At home I spent an entire evening on my paragraph. (The receptionist had kindly said I could take the whole magazine, not just the one page, as Dr Crown had made me wait fifty minutes.) It wasn't so much the need to perfect the words so that I could win, it was more that I discovered that writing about what I would do in Free Fiji was so unexpectedly enjoyable. While I wrote and imagined, I was there. I could feel the hot sand burning under my feet, the sky tasted like blueberries, and a dark-eyed stranger sat at my table, sipping something dangerous.
I must have been able to infuse some of the genuine excitement of my fantasies into my paragraph because after arriving home late from Guido's place one evening, there was a letter on my bed from Rainbow Villas. The envelope was bright pink (I don't know what my mother thought) with a full rainbow spanning the letter inside, in which the director of Rainbow Villas, Mr Hope, said he trusted we would enjoy the magnificent treasures of his tropical paradise.
I read the letter three times. Surely there had been some mistake. How could it be true that I, Rachel Lambert with the concrete shoes, could be lift ed out of my life, light as fairy bread? It was like magic. How was I going to sleep?
Of course I wouldn't go. Guido couldn't leave the theatre for a week, he was under contract. The rules at Rainbow said that winners should select any of the holiday packages within the next month. My school break did fall within this time but I didn't think, even for a heartbeat, of going without him.
The next day at school I floated from story time to mummification in the ancient world, from staffroom to classroom. It didn't matter that I wasn't actually going to Fiji. This time yesterday it hadn't even been a possibility. Once I had finished writing my paragraph, I hadn't thought about it again. Like all my coupon sending and competition writing and radio calling, the picture of paradise had ebbed back to the dream world, where it belonged.
But that day, just the idea that I had won, that my life could be changed by some miraculous gong of fortune, gave me a new kind of courage. It was like drinking two whiskies before breakfast. The magic had come to me with Guido, I was convinced of it. Such a piece of luck could never have happened to the ordinary grey Rachel.
At lunchtime, as I ate my chicken liver sandwiches, I felt that my luck must be showing, perhaps like one of those orange auras that Maria talked about. I'd have liked to share my news with Maria, who would explore the issue of luck and synchronicity with enthusiasm, but I was afraid she might suggest that she come in Guido's place and I couldn't imagine how I would survive being away from him for an entire week.
'It's a shame there are these time stipulations,' I said levelly to Guido when I showed him the letter, 'but it's great just to win something, isn't it?' and I couldn't help twirling around on the point of my toes near his bed.
Guido insisted we must go. One must always make use of good fortune, he claimed, or the luck will come back as a curse. He would resign from his contract with Maurizio. 'Magic makes me tired,' he said. 'I have been working too hard, for too long.'
I felt faint. I couldn't conceive of Guido without his magic. Examining his face, I saw that he was weary. I'd often noticed how his skin paled after the evening performance, greenish with fatigue. And then, he had made a huge transition, leaving the country of his childhood, coming to the other side of the world where he knew no one. Perhaps he just needed a rest, and feeding up. I could hear my mother's tone in my ear, crisp and decisive. Deborah had always sized up the malnourished boys from the refuge like that, and then gone to get fresh sheets for them from the linen cupboard.
Something was shifting in my head, the world running like egg yolk, downhill. Guido's shoes became smaller and shabbier on the pavement, and the line of his trouser cuff wavered. 'You'd resign?' I said.
'I will ask someone to take my place,' Guido explained. 'There is this possibility mentioned in my contract. Illness, or incapacity, is okay to leave. Is the same for Maurizio.' He gazed at me, smiling.
I must have looked shocked, because he went on. 'I met a man at the theatre, Dave da Greco, is good. Dave is American, 'e wants to work 'ere, and 'e 'as much more esperienza than me. So, you see, I give someone a chance, and I am doing nothing bad for Maurizio.'
'But what about loyalty,' I whispered, 'friendship – what about how Maurizio will feel, the only person left in the world who knows you?'
'You know me now,' grinned Guido. 'You take care of me, no?'
Over the next couple of days there was a fullness in my chest like a rising tide. It was hard to keep it all inside. I had to walk stiffly, carefully, particularly at home. I had such a need to talk. Sometimes I looked at my mother or father and began sentences that floated right out of my mouth, uncensored, but I always stopped myself. What would they make of this decision of Guido's? Was it as wrong as I thought? I knew, deep in my heart, how they would judge him. So how would I?
On the following Friday, Guido asked me to accompany him when he went to tell Maurizio. Walking towards the theatre, I felt sharp pains in my chest. My lungs were tight, as if iron bands were closing in around my heart.
'Is not an 'eart attack, you are much too young,' laughed Guido. 'Is just anxiety. You worry too much, Rachel. If you 'ad seen the things I 'ave, you would not concern yourself so much. Is all okay,' and he led the way into the dark staleness of the theatre.
We found Maurizio on stage, packing away his props.
He went white when Guido told him the news. His face reminded me of Robert Sanford when he fell off the swings. He remained silent for minutes after Guido stopped talking. Perhaps he'd frozen with shock. In a cowardly way I hoped Maurizio wouldn't unfreeze until we had left the theatre.
But he emerged from his paralysis suddenly and explosively. 'What?' he shouted. 'You can't be serious! This is another of your absurd ideas. You can't throw away your career like this, leaving me alone with all . . . I can't train someone now, you know that! Don't you have any sense of honour? You are no longer a ragazzo, Guido! Egoista pazzesca!'
His face filled with crimson and spray flew from his lips, hitting Guido on the side of his nose. If his saliva had hit me I would have let it stay there, pretending not to notice. But Guido's left eyebrow shot up almost to his hairline and he got out his handkerchief and scrubbed at his nose and cheek ostentatiously, as if his face had been drenched.
Maurizio continued to shout. His beard wobbled tremulously. I closed my eyes, wishing myself away, wishing I could vanish like Houdini behind the curtain, into the darkness of the trunk, anywhere. Guido nudged me and I blinked. Perhaps he wanted help from me, thought I could soothe Maurizio, explain. It was impossible. I could barely stand. I concentrated on Maurizio's beard. It was the only way I could remain there. The beard was actually like a mask, such a neat black triangle so cleanly etched around the jaw it seemed almost painted on. I couldn't help imagining the care and time Maurizio must have taken with his little nail scissors, clipping and styling the hair towards that perfect vanishing point. In his beard was the extent of his need to impress, the depth of his vulnerability. As he shook his head at Guido, pointing a shaky, manicured finger, my bowels twisted like a wrung-out towel.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Guido glancing around at the Crystal Box, the smooth silver sides of the Smoke Chamber, the linking finger rings lying on the table. He slipped his thumb through one of the rings, and idly let it fall. Was he taking a last look? It was a relief, at least, that all the shouting was now in Italian. Maybe I could retreat under it and let the tidal wave flow over me. Like all natural disasters, there was nothing I could do about it. But then Maurizio suddenly swung around and looked at me, his black eyes glinting, and the iron bands tightened around my chest.
'And this is the sort of man you will marry? You will let him do this? Just run away, like a . . . like a little boy? I thought better of you, Rachel.'
I said nothing. I took one of the hands he held out to me and tried to press it. The flesh was hot and damp. I looked down at the floor, but 'marry' wa
s the word blazing across my mind as Maurizio gave a sudden grunt of pain and turned and strode off the stage. Had Guido said something about us to Maurizio? Was he thinking about it? Getting married?
Maurizio stopped at the stairs. He was looking at me. 'This man is not who you think he is,' he hissed, 'this Guido!' and he stamped away down the aisle.
Guido fiddled with the hinges on the Crystal Box, then closed the lid, giving it a final pat.
'Don worry,' he said, coming over and stroking my cheek, 'is okay now, everything.' He grabbed my waist with both hands and lift ed me up like a ballet dancer, placing me on the box.
'Look out, it might break!' I cried.
He gave me a blinding smile, his face fractured with squares of stage light. He whisked me off the box and swung me down on the stage.
'Now we are free,' he whispered, and kissed me loudly on the ear.
He laughed, the first unrestrained laugh I'd heard from him, and he took my hands, pulling me down the steps. At the bottom he kissed me, open-mouthed. I could feel his heart beating against my chest, the smile in his kiss, and his excitement trickled into me.
We ran out of the darkened theatre with its smell of stale chips and spilt lemonade and the air was suddenly fresher than it had ever been; it was sparkling, fizzy like cheap champagne and I began to laugh guiltily. People could make wild decisions – they could leave bad situations, escape with their lives! I tried not to think of Maurizio's pallor at hearing the news, and the trembly hand he'd placed on Guido's shoulder. I glanced at Guido as we swept down the street and his mouth was open with a kind of eagerness I hadn't seen before. He was unguarded, the shuttered look gone, and he grabbed my hand and pulled me towards him. We clanged together, his teeth in my hair, my foot on his, and we laughed and then we couldn't stop. I felt wicked and scared and ready for anything.
Free, he'd said. We can go now. Where? Fiji, Italy, the moon!
'Maurizio's magic is the old world,' Guido said as I pulled him to a stop at the lights. 'Let's forget it – I am in the new world now. I want to try something different! I want to be free!' And he jumped into the air and clicked his heels like Fred Astaire.
'But what will we do about money?' I asked as we crossed Market Street into King. 'I mean, what work will you do, where will you live?'
'Oh,' Guido shrugged, 'there is some money I brought with me. What is the goodness of being in a new country, if I do not reinvent myself, take the opportunity to become my dreams? You talk of poetry. I 'ave written much poetry. I would like to make more. And you, you are lucky. You 'ave a good job with a regular salary. One of us is enough for a while, no?'
Something flipped in my stomach. Did he mean we would live together? This was the first time he had said anything about us being together, about the future. Imagine, a man like Guido, a magician who could make coins leap out of the air, who melted my flesh, wanting me. Wanting to marry me!
So we flew to Fiji with Rainbow Cruises and snorkelled in the Coral Sea. The water was turquoise, just like the advertisement had claimed. I couldn't wait to tell my mother, who had sniff ed and said the picture was probably colour-enhanced. At the resort Guido signed up for all the free activities, saying we should make the most of our opportunities, and we raced from one appointment to another. At eight every morning we were up for Tennis Clinic with Coach Dennis Ball, and Guido's backhand improved tremendously. When you get something free, Guido said you should make the most of it.
I did enjoy the mango trees, the green-skinned purple figs and bilberries that popped on the tongue like bubble-gum. The landscape seemed edible. Even the air, heavy and perfumed, had a taste. When we woke at dawn it was already humid, like being inside a steamy bathroom. The heat urged a new intimacy, where formality slid off as easily as our clothes. There was the throb of frogs, loud as traffic, and fireflies wheeled through the dark. On the second night, we went to a kava ceremony in a village lit by bonfires and I felt as if I were falling through the earth as we walked home.
I enjoyed, too, the maids strolling along the orchid-lined paths of the resort, their arms full of stiff white bed linen, smiling 'Bulla!' each time they saw me, as if overcome with delight. But the best moments were climbing into bed with Guido each night, my aching hamstrings or whatever Coach Ball called them wrapped around Guido's, his mouth against mine.
Although I would have relished long luxurious mornings in the king-size bed, the pace of our activities meant it was easy to glide along the surface of this picture postcard island. Not everyone in Fiji was living the Rainbow Resort lifestyle, as my mother rightly pointed out. But I only thought about this later. For that week, I loved turning on the gold taps in the bathroom, and soaking in a bath of bubbles. The black velvet nights studded with stars were a perfect backdrop to my fantasies, and I was so grateful for the scenery.
On our last night, there was a disco in the Hibiscus Room. Potted palms and strobe lighting striped the walls. The air pulsed with the beat of gospel soul. We sat at a table for two, our hands silvered in the light blooming under our small private lamp. My fingers drummed to Stevie Wonder's Living in the City.
'Is all so authentically Fijian,' remarked Guido, his eyebrow arched in derision. I grinned, nodding ironically, but I couldn't help bouncing my knees to the rhythm. A woman with a mini-dress just like mine was dancing alone, eyes closed, bottom circling under the silk. Guido was looking at her too and then he asked me if I wanted to dance.
On the wooden floor, near the traveller's palm, Guido held me tightly against him. He moved minimally, elegantly. I leant my cheek into his shoulder. I wasn't dancing with an idea of myself like that other woman on the dance floor. I'd done that before many times. I was dancing with Guido, whose pelvis was grinding into mine, his hands at my back, moulding me.
At dinner Guido talked about the differences he noticed on this island, where there were trees you could eat and bracken soup for dinner. I watched, surprised, as Guido devoured his lobster mornay without thorough investigation. It was as if we were both not only removed from our usual habitat, but from our usual selves. Or maybe it was that we were able to be our selves. Over our mango dessert I told Guido that I thought travelling offered a kind of shorthand to living, where you were free to dispense with all the usual anguishing over consequences. It was a bit like living in hotels – whatever mistake you made, you could just move on.
'You know what, I'm tired of consequences!' I cried. I must have had too much of that kava. A man at the next table stared at me. I looked away. 'But really,' I leant forward earnestly. 'Imagine living your true self. You know, acting on impulse. Let's do it, let's go to Italy one day – you know, Florence, where you grew up, Sicily, Greece, I could save, it'd be fab—'
Guido's mouth turned down. He looked strained, embarrassed. I saw myself from the outside, a loud clumsy woman with overenthusiastic red hair and sweat on her upper lip, everything about her obvious, clingy, emotional. I was spilling like one of those water torture chambers Guido had told me about, where Houdini hung upside down, holding his breath, contained. I had crashed through the glass.
'We 'ave finished our dinner?' He motioned to my forehead where my fingers felt a smear of mango.
'Yes, I'm so full, aren't you?' God.
'You would like coffee, or we will go?'
He wanted the night to finish. But hadn't he said he wanted to be free, invent himself? I was sure we wanted the same things, it was just the clumsy way I expressed myself that created this awkwardness.
'Let's dance!' I said, and sprang up, reaching out my hand.
'Straight after dinner?' Guido shook his head. 'Will you not 'ave the cramp?'
'Oh!' I was left stranded, standing at the table, hulking over Guido, the chair teetering against the back of my legs.
But then he relented. He smiled. It was like the sun coming out.
'Okay, yes, is good to 'ave a live band, is a waste not to use it,' and he got up with me.
When a Latin American song came on Gui
do showed me how to do the rhumba. My hands were around his neck, our hips meeting; it was wonderful having actual steps to follow, your feet measuring out the rhythm together, holding each other instead of performing out there on your own.
As we left the Hibiscus Room, there was a cracking sulphurous storm. We ran out into it, pelting along the flowered pathways. We laughed as we ran, singing The Midnight Hour, and my mouth tasted of salt. Guido's lips brushed my throat and I looked up to see the air pearled with rain. Veils of moonlight were drifting over the sea, jewelled with raindrops and sea spray, and as we raced past the dining room and the surf equipment and the tennis courts, I thought with wild anticipation of how we would leap into bed, our limbs clapping together like cymbals.
We were free, free to do anything we liked, and I knew that with Guido I would never feel trapped again.
Chapter 10
When I told Guido I was pregnant, he said porca miseria. I discovered a few months later this meant 'miserable pig'. But it was all right because by then I'd come to understand that it didn't mean you were literally calling someone a miserable pig, it was more an overall expression of despair or incredulity, much the same way that in Australia the expression 'G'day, you old bugger' doesn't imply that your friend practises sodomy. It's just a way of expressing affection.
Still, it wasn't the reaction I'd been hoping for. I tried to keep my face from moving. I didn't really know what to say next. 'I was only joking' would have been good, to see the relief in his eyes. But I couldn't do that. I was already eight weeks along and my burning nipples never let me forget.
You couldn't even get that bit right, the voice said. What an idiot – fancy using a diaphragm without the jelly stuff , just because of the smell. Now look what's happened. Do you imagine he'll like this?
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