Escape (45 page)

The bell on the door of the shop buzzes as I open it. The young man
standing at the counter doesn't look up. He's frowning at a computer
screen and as I approach he sighs, pressing a key. I think of Clara's Italy,
where men froth at the mere sight of a female. But they probably don't
do it to middle-aged women. They probably don't even see them,
looking straight through their spreading hips and wrinkled knees to
see what delicious young thing might be coming behind. Women my
age are invisible to everyone, everywhere, except perhaps to major
charities and superannuation schemes.
And maybe
, whispers my new,
kind voice,
Simon Manson
.

'Yeah, can I help you?' the man asks. He has stringy blond hair and
drowning eyes. The way he scratches his head, it's as if he's troubled
and could do with some help himself.

'Hi, I rang a few days ago? Rachel Leopardi? I wanted Simon
Manson's address. Have you seen him?'

The man looks at me steadily, but I can tell his mind is somewhere
else. He glances back at the computer. 'Lady, I just come in Tuesdays.
The boss's gone to lunch. Do you know anything about computers?'

'A little. What's the problem?'

'See, I shouldn't of touched it but there's nothing to do here and
I got so bored I thought I'd play pinball but I meant to press save
first, you know for his program, except I hit somethin' else and now it
won't . . . Oh, fuckit.'

I go round to his side of the counter and we peer together at the
blue screen. 'All I know is how to type on these things,' I tell him, 'but
often I make tragic mistakes and sometimes I can undo them.'

The young man smells of salt and something musty, wet towels,
maybe, left scrunched up on a bedroom floor. His eyes are still fearful
but a flash of hope flickers through them. 'Do whatever, couldn't make
it worse.'

I fluff around, looking, thinking. He's right, I probably can't delete
what isn't there. It's a scary, blank screen. In fact, that's it, maybe I can
un-delete his delete! I press the 'undo' button and a beautifully ruled
spreadsheet showing chlorine and stabiliser and pool acid price-lists
springs up on the screen.

'You're a fuckin' genius!' cries the man, and claps me on the
shoulder.

'Thank you,' I beam. I press save in case he forgets to.

'Oh sorry, shit . . .' His cheeks flush bright red. He scratches his
head and pale particles fall in a shower from his hair, scattering onto
the counter. 'I swear too much, my girlfriend's always telling me. I'm
just so fucking relieved!' Unconsciously he's herding the particles into
a little pile. We both look down at it. I see that it is varied in colour
and texture, with gritty, gold, dark and pebbly bits.
Sand
, I realise, not
dandruff . Somehow this endears him to me enormously. He probably
surfs every day except Tuesday and his girlfriend's always telling him
to get a proper job and wash his hair as well as to stop swearing. But he
can't help it.

'If swearing is your worst vice, then you're not so bad,' I tell him. 'I
wish I'd told my daughter that. Given her a bit of slack.
I
swear too, in
secret, plus I drink too much red wine and flirt with bad magicians.'

He looks at me blankly. Oh, why can't I just stay inside the lines?
The sharp chemical aroma of the pool shop overwhelms me for a
moment. It bleeds into the primary colours of the pool toys and the
awful vision of myself, a middle-aged droopy-eyed spaniel standing
on the electrically nylon blue carpet, wheedling for a man's private
address. The swirly world behind my eyes is tipping into a slide. I grab
the bench.

'Hey, are you okay?'

'Yes, look, I might get some chlorine while I'm here and um, some
acid.'

I delve inside my big black bag for my wallet, breathing deeply.
Although large handbags are handy for containing a multitude of
diverse and bulky items like singlets, hairbrushes, notepads, cardigans,
handcuffs, apples and sanitary pads, their bulk can cause panic. It takes
so long to find what you're looking for. As I'm searching, I remember
the haste with which I made the decision to come here. I didn't think
things through. I forgot to brush my hair or do up that difficult button
on my skirt, and as I got out of the car, discovered that the shoes I'd put
on my feet were each from a different pair. One had a slightly higher
heel than the other. I had to limp across the pedestrian crossing like
a person with a new hip replacement. Urgency, like a great wave, had
pushed me ahead, out the door and into the street, a helpless piece of
debris. Clearly, I hadn't thought to check if I had brought my wallet.

The young man looks back at the computer screen while he's
waiting.

'Look, maybe I'll have to forget the chlorine.' Luckily my face is
buried in the bag.

'Whatever.'

Suddenly my hand closes over the smooth leather surface of the
wallet.
See, you're not as inefficient as you think,
I tell myself kindly. I
bring it out onto the bench with a silly laugh.

'That'll be twenty-five dollars, thanks,' says the young man.

I open the wallet and to my dismay flames leap out instead of
money. I snap it closed, and they disappear.

'What the
fuck
?' He jumps back in fright.

A faint whiff of paraffin mingles with the chlorine in the air.

'That's surreal!' says the young man, stooping to pick up the plastic
bottles of pool sampler he has knocked from the shelves. 'How'd you
do that?'

'Magician's secret,' I say, tapping my nose mysteriously, as if I'd
meant
to bring the trick wallet instead of the real one. 'Look, what I
really came in for was to ask about Simon Manson. He works here on
contract. Drives a van? Does service visits? I need his address.'

The young man looks wary. 'I don't think we're supposed to—'

'I just haven't heard from him in a long time and I want to check
he's okay. It's all right, I'm a friend. Do you have a register of employees?
Maybe you could just leave it open here on the desk while you check
on . . . something out the back.'

The man hesitates.

I nod at the computer. 'How's it going now, all fixed?'

'Okay then, but be quick. I dunno when Bob's back.'

While he's gone to get the book, I riffle through my bag again and
come up with a notepad and a pen. He leaves the book open and goes
back to the computer. I flick my eyes down the page and see Simon.
101 Chapel Street. I write down the home phone number too, just in
case.

'Can I have a go?' the young man says.

I pass the wallet over. 'You've got to open it up quickly, with a
snap. Go on then, it won't burn you.'

He does it and whoops with delight. 'Fuckin' hell, wait till I tell
my girlfriend. Where do you get a thing like that?'

'Hey Presto, a shop near here. Ask for Baudelaire.
Au revoir!
'

I almost skip out the door. At least that's what I wanted to do but
in my uneven heels, I settled, just in time, for a little disabled hop.

Hi mum,

Just before I left Sophia's she had this awful coughing fit. She was
trying to say something – 'more', or, I don't know – she couldn't get her
breath. I felt so scared for her. When I got home, I told Lucia and she
said it might be a good idea to get the doctor around, to give her a shot of
penicillin.

But I'm still worried. I hope you don't mind me going on about this
woman you don't even know. It's just that there's no one here to share
it, no one who really knows me, like family. I'm okay, though, it's just
– something has shift ed right up under my heart, you know, bypassing
my brain. It's like the way a bit of music, a certain smell waft s past,
suddenly changing the way you feel – you're lost for a moment, in search
of a memory or a dream. I can't leave it alone. Marisa says maybe I'm
having a past-life experience, maybe I've got a sixth sense or I'm sychic
or something. But I can see she doesn't really relate to it all – and why
should she? Enjoy it while it lasts, she says. But it's not exactly plesant.
More mysterious and there's some wisps of grief to it, as if I've lost
something I didn't even know I had. I get teary for no reason. And I
really, really want Dad to write to me. Would you mind very much getting
him to do that?

I'm waiting to see if Simon calls. I would rather do that than go stalking
him at his own home and arrive unannounced. That is a scary prospect.
He may not be at all pleased to see me. It is easier to wait now that I
know where he lives. It's like having valium in the bathroom cupboard
in case of emergency. Not to be taken unless strictly necessary. I've
driven past his house a couple of times, during the day when I know
he won't be there. He doesn't live far away, just over the hill on the
other side of the dam, at the beginning of the bush. There are silver
scribbly gums and red bloodwoods behind his house, and when the
wind rises, thick grasses the colour of limes sway like the tide turning
in a river.

I like the look of Simon's house. It's a shock at first. A stark simple
cube under a witch's hat, reminding me of the houses I drew as a
child. Two windows for eyes, a front door for a nose, and a garden
path leading down to the letterbox. It has a sense of humour, Simon's
house. Structurally dull, it's painted bright blue like a tropical bird.
The front door is a rainbow of orange and yellow stripes. You might
see those colours in pictures of the Caribbean. Or Africa. Once, he
told me that he let his daughter decide on the colours. I'd love to see
inside. I wonder if the furniture is an outrageous purple or the cushion
covers are zebra-striped.

I see the therapist once a week. It is the most interesting and
satisfying thing that happens to me. Sometimes I bring coffee to the
sessions to help me be braver and we talk about the week and my
feelings and motherhood and men and afterwards I can taste the
breeze on my lips and hear the sensible warmth of her voice and it
almost stays with me until next time. 'Look after yourself,' she says as
I go out the door. She says it with a special smile that comes out in her
eyes. I'd never examined that expression before. People say it all the
time. But she means it. Look after your
self
. Don't go expecting other
people to do it.

I run in the afternoons now, after work. It's a lovely time, twilight,
when the world is neither day or night, one thing or the other. I run up
the hill to meet the horizon and the startling pink of sunset reminds
me of the cashmere cardigan Joanna Mulgrade used to wear, soft as
teddy bears. The sun melts over the roofs, and in between, black wires
lace up the sky, pulling it tight until I reach the top and then the blue
bursts open, free.

Soon, 'my time will be my own' as Doreen forecasts, and I'll write
the last word on magicians. The interview with Jonny is transcribed,
and I've placed him last in the succession of magicians. Harry has
pride of place in the introduction. Patrick O'Leary, with his Bird of
Paradise, comes next, followed by Chuck and Chip. Together, these
two sound like a pair of TV snacks. But I can't help that. It was their
mothers' fault. 'It's always the mother's fault, have you noticed?' says
the therapist.

Rather than hypothesise about the inner life of the magician, I have
let the nature of each man's specialities speak for him. Their preferred
illusions will stand as a symbol of who they are, an expression of self,
a signpost to the outside world. And that is as it should be. Patrick's
levitation, where he 'flies like a bird', is gloriously uplifting. A good
beginning, I hope.

Sometimes, in some situations, you just have to let go.

Hi Mum

In class today it suddenly came back to me what Sophia said, just
before she had the coughing fit. We were translating a page from Cavallo's
'Eternità' and we had to read out paragraphs in turn. 'Voglio morire,' said
Caterina, the main character. 'I want to die.' Morire. That's what Sophia
said! I'm sure of it. It keeps ringing in my head – that and her sorrowful
face. Maybe it was just that she felt so sick with her flu but it seemed more
than that. I felt so sad when I thought of her that I couldn't concentrate on
anything more.

Marisa says I must be a creative type, and that one day for sure I'll
write a novel because creative types have trouble with their boundaries like
me and they can go inside other people's heads and get lost in there. She
thinks I've gone inside Sophia's head, and I'm imagining that I'm feeling
what Sophia's feeling. Marisa doesn't really approve, though - she says I'm
becoming obsesed, and how could an old woman be so fasinating? I told
her I'm just exploring a trail, some mystery and she said well whatever it
is, it doesn't sound healthy.

By the way, Marisa is thinking seriously about going to Tanzania
after this course is finished. She wants to talk about that, make plans etc
but I guess I'm not so interested right now, maybe later.

Thanks for finding out about dad. Holiday at Port Douglas hey?
With Silvia? Saraah and Doreen went there once didn't they. I remember
Saraah telling me about the great big cockroaches the size of bread
and butter plates. I remember it because I stopped wanting to go there,
imagining dad's horror. Wouldn't have been worth it. Well maybe you can
tell him to write to me when he gets back.

Clara xx

P.S. Ask him about the cockroaches

P.P.S Roberto told me he's sent 206 letters to Amanda and he hasn't
received one back. I went cycling with him again yesterday and it was nice
except it rained.

As the weeks have gone by, my confidence in the mutuality of my
friendship with Simon has waned. But I'm not quite so desperate
about being alone any more. Not desperate, just separate. The two
states don't have to go together, do they? But I do want to talk to
Simon. I just want to
talk
.