips to Switzer's and Brown Thomas in Dublin comes back to her. She is angry at herself.

“But first, we go to Agni's in Agia Zoni. It is the best hairdresser's in Limassol.”

“That would be great, thanks,” Calista manages. And then, in a rush: “Have you known Alexandros and the family long?”

Hristina takes a moment to answer. Calista feels that there is something happening here. It is a ripple, an eddy, an undercurrent of cool water that has washed through her words, trailing silence in its wake.

“All my life,” Hristina says. “Our two families have always known each other. Alexandros and I grew up together.” She indicates, turns right, and drives towards the city center. Her face is a mask, Calista thinks. Beautiful, with dramatic, dark-painted eyes, but unreadable.

“How do you like Cyprus?” Hristina says. Calista knows the subject has been changed.

“It's beautiful,” Calista says. “It's very different from home, and I think I'm still getting used to things. Sometimes it's difficult.” She is surprised at the unexpected honesty of her admission. She doesn't allow herself to think about all those things that are difficult. Calista feels her eyes begin to fill and she turns away, looking out the window at the bright, fashionable shops that line this Limassol street.