Escape (30 page)

It's so cool seeing the David guarding the steps of the piazza and in
the evening the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio is lit up, gold against the
navy sky. If I feel lonely or the verbi irregolari are getting me down, I go
and sit in the piazza and the feeling whooshes away like smoke. I close
my eyes and imagine the whispers and intrigues and clandestine meetings
and romances going on back through the centuries and even though when
I open my eyes the girls have red tights and short skirts and whiz past
on vespas with i pods in their ears, they kind of dissolve into the bigger
atmosphere of humanity. And I feel a part of it! I'm connected with my
roots and the beginning of time and the moon that shines and has always
shone on this square.

Marisa's just come in and said we betta get to breakfast. I'll write
more when I start the job. Gotta go and yay, after this week no more stale
biscotti and marmellata!

love

Clara xx

I look at my watch – it must be eight o'clock in the morning there.
Amazing, she sounds so awake. I take two deep breaths. They're more
like gasps. Amazing, extraordinary, this news, it's all so . . . I don't know
what to feel. Money, already, must be running out – it's probably much
more expensive over there than she realised. But she clearly hasn't
called Maurizio.
Face it, Rachel, she'd rather clean houses than do magic.
I
take another breath, let it out. I read the letter again. And again. I close
my eyes. Don't know what I'm feeling. But I'm smiling, aren't I? How
strange, a big hot balloon of a smile is growing inside me. My cheeks
are on fire. Maybe I'll explode. I don't understand it at all, this feeling.
My face is beginning to ache, but I can't stop smiling.

Why is it? My daughter, a cleaner. How does that sound? 'Oh,
and what is young Clara doing with herself these days?' Over the last
few years people have politely asked about Clara, dying for me to
finish floundering so they can tell about their son or daughter's high
distinctions in law, engineering, bio-genetics, marine biology . . . 'She's
a cleaner,' I'll tell them. That doesn't stop the smile.

It's the kind of letter you'd write to your mother, or your friend,
isn't it? She's told me more about her life than any time I can remember.
And she's made a decision about how she's going to keep herself.
She sounds sensible, curious, independent. How brave she is! Okay,
cleaning isn't exactly challenging, but it will be temporary, surely, a
brief interlude like a summer school job. And if it's an old lady's house
at least there won't be any wild, drug-fuelled parties, and she's not
living with some man who could turn out to be a serial killer or possess
quietly weird habits or a cellar. And maybe we can ring her there, too,
when she's settled in, and Guido could speak to the old lady . . .

I look back at the email – Clara doesn't give an address. Still, it's
so handy being near the school, and as she says, she will have more
chance of practising her Italian than back at the dorm where they
speak and fart in English all the time . . . The smile has come back,
bubbling up in my chest as I read that sentence again. Look at her
being spontaneous and enthusiastic,
happy
, there's not one curl of the
lip, or flick of sarcasm. I don't even mind her atrocious spelling—

The front door slams and I jump with fright.

'Guido? Come and see this email from Clara! You're late for a
Thursday night, aren't you?'

'
Sì
, there was a movie. Disappointing. The structure was similar to
that mystery film we saw last year, what was the name? Doesn't matter.
Beh
, why are you smiling like that?'

'News from Clara.'

'Again?'

'Yes, aren't you glad?

'Of course!
Clara carissima, come va?
'

'Very well – excellent I'd say. Read for yourself!'

He continues to stand at my shoulder even though I clear away the
papers from the stool for him to sit next to me. I read the email again
with him, the smile tugging at my lips, but I've only reached 'mostly
waiters' when Guido's body suddenly clenches.

'
PORCA MISERIA!
' He pounds the desk so that my clippings of
Jonny and the jar of pencils and the handcuffs and the box of shims
and picklocks all leap up and fall in a clattery tangle.

My heart is thudding. 'What? What is it?'

'
Un lavoro di contadino!
'

'What do you mean?'

'
Cristo dio
, my daughter goes to Italy to become what – a
cleaner
?
Una che fa le pulizie?
'

'Well, yes, I understand it's not exactly the heights of ambition,
and for that matter, I don't see why she wouldn't at least ring Maurizio
if she needs work but—'

Guido roars again and instinctively I put out my arms to protect
the keypad and the mouse and all the other precious things on my
desk. But he's off striding around the room, his hands pulling at his
hair so that when he stops the dull black mass of it stands up straight
as if he's been electrocuted.

'This is your fault!' he shouts, and punches the wall.

'What is?'

He gives a grunt of disgust. His hands fly up in the air, palms
outward, a helpless gesture that reminds me fleetingly of Harry. '
You!
Why do you think she goes for this job, the lowest she can find? A
servant
! You were always nagging at 'er, she never 'ad a moment to
breathe. You with your locks and picks and manuals and
che lo so
,
birdcages . . . Now she finds a moment to choose for herself, she must
think what it is she wants to do, and she makes this bad decision. She
will be judged – you don know, she will be seen as a . . . a . . .
sventata,
ignorante
—'

'A what?'

'She is confused. You have not let 'er grow up. She does not know
'ow to think for herself!'

'But who will judge her? No one even knows her over there. What
are you afraid of?'

'My daughter,
che fa le pulizie, che vergogna
! You should be
ashamed, but you smile! What kind of a mother are you?'

I pick up the handcuffs and slap them down. The happy warmth in
my cheeks has turned to rage that could burn down a house. '
I
should
be ashamed? What about you?'
Oh dear, is that all you can do? The level
of the playground.

'Me?' He turns around. He smoothes his hair, his breathing even.
'So now you are asking about me? It 'as been a long time.' His voice has
cooled to ice. He stands in the centre of the room, balancing perfectly
on his heels. He rocks back and forth slowly, heel, toe, heel. Calmly
he places his index finger to his chin, in the manner of a philosopher
pondering a student's question. He holds his position, the seconds
ticking into the silence, as still as the eye of a hurricane. 'Hmm, now
let's see: What about me? What kind of a mother am
I
? Well, I would
say that was your job,
cara
. And, since you ask the question, 'ow would
you rate yourself, do you think, now that your daughter has run away
to become a servant?' His eyes are narrowing to black points, his voice
growing louder. 'Would you give yourself an A? Or an F?'

'No, a father, I meant as a
father
!' Thoughts fleece out into
long strands of cloud, almost disappearing. What
do
I mean? 'She
didn't arrive by immaculate conception! When have you made any
contribution to her education, or . . . or . . . taken any responsibility for
anything?'

'Anything? Rachel, do try to be more specific. You still don
understand the issues. I stayed in this country and married you, is that
not true? I did my duty. I stopped writing poetry to teach, is that not
true? I brought money into the house, I was 'ere for our child. These
are the essential duties.'

I pick up the handcuffs and feel the smoothness of the cool steel
hoops under my fingers. 'But it's not as if you had to stop writing
completely. You didn't! And who said you couldn't go back to Italy?'

Guido goes still again. Then he smiles patiently. 'You were not
well when Clara was a baby. You were, 'ow shall we put it, not able to
cope.' His lip curls with
disgusto
.

'Why is a job in
pulizia
so much worse than a job in lingerie
anyway? And why are you so judgemental and class conscious, like
some right-wing upper class snob, when your parents were humble
socialists? Weren't they? Maybe your own mother cleaned houses!
Who knows, you never really bothered to give your daughter the
benefit of your family background, your history, art,
magic
—'

In one heartbeat Guido drops his stance of cool detachment
and leaps at me across the room. I jerk back in fright but he reaches
for the handcuffs and tries to wrench them from me. My fingers
clutch at the steel, I can't let go and we're locked in, pulling against
each other, the steel searing the insides of my fingers. Our noses are
almost touching, his tobacco acid breath puffing in my face, my heart
hammering and then the strength of him is overpowering and he seizes
the steel cuffs and hurls them in one wide arc across the room. They
hit the big oval mirror framed in gold leaf. We watch, frozen, guilty,
suspended inside the moment and somewhere ticking at the back of
my mind is the magical thought that if the glass doesn't break then
this hasn't happened. We could both pretend this descent into the pit
did not occur. But as we wait the glass cracks into one long line like
a surgical incision, then forks slowly into lightning before shattering
into a million glittering eyes like the tiny mirrors sewn into the Indian
cushions strewn so creatively, lovingly around the house when we
were first married.

Guido turns and rushes out through the door. I'm caught between
relief at his exit and terror that he's gone. 'Guido! Come back, please,
why are you so upset about this – is it because she's in your country
now, or is it—'

He swings around suddenly in the hallway.

'Don you see what you've done to 'er? From the beginning you
took 'er over, as if she was a land already conquered. So how could
I
make a contribution? The schooling 'ere, the customs, this education,
is not like my country! Is your country! You are the
madre
! And my
advice you always dismiss as superstition!'

'Well, wouldn't anyone? Your advice when she got earache was to
pour onion juice in her ear – you avoided touching her the day she
turned seven because she might bring bad luck—'

'I did not. Was just a comment. You are so literal, like a child. I
'ad to go out because the 'ouse was filled with Doreen and 'er feminist
clichés and that
diabolica
birthday cake you made and I was suffering
a crisis with my poetry. If I don write I don exist. Is like this for me.
If you ever bothered to understand how I am done, you would know
this. But no, you pretend when we first meet that you are interested,
and then after, when you 'ave your child and your 'ouse, you don care
any more about your husband.'

'I had a baby to look after – almost as soon as we were married! I
was worried out of my mind!'

'
Sì, eri fuori di testa
.'

'I was not mad. I was anxious, well, maybe a bit mad but I just
needed—'

'You made no time for me. You ignored me, a stranger to this
country, with no friends or family. We did not go out, do anything
together.'

'Well if you'd helped me a bit maybe I wouldn't have felt
so—'

'Why you need all this help? Is a mother's job to bring up her
child. This is what women do.'

'Well, why do you criticise me then for being so involved or . . .
taking such a hand in Clara's upbringing?'

'A hand? Total control! You are like the Roman army invading.
Being a mother should not be the only thing in your life. It ruins the
child. And what about your husband? You made a promise, but then
you—'

The phone screams from the kitchen.

'You changed, you were saying nothing to me, giving me nothing,
but you talked on that damn phone, talked to all your friends but
not
me
.'

'Doreen helped me with – oh, don't you think we should answer
it, what if it's Clara?'

'I am not a man made of wood, I am flesh and blood. What am
I supposed to do when my wife ignores me, turn into a saint? I don
believe in them, all hypocrites in this society, those men wearing aprons
and smiling while they wash up, staying 'ome to do the vacuuming in
their underwear, what is it that Doreen says, so sexy a man that cleans,
che ridicolo!
'

I try to block out the ringing, but it's impossible and I see myself
stretched out thin as chewing gum between Guido and the scream of
the phone and I'm going to snap right down the middle unless I—

'Hello? Hello? Yes, I'm here . . . Oh, Mary! No, it's okay, I was just
running up the hall, yes, just got home. Look, I'm . . .' Guido is hunting
for his cigarettes in the jacket slung over the armchair, slamming his
fists into the pockets. He'll rip the seams. Muttering.

'So, how are you, Rachel?' says Mary. Her voice is settling in for
a cosy chat; it's full, ripe and rich with news that she has planned to
drop slowly on me, in her own time, to savour my reaction, share it.
Guido lights a cigarette and throws the match on the coffee table. He
doesn't even bother trying to hit the saucer.

A wave of desperation rises and crashes in my throat. He's staring
at me as if he wants to kill me. He's mouthing something . . .
get off the
phone!

'And so, guess what!'

'What?'

'I've just been speaking to Jonny
Love
! Rachel? He was telling me
about the show. Here in Sydney. It's going to be huge, with twenty
dancers – it's called
Enchanted Evening
– he's
so
charming, Rachel,
you'll just melt . . .'