Escape (11 page)

'There was a magician working in the piazza,' he said. 'Umberto.
I used to watch 'im, and we became friends. Umberto 'ad a studio full
of books about magic and 'e let me read them, experiment, you know.
I was like an apprentice, I suppose,' he added, 'and Umberto was glad
for the company.'

By the time Guido enrolled at the university in Perugia, he was
good enough to take on magic shows for children during the holidays.
He was able to give Clara a small
stipendio
, even though she said she
didn't want it. She spent most of her days in the room she called the
library, where the bookshelves were filled with copies of medieval
texts. During bouts of bad weather, persistent illness or misfortune,
she consulted them and often brewed strange assortments of herbs for
colds and fever.

'She grew her own vegetables,' Maurizio put in. 'She didn't trust
the local grocer because he once appeared in her dream as the devil.'

Guido gave a dismissive wave. 'Clara 'ad a garden,
sì
, and she liked
to spend time there. But it made 'er knees ache so I did the weeding
for 'er. But
vedi
, Rachel,' Guido leant back in his chair, his hands
resting lightly on the table, 'Clara lived in another world. She read and
meditated and made up 'er own stories about the laws of the universe.'
He smiled, remembering. 'And strange things did occur in 'er life. She
talked to 'er dead 'usband, Piero. She said 'is ghost came to sit at the
edge of 'er bed at night. She believed in ghosts, they kept her company.
She says they walked the cobblestones of Assisi, whispering in the
wind. She 'ated black cats. She believed in the mortal curse.'

'Do you?'

A shadow came down over Guido's face like a curtain, shutting me
out. He shrugged.

I could have kicked myself. Too direct, wasn't I, blurting without
thinking. But I was so eager to know Guido. I couldn't wait to find out
what was going on behind those shining black eyes. Fancy – mysterious
great aunts, a medieval village, a mortal curse.

My childhood sat squarely between the solid brick veneer walls
of 15 Cuthbert Street, where homework was done by 6 pm and there
was roast lamb on Sundays. Where I came from people worked hard
for conceivable rewards, and there was no such thing as luck or the
spirit world. There was no conjuring at my house, either, although
once, when I asked him to, Dad had a go at leaving cake out for Santa
Claus.

'
Zia
Clara was an old woman,' Guido said after a while. 'Maybe a
little
pazza
. But she 'ad a unique knowledge.' He pronounced unique
as 'eunuch' and for a moment I was confused. Was eunuch knowledge
like carnal knowledge? Surely no one kept eunuchs since the Roman
emperors? Guido was smiling fondly, looking out across the harbour
at the boats clinking on the tide.
Don't be ridiculous
, said the voice.

One of the first things Clara told Guido was to look out for black
cats, of which there were many in Assisi. They slunk around the
medieval alleyways, lurked in the shady corners of the squares. Black
cats were engraved with dark hearts, Clara said, and must be avoided.
They were the familiars of witches, and took part in black magic.
On the morning of the day her husband, Piero, was struck down by
lightning, a black cat had crossed his path.

'The only way to stop a curse from a black cat is to 'unt it down
and find one white 'air on its back,' Guido said. 'You must pluck it out
and burn it.
Zia
Clara told Piero to do this but 'e was late for 'is game
of dominoes in the square, and 'e didn't listen. Piero was liking more
that game,
Zia
Clara said, than the life itself.'

Maurizio laughed. 'Clara was medieval, no?' He threw back his
head with a laugh. For the first time I saw beneath his bathmat beard
where his white throat was exposed like something rude. I looked
away.

'Always with her head stuck in an old book,' he went on. 'You
remember her medicine book, her crazy remedies? What was that
mixture she gave you for the headache that time?'

Guido scratched his chin. 'Some 'erbs, I don remember well.' He
began to tap the table.

Maurizio spluttered and wiped his mouth. 'That's right. She
cooked up a broth with garlic and holy water she stole from the church
and said a spell and a prayer over it before she poured it down your
throat.'

Guido's smile grew strained. The tapping sounded like artillery.

Maurizio slung his arm around Guido. 'She loved you though, eh?
Ti voleva bene davvero.
'

I watched as Maurizio squeezed Guido's shoulder. The warmth
in his smile looked like that of a father for a son, and suddenly I
felt glad for Guido that an older man would look at him so fondly,
one person in the world who shared a memory, a link with his
childhood.

'So when did you decide to make this big trip together?' I asked,
looking from one to the other.

Guido forked up a mouthful of his marinara.

'Not so long ago,' Maurizio grinned. 'I had been booked for more
than a year to come here, but then I was ill, and wondering how I
would manage, when I saw Guido performing. He was
splendido
– it
came to me that we could work together. When you get to my age,
Rachel, you don't have to hog the whole stage any more! So I asked
him to make this great adventure with me and he said – no!'

'At first,' put in Guido.

'Yes, and then you disappeared—'

'I 'ad some business with the university in Rome—'

'Hmm, with all your studies.' Maurizio laughed and poked him in
the ribs. 'And your politics.'

Guido frowned.

'Life in Italy has been what you'd call explosive, in this last decade,'
Maurizio explained quickly. 'Student riots, union protests, police
everywhere . . . And then, of course, the Brigate Rosse—'

'Who?'

'The Red Brigade – the left -wing terrorist organisation.'

'Not always the terroristi,' put in Guido. 'The Brigate Rosse 'ave
been blamed for Mafia assassinations, CIA business, remember—'

Maurizio laughed, throwing up his hands. '
Ecco! There
is always
drama in our country.' He glanced at Guido. 'Some universities were
taken over by students—'

'But I returned to you, didn't I?' said Guido.

'Yes, just three weeks before I was due for Australia! I just had to
have faith that you would. But it was not restful,
ragazzo
. You know,
Rachel,' he turned to me, grinning, 'it was his birthday and he appeared
at my window at midnight like an archangel.' Maurizio rolled his eyes
at me. 'Well, an angel who'd drunk too much
grappa
.'

'More like a devil,' grinned Guido.

'Or a wizard,' I added, excited at the idea. I felt about the same age
as my grade three pupils, so dazzled was I to be sitting in the company
of two
splendido
magicians from Italy.

'Clara may have described him that way.
Un mago
,' mused
Maurizio. 'I had a pretty good idea he'd be back. So I kept that place
in my contract for him. Every young man needs a journey to take his
own measure.' Maurizio winked at Guido. 'I knew you were coming
before you did.'

'You must 'ave the gift of reading the future,' said Guido slyly.
'Even the great 'Oudini could not do that.'

Maurizio raised his wine. 'I'm just a good judge of character,
Guido, that is all.' He held Guido's gaze levelly, watching him over the
top of the glass.

'Or, I suited your plans very well,' teased Guido, 'and you suited
mine.'

Maurizio gave him a lazy smile, and the waiter came to collect our
plates.

I sat back and watched the two men talking. After a while, they
slipped into Italian like swimmers into a summer sea. I was content to
look and dream and imagine myself far away – in Porto Fino perhaps,
or what was that other famous place, Capri, where women walked
around only in bikinis and diamond necklaces?

Guido must have said something amusing then because Maurizio
gave one of his generous laughs and flung back his head. Maurizio's
voice reminded me of the Italian song from the cafe. He had been all
over the world, lived in England as well as America. I imagined this was
the reason his accent was much softer than Guido's. And yet Guido's
English was extraordinarily good. When dessert came – a lemon
sorbet, tart but invigorating – I asked Guido how it was possible for
him to be so fluent. Surely not the result of high school lessons?

'My mother spoke English to me when I was a
bambino
,' was all he
offered.

I squirmed in the silence that trailed afterwards. I wanted to ask
if she was English by birth or just enthusiastic about his acquiring
another language. At teacher's college they'd told us that small children
soak up different languages as easily as little sponges. But I didn't like
to pursue the question. His face had folded up.

I sat and drank my first espresso coffee from a doll-size cup and
gazed at Guido. It was hard not to reach out and touch his hand, or
his leg, jiggling to some private rhythm there under the table. His eyes
were so dark in the dusky light, his skin pearled by the lamps lit under
the canvas awning. I sat on and listened, the Italian billowing around
me like music, and wondered when he was going to kiss me.

Maurizio got up from the table, and whispered something to
Guido.

'Yes, yes,' Guido said impatiently, 'I won't be late. You go on, I will
not be long. I just want to see Rachel on 'er train.'

Maurizio nodded approvingly and bent down to peck my cheek.
'
Ciao bella
,' he said, his beard tickling, 'we see each other soon.'

As soon as Maurizio had started on his way, Guido got up and
pulled me over to the stone wall against the sea. Without a word he
took my face in both his hands and looked straight into my eyes.
'Rachel,' he murmured, the way you'd say 'love' or 'precious'. His
fingers touched my forehead, my cheeks, my lips.

Then he had his arms around me and his mouth, oh god almighty,
his mouth. I breathed him in, something sweet, toothpaste, cigarettes,
perfume. The shock of another person on your flesh. His tongue
pushed into my mouth, insisting. I leant into him, my arms around his
neck. Then he licked under my top lip, gently, just flicking it, such an
intimate gesture and I felt a sharp stab in the centre of me that flew all
the way up to my throat. I gasped, floating into him, I wanted to go
on tasting him, be carried like something without will on his tide. We
stayed like that, our mouths together, for a long time.

I knew, when he finally pulled away, saying he must go back to the
theatre, that I wanted to stand like that always, with no space between
our bodies, breathing the same air.

After Guido kissed me against the sea wall of Sydney Harbour, I
moved around like a sleepwalker. I felt just one impulse, and that was
to be near him. The world in Cuthbert Street faded, becoming barely
audible. My father asked whether I had wax in my ears as he did when
I was fourteen.

I'd arranged to meet Guido the following week, on the
Wednesday, after his matinee. But at a quarter past three that day,
Robert Sanford fell off the monkey bars. He lay stunned on the wood-chipped
playground, too shocked to make a sound. You could see at
a glance his arm was broken. A bone stuck out sideways, like a shard
of drift wood.

Guido was walking away from the ticket box as I rushed into the
theatre.

'I thought you were not coming,' he said, frowning.

I explained about Robert Sanford and how he wouldn't let go of
my skirt till his mother arrived.

Guido nodded. 'You are responsible, looking after people. Is good
in a woman. Maybe you look after me, eh?' He laughed lightly and
took my arm. 'So, where do you wan to go?'

The pub was noisy and smoky, all tinkling glass and loud laughs
after work, people busy relieving themselves of responsibility. We
walked up stained carpeted stairs to another room at the back where
a brick-paved floor was open to the sky. A stainless steel barbecue ran
the length of the room, dividing the space in half.

We looked around for a place to sit. Bursts of laughter shot from
the tables like gunfire. A smell of meat turning into charcoal rose in
dark clouds. We found a table in the corner near a pot of frangipani,
away from the smoke. Guido suggested we buy a bottle of wine,
perhaps the one we had tasted the other night with Maurizio. He went
to the bar to get it while I waited at the table.

Two girls tottered into the courtyard on heels like stilts and
stared over at him, giggling and whispering. Guido seemed to tower
over everyone else with his beauty, like Gulliver on that island of
Lilliputians. I had the familiar feeling of wishing there was another
person, an understudy maybe, who could fill in for me on this
important night – she would do everything right and then I could sort
of slip in later, seamlessly, when the first real date was over.

When he came back, the room changed. I realised that I'd thought
he might never return. Why would he?

As he sat down, Guido plucked a frangipani flower and gave it
to me. I glanced around quickly. No one had seen. I felt I should tell
Guido that you weren't supposed to
take
the flowers, just look at them.
If everyone behaved like Guido, there'd be no flowers left . That's what
I would have told grade three.
Oh, you're such a killjoy
, said the voice.

I buried my nose in the petals, right down to the yellow centre. I
could smell fresh rain and a sweetness that made my mouth water. We
sat and sipped our wine. His throat rose slim and tanned from the open
neck of his shirt. I wanted to run my finger over the delicate bones
at the base, trace the shadowy hollows towards his shoulders. He was
vulnerable and powerful at the same time. You could see the muscles
in his arms pulling under his shirt. Imagine feeling them against your
skin. Holding you.

'Pardon?'

The outside of him was so distracting; it was all I could do to take
in his surface, let alone try to understand what he was saying.

'Where do you grow up?'

'Same place I live now,' I said. 'I was even born there, on my
mother's bed. I'm still there, living at home.'

I must have pulled a face because he said, 'What is bad? You are
young and you 'ave no 'usband, I think!'

'No,' I laughed too loudly. 'No, yes, well – most people my age
have moved out of home by now. I suppose I feel ashamed about it.' I
smirked self-consciously, taking a gulp of wine.

If I'd had my own flat I could have asked him home afterwards. We
could have drunk wine and kissed on my sofa, just the two of us. He
stared into his glass. The silence between us filled with other people's
voices. I felt suddenly as if I had no more in common with him than
they did. As if we were all commuters who just happened to be on the
same train – although everyone else seemed to know where they were
going better than I did.

'In Italy is not like this,' Guido said finally. 'Sons and daughters
usually stay at 'ome until they are married. Some sons they are still
living at 'ome in their thirties. Is normal.'

He smiled at me. I smiled back. Suddenly I wondered if the
silences were long because he was having difficulty understanding my
fast fumbled English. Perhaps half the time he was just trying to hang
on, to sort out what was being said. To encourage him, I asked him
about Assisi, the last house he had lived in with his aunt Clara.

That had been the right question because I was rewarded with a
bigger smile. By now I recognised that particular expression, soft and
reflective, especially reserved for his
zia
.

'Assisi is built on the side of a mountain – is dramatic, like an
ancient creature clinging there. But is very old, from the time of the
Etruschi
. I remember funny things, little things. The church bell ringing
so early on Sunday mornings. If you don wan to wake up you learn to
find a place for this sound in your dreams. I miss the ringing of the
bell, is strange. But
Zia
Clara, she was always awake at dawn.'

I touched Guido's fingers. 'Tell me more about Clara,' I said.

He shrugged. 'There is not so much to tell. Is a pity the short time
I 'ad with 'er.' He leant forward suddenly, his elbows on the table. 'But
the times we talked, I am knowing she can see things behind the world.
Things that most people cannot see. Sometimes this makes 'er mad,
or sad. But Clara, she made me interested in being alive again.' Guido
looked straight into my eyes. 'I do no talk like this with many people.
But I can trust you, I think. You are a good person, like
Zia
Clara.'

I tried to look straight back at him, to show him how good
and honest I could be but I felt my eyes betray me. I looked down,
overwhelmed with pleasure and fear. I thought of dogs and their dumb
love and how they can't look their masters in the eye for more than a
second. Perhaps it is too much for them too.

Guido sighed and poured another glass of wine. 'When she talked
the life was like poetry. Nothing was purely itself - the wind, the sea,
the hills - there was another meaning inside. Clara was
una creativa
,
she did not just believe what everyone else did. People laughed at 'er
as they do at all new ideas, but they are not laughing at Galileo after his
death, no? Clara encouraged me to listen to myself, even if I seemed
crazy. This is a valuable gift , no?'

I nodded. 'She was like a mother to you,' I said softly.

Guido snapped back into his chair as if he'd been hit. 'No.' His
voice was sharp. 'She was very different to my mother.
Mia madre
just
did what men told 'er to do.'

He lit a cigarette and smoked it down to the butt , saying nothing.
Oh how I wanted to be like Clara, but instead, deep in my black heart,
I knew I was more like his
madre
. I tried to catch his eye, to think of
something light or amusing to say. Nothing. The line between his eyes
was ferocious. I felt cut off , crossed out like a wrong answer.

I poured another glass of wine and drank it. If we didn't eat soon,
the whole night might blur and go dark and I would find myself lying
alone, under the table. It didn't occur to me to get up and order dinner.
I was paralysed by my mistake, pinned to the seat.

I finished the glass. Still we said nothing. How could two people
sit side by side, not even breathing in time together? Guido glanced
about him. Nothing he saw made the frown disappear. I wished I
could recover quickly like other people did. You see it happen all the
time on television: people get over betrayals like adultery in just half
an hour – twenty minutes without the ads.

'I like these frangipani trees,' said Guido. 'In Italy, in the city, we
live mostly in apartments. But there is the piazza where you can meet
people. Is good, not lonely.'

I nodded. But I have always felt uneasy about city streets,
especially late at night. In narrow dark roads I smell alcohol and fear
even when there are neither.

Guido pinched my cheek. 'You frown. But you must smile! You
are pretty when you smile.'

'My father had a bad accident in the city,' I said. 'When I was a
child. I guess it's hard to leave it behind.'

Guido looked up. I liked his arrested gaze of concern.

'He was walking home, just finished his beat. That was his job,
patrolling the streets. Dad was a policeman.'

Guido's eyebrow shot up. 'Like
carabinieri
? With uniform and
gun?'

'Yes. But he's retired now.'

Guido looked relieved. His eyebrow relaxed. 'Go on.'

'Well, it happened at night, in an alleyway. There was a girl, and
a man holding her against the wall. They could have been lovers, you
know, just having a . . . But when Dad got closer he glimpsed two, three
other men behind them.' I swallowed. 'I still get goosebumps when I
think of it.'

'I understand.' Guido rested his chin on his hand. His eyes were
big. Such beautiful eyes. I wanted them to stay fixed on me.

'The girl was screaming, and Dad shouted
Stop!
but one guy
started running straight at Dad, reaching inside his jacket – firing at
him! So what could Dad do? There was nothing else he could do—'

'Your father used his gun?'

'Yes. Dad pulled the trigger. He thought he was going to be
killed.'

'So is all right. Your father, he survived.'

'Yes, but he was hurt. And it was not all right. The guy my father
shot – it was a boy, Bruce Coleville – this young kid who worked at
our local hardware store.' I felt my eyes fill. 'Bruce was only seventeen. I
don't know where he got his gun, probably from his brother – he'd just
come out of jail. For months afterwards the brother would shout at Dad
from across the street, '
Murderer! Fucking pig!
' My throat closed up.

Guido sighed. '
Beh
, is all finished now. Your father, 'e is a trained
policeman. This kind of thing, is all in the line of duty. You must think
of something else now.' He looked about him.

Dad's hip had been shattered by Bruce's bullet, and he lay in plaster
in the Prince of Wales hospital for five weeks. When he came home
he was a different man. He wept constantly, like a tap someone had
forgotten to turn off . Mum's face grew sharp and brittle. She seemed
especially sharp with me and I wished more than ever that I had
a sister. I wanted to whisper with someone, giggle, yell, anything to
explode the tension in the house. Mostly, I wanted to talk about Dad
without him being there. I just couldn't understand how someone
could keep crying like that.

After a month, it seemed to me that my father was shrinking. His
chest was hollow-looking, as if he'd been spooned out. You could see
his ribs all lined up like bars on a jail. And water ran out of his eyes
sideways onto the pillow when he was lying down. Maybe, I thought,
my father was leaking. Some women, when they were carrying their
babies, swelled up with fluid like dried apricots in water. Deborah said
her own feet, when she was carrying me, were as fat as toads. Perhaps,
I thought, this wetness was part of Dad's disease. The TV news gave
me a lot of information about sickness. There was malaria from the air,
dysentery from the water, spiders as big as dinner plates, little worms
that could eat the skin off your feet.

'Rachel, I am angry.'

I bit my lip. God, what had I done to annoy him? Then I
understood. 'Hungry?'

'
Sì
, 'angry.'

'Yes,' I said, 'it would be a good idea to eat.' I nodded enthusiastically,
thinking that food would ground me, but the movement of my head
made the room spin. When I closed my eyes, I felt I was floating.

'I might just need to sit still for a moment,' I whispered to Guido.
'I'm a cheap drunk.'

'That's good!' Guido grinned and patted his wallet lying on the
table.

The menu for dinner was written in white chalk on a big blackboard
above our heads. There was steak and steak – T-bone, rump, fillet and
sausages. You had to go and choose a piece of meat and cook it yourself
on the barbecue.

'You choose,' said Guido. 'I am not use to this method.'

My hands shook a little as I picked up the tongs. Guido remained
seated at our table, watching. Making decisions was not my best thing.
Hopeless at cooking, anyway. I didn't do much of it, still being the
daughter of the house, I suppose.

In the end I chose what I thought was rump. Rump had no bone
and I didn't want to have to gnaw anything in front of him.

'Is like an old boot, no?' Guido laughed as he put his fork down.
The meat was tough. I'd obviously cooked it too long. At least he
laughed. I had absolutely no appetite, being so filled with feelings.

'Have some salad,' I suggested. 'It's quite nice.'

He picked up the pale vegetables on his fork. 'What is this?'

'Coleslaw. Shredded cabbage with mayonnaise and carrot and
stuff .'

He nodded, but I noticed he only ate a small square about the
size of a matchbox. I pushed the rolls and butter towards him and he
ate three. Funny how he didn't touch the butter – for me that was the
best part. I always slathered it on, great generous pillows of it. In Italy,
perhaps, they didn't use butter like this. I learnt later to buy
ciabatt a
for Guido, those long crusty loaves as flat as the sole of your shoe, and
to cut them diagonally into thin pieces, dipped into virgin olive oil.

The bread must have settled my stomach because all the inanimate
objects stayed put and the room didn't float any more when I closed
my eyes. In fact everything was rather soft , almost benign.