Escape (5 page)

'Go on, I'll be there soon,' he says, shooing me away with his free
hand.

My feet are stuck to the floor. I think of the glue traps we set for
the household bugs. Cockroach hotels, they're called. I used to love
hotels.

'Go!' he hisses.

'No!' I hiss back. I push out my jaw. 'You have to come now and
have dinner!'

'Oh, what does it matter, five minutes? Can you
see
yourself? You
are like those boring ants in your children's books, always gathering
supplies. Why don't you ever have fun, laugh for a change, do
something interesting with your life!'

I think I'm starting to hyperventilate. That's what must be
happening. The stars are gathering in my head, so thick you could join
them up to make a milky way. 'Interesting?
Interesting
?' I'm shouting
now. I can hear my voice, loud but distant, as if a mad woman
were bellowing on the TV. 'How would I have time to do anything
interesting?' Even as I say it, I realise I wouldn't know anything
interesting to do even if I did have the time. Apart from magic that is.

Guido sighs, his palm still on the mouthpiece. 'You 'ave no soul,
Rachel. This is the problem with you. Where is your spirit, your
imagination? You are always on the ground with your mop and your
dust buster and your food gathering – ooh, the bathroom needs
cleaning, you are three and a half minutes late, the pasta will be
overcooked, you naughty boy.'

'But you're the one who complains if the pasta isn't al dente!'

'You don let me breathe in this 'ouse! You put bricks on my head
with your words. I want my spirit to soar, not—'

'Christ, the capsicums! The pinger went and I didn't turn off the
oven!'

'You see? Always with the food gathering.'

'If
I
didn't think of it, nothing would get cooked. YOU are the one
who's so fussy about the food we eat!'

'Why don you just
do
these jobs, without always complaining
about it? Most women manage that. Choose something more
interesting to talk about, then people will listen. The trouble with you,
Rachel, is you are becoming sour like the lemon.'

The stars behind my eyes are meshing into a shiny blur. I
remember the sky that night in Fiji, the veils of mist lifting off the sea,
and I'm flying into the marbled light, and Guido and the bed and the
wooden desk littered with mosaic poetry are sliding away, far down
below. 'Fuck you!' I yell from this high, far, starry place. 'Fuck you, you
bastard!'

'Rachel?' Dad's voice echoes down the hall.

'Coming!' I turn and run back to the kitchen.

The family are sitting around the table. I can feel wet on my cheeks
and running from my nose – I must have been crying. Mum is turning
her knife over and over, muttering something to herself. Dad glances
up quickly at me then looks down at the white-stitched tablecloth.
They must have heard 'fuck'. I wipe my face and try to laugh at myself.
I roll my eyes wryly like Clara does.

But Clara's face is white. I try to smile at her and go into the
kitchen. I can't believe I've done this on her last night.
You are a selfish
bitch and you have no control
, says the voice. I sniff and wipe my face
properly with the tea towel. I sing a couple of phrases from Aretha
Franklin, as if everything is fine now. Then I go to open the oven door.
The capsicums have expired.

It's twenty minutes before Guido joins us. 'See, the pasta is
not even on the table yet,' he laughs, sliding into his seat. I can see
him from the kitchen bench. 'She worries too much, doesn't she?
Our little soldier ant! You've just got to calm down,
cara
,' he calls
to me. 'This stress is no good for you.' He looks around the table
and catches Clara's eye. 'Don't we tell 'er that all the time? But does
she listen to us?' He smiles genially and hunts through the bowl of
mixed nuts.

Mum and Dad shift awkwardly on their chairs. Clara tries a rueful
smile, examining her empty plate.

I watch them all as I weigh out the pasta. A splash of boiling water
stings my wrist. Spaghetti only takes ten minutes to cook, I want to
explain, that's why I didn't put it on earlier, but as it is the water has
practically boiled away so I'll have to add more which means that
now we'll all have to wait while it heats. But Dad has begun a new
conversation to fill the silence. I can feel my face warming over the
steam. I bet it's as red as the withered capsicums waiting to join the
burnt veal of the second course.

'Lots of work on, eh, Guido?' says Dad. 'Those students keeping
you busy, then?'

'Yes,' sighs Guido. 'Mostly they are rich women who are bored
with their lives. I would rather be writing, but such is the life.'

'Well, you're generous with your time,' Dad concludes heartily,
'giving all this help after hours.'

'Tonight was urgent,' Guido explains. He makes it sound as if he
provides an essential service, like an ambulance. 'This student is going
to Italy and she does not understand 'er
passato remoto
.' He leans over
and pinches Clara's cheek.

'How dreadful for her,' Clara murmurs. 'I don't understand my
presente
or my
futura
.'

'Futur
o
.
Il futuro
, the noun is masculine. You cannot blame me
for this,' Guido says quickly. 'You were always too busy with other
subjects' – he glances over the servery at me – 'to learn Italian.'

Clara gets up suddenly to take the bread rolls from the kitchen
bench. She gives me a gentle grin. 'That's okay, Dad,' she says, sitting
down again, 'now I'm going for the full immersion. You'll see, I'll come
home speaking like a native,
una vera italiana
!' Her tone has a false
gaiety about it, an exaggerated bravado. But Clara isn't saving her own
face, she is saving mine. A wave of darkness comes over me. How often
has she run between us, holding up the white flag of herself?

'Well, it's always good to have work,' my father declares. 'Rachel
tells me you often meet interesting people through the institute,
Guido.'

'Yes, she thinks my life is very exotic,' he laughs, 'because I go out
to see exhibitions occasionally, or the theatre. But is true, there are
some students who have been coming to my lessons for years – seems
they like my style of teaching. We make conversation, of course, but I
introduce the extra elements of history and philosophy which I think
are not available to them before. Is so important to understand the
culture of a country whose language you are studying and I am able
to supply them with this. My study of Italian literature, and my own
writing is, of course, a unique advantage.'

'Very smart, these serviettes, sweetheart,' Dad calls from the
dining room. He's tucking one into his shirt collar. I see Guido smirk,
watching him.
Peasant
, he's probably thinking.

'Red, green and white for the Italian colours!' I exclaim, carrying
bowls of olives and bocconcini to the table.

'Well, let's make another toast to our Clara,' says Dad heartily,
'now that we're all here.'

Guido leaps up with his hand extended. I think he's going to help
with the plates I'm juggling but he just selects an olive, pops it in his
mouth and sits down again. Luckily Dad sees the bowl teetering and
catches it in mid-air. The quick reflexes acquired during his police
career often come in handy for diverting disaster.

'Here's to a wonderful journey,' says my father, raising his glass to
Clara.

'To Clara!' my mother beams.

'Safe journey,' I add.

'
Salute!
' cries Guido, '
e buon viaggio!
'

We all take a sip. Mum and I take two.

'Hard to believe, isn't it,' Dad says, passing the olives, 'our little
Clara all grown up. Seems like only yesterday she was a little girl
wrestling with long division.'

'Oh, do you remember that year, Clara?' I touch the top of her
head a moment. 'We divided everything up – bananas, oranges, cars
in the parking lot.'

Clara snorts and picks an olive.

'Well, you must be good at arithmetic now, Clara, the way you've
saved your pennies at that lingerie shop,' Dad says. 'Got your airfare
and a bit of living expenses, great work! I'm so proud of you. Will you
try to find a job over there too, do you think?'

'Yes, that's the plan,' I say quickly, seeing Clara struggling with the
olive in her mouth. 'Don't talk, Clara, olives are lethal if they go down
the wrong way. Remember when Doreen had to squeeze Saraah that
time – what was it, the Heineken manoeuvre—'

'That's a beer,' says Dad.

'Oh, well, anyway, I've given Clara Maurizio's address in Milan –
you know, the magician who originally employed Guido?'

'Maurizio died six years ago!' Guido says sharply. 'I showed you
the obituary published in
La Repubblica
. What are you talking about?'

'No, no, I mean his son,' I say. I can feel my face reddening, as if
it's been slapped. 'His
son
is called Maurizio too. I forgot to . . .' I'm
almost whispering now. I'm so flustered. How can I have made that
mistake? It's dreadful when you start a sentence and then realise you
can't possibly finish it, so it hangs from your mouth like a dead snake.

'You never told me you were in contact with the
family
,' Guido
says sharply. 'Why would you do that?'

I give a little cough. A prickling wetness starts at the back of my
nose, and the table seems to slip a little. 'It's just that . . . I always felt so
bad about the way we parted. I liked Maurizio. Senior, I mean. He was
a good man. And his son seems a very nice . . . person.'

Dad looks at Guido, who is suddenly preoccupied picking out the
almonds from the mixed nuts bowl. Almonds are his favourite.

'Jesus,' mutters Clara, and pours herself another champagne. 'As
if I'm going to go anywhere
near
a magician, anyway. That's what I'm
trying to get away from – no offence.'

'Well, it's an option, that's all I'm saying, you know, a contact if
you get desperate. Someone who'll know who you are and can help
with . . . things.'

'I'd have to be desperate, all right.'

'So anyway,' I turn to Dad, 'Maurizio, the son, has a magic school
now – sounds like something out of Harry Potter, doesn't it? It's quite
well-known apparently. All the various theatres around Milano and
Torino select their entertainers through him. I wish I'd been able to
write about him for my book, but he's not famous, I suppose, like the
others.'

'What book is that now?' asks Mum, frowning.

'You know, the one about the lives of the four magicians?'

'Ah yes,' says Dad. 'I thought you'd finished that.'

Guido sighs loudly, but I plough on. 'No, not yet. Anyway, a while
ago I found out Maurizio's son's details and emailed him for some
information about his school. And then when Clara decided she was
going to Italy – well, I contacted him again and he was so helpful and,
you know, enthusiastic. I really liked him.'

Guido's teeth crunch together in the quiet.

'Do try the bocconcini, everyone,' I urge. 'They're so fresh!'

'Mm, delicious,' says Dad. 'So, Guido, no old friends or relatives in
Italy for Clara to visit? It'd be so handy for her. A spare room, a friendly
face.'

Guido shrugs and gets on with his almonds.

'Seems a shame,' Dad goes on. 'You actually grew up in Florence,
right?'

'Yes,' Guido says heavily, 'but I have not been back for twenty
years. Is no one left there for me. I do not know why Clara chose to
study in Florence. I told 'er, go to Perugia, is much better, is a university
town, full of young students like 'er, curious about the world. Firenze
instead is more dull, is aristocratic, cold. Pfff!'

'Do you know anyone in Perugia?'

Guido shook his head.

Why did my father bother, for heaven's sake. We'd been over
this so many times. It's hard to imagine a person less connected than
Guido. He might as well have spent his entire childhood in a glass
bubble.

He is staring fixedly at the wall in front of him now. I can't imagine
what he is thinking. He has this magical ability to cut off from his
surroundings. So strange to think I know no more about him now than
I did when I first met him. Maybe he's wishing he was anywhere else
than in this living room. Or maybe it's just really hard to be reminded
of how alone in the world you are. Whatever the case, I wish my father
would stop asking him questions.

I go back into the kitchen to check on the pasta.

'Are there any more nuts?' Guido calls out.

'Yes, would you come and get them? Other people might like
some too. I'm just draining the pasta.'

Through the servery I see him helping himself instead to the last
of the bocconcini.

'Aren't you going to get the nuts?' Clara asks him.

'No, I'm fine here,' he says, 'although there is too much
aceto
in the
vinaigrette.'

Clara gets up and comes into the kitchen. She fetches the nuts
silently. We don't look at each other. 'Is there anything I can do? Help
bring out the plates?'

I give her a grateful smile. 'Yes, thanks, darling, would you get the
big glass bowl out of the lower cupboard near my knee? The one you
gave me for my birthday. Give it a rinse before we use it, will you?'

When I bring the steaming bowl of pasta out to the table, Mum
gives a little crow of delight.

'This looks wonderful,' she cries. 'I love your pasta – there's always
some interesting herb.'

I make a pleased sound and smile at her, but her generous
comments make my throat ache unbearably. Each time I bring over a
dish for her dinner, she manages to make some grateful, spontaneous
comment like this.

'What is it?' Guido asks suspiciously.

'Penne Siciliana.' My voice wobbles.