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limp, the straitjacket seemed to collapse around his shoulders and the sleeve on one side went slack as his arm was withdrawn from within.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.
He dropped my hand.
'Well,' I said, 'I'd better go or I'll lose my class. Do you know if the theatre is still open? I have to check something.'
Guido's dark eyes glittered in the sparkly light of the dressing room. 'Look in your coat pocket. Maybe is this you are looking for.'
My hand reached in and closed over the familiar shape. My wallet. 'Oh!' A rush of warm relief flooded me. 'How did you . . . where?'
He tapped his nose. 'Magician's secret. I was thinking it was yours.'
'That was brilliant – god, you saved me, thank you so much!'
Guido shrugged. 'Is nothing. I am 'appy you are 'appy,' and he beamed at me. 'We 'ave known ourselves for five minutes but I see you 'ave the gift for teaching. Not all the people can relate to children in this way. You 'ave patience and imagination.'
'Oh, no,' I protested, 'I've only just started really, I never know what I'm doing, you should see them alone with me, they're all so noisy—'
Guido waved his hand at me. 'Your children, they ask me intelligent questions. You are inspiring, I think. No other class 'as been so prepared. You are molto brava, Rachel Lambert.'
I could feel my smile widening. No one had said such a thing to me before. Certainly no one like Guido. Brava, Rachel. A dreadful bubble of excitement was rising up in my throat. Brava came with centuries of experience; it was a word to describe someone like Michelangelo, Galileo.
I stood there smiling at the lovely man who had made me feel so 'appy and alive. I looked down at the lovely dusty wooden floor. I hope I said thank you but I can't be sure. I loved the floorboards and the deep rose chair and the plastic scars and the velvet jacket hanging on the hook by the door and the wallet safe in my pocket and the children who had worn their best beautiful selves all day and made me proud. I loved the little chip on Guido's tooth and the fine hairs on his wrist.
When I looked up again he was grinning at me. There was such silence. Up on stage, he'd seemed removed from earthly life. To be so close now, to see the shadow of beard on his chin, only magnified his aura. He was a powerful being. It was like, oh, like being inches away from a lion. I shift ed my weight to the other foot and toppled slightly. Idiot. The silence lengthened.
He reached out and touched my cheek. The current lying just under my skin flared. His face relaxed, his mouth opening a little. He cleared his throat as if to say something, then stopped. The thread was so tight it was going to snap. I could feel electrons buzzing around protons, charged and ready between us. His fingers hovered on my cheek, those same fingers that had unlocked trunks and manacles on famous stages on the other side of the world. My skin tingled beneath them.
'You are very beautiful, Rachel Lambert,' he murmured. His voice was softer, hardly there.
'What?'
He grinned. 'You are bella. You know this word?'
'Yes, but no, but look at all this rain my hair goes so curly—'
'Why you protest? This is Anglo-Saxon modesty? In my country women show off their beauty. You must know you are beautiful and enjoy it. I am enjoying you. I can see you are a very passionate woman.' His hand moved down to my neck, lightly stroking it. He flicked my hair back over my shoulder. My breasts felt exposed. 'I see the passion in your teaching. I see it in your eyes.'
I held my breath. As Guido looked at me, I was sure he could see right down into my soul.
He took hold of my hand. His fingers feathered across my palm. We gazed at each other. I wanted to take the tension and crack it like a stick.
'You are a very passionate woman,' he whispered again.
'The class must be downstairs by now,' I whispered back. 'How will I ever find them?'
He traced the line of my collar bone. So gentle, so lovely. Bella.
'We'll miss the bus,' I breathed.
'I knew it the first moment I saw you. But maybe you do not find the right man to unlock you. You will see, Rachel, I will set you free.'
His careful English lent every sentence a peculiar gravity. I heard his words as pronouncements, laws that only he had the wisdom to perceive. And yes, who had ever held me like this, made me feel like this? Guido was like no one I'd ever met. I felt recognised, in my deepest self. A beautiful self. I wanted to float in this moment, suspended forever.
'Sempre fortunato!' a voice behind me boomed.
I sprang from Guido as if I'd been burnt.
A man in a black tuxedo with a white silk scarf stood in the doorway. I recognised him from the Cafe Vesuvio. He was taller than I'd imagined, more imposing. He leant against the doorway, shaking his head slightly with an amused expression on his face. I couldn't remember why I'd ever felt sorry for him. His chest was solid as a beer keg, but as he stood watching us, stroking his neatly trimmed beard, I saw his hands were as finely manicured as a model's. I'd never seen a man's hands so delicate. Such a strange afternoon, I thought dazedly, as if I've strayed into a foreign movie and had the good fortune to meet the actors.
'Do you forget, my boy, this is my dressing room, too?' He strode forward, grinning, and put out his hand for me to shake.
'This is Maurizio Montesanti,' said Guido. 'Rachel Lambert.'
The crimson was rising on my cheeks again, I could feel them giving off light and heat like twin suns. How embarrassing, him finding us like this. And what did 'sempre' mean?
I shook his hand and he raised it to his lips, like Rudolph Valentino or that other one, Alain Delon. There should be a tinny piano in the corner, subtitles, the scene in black and white . . . Suddenly everything in the room seemed too large, the man kissing my hand, the mirror above the dressing table reflecting the wild disarray of my hair. I had a moment of panic, of utter loss of context, not knowing what to do next. Then Guido moved beside me and put a hand on my waist. His body gave mine an outline, and I came back into myself.
'You're Maurizio the Magic Master,' I stammered. 'On the poster!'
'Yes,' said Maurizio. 'And you are the lovely teacher of that noisy class in the foyer. Did you enjoy the show?'
'Oh, absolutely, it was wonderful. And, um, congratulations. Has the class already finished the tour, do you think?'
Maurizio smiled. 'Yes, I imagine so. A boy with a stopwatch was reporting they had been waiting sixteen minutes and forty-five seconds.'
'Oh, Billy,' I wailed. 'Well, um, thank you for everything, sorry I have to go . . .' I looked around frantically for my bag. Guido picked it up from the floor where I'd dropped it, together with a couple of lipsticks that had fallen out and an old spencer, holey under the arms, that I'd brought in case the theatre was cold. I'm often too cold. His eyebrow lift ed in puzzlement.
'For the air conditioning,' I muttered. 'Well, goodbye!'
I hurried out of the room. Guido followed me. 'Come for the Saturday matinee,' he whispered, his breath hot on my cheek. 'We will see then!'
'Miss, where were you?' whined Joselyn Teeney. 'The bus driver says he can't wait any longer. He's got a schedule.'
She said schedule the way you'd say cancer.
In all my life on earth I had never done anything like this. Now these eight-year-olds, who had behaved so well all day, who were my sole responsibility, had been left stranded in the dark. And it was raining. It was shameful. Disgusting, said the voice. Irredeemable.
But as I apologised to the furious driver, the hundred lira coin lay in my palm like a promise. I couldn't wait till Saturday.
Chapter 5
I asked Maria Tripoli to come shopping with me on Saturday morning, to buy a new dress. Maria, who was my age and taught grade one at Wanganella, had aunties somewhere in Naples. She had invited me to various events over the last two years – concerts, singing workshops, acting classes – but I'd usually declined. I felt shy. A few times we'd had coffee in a hippy cafe near her flat, where there were crushed velvet cushions you could sink into while reading the newspapers. Maria was a loud kind of person, always telling everyone exactly what was going on in her head, and her body. She was like a fauve painting, all clashing primary colours with nothing muted in between. Sometimes when you were in the same room with her you wished you had some kind of barrier, like sunglasses. I liked her, but it was easy to feel flooded and often I'd get so lost in her outpourings I'd have to make some excuse like the bathroom and dash away before I drowned. The principal, who was very uptight, always waited until Maria was seated before he chose his own seat at the opposite end of the staffroom.
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