Escape (38 page)

'Way of the world, I guess. But why couldn't you take centre stage?
Be the magician instead of the assistant?'

'Oh, no, I'm way too old.'

'I reckon it's at this age that we come into our own! It's not so
important what people are thinking about you, it's more about what
you
think, or want.'

'Yeah, so why don't we have some more Aretha!' I said boldly, and
pulled Simon up from the sofa.

We danced to 'Respect' and 'Freeway to Love' too, and when we
came back to the sofa I said, 'I don't meet many men like you. But
then I guess I don't meet many men.'

Simon grinned. I wanted to tell him then how good it was to talk
about these things, and how wonderful it would be to live how you
feel, at least sometimes, not always having to hide the core of yourself
away at the bottom of the fruit bowl like a bad apple. He made me
think of Jonny Love, and how different he seemed from the other
magicians I'd read about, what with making his female assistant his
partner, his equal. There were so many things to say, but it was easier
to tell Simon about Jonny, so I did.

'You see?' grinned Simon. 'Not
all
men want to make women their
slaves.'

'Mmm.' An excitement was thrumming in my chest. 'And you
know what, he's even related to Harry.'

'Harry who?'

'Houdini!'

'If
you
were out there on stage, what kind of show would you do?'

We had to shout over the music but neither of us wanted to turn
it down. Eric Clapton was doing his solo in 'Layla'. The electric guitar,
sweet and strong as coffee, made my heart race. I felt brave, loud,
fearless. Not invisible. It could have been the music, or the wine. Or
both. But sitting there with Simon, anything seemed possible. I was
aware of the rough sofa under my legs and the spot where the stuffing
gaped and the shabby old carpet but I was also leaping off a rugged
cliff into pure air, a new place, thinking aloud. I saw myself emerging
triumphant from a locked trunk, an electric chair. I could be strapped
to a torture crib, something where I'd have to use my whole body,
struggle against an Insane Muff , be a Female Force . . . Simon was
laughing, but in an encouraging way. He was finding the best in me, I
felt suddenly sure.

'Can I see the handcuffs?' he asked. 'I've never seen the real
thing,' and he looked as eager as a third grader. I leapt up and got
them and showed him the fearful click as they closed and the dear
little keys, precious as jewels, and then I handcuff ed him to the light
stand. He looked alarmed when I pretended to have lost the keys,
his mouth opening in an oval of surprise as I produced a shim from
under my hair.

I watched his eyes, waited for the sound of laughter. But nothing
happened. His chest heaved – and suddenly I felt panicky. His face
grew red, he looked as if he were in pain. I prodded him, and then the
laugh came, deep from his belly and it started me laughing all over
again.

Ciao mamma,

Come stai? I went with Roberto into the hills yesterday, through Stia
to Arezzo where we stopped for coffee in the piazza. Such an amazing
day! Old men in dark suits sat smoking cigars, studying us gravely as
we pulled up chairs at a cafe, saying nothing, arms folded over their
bellies. They remind me of the cypresses guarding the hill, horders of
ancient secrets. As we sipped our espresso, a whole pig on a stake was
brought into the square. Its eyes were open, dried in terror. At first I found
Roberto intimidating – thought I'd have to be on my best Italian speaking
behaviour. But turns out he speaks English well and like Lucia, wants to
practise it. He is so interested in everything Australian – it's incredible,
he wants to know how life is there, what people eat and talk about, what
the 'empty outback' feels like. Not knowing a lot about the empty outback
sometimes I'm lost for words and I make it up from books or movies or
docos I've seen. Mum why is the soil so red, you know near Uluru? Is pearl-diving
a major industry in Broome? Roberto wants to know. He's mad
about Broome. Stay well, mammina!

I am sitting in the bath, shaving my legs. Joe Cocker's 'Unchain My
Heart' thunders through the open door of the bathroom. Stubby hairs
swim among the scum of soap and skin flakes. 'Don't start that shaving
business,' my mother warned when I was thirteen, 'the hairs just grow
back fiercer.' It's true, look at them now, riding together in packs, out
hunting.

I slip the strap of the loofah onto my hand and scrub at my
knees. Maybe the wrinkles will come off . Guido hated my loofah. He
regularly disappeared my carefully selected natural sponge, even when
it was still crisp and new. Sometimes I found it at the bottom of the
kitchen tidy bag and once, buried with three others, in a small grave
dug near the pool. He said having to face that dead fibrous marine
skeleton every morning when he stepped into the shower was more
than he could bear. 'Your life is disgusting,' he said, 'is a cemetery for
your deceased skin, a breeding ground for parasites.' So I kept it in the
cupboard where it grew mouldy and even more disgusting.

The sponge smarts on my legs, and my thighs tingle rosily. I think
with satisfaction how I won't have to stuff the loofah back in the
cupboard now, under the sanitary pads and toilet rolls. After it's rinsed
clean, I can hang it up by its string to drain, looped over the hot tap.
That will be its new home. My Outed Loofah.

I survey the body lurking under the soapy water, cupping my
breasts so they rise heroically over the proletariat submerged beneath.
Tonight, when I go to dinner with Jonny Love, I'll wear the black dress
I bought with Maria twenty years ago. It has a low flattering neckline.
As I bend over the menu, Jonny Love's eyes might linger there.

Guido's face swims into focus. Like a collage it pastes itself over
Jonny's. He's looking down at me, shaking his head in disapproval.
'That dress is too short for a woman with wrinkles on her knees.' I sink
down into the tepid water, letting it close over my head.

When I climb out of the bath, steam is rising into veils of vapour.
Clouds breathe on the mirror, obscuring outlines.
Your mother has a
pacemaker and you've left her with no dinner.
A surge of heat rises in my
chest. God, how I hate the voice.
And what about Maria? Poor Maria,
who helped you so much all those years ago. And you haven't even rung her.
Shame on you!

Something rolls over in my head and the bathroom slides. Maria!
The funeral – it had gone completely out of my mind. I turn and face
the mirror, swathed in steam.

I like myself, says the red lipstick.

'Fuck off ,' I tell the voice.

The sliding sensation stops. I feel my two feet on the furred bath
mat. The good thing about being alive, says the therapist, is that you
get a second chance. I will ring Maria tomorrow. Take her out for
lunch, tell her the truth – and afterwards, there will be no one waiting
at home to answer to. As a reward I could put on 'Dancing in the Dark'
and turn it up so loud that the windows shake. Time to get ready now,
I tell myself kindly. Not long before we have to drive to the ferry.

I get a fresh towel from the linen cupboard.

Such a silly thing to write about,
says the voice,
magic.

'Fuck off ,' I say again. I keep saying it under my breath as I pat my
legs dry and put on moisturiser. Then I take off the towel around my
head and brush out my hair. Why do women have to spend so long
having to make everything about us smooth? Our legs, our hair, our
elbows, our voices, our wants, our personalities . . . smooth, nothing to
ruffle anyone,
nice
.

I pad out of the bathroom into the hall. A movement catches my
eye, a flash of shadow passing behind the glass at the front door. Over
the music now there's a sharp rapping. I can just make out a tall outline
distorted by the stained glass. Damn! I duck into the bedroom and slip
on my dressing-gown. There's wine all down the front. It feels musty
and stale on my freshly washed skin. And I was about to put a clean
dress on, the first time in a month.

'Oh, Simon, hi!'

'Hello, how are you? I just, well, came to see how you're going . . .'
He shuffles on the front step, looks down at the cracked wood under
his shoes. Unusual for him to be at the front door. Normally, he strides
down the side, past the lawn and my struggling impatiens, heading
straight for the pool. In his hands there is a small brown terracotta
pot.

'What are these?'

'Just African violets, thought you might like them. You were
saying the other day, you know, how nice it would be to have a few
more flowers around . . .'

'Oh, how lovely, but do you think I could keep them alive? Aren't
they terribly temperamental?' I beckon him through the door. 'Come
in, Simon.'

'Not if you look after them. And you do that well, looking after
things!'

'Thank you so much, I'll put them here on the kitchen table, it'll
cheer the place up!'

'There, see?' Simon finds a straw table mat and places it underneath
the violets. The pot does look pretty on the warm wood. A lush little
oval of jungle. He draws up a chair and sits down. He places his hands
together on the table, looking preoccupied, as if he's about to launch
into a story, or an explanation. But I'll be late if I stay here. I haven't
got time for a long story. I'll have to tell him now before he starts. Tell
him the truth, be myself. Isn't that what we said to each other that day?
The good thing about growing older? Growing up?
You wouldn't dare,
says the voice.
You can't be rude when he's gone out of his way to help you
.
But it's not rude to state the truth, is it?

'Simon, thank you so much for these flowers, that was so
thoughtful. But listen, I can't stop now because I've . . . I'm going to
the theatre! Well, actually, to the casino.'

'What? Now? How come . . .?'

'You know I told you about the magician Jonny Love, one of the
men I'm writing about? Well, he's performing at the theatre in the
casino and afterwards I'll have the opportunity to interview him.'

'Oh! So you're getting ready now? Do you want me to give you a
lift? How are you getting there?'

'I'm taking the ferry in, it's a lovely night for it.' A shiver of
anticipation wiggles down my neck. 'Imagine, there'll be the moon on
the water – it's full tonight. How long since I've been into the city at
night! All those lights, and then the theatre, licence to sit and dream
with your eyes open.'

'And you've got the right music to get you in the mood!'

'And after the theatre,' I go on dreamily, 'I'm going to meet Jonny
at the Park Hyatt , so swanky! Maybe there'll be duck à l'orange, my
favourite, and French wine. Oh, what to have? Decisions, decisions . . .
And then there's Jonny, of course. Have I shown you his photo? What
charisma
he
has.' Excitement leaps into my throat like bubbles rising in
a glass of champagne. I can feel the edge of a slide beginning just above
my right ear, but I will it back, stomp on it. Dinner, candles, the moon
on the water, a handsome magician. 'Jonny's a magnetic performer, by
all accounts, it's going to be hard to concentrate but who knows, maybe
he'll be on the look-out for another female assistant . . . someone
who'll stay this time and persist, rise to be his partner. Unchain my
heart, all right!'

Simon's face changes. His smiles for a moment, or tries to. 'Well,
better keep going then.' He gets up so quickly the chair tips over. The
crash of wood is loud in the spell cast by the jungle flowers. 'Oh sorry,
shit. Well, listen, you have a great night,' he says, righting the chair,
rushing up the hall, opening the door, disappearing.

'Bye!' I call as the gate clicks behind him. 'Thanks again!' But he's
already out of earshot.

I hover for a moment at the door. I hear a dull thud from the
footpath like a shoe kicking metal and then a van door slams like a
pistol shot. The van revs loudly and screeches off around the corner at
the top of the hill.

African violets, maybe from Tanzania where his wife grew up.
Oh, how could I have been so inconsiderate,
conceited
! 'Rise to be
Jonny Love's partner' – as
if!
How ridiculous I must have sounded
sitting there in my musty old dressing-gown, with my magic books for
kids and my wrinkles and stringy wet hair. Maybe he needed to tell
me something about his daughter; she's over in Tanzania right now.
Maybe he needed to talk. What if something bad has happened? He
looked so serious.
And you've spent the last hour in the bath fantasising
like a bourgeois madam, shampooing your hair!

Bugger. I go into the bedroom and open the wardrobe door.
There's a grinding sound and then it swings towards me, a heavy plane
of solid wood. It's almost off its hinges. Unhinged, I think, we're all
unhinged in this house. Another thing that needs to be fixed. I take
out the black dress, and hold it up.

It's work, I tell myself. Interviewing Jonny Love is part of my job.
I couldn't really have done anything else.
Such a frilly job.
I try to turn
my mind to the ferry and the city lights and Jonny's picture. I look
at the dress, its sheen of silk, like the black water with the moon on
it. The last time I wore it was for the launch of Guido's first book of
poems. Fifteen years ago. God, I hope it still fits.

I put it on and go into the bathroom. I have to stand on the
bathtub to see the whole length of me. Somehow we never got around
to getting a full-length mirror for ourselves in the bedroom like real
married people. The dress fits. It looks good. A little loose around the
hips. I suppose that's because of all this running. I didn't run much
when Clara was young. Well, only around the house.

I look at the mirror. The dress finishes just above my knees. The
knees with two wrinkles each. How did I get here, a martyred old nag
in a black dress, standing alone on the bathroom tub?
Oh, why don't
you just fall off and break your neck?

'Fuck off ,' I tell the voice. If I squinch my eyes up I see a shapely
woman in a black dress with a low-cut neck and the tops of her breasts
showing. I'll wear that necklace which glints like gold lights on water,
like the highlights you long for in your life.

I lock the back door and the side windows, check the oven and
stove are off , the answering machine is on. As I pick up my keys and
handbag I pass the computer in my room. The green light is winking.
The power is still on. I check my watch. There's six minutes to spare for
getting to the ferry on time. I can't resist. What if Clara's been 'flying'
along on that Vespa and overturned in a field somewhere?

I open my inbox and, yes, there is Clara!

Hi Mum,

Roberto came to pick me up tonight. He met Lucia. When I got home
she said, 'Stai attenta – young men like Roberto are good at seduction but
bad at commitment.' Marisa reckons I should just enjoy it while it lasts,
not get too involved. Too late.

Dad doesn't write to me much. I suppose he's so busy writing himself
– so to speak. How can you tell what men are thinking? Drives me crazy.
We went out to dinner to a fabulous restaurant . . . and Roberto was
ordering wine, laughing with the waiters, complimenting me on my dress
– yes, a DRESS, mum, I felt so special sitting with the starched white
tablecloth, the grissini in the wicker basket, all that male attention. But it
was so wierd, half way into the main meal (chicken with gorgonzola and
pine nuts) he closed down. All the lights went off inside him. I'd just been
telling him the stuff you wrote about Broome, his Special Place of Interest
– thanks Mum – so you'd think he'd have wanted to hear, I mean it wasn't
as if I was raving on about me or San Galgano or my father and his
mid-life crisis – do you think that's what he's going through mum? – but
somehow the more I said about pearl-diving and the mixed ethnicity and
the romantic sunsets of Broome etc, the more quiet and absent he got. It's
hard not to lose interest in yourself when the man does.

Marisa says he's just moody. But how can you be sure YOU'RE
not the problem when there's just the two of you sitting at a table and
nothing else in the room has changed? Anyway, tomorrow afternoon
the book club ladies are coming to our apartment, so I'm going to try to
concentrate on that instead of male misteries. I've watched Lucia make
the apple cake but its different doing it alone isn't it? Like watching
someone drive then getting behind the wheel yourself. Remember that
bloody song Dad used to sing when I was on my L plates? God it
annoyed me – 'Andiamo in Città' – he sang it over and over through
gritted teeth. I was supposed to be fooled by his light carefree singing.
Didn't fool anyone. His face was white as a gost, his right hand always
hovering near my knee, ready to grab the wheel. Afterwards he went
straight to the cupboard and poured himself a big glass of Scotch. Still,
at least he took me. You wouldn't even let me have a bicycle! – you and
your 'that hill will be the death of you!' I had to learn on Saraah's bike
and she always made such a big deal about lending it to me so I had to
bribe her with all kinds of stuff and still now I can only go strait ahead –
any corners looming and I'm screwed.

I've decided I'll get up early tomorrow morning and polish the floors.
Or maybe I should do the shopping first – if you don't get to the shops by
one o'clock everything closes until late afternoon. In terrible sincronicity
the metal screens roll down, loud as gunfire. It's a strange custom – people
disappearing in the middle of the day. The apples have to be very ripe,
Lucia says, or the cake will be dry. Wish me luck!

P.S. How is Nan? Hope you're getting on with your book mum. How
good will it feel when it's finished! Are you okay on your own? It must
be the first time in your life. Funny, same with me. It's a great feeling
sometimes, doing for yourself, as the song says. Is that happening to you? I
hope so . . .