Escape (41 page)

Jonny takes a gulp of water and pushes his plate away. 'You said it.
Carole just couldn't take the hard work. And magic is ninety-nine per
cent hard work. She just wanted the glamour, the applause, the magic!
Wanted to have everything her own way. When you're choosing
a protégé, you have to be very careful. I'd been warned, but I didn't
listen. Not thinking with my head,
ha
, something further down! She
won't do well, you'll see. I told her, women won't support you, women
just don't come to see women, and they won't bring their men. It's
just the nature of the beast, you know, the way we've evolved, females
competing for men out in the wild. Oh, I know all this, but does it stop
me trying? No, the ladies are my fatal flaw!' He throws up his beautiful
hands, resigned. 'I'm like Othello, I can't see into a woman's character
as I should. I see only her charms. I am a fool for love. It's tragic, really.'
He smiles charmingly and mock-thumps his 'foolish', generous heart.

He looks down, shaking his head. Beneath the table, I feel a solid
weight lean on my toes. It's his foot, the sole of it, but soft , smooth,
surely not the hard leather of those shiny shoes. His socked foot is
winding around my ankle. I can't believe it. He finds me attractive?
The light
is
gentle here, candlelight, wait till he gets me outside. Has
he seen how old I am? Those silver dancing girls looked about twelve.
My foot stays rooted to the floor. It seems so impolite to move it away.
His foot strokes the bridge of mine. Rests there. What now?

'So, tell me about
you
!' Jonny says. 'You've gotta bunch of books
on magic. Maybe you got a thing for magicians? Am I in luck?
Ha ha!
'

My cheeks burn red. 'Well, yes, I've been interested in magic
for a long time. Years. I suppose you could call it an obsession – my
daughter certainly would describe it that way. I've written three other
books about magic, twenty-seven books in all for children—'

'Oh, yes, I've always thought if I ever had the time, I'd write a
book for children. I actually write well, my teachers constantly told
me that. If a career in magic hadn't worked out I could easily have
pursued a literary career. I remember a teacher in junior high told me
I had a "rampant" imagination – I always remembered that because it
was such an unusual word. To me, anyway. I went home and looked
it up in the dictionary, that's how interested in words I was! I always
did extremely well in English. In fact, I used to write for the school
magazine. I did little excerpts about magic even then, write-ups about
my shows, sometimes I put in how to do a trick. I earned quite a lot
of pocket money at my shows. Never went away empty-handed. But
that's a magician's trick, eh?'

'That's great – exactly the kind of background I need for the book.
So at what age did you put on your first magic show? What tricks did
you do?'

I reach for my notebook and start writing. Jonny was eleven when
he put on his first show, for his neighbourhood. He charged five cents.
By the time he was fourteen he was often asked to be the magician
at children's parties, and he asked an adult wage. He spent a lot of
his money on buying new tricks, became particularly interested in
Houdini and escapology. He trained up his little sister to take the part
of Bess, his assistant, but she demanded to do a ballet act as well, so
he had to can it. The ballet, he said, was woeful. He hasn't spoken to
her now for ten years, but he would rather I didn't mention that. His
influences, besides Houdini, were many, but he particularly admired
Norman Bigelow for his Door of Death.

'You see, Bigelow's Door was also inspired by Mariano Palhinha's
Australian Torture Crib. And if you want my opinion, Bigelow's was
better than the original, as well. Then Markini electrified it with 220
volts. You should see that trick, the Electrified Mummy Lid Torture
Board.'

I wrote until my arm started to throb. I didn't look up for a long
while but when I did I saw the waiter hovering, frowning at my half-full
plate. Jonny's was scraped clean.

'Has madam finished?'

I would have liked to eat the other half of my dinner, but I noticed
the waiter glancing again at his watch. Had we been here so long? 'Yes,
I've finished, thank you. It was lovely.'

'Anything else I can get for you? I know sir won't be having dessert.
Would madam like to see the dessert menu?'

Those little rum babas I saw under the glass when I first came
in . . . 'No, thanks.'

'So where were we?' says Jonny, hooking his toes under my shoe
and slipping it right off . His foot is a shock against my bare stockinged
sole. It feels so intimate, sudden. Love is two bodies, one soul. Who
said that? His foot slides up the calf of my leg. But he doesn't know the
first thing about me, does he?
Just as well,
says the voice.
Go on, respond
to him, this is what you've wanted isn't it? A miracle!

I try to smile, and hold my leg still. His face stays the same, wide-eyed,
handsome, bland. I wait for my skin to obey. Respond. I clench
my pelvic floor muscles to make sure they still exist. The sex organs.
He makes no acknowledgement of what is going on under the table,
just keeps his foot there as if it is all normal. The part of us above the
table might well be part of a performance, The
Severed Torsos
, with our
lower limbs cut off and stowed away to tickle each other in a locked
box.

'Get your fucking hand off my knee,' I remember Doreen saying
once to the married man sitting next to her at the dinner table.

'Oh, yes, my influences, my childhood,' Jonny goes on. 'I kept a
diary of my magic shows until I was about fifteen, so I wouldn't forget
the steps. I put in notes of what was received well, what was more
difficult. I'd write it up at night, in my room. My mother used to call
me her "young scribe". With an audience of little kids, I soon learnt
to keep the mothers informed, asking them to do crowd control, after
one little kid nearly throttled my rabbit to see if it would turn into
roses. That bunny never worked well again for me. No, little kids are
too much hard work, they get into everything. I did better with the
mothers
, if you know what I mean,' and he winks at me.

My stomach clenches. It's not a drag of desire. It's nausea. Maybe I
had too much wine. That
was your cue, you idiot! What are you going to
do, sit there like a lump?

Silence falls. I try to wink back but I just feel both eyes narrowing.
I never could wink anyway, just like I could never raise one eyebrow in
that withering way Guido did. Suddenly I think of Guido at our first
meeting, the handsome Latin illusion.

'Are you married, Rachel?'

'Yes.'

'So what does your husband think of you being out alone with a
man for dinner?'

'Well, actually he doesn't know . . .'

'Aha!'

'We're . . . um . . . separated, only just recently. It's been a horrible
time and my daughter has just left home—'

'Oh, yes, I remember when Carole left . It was difficult all right,
especially as we were in the middle of a contract. I had to revert to my
old tricks, so to speak,
ha!
Come up with a one-man show practically
overnight! All the publicity of course had promised new fare hinging
on the delights of the feminine. But to tell you the truth Rachel, the
audience's response was, if anything, more enthusiastic. I think my
single state gave me an extra appeal – available, vulnerable, heroic,
devastated by romantic tragedy. You know the kind of thing! And of
course I had to put extra energy and focus into my performance – had
to find extra "gold" as I call it. No, all things considered, it was the best
thing that ever happened to me. Best not to mix work and romance, I
say now!'

I pick up my pen again, and write some notes. Why should I be
surprised? Or disappointed? In real life, nobody's ever behaved how I
wanted them to. And lately even imaginary people like Harry refuse to
cooperate. Jonny doesn't want an assistant, or a protégé or a partner.
He wouldn't trust again.
How ridiculous you are, tickets on yourself.

I feel myself collapsing inside.
Sit up straight, he'll think you're not
interested!
'And which contract was this,' I say, trying to keep my voice
bright, 'the one interrupted halfway through?'

'Detroit. Two weeks in. It was a test and I gotta say, I was pretty
proud of my results. I'm surprised my agent didn't send you the
clippings. I'll get on to her. Dammit, I'm always telling her, you gotta
get organised. Make a list each day, but women, well, most women are
a bit scatty, aren't they. Ruled by impulse. It's a gender thing, you girls
can't help it. And who would want it any other way? What did Carole
used to say to me? Oh, yes—'

'Good. Fine.' I stop writing, close the book and place the pen on
top. A wave of sickness washes over me. My head is sliding. I wonder
if he notices.

'So you were telling me about your life,' Jonny says suddenly into
the pause.

'Sorry, what?'

Jonny places his hand over mine. 'Enough about me. Let's do you.
You write books for kids?'

'Yes,' I say, but his eyes are moving over me like a navigator
reading a map. They stall for a moment at my chest. I don't think he's
listening to what I'm saying. His eyes are busy with me, he's noting
the dip between my breasts and his hand is becoming moist on mine.
I remember fantasising about this when I put on the black dress.
His attention brings me back into the moment, to the table, to the
possibility of a beautiful man's hands bringing me to life. It reminds
me I am something to look at.

'Would you like to have a drink upstairs?' he asks. 'You can tell
me all about your books. I'll just put this on my tab, and then we can
go up. We'll be much more comfortable up there. It's a beautiful suite,
and the view over the harbour is fantastic.'

My heart is racing. I wish I hadn't finished the wine. I want the
blur back, the easy slide into another's will.
Go on, look enthusiastic,
at your age this may be your last chance, what with your wrinkled knees
.
I look into his face and it's like plastic. I can't see any light in there.
I guess this is his standard line. But he's handsome and famous and
it would be such a relief to slide into him and stop being me. Even if
it's just for a while. And he's probably nervous about the first move, it
must be awful for men always having to take the risk, put themselves
forward. He's probably much nicer when he's relaxed. And he has a
sensitive forehead. What else is there to do anyway?

He smiles and traces his finger along the inside of my wrist. Gentle,
as if he is exploring. It tickles and I smile back. His hand moves up my
arm, reaching the inside of my elbow. His hand is smooth and warm. I
think of desert creatures, a lizard baked in the sun, but there is no real
warmth coming from him.

Oh don't be so stupid, you're not in a position to choose
, says the
voice
. Go on, smile seductively if you know how, and say yes.
There'll
be the crisp white pillows, mirrored wardrobes, baggage rack. The
spotless anonymity of hotels. I imagine saying no, and the cold ice of
his disapproval. The awkward goodbyes, the curt but necessary future
communications about the book. I imagine going home to my empty
house with the wine stains on the carpet and the fluff balls whirling
over the cork floor and the dishes in the sink and the godawful quiet.
And the next morning I will wake up just the same, as if nothing had
happened. As if I hadn't been out with a famous handsome magician
and been transformed. There will just be the greasy sink and traces of
cockroach activity and the morning tea. If I say no I will be left with
me. Just me. The dark empty house of me.

He removes his hand to gesture to the waiter. His foot slides
decisively back into his shoe. He assumes that I will come with him.
I suppose that is what women have always done. He doesn't have to
make an effort. He can talk about his career, his wife, his digestion, say
whatever he feels, it doesn't matter, women will follow. Women like
me. He smiles a short smile, perfunctory almost, like shaking hands
on a deal. He gestures again, but the waiter doesn't see. He has his
back to us.

Jonny is annoyed. I can feel him almost stamp his foot. 'That guy
knows exactly what he has to do after my meal,' he spits, pointing at
the waiter. 'I need hot milk with honey. I always take it up to my room,
it helps me sleep. If I don't sleep, I can't perform.'

He taps his glass with his spoon like someone demanding quiet
for the speech he is about to make to a noisy room.
Eyes to me
, I used
to say in the classroom. Maybe this is what he's like when he doesn't
get what he wants straight away. Maybe this is what Carole found bad
enough to leave. He is the master, she is the slave. Or the assistant. Or
else.

'Hot milk soothes indigestion, you know,' he says more gently.
'I get a terrible pain in my chest without it, even if I haven't eaten
tomato or any kind of spice. My mother used to be the same, poor
woman. She suffered from headaches, too. Awful migraines that
would lay her out flat for days. If I don't have hot milk and a dose
of Mylanta, I'm up burping all night, in excruciating pain. Carole
used to have to rub my back for an hour. It was one of the things she
said she wouldn't miss when she left . She actually pointed that out,
can you believe it? She was so selfish. That's the kind of woman she
was. Absolutely no sympathy. No, Carole was away the day god was
handing out compassion.'

This kind of thing is probably happening everywhere, every day.
It happened with me when I met Guido. But I didn't see it. I chose
not to. Selective vision, like selective hearing. Now, as I gaze at Jonny
I have a completely sober stone-cold clarity. It's uncomfortable, like
standing on the edge of a cliff , or driving with the windows down on a
winter night. I'm so edgily awake, and aware.