Aurora Days: The Bardo Trilogy, #1

1

Viola glanced at her watch — she dreaded leaving but nothing would stop her, not even Rob Dwyer, headmaster at Blackwater Ridge Performing Arts Academy. Rob was a small part of her anxiety. When Tempest called, she had to answer the instruction to move on. It was a guess when she would be asked to leave to take up a new position — anywhere in the world. Flexibility was core to her other passion. Her teaching contracts for the past three years never included a full year of work, in any one location. Blackwater was home to her, letting her come and go as she did. She owed Rob much.

Her eager students fixed their hurt eyes on her. All were talented musicians having earned scholarships to this prestigious academy. They knew she was not their permanent teacher, but she grew on them like she did each year in a new class of young starry-eyed musicians.

‘Can’t you stay until the end of the year, Ms Bardo, then leave after we’ve finished.’

‘I can’t do that Cassie. I have a limited contract here and have to move to my next position.’

‘Why can’t someone else leave… like you-know-who…’ Tommy Rainer glanced around their small class of twelve students, ranging from thirteen to fifteen years, with a devilish grin. Her talented, beyond their years, students — intense and passionate, were innocent and playful around her. She allowed them to be who they were, and detested molding students, caging their personalities and artistic talents were counterproductive to creativity. She knew that creativity came with a sensitivity that few understood — those days of solitude — moodiness and then sheer delight, flitting between emotions that others labeled and mocked. Her students’ emotional reactions were natural responses as teenagers but intensified with their artistic passion. Experience had taught her that soon they would clash with societal and familial expectations.

It was almost 10:45 am, Rob Dwyer would be ready, to convince her to change her decision. He always welcomed her like the prodigal daughter when she asked to return to Blackwater Performing Arts Academy. Staff had tested his goodwill in recent months and Viola gave him her commitment and integrity which garnered negative attention as Rob’s special one — her frequent flights away from Blackwater and sudden returns annoyed those who saw it as a privilege. He was reclusive avoiding confrontation with disgruntled staff. Going to Rob’s office might be viewed by some as seeking favors. Someone was always watching her movements, or perhaps his.

When she was thirty-nine she learned to accept that she could never change some things. She had a purpose, a life calling that took her on two journeys each year and that was all that mattered in her life now.

‘Good morning, Mr Dwyer, how are you? Thank you for seeing me.’

‘Viola, when are you going to stop being so formal. You are the only teacher on staff who calls me Mr Dwyer.’

‘I prefer the formal address to keep students doing the same. Too often I hear the lack of formality from a few disrespectful students.’

‘My role-model teacher! You come and go, and I wish you would stay on as permanent staff. Can I pressure you to stay on until year end? I will extend your contract today. Say the word for a new contract in this minute. Well, I have one in my desk drawer, hoping…’ His pleading eyes made him a desperate schoolboy not her headmaster.

She stared out the window at the music center at the end of the oval, a haven for a passionate music teacher. It was perfect and yet it was not to be her permanent work abode. She had the itch and her heart spoke on where she should be during her time away.

‘I’m so sorry to do this to you, but it’s not possible this time. I leave for Greece in three days.’

‘Is there a remote chance that this is to be your last time away from us? Don’t you want to put roots down, leave your mark in one place….’ Consternation hardened her eye, and deepened the crevice on her nose bridge with thoughts on how dare he say this, who is he to tell her to settle, did he even know enough about her? She stopped. Rob had been generous to her, he was thinking of the school, not her, and she had to stick to her decision. There was no way out of what she had to do because she chose this life and would not turn her back on that decision. For the past three years she came and went for a term or two and as much as Rob couldn’t see it, this was her home base school. Australian shores drew her back each time whether it was because there was a hiatus from her calling with Tempest or an assignment needed her attention on home soil. Home was her compass of return.

Viola’s dual life took her to death’s door a few times and had her questioning whether she was on the wrong side of the law. Moral law. A petite stature, much like her mother, belied the iron strength she carried. Her mother worked at a university in South Africa after leaving Australia, and her father moved back to his ancestral home in Portugal. With a father as a prolific artist and her mother a professor of literature, it was no surprise that the creative arts fascinated her. She crafted her book of poems under the pseudonym Artista B, but fear kept her from having them published. As a child her father called her his Artista and soon she was Artista to both parents and their close family and friends. Not that there were many in the solitary work lives of her parents.

Viola’s air ticket was purchased from her separate savings account for her overseas trips. Her bags were packed and the school in Greece was expecting her as their Australian exchange teacher.

Rob persisted, ‘Why Greece, any special reason?’

‘Some of my paternal ancestry is Greek although my father is Portuguese.’

This silenced him. How could he argue about planting her feet here when she was going back to some part of her roots for a time? That she would return was what he accepted of all her departures.

Rob saw the honest sparkling delight in her eyes. Would she return was his concern, but he dared not pose that to her now?

‘Stay in touch, Viola, I look forward to having you back — any idea how long you plan to be away?’

‘I can’t say just yet.’ She stood up to shake his hand, ‘Thank you for everything. I will be in touch, I promise.’

She heard his whispered words, ‘Every time you leave it’s like sending my child off into the unknown.’ He hung onto her hand for an extra second. Viola had to let the guilt wash over her, Rob was going through difficult times. His leadership was under attack from some Iago personalities on staff.

Tempest arranged the exchange position at the Aurora Arts Academy in Athens. A level of trepidation filled her in knowing she would step onto the corridors of a part of her unknown ancestry. She felt like an impostor, and guilty for using this card to stop Rob. She had to prepare herself for whatever her mission was in Greece. All she was taking was a large backpack as carry-on luggage which included two pairs of jeans, four shirts, two white and two black, three cotton dresses and one black evening dress. She had to travel light or expect to leave excess baggage at each post. The money she earned from teaching in Australia, she saved for her return. On the road she lived a menial existence, ate, and dressed simply, and avoided getting close to people she might not want to see again. Anonymity earned her an unfair reputation of being haughty, and perhaps struggling with some anxiety disorder. She had to let it go, personal sensitivities were counterproductive to her line of work. If there’s one thing she learned from being in Tempest’s department, it was to toughen up. Her father believed if one could not shape up to the demands of life then they should ship out and save themselves the disgrace of being perceived incompetent. She had a journal, and her iPad packed in her larger than usual handbag, hoping she would not get pulled up at the departure checkpoint for having over one piece of carry-on luggage.

As an only child she was a loner by nature and kept her private counsel with fierce diligence. This made her an ideal candidate to slip in and out of Tempest’s requests. A no pay-check job to improve the lot of some and reinstate justice wherever she could, was enough to rest her weary head when she was out on a mission. She had to conduct more research on the school and chose not to call her father for hands-on information about the place. Her mother who knew about that side of her father’s roots would want to know more about her mission, would caution her, and tell her father to call her to probe into why she was really going to Greece — too much prying irked her. All she knew was that accommodation was available at the school for overseas teachers and that the headmaster would meet her at the airport when she arrived in Athens. She was not expecting five-star treatment although the private school attracted one of the country’s highest fees with its elite parent clientele. The only concern she had, was that the school was a little out of the CBD — she didn’t drive and wondered whether this would be a deterrent to the after-hours work Tempest had lined up for her. The school population, she discovered on their website, comprised students whose parents were overseas delegates living and working on international government policies in Greece.

Once in her window seat, she curled into a ball thankful for passing through the check-in with ease, and that nobody sat next to her. It was not a full flight much to her delight. She paged through the Athenian school brochure and studied the face of the headmaster in this elite Academy. His Vulcan shaped head and narrow eyes made her shiver. It was too early to form judgements, something she knew early in this moonlighting role. Forming speculations too soon had a way of pointing her in the wrong direction. His expression was hard to read. Rob was an open book. The whole school knew his moods. He locked himself behind his large office door but Aurora’s Arts Academy headmaster appeared as cold as alabaster on the shiny pages of this expensive school brochure. He was meeting her at the airport which would allow her time to observe his behavior.

She scrutinized the photograph, the assistant head standing next to him was a younger man, rather diminutive and insignificant in the towering height of the headmaster. He appeared to be a last-minute penciled-in inclusion in the photograph. Interesting, perhaps he was a yes man. She disliked those sorts — spineless, complaining and accepting of everything dished down to them. It excited her to be working in a school that had an outstanding reputation for being the best in the country. She dozed off dreaming about sun-soaked beaches and her father painting the landscape before them. He wanted her to spend Christmas with him, she considered taking him up on the offer by deferring her return to Australia. Her Australian Christmases were lonely. She cooked a lean turkey drumstick for one with a single serve of steamed frozen veggies and enjoyed a small cup-cake size Woollies Christmas cake dressed in thick layer of marzipan. Her sweet tooth was a known weakness.

With no inkling into what Tempest had in store for her, she had to wait for instructions before she made Christmas plans. She knew her mother had dregs of extended family living somewhere in Greece but avoided asking questions about them. One conversation with her mother when she was thirteen stuck with her. She asked if she missed the culture and people of her birth country. Her reply was, ‘Viola you are an African-French-Portuguese so anywhere in the world is home to you. Resilience is vital to survive in a world of vast opportunity.’ She would never get a straight answer, always it was a life lesson like a textual literary evaluation that her mother felt compelled to explain. At thirteen years old those words shaped the direction she took. This was her first trip to Greece where some hidden part of her cultural origins lay. She had no intention of searching for them. Australia was home.

She leaned over to her large handbag for her iPad when she felt a pair of eyes drilling through her from across the aisle — the old woman did the staring, the young man next to her, perhaps in his late teens or early twenties was asleep. When Viola locked eyes with the starer, she averted her eyes to the television screen. It was perhaps an idle stare, long haul flights made people curious about lone travelers. This heightened sense of observation she imbibed from her father. His precision and attention to detail in his paintings made him an acclaimed artist in Africa and Portugal. He ran his own gallery and hosted artists’ in-residence workshops at his centre for eclectic art in Porto. She missed him the most when he was teaching, and inventing wonderful works with no break for months at a time.

She looked across at the woman again. Her curly mop of ash-gray hair made her look older than her unwrinkled face. Her deep-set eyes in those fleeting seconds of observation held no expression — a blank, cold stare. The woman fascinated her enough to pull out her journal from the bottom of her bag. Poetry was her release from tension and baking relaxed her. Now she had no oven and a level of tension coupled with curiosity drew her to pen and paper.

Stranger with eyes so deep

Sullen without sleep…

She wrote, drew a line across her words, started anew and soon gave up. Sleep beckoned and she needed to be fresh and alert when she met her new employer and his sidekick. She coiled herself in the cuddly blanket, reached out for another on the vacant seat beside her and stared into space willing a few hours of sleep.

2

It was Memorial Day.

The head of the school and his assistant met her upon arrival as a courtesy settling in policy for overseas teachers. Trepidation crept in, regardless of the number of places she visited. Would they like her, think she was a good fit for the school, or would they treat her with indifference as a foreigner? Her credentials and experience spoke of her excellence. But worry she did. She did it well. This is when she needed to crunch on some peanut brittle — her soother for her soul, a quick sugar fix. Anxiety gripped. Her jaw tensed and her mouth was dry. Schools had a way of making Viola feel like a student on her first day at a new school. She would be spending most of her days at Aurora Arts Academy and some nights outside depending on Tempest’s agenda.

Miles Alexakis and Jace Dimakos welcomed her, one with a broad smile, the other with a nod and faint smile. Miles Alexakis introduced himself as the headmaster of the Academy and Jace as his assistant. They were as the school brochure presented, the tall head and the hesitant assistant, penciled in the shadow behind the looming headmaster.

Miles’ booming voice jolted Viola back to reality, ‘Welcome, Ms Bardo, you must be nervous and excited at the same time. How was your flight? Did they look after you?’ Viola paused unsure which question to answer first, she chose to ignore the part about being nervous.

‘Great flight thanks, and thank you for meeting me. Yes, I’m excited to be joining your staff.’

Jace, a man closer to her age, she presumed, sidled up to her with a smile that grew warmer.

‘Everyone is eager to meet you. Your reputation precedes you. Mr Alexakis highlighted your credentials at the last staff meeting. Some staff members will be at our formal breakfast to welcome you. Because it’s a long weekend, some are away with their families.’

Viola cringed that staff had already scrutinized her credentials. Her private self, hated anyone knowing everything about her before she had met them. Strangers probing into her life!

Jace continued the conversation, keen to impress, asking questions she perceived would come.

‘Are you Australian by birth or naturalized?’

‘I was born in Mozambique, my parents migrated to Australia when I was a child. My father is Mozambiqan Portuguese, my mother is part African, part French, so my heritage is international.’ Viola laughed although often the probing into her background annoyed her. She wanted to be herself, not a Portuguese, French, African-Australian. Being Viola Bardo was enough for her. Miles Alexakis nodded, taking it all in, not commenting.

‘I would love to hear more about your intriguing heritage in the days ahead.’ Jace chirped, smiling at the headmaster for approval as though he had discovered that which needed further investigation. Viola sensed it was best to avoid him, it could become too personal, too close and she would not risk exposing the real reason why she was in Greece.

‘Ms Bardo, so do you plan the number of teacher exchange programs you take on. You seem to have worked in a diverse selection of schools.’

‘It has been twice a year. My Australian school is my home base and a place that respects and accepts my decision to be a traveling teacher, I suppose. They have asked me to set down roots soon, so I will wait and see.’

Jace jumped in, ‘Perhaps this is where you will set down your roots.’ Miles’ sidelong glance at Jace brought his enthusiasm to an abrupt halt. Viola had to break the awkward moment.

‘Well, to quote Theodore Roethke in ‘The