I'm tucking the red and green serviettes into the wineglasses when there's the knock at the door. No one else in the house hears, apparently, as there is no reaction from behind the closed doors.
I run down the hall, knocking my knee against the telephone table. A stab of rage chokes me and the world starts to slide. Bugger it!
'Oh boy, something smells good!' cries Dad as I open the door. His smacking kiss explodes right on my ear, so I'm briefly deafened. 'Why are you holding your head like that, sweetheart, have you got an earache?'
'The world is sliding,' I say.
'Veal roasting,' says Mum. 'How lovely!'
She's spot on. This must be one of her good days. They enfold me against their comfortable chests and my shoulders relax. I remember the island of peace they brought to this living room all those years ago when there was the war. I smile and kiss them both. Standing beside them I feel small and at the same time very old.
As we settle in the living room Clara rushes in, a shoe in her hand.
'Clara!' cries Dad, leaping up. 'All ready for your adventure?'
Clara laughs and shrugs and throws her arms around him. The shoe she's holding waves in the air as he twirls her around. Good old Dad. Adventure, that's right. Not funeral. My heart lift s and I bring out the champagne. 'Open it, will you, Dad? Champagne scares me, ever since that boy got the cork in his eye like a bullet.'
Clara rolls her eyes and links arms with her nanna. I see Mum giving her hand an extra squeeze. We all toast Clara, beaming. Our Clara, she ignites a hundred-watt smile in all of us. The love of my life, she is. And tomorrow she will disappear.
'So, Clara,' my father says, 'Rachel tells me you'll be studying Italian over there. Nothing like being in the country, using the language every day. And you'll have accommodation there too?'
'Yeah, the centre provides it. It's called the Centro di Cultura per Stranieri – I should show you the brochure. It's great! An old nineteenth-century building, surrounded by gorgeous gardens. I've signed up to do a three-month course, and there's free accommodation for a month. The school is right in the middle of Florence, so you couldn't get a better location, I reckon. And the fees are low – it's run by the government.'
'Italy had a proper communist party,' Mum suddenly declares. 'Not like here – it was illegal when I was young. Wasn't Guido a member of the socialist party back in Italy, Rachel?'
'Where is Guido, by the way?' asks Dad.
'It's very hard to imagine him ever being a committed socialist,' Mum says to no one in particular, 'what with his political apathy and refusal to vote.' She takes a swig of champagne.
'Go easy on that, sweetheart,' says Dad. 'Best not to mix alcohol with your medication.' He turns and looks at me.
The pinger on the wall oven shrieks from the kitchen.
'He's on the phone,' I say, jumping up. 'One of his students rang, needing help. You know how he is, can never say no. Actually, I'll just go and tell him dinner's ready. That'll get him moving.'
Bastard. How can he sit in his room, locked away from the family on Clara's last night? He must have heard my parents at the door, must know that we're all sitting in the living room celebrating Clara's coming adventure.
I knock on his door. The voice pauses, but there's no answer. I knock again, more loudly.
Silence.
'Dinner's ready, are you coming?'
'Soon.' He resumes his conversation.
The breathless, starry feeling explodes in my chest. I take a deep breath to get rid of the stars and go in.
Guido is lying on the doona, one foot crossed lightly over the other. He's smiling into the phone but when he looks up at me, he frowns. I've broken the rules, entering his room while he is 'working', but I keep standing there.
He puts his hand over the receiver. 'What?'
'This is Clara's last supper, Guido.'
'Cristo dio, stop using that expression!' His hand darts to his crotch and his bottom does an awkward little jump in the air. The evil eye. He manages to keep his feet crossed.
'Everyone is sitting out there waiting for you – the food will be cold on your plate.'
He murmurs something in Italian into the phone, smirking a little, then covers the mouthpiece. 'I told you, I will come soon.'
'Well, I'm going to stand here until you do.' I fold my arms across my chest like a sergeant major. I can feel my heart thumping in fright.
'Look, I won't be long. This is what brings money into the house, Rachel. I have to help my students, you know that. Why are you doing this?' His face shows mild irritation, as if he's just discovered a rash that he'd thought he'd got rid of.
'What about my job? What about my deadline? How do you think I fit that in with all the work that needs doing round the house? And then there's the extra cooking for Mum since she put that detergent in the banana cake – yes, snigger why don't you, as if you'd ever do anything for anyone else, as if you won't ever get old!' My heart is practically storming out of my chest. Bastard! Any minute I might say it. Bastard! What if I did? The word would burn in the air between us. Maybe I'd suddenly burst into flames like that poor tortured religious man who set himself alight outside Parliament House.
'Oh don't be such a martyr, Rachel. I am so tired of this.' I stare at him. I try not to drop my gaze. His eyebrow rises and falls as he stares back at me. I see myself standing before him, prim and righteous, not like the tortured religious man at all but just a dull soldier who's only ever had a desk job. I look away, at the notepad beside the phone. 'Silvia,' says the notepad. There are sensuous curves doodled around the S.
'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 t
he 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.'
'Futuro. 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 crunc
h 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?'
Escape Page 4