Escape (9 page)

I couldn't believe it. I must have stood staring at the beautiful man
for ten minutes, but I don't really know how long. Here, without fear
of being caught, I could gaze upon him as if he were a magnificent
landscape – a sunrise over a lake, dusk with black swans. One eyebrow
was slightly raised, quizzical, as if he were sharing a joke but standing
apart. His lips were generous, softening the line of his jaw. The voice
was silenced in the face of perfection.

I wanted to take him home. Quickly I went to the ticket box and
asked if there were posters available. I explained I was bringing my
class on Monday and we could hang the beautiful man on our wall.
The girl at the ticket box laughed. I hadn't meant to say the beautiful
bit, but she waved my fluster away, saying she knew exactly what I
meant and she'd seen the show seven times and she didn't even dig
magic that much. Just
him
, she said,
Guido Leopardi
. She loitered over
his name as if she had a chocolate in her mouth and wanted to make it
last. I felt such a spurt of anguish – not envy really, because I knew it
would be impossible, a man like him – but the thought of all the other
women he must have known was somehow agonising.

The girl gave me two posters: one for myself and one for the
classroom. She was really very kind. I wanted to ask her if she'd actually
talked to him, but I didn't. I just thanked her and took the posters.

*

My heart was pounding as I burst out into the city streets. What if
I went back to the cafe? I was thirsty – what was wrong with sitting
alone in a cafe? I'd never done it but I had a book in my bag – Gerard
Manley Hopkins'
Poems
, my favourite. You wouldn't look so strange
or incomplete if you had a book at the table, would you? And then, if
our eyes met, he might smile again, come over, drink something with
me . . .

I remembered how he'd leant against the wall, pursuing his own
thoughts in company. It had been disturbing, but alluring too, the
way he'd placed his own thoughts first, as if they were important. That
made you feel he was important. And if a man like that chooses you,
you've won a real prize.

As I marched along I realised that I wasn't walking alongside
myself any more. I was alive inside my skin. My legs felt strong and
supple as they scissored through the crowd. A man hugging a heavy
package looked over the top of it and smiled.

Then I must have taken a wrong turning because I looked up and
the narrow alley ahead was not familiar. Garbage was piled against a
doorway.
Your concentration better improve when you bring the children
,
the voice sneered. The smell of stale wine was strong. It gathered in
the dark shady corners, brewing in the cracks of the footpath. I felt a
familiar chill. This alley looked like the one where my father had had
his accident. You could die in a place like this.

When I came out on the main street, I had no idea whether to
turn right or left .

You're hopeless
, said the voice,
you've got the orienteering instincts of
a lemming
.

Having no sense of direction is like being permanently stuck
in a game of Blind Man's Bluff. My mother used to ask me which
way we should go and whatever I said, she'd take the opposite
route. It was usually the correct one. I did the same now and went
left. Sure enough, after a few metres I recognised the shop selling
bicycles. Best Bikes. The steel handlebars were glinting through
the glass.

Only two more blocks and I'd be at the cafe.

No, no, no
, said the voice. My steps grew slower. A dullness
crept up my legs. What the hell did I think I was doing, going to this
cafe? How ridiculous would I look, walking in there as if I expected
something, as if this beautiful man with the brilliant future would
want to talk to
me
?

I could see the cafe now. No music. I stopped at the camping shop.
There were two-man tents and those little gas stoves. In the glass I saw
how my white Indian shirt flowed down from my breasts. I fingered
the silver necklace around my neck, and the silver hoops in my ears
flashed in the sunlight. How lucky I'd washed my hair that morning. It
curled optimistically around my face.

Well, I'm female at least, I told the window, and therefore I must
possess all the necessary basic equipment. I smiled at myself in a
winning way and walked right into the cafe before the voice could say
a thing.

He wasn't there. He'd gone. I looked at the table in the corner
where he'd sat. Wiped clean. Not even a speck of ash remaining. It
was as if he'd never existed. Dream or memory? Whatever – it was
typical. Such a wave of tiredness swept over me, I could hardly
stand.

'Yez,
signorina
, what would you like?'

The singing waiter looked at me expectantly. He seemed to think
it was normal for a single person to be standing around in a cafe. So I
sat down in the beautiful man's chair and ordered an iced coffee.

'With cream?'

I could drink ten now, with extra cream in all of them, and fail
to be concerned about my hips. There was no one to notice, so why
should I care? My legs had felt so young and powerful striding down
the streets. Now they felt like those beanbags that everyone chucked
around their living rooms instead of chairs.

I got out my book of poems and riffled through. 'As kingfishers
catch fire, dragonflies draw flame . . .' Even glorious Hopkins failed
to lift me. There were my self-important little red comments in the
corners. 'You're defacing that book, Rachel,' my mother used to scold.
'But it's mine,' I'd say. She'd shake her head. 'Poems are for everyone.
They should be shared. Not conquered.'

The iced coffee came and I concentrated on the cold sweet liquid
sliding down my throat. I could have put my head down on the table
and gone to sleep forever. Only wake me if that prince comes back, I'd
tell the waiter.

On Sunday I put the poster on my wall with Blu-Tack. It was quite
haunting the way the young man's eyes followed me everywhere. At
night I took off my dress in front of him. I lowered one strap at a time,
slowly over the shoulder, then undid the buttons at the front. He stared
at me, devouring me with his eyes. That full bottom lip of his wanted
to kiss mine. When my bra came off he could hardly contain himself.
You could see him wanting to wrench himself from the wall, desperate
to leap upon the free pale breasts swinging before him. He would cup
them in his hands, nestle his head in between . . .

It was hard to sleep with him watching me. But it was lovely, too,
because it was company. Unconditional appreciation. Really, I told
myself, it had worked out for the best. This was why girls put pin-up
stars on their walls – they could have a luscious romance at a distance,
without disappointment.
Get a grip
, said the voice.
You're twenty-five.

The rain started early in the morning, around four o'clock. I lay in bed,
listening. It sounded silvery and soft , but enough to make the zoo or
a picnic miserable. Magic had been the right decision after all. It was
amazing. I smiled at the beautiful man in the dark.

At ten o'clock, the children lined up outside the school to wait for
the bus. They were all dressed in their yellow raincoats, and as they
filed along like good little ducklings, the enormity of their trust smote
me. I actually saw the word 'smote' in my mind because the feeling
was so big it seemed biblical, what with the deep bruised sky about
to declare the end of the world and the children's faces like beaming
torches holding back the dark. And then thunder crashed as if the sky
was falling, making us all jump, and we froze for a moment, deafened.
Poor Sam, who was terrified of thunder, collapsed right there on the
footpath and covered his head with his hands. I told the children to go
ahead, get on the bus.

Sam stayed right where he was. He was too heavy to lift so I
crouched down too and he told me about thunder and how thunder
meant lightning and you could get fried like an egg if it struck you. I told
him what my father had always told me and when there was another
flash of lightning we counted the seconds until the thunder. You're
supposed to add 'and' between the seconds when you're counting but
I left them out so there'd be more miles for Sam. We got up to twenty-seven
before there was a crash of thunder. 'See,' I told him, 'that old
lightning is twenty-seven miles away. Over in Woop Woop.' I made my
voice low and silly saying
woop
and he giggled. Then we got on the
bus.

Sam wanted to sit beside me, and then on my lap so he could look
out the window at the whooshing cars. I put my arms around his soft
little tummy. He smelled like toast. You just have to listen to children,
and talk to them. Explain. When that happens and they understand,
they are usually very reasonable.

I wish I'd done that with Clara – listened more. Somehow, I never
heard her as clearly as Sam Whitfield, or Jimmy Manson or Billy
Cooper. I suppose my own feelings were so loud when I was with her,
she was such a part of me, I never really caught what she said.

By the time we got to the city, there was just a dull drizzle. We
walked briskly in pairs, holding hands, along the city streets. I watched
very carefully where we were going. I didn't think about Guido
Leopardi's face for a moment. Or if I did, I stamped on it in two
seconds without any
ands
in between.

The children's gasping was audible as we entered the theatre.
Catrina Rushmore pretended to be a princess doing a tour of her
palace and talked in a high English voice to the girl next to her. They
were all getting a bit noisy and wild and when Catrina told the usher
to 'kaindly get her a cup of tea', I had to give them all a stern lecture.
But they were so good, really, quietening down immediately – even
Sam, who found it almost impossible to stay still. He bounced silently
on his plush velvet seat.

The stage manager came to tell us then that the Monday matinees
were oriented towards schools and the extra treat of a backstage tour
was offered. There was nearly another eruption but over the noise I
agreed, thank you very much, as long as we could still get the bus we'd
planned on. I also wanted to ask if a backstage tour meant we'd get to
meet the magicians, but I didn't.

Our class took up the entire second row, and our view of the stage
was excellent. I leant across Jimmy and Billy and told everyone to
watch carefully. Billy asked if we were going to see the young master or
the old one or both, and I said I didn't know. I'd never thought of that
– I had assumed they would perform together. But you didn't often see
two magicians on stage, come to think of it. Disappointment dropped
in my stomach. Knowing my luck, we'd get the older one for sure. Well,
maybe it was just as well. If that was the case, Guido Leopardi would
remain a distant star forever, and an appreciative companion. As the
lights went down, I reminded the children near me to keep their eyes
on the magician's hands, listen for strategies of misdirection beneath
the patter, look at the places he seemed to deliberately ignore.

But as the tall magician in the long leather coat strode onto the
stage, I forgot to look at anything but his beautiful face.

'I am Guido,' he said after the show, when Billy Cooper introduced
himself and the class. I had been trying to speak, but my mouth was so
dry and breathing so difficult that I gave up and pretended I was one
of those incredibly permissive teachers who believe in children being
assertive and taking the lead.

He had a deep voice, like a double bass. It was darker, older than
him. His accent was strong, with consonants turning into vowels so
that everything was looped together, like running writing. You wanted
to fall headlong into him. I could feel my cheeks burning, remembering
how I had taken my dress off in front of him the night before.

We had been invited up onto the stage. Jimmy and Sam were
so overexcited I thought they might be sick. They kept pinching
each other on the arm, perhaps to convince themselves this wasn't a
dream.

I watched him strolling about the stage in his elegant European
coat, lifting the lid of the trunk to reveal the tools, unstrapping the
straitjacket to show inside. The straitjacket act had been extraordinary.
We'd read in class how performers often writhe around on the floor,
groaning, twisting, banging their feet. It's called the 'athletic method'.
It's meant to heighten the drama of the act, help the audience connect
with their own fear of suffocation and death.

Guido instead had been restrained. He'd used subtle expressions
of anxiety that were much more powerful. His timing and pace were
perfect. There seemed to be very little movement inside the jacket, but
the struggle was apparent, and had a hypnotic effect on us all. His face
went white, his lips pressed into a thin line. I wanted to hurl myself on
stage and help him. Then suddenly his body went limp, the straitjacket
seemed to collapse around his shoulders and the sleeve on one side
went slack as his arm was withdrawn from within. With a lightning
movement he threw himself on the floor, then whirled upward like a
dancer and leaped free. Most of the audience clapped like the thunder
outside but Bill Cooper's hands were clenched on his knees and Sam
sat rigid as if he'd just seen god. Guido stood straight and still on stage,
only his chest heaving in and out as he gasped for air.

I wanted to tell him how wonderful he had been, to thank him
for making this excursion so glorious, but I still couldn't move.
The children clustered around him. I saw Sam's hand reach up
and hang on fast to his sleeve. Guido, towering above, seemed
unworried. He gazed down at them with his high-voltage smile
and laughed. He moved with such natural grace that you knew he
was completely at home inside his skin. His hair curled over his
collar. He would never have spent a second wishing he was made
any other way. There was an animal sleekness about him, a focused
certainty that made everything else around him seem dull, like a
matt background.

'Did you use the shim or key for the trunk, does this straitjacket
have big armholes for the slack, what if you didn't get out in time
would you suffocate in the glass box thingy?' Bill and Jimmy hung on
to each other as they pelted him with questions. Catrina tried to stand
as near as possible so she could stroke his suede coat.

I began to make my way forward, trying to clear a path through
the children.

'How did you escape from that straitjacket in just three minutes
forty-eight seconds?' asked Bill Cooper.

I giggled. Couldn't help it. Bill had been given a stopwatch for his
birthday and liked to time everything.

Guido looked up at me and a ripple moved over his face. It seemed
like recognition – did he remember our exchange of glances in the
cafe? Not possible. But suddenly his face opened up – he had white
square teeth – and the crinkles appeared.

'Ah, and this is your teacher,' he said, his eyes sweeping over me.

'Yes,' cried Billy, 'she put your poster up on our wall.'

'And she stood there looking at it all morning, sighing,' said bloody
Dimitri Philips, who had older sisters.

Guido laughed, throwing back his head. His Adam's apple swelled
out from his throat. I wanted to touch it.

He looked straight at me, over the children's heads. I felt his eyes
bore into mine. It was as if he was threading me, pulling me in. I slid
along the length of his gaze.

'What is your name?' he asked.

'Miss Lambert,' said Bill, who had firm hold of Guido's other
hand, the one Sam wasn't clutching.

'Rachel,' I said, as if it were my first word.

'Rachel,' repeated Guido. He said it slowly, like a caress. 'We 'ave
met before, no?'

I nodded, trying to think what to say, when Bill steered him
towards the straitjacket. He wanted to know if this was the one he'd
used or was it Harry Houdini's own personal one? Guido held up the
jacket and pointed out its various features. While he was talking, he
glanced at me, and his mouth curled up in a secret smile. Once, when
the children were absorbed in looking at the handcuffs and locking
each other up, his eyes singled me out, causing a burning sensation
in my chest. It was impossible to look away. Normally I would have
squirmed like Sam, wondered if my hair had frizzed horribly in the
rain, but now I didn't want him to stop looking. I couldn't bear it if he
did.

'But how did you escape so fast from this trunk thingy,' Bill was
asking. 'I mean, I can see these tools and all, but still you've got so
many locks and you're in the dark.'

Guido patted his head. 'Practice,' he said. 'You do something fifty
times, you get better. After five 'undred, you are almost perfect. Maybe
you,' his index finger made wide circles in the air before targeting
Joselyn Teeney, 'you play an instrument, the clarinet? When you
begin, you squeak like a bat. But your mother, she tells you to practise.
You do, to make 'er 'appy, and after some months you can play Mozart.
You see, magic is the same, is all practice. If you want to be great, you
will be great!'

The children were buzzing with excitement – Joselyn
did
play the
clarinet. How did Mr Leopardi know that? Was he a mind-reader too?
Guido just lift ed an eyebrow in a mysterious manner and smiled at
me.

When the stage manager bustled up and tapped his watch, Guido
led the class down a narrow corridor into his dressing room. He sat
down on the chair facing the mirror and showed the children what
was in all the little pots and jars on the dresser. There was fake blood
and vampire teeth, masks and warts and plastic scars. Children leant
across him, fiddling with the make-up. He answered their questions,
let Catrina put her head on his shoulder.

Oh, he's so lovely, so wonderful with the kids, I thought. He'd
be fantastic with his own. I wonder if he has any? Our eyes suddenly
connected in the mirror and he winked at me again, that same wink of
the cafe, and grinned in recognition, as if we had shared something. I
couldn't think any more. Only my body was registering the crackle of
his presence, so that I wouldn't have been surprised if lightning had
forked between us.

When the manager came to take the class for a tour of the orchestra
pit, I picked up my bag to follow. A line of girls, headed up by Catrina
and Joselyn, were queuing to say goodbye to Guido. I stood at the end
of the queue, clutching my bag. The clasp was open. I bit my lip. It had
been broken for weeks and I'd been meaning to get it fixed. I began
rummaging through it to find my wallet, ready for the bus. Tissues, old
lipsticks, brush and make-up, but where was the wallet? Alarm pinged
through my veins. Where was the voucher to give the driver? And
what about my driver's licence and . . . Would the driver let us all on
without the voucher? Maybe the wallet had dropped out on the floor
in the theatre. I tried to hurry the girls on now, but my limbs wouldn't
behave.

Oh, why did I always have to do something wrong?
Stupid
, said
the voice,
head in the clouds. You're always losing something – time,
money, yourself
. Anxiety rose like a tide in my chest as I waited for the
class to file out.

'Thank you so much—' I mumbled into Guido's back.

He whirled around so that in the small space between us his chin
was just inches from mine. The missing corner of his tooth showed,
like a pirate. He looked dangerous. I took the hand he held out. He
didn't shake mine. He just went on holding it.

I felt myself growing hot. The blush bloomed from deep in my
stomach. I forgot about the purse. Guido said nothing, just gazed
down at me.

'Your performance was amazing,' I said, as if a gush of words
might hide the red. 'Thank you so much, and I really appreciated all
the attention you gave the children afterwards. You must be exhausted.
I'm so glad you said that thing about practice, because that's exactly
what I'm always telling them, and coming from
you
. . . well, it will
mean so much more.'

The class had filed out with the stage manager behind, hurrying
them along. We could hear the excited giggles and squeals growing
fainter down the corridor. There was just the afterglow of twenty-seven
little bodies in the silence.

I cleared my throat. 'I'd, um, better go,' but Guido still had hold of
my hand. He was stroking it. The place where he was stroking burned.
I almost wished he would stop.

'Success does not come by magic,' he smiled.

I stared at him. It was hard to believe this man was
not
magical.
Wherever he stood, he seemed to command the atmosphere. He gave
the impression of ordering the elements about; a plume of smoke or a
fountain of water would spring from the sky if he chose.