Escape

by Anna Fienberg

  Dad's laugh is cheerfully practised, dropping a smooth blanket down to cover the bumps. 'Just think about those boys at the refuge, Rachel! Give some of them a gift like that and they'd have been breaking into the first car they could find.'

  I get up and bring the beautiful tool set over to him. 'It's a lovely set, just look at the elegant leather pouch it comes in. I got it at Baudelaire's – you know, that magic shop. Remember you once said it was the most surprising shop you'd ever been in.' I pull out the small printed guide that goes with it. 'And Baudelaire wrote these notes himself. Listen to what he says: Picking is an art. When you have developed the ability to pick locks, you are special. Be a hero not a zero! Repeated successes will build your confidence and self-esteem.' Well, it's a bit jingly, but don't we all need that? Self-esteem?'

  Mum shakes her head. 'Rachel never did seem to realise no one is remotely interested in escapology. Lives in a world of her own, poor mite. Of course that dreadful marriage doesn't help.'

  I don't look at my mother. 'I just thought the tools might come in handy if you see Maurizio, Clara. You may get work at the school tutoring or who knows, in a show, anything could happen.'

  'Oh, Jesus, Mum, I don't even want to see the guy, how many times do I have to tell you! Dad says his father was an interfering old fart.'

  Tears gather behind my eyes. They'll spill any moment, I can't help it.

  Clara looks stricken. 'What I mean is, I'm more interested in just seeing what happens in Italy, looking around, you know?'

  My father leans over and gives her a hug. 'But I'm still worried about you being all by yourself over there, missy. I wish there was someone you could contact.' He looks over her head at me. 'What about that fellow who used to write to Guido, Rachel – I remember you telling me about an old friend. Is he still in Italy?'

  I sigh. 'James Heartacher. But he was English, not Italian. Guido met him on holiday as a teenager and afterwards they corresponded. Or at least, James wrote to Guido.' I don't want to think about him. Guido gets so angry whenever I mention him.

  'Oh.' Dad looks down at his knees.

  I finger the elegant leather pouch, flipping over the collar at the top. 'So, anyone for coffee?'

  'Just a quick one, sweetie, that'd be nice. But we don't want to keep you up.'

  When I come back with the cups, Clara is sitting comfortably tucked up under Dad's arm. 'I'll write to you,' she's telling him.

  When he sees me, he straightens up. 'Hey, Rachel, remember Danny? Danny Shore? Stayed with us when you were a kid. He was a nice boy—'

  'Peculiar,' puts in Mum. 'Always washing his hands. Obsessed about dinner being on time. All through the afternoon he watched the clock on the kitchen wall.'

  'Oh, well,' says Dad equably, 'we all have our little eccentricities. And he was only young. He'd be getting on now, of course.'

  'He wasn't so much older than me, was he?

  'No, I suppose not. But we're all getting on, aren't we. Anyway, I hadn't heard from him in the last ten years or so, and I wondered—'

  'Is he dead?'

  'No!' Dad looks shocked. 'He rang up out of the blue the other night. He's got a job in a top restaurant. Sounded happy, but there was so much noise in the background I couldn't hear where. Adelaide? This damn hearing aid keeps falling out. Anyway, he sounded fine. He probably keeps his eye on the clock, tapping his watch and making sure everyone is punctual for dinner!'

  I try to smile. Remembering Danny is like touching a nerve or plunging back into a bad dream. It is not a place I want to be. I look at Dad. He's grinning all over his face. He seems so genuinely pleased. How strange to hear him talk like that about Danny, as if he were just an ordinary event in our lives, like an old neighbour dropping in for a chat.

  'There wasn't enough funding for youth refuges,' Mum tells Clara. 'We had to have the boys stay at our house.'

  'Yes, I know,' says Clara. She makes a knowledgeable tsk tsk sound with her tongue.

  'Ah well, better days now, eh, Deborah? We'll go home and put our feet up and catch the late news. We'll let our young'un get to bed.'

  'She's got to finish her packing before she can even find the bed!' I say.

  Clara shakes her head at me and then her face disappears in the hugs of her grandparents as they say their goodbyes.

  I'm rinsing the plates when Clara comes back into the kitchen.

  'I'll stack them when you're done,' says Clara, hovering.

  'You should go and pack.' I try to smile but panic is rising like the tide in my throat as I think of her shipwrecked room, how late it is, how early we will have to leave, the mountain of dishes towering on the kitchen bench and Guido curled up unhelpfully asleep in his bed. I want to hurl the damn plates at the wall. I know it's Guido I'm really angry with, but sometimes it's so hard to stop the rage from spilling over.

  'I don't know why you have to leave everything till the last minute,' I say. 'Why does everyone in this house wait for me to nag them? It's always been like this, your assignments, your chores, bloody everything! Nothing gets done, so I have to do it all!'

  'Well, tomorrow I'll be gone and you won't have to worry any more about what an idiot of a daughter you have!'

  'Oh, Clara!' The pit opens at my feet.

  'Oh, Mum, I didn't mean it,' cries Clara, clutching my arm. 'I'm sorry.'

  I shake my head, but I can't speak. I give her a clumsy hug and sniff . 'No, no, I make such a mess of things.' Out of the corner of my eye I spot a cockroach emerging like a black thought out of the top cupboard. It's as long as my finger, waddling leisurely towards the pool of Penne Siciliana sauce on the bench.

  'Ugh, how gross is that!' cries Clara, following my eyes. 'Porca miseria, 'ow can we leeve like this!'

  She does such a perfect imitation of Guido, her hand on her hip, the horror on her face so devastating that I break into a wail of laughter. She grins too but a frown still perches uncertainly between her brows. I pat her hand, wishing I knew how to say all the things I feel about her leaving. But then again, perhaps I shouldn't.

  'That book Dad gave me?' Clara says hesitantly. 'It meant a lot to him, you know. And me, I guess.'

  'Yes, yes of course,' I say quickly, squeezing her hand. 'I'm sorry I made that snappy remark about his going-away gift – I just . . . Well, I just can't help thinking how you are going to his country and why hasn't he done more about it, he could have even gone with you or maybe we all could have, or he could have sorted out some contacts—'

  'It's okay,' says Clara. She's putting the dishes into the dishwasher without making a sound. 'Look, Dad just says he wants me to be independent and to form my own views about the world, apart from him or you. You know? He reckons I haven't had enough of that. Being free to explore, I mean. Being free. That's what he values. It's just his way.'

  I'm struggling with my face. So Guido thinks our daughter hasn't had enough freedom – but what's he contributed? Left it all to me, hasn't he? And look what a mess you've made, says the voice.

  I turn back to the sink and keep rinsing. The tap is behaving itself. The tomato sauce is washing off nicely, without having to scrape.

  'You're a wonderful person,' I say into the sink.

  'What?

  'I'll miss you.'

  Clara puts the last plate in the dishwasher. 'I guess I better go and finish packing, hey?'

  I just wish she wasn't going to be all alone. That she had a friend to go with. Someone like Saraah maybe, a practical person whose mother was a nurse.

  'Mum?'

  'Yes?'

  'Are you going to be okay?'

  'Of course!' I put down the Wettex and turn to her. 'And look, darling, you don't have to take that tool set from Baudelaire – who said to tell you bon voyage by the way.'

  'That's okay, Mum, I'll take the tools. I always liked Baudelaire. I was with Saraah a few weeks ago and I took her into Hey Presto for a browse. She thinks it's the coolest shop. She bought some of those magic coins.' Clara grins suddenly.
'Remember that trick you played on me when we had to wake Dad up?'

  I shift my feet uncomfortably. Guido liked to be woken up after his siesta with an espresso coffee, but he was always so horribly grumpy, no matter what creative manner of awakening I chose. I grew a bit phobic about it, running in there with the coffee, tapping him on the shoulder and running out again like a zookeeper feeding a lion. By the time Clara was in fourth grade, she and I were tossing a coin to see who would enter his lair. It wasn't until years later that she discovered I'd been cheating. I used a trick coin in our game – double-headed – which Baudelaire had sold me.

  'Well, your father was always happier to see you than me when he woke up, anyway,' I say. 'Did Saraah really like the shop?'

  'Yeah, totally. She thinks magic is cool. Funny, isn't it. Old Baudy showed her some tricks—'

  'Oh, which ones?'

  'Um, a card trick, the exploding wallet, the pop-out wand—'

  'I don't know that one. Is it good?'

  'Excellent. Anyway she was totally hooked. She said she always admired you when we were at school, thought you were a real freak – in a good way, I mean. She envied me having such an exotic mum. Ha!'

  A blush of pleasure goes to my head like wine. 'See? Good magic can't fail to impress. You've got the skills, Clara, you'd be easily as proficient as Baudelaire. If you do go to see Maurizio and just say he offers you a job, he might want you to do an audition. I was thinking you could start with the Thumb-Tie Trick. You know that so well, you could do it in your sleep.'

  Clara is staring at me. At least her eyes are open wide but they have that unlatched, nobody-home look that Guido adopts. 'Clara?'

  'Pardon?'

  I knew what I was doing, I was losing her goodwill, but I couldn't help it. It was as if my mouth had a life of its own. A mother has to be a mother first, surely, before being a friend. If Clara secured a job in Italy – god, imagine being a magician in Rome, with an audience and a salary, imagine! – she'd never leave for a scary, dangerous place like Africa, where you can catch hookworm even in your sleep.

  'What I'm saying is, Clara, that a thumb tie mightn't seem like a serious escape, but it doesn't matter, as long as you entertain. Why, even Harry frequently included the Needle Trick in his act – you know, where he picked up needles with his eyelids. Not strictly an escape act, but you see what I mean.'

  Clara gives a muffled scream. She tries to hide it by picking up the pasta saucepan and bashing it down into the sink.

  'That's clean, I've already washed it,' I tell her.

  'Oh. Okay, Mum, well, I'd better go.'

  She's already walking away down the hall but my feet are following her. She's saying 'fuck fuck fuck' under her breath. But I can't let it go like that. The stars are beginning to spark behind my eyes and the carpet is tilting. It's as if one of us is dying – me, of bone cancer – and I have only this moment to offer my last motherly words of advice. As I follow her into her room, standing at the doorway, I suddenly have a terrifying sense of unreality, as if we are figures in a fairytale and we are at a fork in the road. I am the old woman dying of thirst on her path, and Clara is the girl on her quest.

  'Clara, do you remember the story of Harry and the German straitjacket?'

  Clara doesn't answer. She is picking up T-shirts from the floor.

  'Well, it was the hardest escape he ever had to do. An hour and twenty-nine minutes it took him to get out, it was agony—'

  'Oh, fuck Harry! That's all you ever want to talk about. What about me? What about the fact that I've saved enough to go to Italy and made the decision to do something for myself – didn't I prepare for that? Didn't I organise all the things necessary for that? I fucking am doing something, it's just that it's something you don't approve of, something you don't hold up as worthwhile! Because what I'm doing has nothing to do with your pathetic fucking Harry.' She kicks the white wardrobe with the dirty sole of her trainer. It leaves a big grey smudge with a crosshatch pattern. 'All my life you ask me how to get out of a torture crib, a mailbag, a Czechoslovakian Insane Muff – you never want to know what I'm really doing.'

  'Oh, but I do, how can you say that? No, it's just, I want to remind you that whatever you do, you'll only achieve results with practice. That's how someone like Harry got to where he did. First in his field.' I pause for breath, holding onto the wall for support. 'And you know, don't you, what the point of all his training was – he learnt to steal slack during the tying process. That was his secret. Remember it always. Just in case you get low on money and need to...But that's where the skill lies. You have to steal slack.'

  Clara slowly turns around to face me. Her eyes are only inches away from mine. They are wide, staring, but completely focused. 'And that's exactly what I am going to do, Mummy. I'm gunna steal about 20,000 kilometres of precious slack to get away from YOU!'

  Part II

  The Adoration

  Chapter 3

  Guido was sitting in the Cafe Vesuvio when I first saw him. He was drinking from a small white cup that reminded me of the doll's tea set I'd had as a child. At home, we took our coffee with lashings of milk in bottomless mugs that Mum bought at Woolworths. Later I would learn that Guido only ever drank espresso coffee, black, sweet and strong, and that he could drink it any time, even late at night before bed, and never suffer from insomnia. It was another magical thing about him.

  There was music coming from the cafe, an Italian song, 'Nessun Dorma'. I'd first heard it when my mother brought home an album called Famous Italian Songs. I was only ten but I remember it because if ever my mother bought herself a present, it was usually something useful like a new frying pan or a tablecloth. I saw how she hugged the record to herself like a secret. She'd put it on and sway to it while she dusted or washed up.

  A waiter with a red napkin slung over his shoulder began to sing along to the music. His voice washed out of the cafe, onto the pavement, drenching me. I shivered, thinking of the afternoon I'd come home early from school and heard 'Nessun Dorma' turned up frighteningly loud. The sound came streaming out of the house, colouring the pale walls, shaking the outside light fittings. I found my mother on the sofa; her vacuum cleaner was lying on its side like something injured. For a moment I thought she was dead. Her eyes were closed, her arm lay at a funny angle as if it didn't belong to her. And then I saw tears sliding out from beneath her lids, a watery mysterious smile and the tears were flowing onto her housecoat and suddenly she didn't look like my mother any more at all.

  Later, when I was sixteen, I brought out that record and listened to all the songs for myself. I turned it up to full volume for 'Nessun Dorma', and goosebumps came. A wave of longing rose in me, for what exactly I couldn't say. As I listened to the surge towards the climax, I longed for something to reach deep inside me – something marvellous and startling like the crash of cymbals, something that would flick me into life like a wand summoning doves from the air.

  I stood propped against the doorway of the cafe, listening. The ordinary sunshine fell down on my shoulders, cars crawled along the city street, girls in bright floaty skirts hung around shop windows like bunches of flowers. It was a Saturday morning in November, and I was twenty-five.

  The song changed to 'O Sole Mio', and I stayed to hear that, too. The foreign voice offered sudden shelter from the sun, lending exotic shade to the bland light glancing off polished duco and glass. Inside, there were cream laminex tables and a picture of a snowy mountain on the wall. The singing waiter walked across the room to a table in the corner where a couple of men sat talking and put a plate of horseshoe biscuits in front of them: biscotti alla mandorla, I would learn. The man nearest the biscuits glanced up, pushing his dark hair back from his face.

  When he smiled, the breath just sailed out of me. He was the most beautiful person I'd ever seen in real life. I forgot to take a new breath. If you could mesh those perfect notes of 'Nessun Dorma' into a shape, this man's face would be it.

  His eyes were almond-sh
aped, outlined with dark lashes like an Ancient Egyptian's. As he smiled at the waiter, crinkles broke out at the corners. You wanted the waiter to think of more jokes to keep the crinkles coming. He leant with his back against the wall, one elbow on the table, his cheek resting in his hand. He was long and regal, graceful as a dancer. With his other hand he picked up his cup, ate a biscuit. Then he took a cigarette from a pack on the table and lit it. Because of his beauty, each movement, unremarkable when performed by anyone else, seemed important.

  The man next to him was broader, greyer. He was leaning forward, gesturing enthusiastically with his hands. The more he strained towards the young man, the more the other relaxed back against the wall. The older man suddenly laughed too hard, grasping the young man's arm. It was a pleading gesture, and I waited for the man with the beautiful face to respond.

  But he wasn't paying attention. He was watching his cigarette, as the long grey column of ash dropped into the ashtray. He played with the sugar packets, piling one on top of the other, his eyes drifting over the biscuits, the ashtray, the coffee cups. Then he just stared at the doorway, looking outward but inward, at something in his mind. He was impervious to the energy of the other man, throwing him an absent smile every now and then, the way you'd pat a dog.

  The song ended. In the sudden silence, the older man gave up. As he twisted around, signalling to the bar, I felt sorry for the slope of his poor hunched back, the dispirited slump of his shoulders.

  And then the young man's unlatched gaze focused on me. He was looking at me! His eyes widened, as if in recognition, then smiled, the crinkles opening up. He winked – I thought it was a wink – but my heart started to beat so quickly and the red in my cheeks was rising so fast that I just walked off , blindly, tightening the strap of my shoulder bag.

  I marched up George Street, past Best Bikes and the camping shop where my father had bought the tent for Danny, towards the Capitol Theatre. I'd meant to look at the summer dresses in the windows on the way, which my mother had pointed out would be on sale by now, but I saw nothing. I just kept thinking of the beautiful man and how dazed I felt, as if struck by lightning.