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.
The room is quiet as we eat. There's just the clinking of forks and the moist sound of swallowing. My stomach clenches. This pause at the beginning of a meal always feels like judgement time. Like the quiet ticking of the clock when the exam starts.
'Isn't the main ingredient of Penne Siciliana the olive, Rachel?' asks Guido, but his voice doesn't go up at the end the way it would with a real question. He's peering at his plate, moving food around gingerly with his fork. 'I don't see many on my plate.' He leans over to check how many Dad has.
My heart starts to thump. 'I forgot them until the last minute.' Sweat-beads are forming on my lip. 'Then, well, there weren't many left . I was concentrating on the ratatouille, you know, the vegetables had got a bit too dry.'
'Ah, the vegetables. Did you forget also to put salt in the pasta?'
Dad passes him the table salt, but Guido waves it away. 'No,' he sighs, 'the salt must be cooked with the pasta and the sauce. Is no good put on top at the end like that. Penne Siciliana is a peasant dish, originally. It should be very simple and tasty, relying on fresh ingredients. Beh, this is too sweet for me, Rachel,' he concludes and pushes his plate patiently away from him. 'I'll just wait for the roast.'
'Well, you won't need to wash my plate!' Dad is mopping up the last of the sauce with his bread. 'I've just about licked it clean.'
Guido makes a disgusted face.
Clara, sitting between her grandparents, gives her pop a smile.
There is a silence until my father clears his throat and goes on. 'So, your book is a bit overdue then, Rachel? How far have you got?
I wipe the corner of my eyes with my finger. It comes back black. Eyeliner has smudged with sweat, probably pooled under my eyes so that I look like some kind of nocturnal animal. A raccoon maybe. 'Well, it's mapped out pretty thoroughly. And I've got the introduction done and most of the research. I just have to organise it now. One of the magicians is coming to Australia actually, in a few months. Jonny Love, from Chicago. We're not sure of the dates yet—'
'Who's that?' asks my mother. 'A cartoon character?'
'No, Jonny Love is one of Rachel's magicians, Deb.' Dad smiles at her. 'So, do you have a title yet? I always think the title of a book is what gets people in.'
'Well, at first I was going to call it Magic Men. But that sounds a bit childish. So now, well, Clara suggested Lives of Deception,' I beam at Clara, 'which I really liked. So I think I'll go with that.'
'Ooh, that's catchy!' nods Dad. He's looking at me with enthusiasm, the dear man, glancing at Clara, back at me, nodding approvingly, waiting for me to go on. I just can't seem to find the energy. I'm dreading bringing out the second course. Another work of mine that is overdue.
'Maybe you'll write a book about your travels in Italy, Clara,' Dad says, striding out into the silence like a diver into the sea. 'What with both your parents being writers, you might get the bug too.'
'Who knows?' She turns to her grandparents eagerly, her eyes shining. 'Or maybe I'll join an aid organisation, work with refugees or something. There are heaps of Albanian and African refugees in Italy.'
'Yes,' says Mum. 'I was just reading the other day how many refugees Italy takes in each year. Puts us to shame.'
Clara nods, her fork bobbing animatedly in mid-air. 'I might even go on to Africa, after Italy. I could get work with an NGO there I'm sure, you know, teaching English or something.'
Adrenalin shoots through me, making my hands shake as I pass the bread basket. Africa. 'Aren't there any number of terrible diseases in Africa?' I say, trying to take the tremor out of my voice. 'Wouldn't you need particular shots? Cholera, typhoid, malaria, I don't know.'
'I could get them in Italy,' says Clara. 'They aren't totally devoid of medical knowledge over there, you know.'
'No, of course – but, well you've never said anything about Africa. I mean it all sounds very interesting but what about AIDS and that Ebola thing—'
'It's okay, Mum, I've actually been talking to Simon about Africa – he knows so much about it, particularly Tanzania where his wife came from.'
'Simon? Simon who?'
'Oh god, Mum, what world do you live in? Simon Manson, the man who comes to fix our pool?'
'Simon? But I never—'
'His daughter, Sam, was at uni with me.'
'Sam?' puts in Guido. 'What kind of a name is that for a girl?'
Clara snorts. 'Sam is short for Samantha. She did political science at uni, we used to talk a lot.'
'Did she finish her degree?' I ask.
'Yes, she stuck it out, just like our Harry.'
'Harry who?' asks Dad, looking bewildered.
'A ghost that haunts our family,' says Clara.
'I've never believed in ghosts,' says Mum.
'So have you seen Sam since university?' I ask Clara.
'A bit. She goes with her dad to visit people in the detention centre in Sydney – they went to that Baxter demo, too, in South Australia. Simon even got arrested!'
I bite my lip. The things you learn about your daughter when she's about to disappear! And the pool man! Has Simon ever mentioned detention centres in our conversations? Or refugees? Or, heavens above, that he had a wife from Tanzania? That he has a wife? Or did Clara use the past tense?
'Will the roast be arriving any time soon?' asks Guido.
I can't remember Simon ever referring to his wife. Or, actually, his life. It's always been about my pool, my deadlines.
I start collecting the plates. 'Have you thought where you might want to travel in Africa specifically, Clara? I mean, you might have to do some research on these NGOs and find out about qualifications you'll need or which regions are safest and what conditions . . .'
'You mean do I have my body of African facts?' She looks at me with that wide-open, rather insolent stare. I lower my eyes and begin scraping the plates. Well. I know that life expectancy in Tanzania is 46.2 and it is home to some of East Africa's oldest remains and the mountain, Kilimanjaro. But how my facts have ever helped the world I cannot say. The starry feeling makes my head light and I blink hard to focus.
'Why haven't you told me any of this before?' I ask her.
'Because I knew you'd worry yourself to death and go into overkill about diseases and crime rates and how to hide a shim in your hair and, oh, life wouldn't be worth living!'
I hear Guido snigger into his wine. Clara leans over and squeezes my fingers. 'See, it's just that knowing the facts doesn't satisfy me, I want to DO something about them, otherwise I feel useless.'
'That's how I've felt all my life,' I say. I don't mean to say it, but the thought just sails out of my mouth like a breath.
There is silence while legs are recrossed and throats are cleared. I start taking the plates out to the kitchen. I dump them into the sink and begin rinsing with hot water.
'Here, I'll do that,' says Clara behind me. 'Haven't you got to get ze rost?' Her tone is affectionate as she raises her eyebrows, Guido-like, and grins.
I slip on the crocodile oven glove. I used to chase Clara around the kitchen with it, jaws snapping, causing squeals of terrified delight. Amazing how the old thing's lasted, only a little brown and frayed around the ends.
Clara makes a space on the hot plates for the dishes, the only clear area in the k
itchen. I start taking out the veal in rosemary, the collapsed capsicums, now black instead of red, the potatoes and pumpkin. As I turn to close the oven I catch my wrist on the burning oven door. I can feel my mouth opening in an O of pain.
'Quick, run it under cold water!' cries Clara. She turns on the tap but she must have forgotten she'd been using the hot and I fling back my hand with the scald of it. Just then the screw holding the tap onto the wall falls off , the spring shoots out like a jack-in-the-box, and hot water gushes in a boiling waterfall. The sink and the bench and the floor all join up in a horrible Picasso kind of jangle and I can't keep my balance. I slide to the floor, my limbs sinking together neatly like one of those folding chairs at the beach.
'Oh, I'm sorry, oh!' Clara's hands flap in dismay.
I want to tell her that it's okay and really it doesn't hurt much at all now and that the stupid tap is always falling off and actually it's my fault because I should have told the plumber to fix it and I'm just upset because waking up to a marriage like mine every morning is like waking up dead and now the only person in the world who makes me feel alive and hopeful is going away for a whole year but these awful heaving sobs are coming up like vomit and all I can do is put my head in my own lap and howl.
'Pop!' calls Clara. 'Quick, come and help Mummy!'
Clara hasn't called me that for years, poor mite.
'I'm okay,' I manage and then Dad is there leaning down, his hands on my shoulders. 'I just need to sit here for a moment,' I mumble. 'Bit dizzy.'
'She burnt herself on the oven,' Clara says. She looks shocked, and there are tears in her eyes too.
Look what you've done! says the voice.
'She gets upset so easily lately,' Clara is whispering to my father. I can hear her perfectly well, but it's as if she thinks my ears have stopped working as well as my legs. 'Like she's just watching TV or doing the washing-up and she'll suddenly tear up. Sometimes she cries at the end of a movie, just because it's the end. And she's started swearing. You heard her before. Do you think it's the menopause or something?'
Dad clears his throat, shifting his feet on the cork floor.
'You know, Pop, the change of life?'
'Er, yes, well, she's definitely getting near that...er...age. No doubt about that.' He pats her head soothingly. 'Don't you worry about it, love, we'll sort it out. No need for you to worry.'
Clara looks relieved. 'I'll take the roast out then,' and she goes to pick up the tray.
'That's hot, use the glove!' I yell, but not quickly enough.
'Ow!' cries Clara, dropping the tray, and with it the overdone veal stuff ed with rosemary and garlic and baked in red wine.
We watch the veal shoot out of the tray and slide in its own rich juices across the floor. It comes to a stop on the flat brown island of the cockroach hotel nestling at the foot of the cupboards.
'Jesus, I didn't know those baits could catch anything as big as that!' says Clara and we start to laugh hysterically.
Even while I'm laughing, I'm thinking, funny how Clara didn't think to call Guido when I needed help. But actually it's not funny at all.
Dad gets the tap screwed back on to the wall while Clara and I pass around the vegetables.
'Suits me!' beams Dad as he strides back to the table. 'I've always preferred my vegies to meat, haven't I, Deborah?'
Mum smiles. 'That's right.' She pats her stomach. 'I'm so full after that pasta anyway, darling, I couldn't have eaten another thing.'
'But I ham still 'angry,' says Guido sharply. 'Is there any cheese, Rachel?'
'Oh, I'll have a look,' I say, getting up. 'There might be some parmigiano, or stracchino.'
'Mind the wet floor,' Dad calls out. 'Don't slip!'
I hear the silence fall as I pad out to the kitchen. I can see Guido waiting patiently for his cheese, knees together, hands folded in his lap. For a moment he looks just like good little Bill Cooper in my grade three all those years ago, sitting up straight to have his class photo taken. But Guido would never know he wasn't being a good boy, that sometimes being good means you have to take the initiative in social gatherings, a slice of responsibility for the conversation. My stomach twists and an uncomfortable swamp of pity and anger paralyses me, the fridge door swinging open. What was I looking for? Then I hear Dad come to the rescue, as usual.
'So what are you writing at the moment, Guido?'
'Scusi?'
Dad repeats the question and Guido's eyes return from a faraway place. They swim up, two dark fish surfacing to catch the light. His face comes alive. He loves to talk about his work. I can see he is beautiful, but nothing stirs in me. It's like looking at a painting that is pretty but will do nothing to change your life.
'Well, I've been trying a different sort of poetry,' Guido begins, leaning forward now, elbows on the edge of the table. 'It's called mosaic poetry, because different fragments are put together to make a whole picture. Words and phrases derived from different contexts and experience are created and thrown together randomly, the only order being that of the unconscious. Then you examine the results, and work with that. In this way entirely new connections are made and you are getting to know and work with a different part of yourself. There are new ideas coming from this.'
'Well,' says Dad, 'that's interesting. Just like when Rachel used to put up those little word magnets on the fridge to help Clara learn to read. Sometimes I'd come over and find some really funny combinations – "moon sand loves mice", I remember that one.' He gives a short laugh. 'I used to play around with them long after Clara had lost interest. It was fun!'
Clara grins at him.
Guido doesn't smile. His left eyebrow rises practically to his hairline. 'Fridge magnets,' he mutters.
I remember the cheese and quickly throw it onto a plate and bring it out. 'Brie and stracchino! Who would like some?'
'But what is an idea, after all?' Guido goes on, helping himself to the stracchino. 'This is something I often discuss with my students. I will tell you. An idea is the connection between two facts. These random facts are existing out there, completely separate, until a thought brings them together.'
'What?' my mother frowns. 'What are you all talking about?'
Guido sighs and turns to my father. 'I've also been working on a film script—'
'What?' I choke on my wine.
Dad gives a low whistle. 'I bet it's not easy to sell a film script. Plenty of people try to get into the movies, from what I hear, but not many succeed.'
'One of my students,' Guido taps the table in irritation, 'she 'as a very good friend who is a producer. They are always looking for new work. In Australia, there are not so many good-quality scripts. Is all cinematography, landscape, kookaburras and desserts—'
'Deserts,' I say.
'There is not much about the deeper levels of human experience, of motivation and fantasy and these abstract things. This student often asks to see what I am doing. She is a script editor, very experienced. She lectures, too, in creative writing. She knows my poetry well, always encouraging me to develop my script.'
'Is the student Silvia?' I ask.
'Pardon? Oh yes.' Guido stretches and yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth. 'Well, our girl has an early flight tomorrow. I am tired, so I will be off to bed.'
'But we haven't even had coffee and cake yet!'
'I've eaten enough.' He stands up and faces my parents. 'Good night then.' He bends stiffly, from the hips, just like he did at our wedding, and kisses my mother's cheek. Then he turns to Clara, his voice softening. 'Come to my room for a moment, amore. I 'ave something for you.' He smiles around the table, gives another stretch and disappears down the hall.
'Oh, well, I suppose it is getting late,' my mother says.
'Don't go just yet,' Clara protests. 'I'll just nip in and see what Dad wants. Wait for me!'
The cake is apple, with cinnamon icing, Clara's favourite. I serve it as she comes back into the room.
'What's that in your hand?'
I say.
'An exercise book of Dad's – his poetry when he was young. It's all handwritten – see the big loopy letters?'
I read the name on the front. Gianni Leone. 'But who's that?'
'His friend – they used to write poetry together. They were best friends, Dad said, and they wrote these poems when they were exactly my age. Gianni tried to put them to music. He played the guitar, Dad said he was brilliant, like Bob Dylan. I can't read them now, though, because they're all in Italian, but he reckons that soon, after I'm living in Italy for a while, I'll understand pretty well all of them.'
My heart is thumping oddly. Maybe it's trying to adapt to all the new and disturbing bits of information flying right at it.
'I've never heard of him having a best friend. He never told me. What happened to him?' I ask Clara.
'He died.'
'Of course,' I mutter. I always see his family as a stack of dominoes, relatives pitching forward one after the other in a long black line, leaving only Guido standing, defying the laws of gravity.
'What? Jesus, it's not Dad's fault he has such bad luck!'
'No, no, that's right. Well, eat up that cake, won't you. It's full of apple. Lots of vitamins. Just what you'll need to fight off all those flu germs on the plane – I hope you remember to eat your fruit over there.'
'I can't wait until I'll be able to read these poems,' says Clara. 'In Italian I mean. I wonder how long it will take. It'll be like getting to read a treasure map or, I don't know, like breaking a code.' She's examining the pages, holding the open book up to the light like something written in invisible ink. Guido's words. Why is it that when a person offers so few, each one is as precious as gold? It seems so unfair.
I can't help thinking of Guido's sarcastic comment about my present to Clara. 'So that's his going-away gift?' I say, pointing to the book. 'How practical! I'm sure it'll be a great help to you in finding your way around Italy.' I glance at Clara's hurt, angry face, and away. It's happening again, the words out before I can stop them.
Clara gives a grunt of anger. 'Well, what about your going-away present: a lock-picking tool set, for Christ's sake!'
Escape Page 5