Aaron had filled his time well. Not content with his regular English lessons and his successful courtship of Calista, he’d occasionally sneaked into Albania with English officers, for sport and game. Few people knew that in 1809, Lord Byron had explored Albania on horseback. Aaron had been just as keen to set foot in this fascinating landscape. He found the Albanian locals so unlike the demonic portraits that had been spread of them among the Ionians.
Aaron was now well-known in Kassiopi. Over time he had even made friends with a Venetian descendant. He’d rented a large wing in the man’s decrepit mansion, up on the hill, a little inland from the beach. His new apartments were more spacious than the lodging by the harbour, and their seclusion more to Aaron’s liking.
On this November day, Aaron stared broodily at his swarthy reflection in the mirror. He’d absorbed so much of the sun’s rays on this island, that he seemed unrecognisable. I might even pass for an Albanian, he thought. Kneeling over a ceramic basin, he splashed water over his face.
Tonight, he would win. Upon his arrival in Kassiopi, he’d not guessed what he was capable of. Back then it all seemed out of reach. Then when the village doctor had come to him yesterday and blurted out the scandalous situation, Aaron knew it was just a matter of time.
An hour later, when Aaron stepped inside Nikolaos’ home, a dinner guest of the Argyroses for the first time in over a year, he was surprised by their welcome.
He was greeted with kindness and respect, not just for having taught Calista wonderfully over the past months, but because a tragedy had struck, and on account of this calamity, Aaron had not seen Calista for weeks.
It was a curse, had bemoaned the village doctor as he’d shook his head. Aaron suspected everyone in the village might have learnt of the violent event by now, even if no one spoke of it in public. There were likely whispers in every home in Kassiopi. The word, bandits, was on everyone’s lips.
Aaron sat himself down at his hosts’ table. He could still hear the rhythmic sound of the waves outside. He let himself be soothed by its gentle breath, his keen eye studying the home where Calista had grown up and where he’d been invited for a meal at last.
It was a simple tiled home with an arched ceiling, built in thick white-washed stone. Beside him, bordering the hearth, was a stone ledge where pink geraniums were arranged in blue vases. Candles glowed within tiny alcoves along the walls. More candles were lit along the mantelpiece, while a larger one presided in the middle of the table.
Nikolaos sat beside him as Nectaria brought an earthenware dish of stewed beef and diced potatoes.
Aaron cleared his throat.
“You physician has shared some distressing news about Calista,” he began, a look of concern painted upon his face. “May I ask when this attack took place?” His manner was almost priestly. Privately though, he reflected on the tastiness of the sofrito dish; the beef, swimming in a zesty garlic sauce, made his mouth water with each bite.
A weighty silence followed his question. The couple looked upon each other and then Nikolaos made a brief motion with his hand to let his wife know they had no choice but to speak.
“Six weeks ago,” admitted Nectaria, her voice lowered, for she spoke in shame. She poured Aaron a glass of homemade wine.
Despite the seriousness of the subject, Aaron could not suppress a feeling of triumph. Part of him enjoyed seeing the couple trying to please him. It was his reward for all the time he’d striven to pass as an English professor. With the villagers’ scorn upon them, the Argyroses were desperate.
“We must think of Calista’s safety,” said Aaron, his face more solemn than ever.
“It is the right thing to do,” replied Nectaria.
Nikolaos nodded. But he seemed conflicted.
“Do we know who they were?” asked Aaron.
“No one does. The police think they might be Albanian bandits. But now the harm is done. Calista refuses to remain alone. She is afraid to go outside. She fears for her life here. Who are we to trust? Who in the village hates her? We don’t know. We do not know anything. But the harm is done.”
“What does the priest say?” asked Aaron, savouring his meat.
“The priest…” grunted Nikolaos. “He has recommended that Calista be married. But what are we to do if no one will take her? Death follows her, Mr. Nightingale. Now she has brought us shame.”
“The men who raped her knew what they were doing,” said Nectaria. She was near tears.
There was a long pause as Nikolaos rubbed his wife’s arm to comfort her.
Aaron took a deep breath. “In what curious position you seem to have found yourselves,” he said at last. He drank his wine.
“I don’t know what to do,” pleaded Nikolaos. “The British, they have suggested Calista be taken to the asylum. At least there, she would be safe.”
Aaron raised an eyebrow.
“To an asylum? I do not understand,” he asked coldly.
“In the past,” explained Nikolaos, “it was tradition to send the mad and those who are ill of mind to the monasteries. But not Calista. The monks do not want her. She is bad luck. You see now how hard it is for us.”
“But…Calista’s not mad,” protested Aaron.
Nikolaos and Nectaria exchanged a quiet look.
Nikolaos suddenly grasped Aaron’s arm.
“What am I to do, Mr. Nightingale? What am I to do
