My mother smoked outside at night, under the stars that were slowly dying. I leant against the screen door and watched her. I thought about how long the light from the stars took to reach us. Even if a star had exploded, snuff ed out like a candle, its light could still be travelling towards us, like a walking dead person. Sometimes I joined her outside, sat on the cool grass with my knees drawn up, sharing the blanket of darkness. But even when I asked her questions on her favourite subjects – the victory of the suffragettes, the hardships of the Vietcong, the invention of electric light – she answered only briefly, in phrases not sentences. Those nights were like the war I'd seen on television, when the sound of gunfire was too loud for anything other than hand signals or short sharp instructions. But the trouble in our house was the silence, not the noise. The silence was alive, pulsing with images and feelings and sighs, like a jungle full of night animals. You could feel their breath on your cheeks, the back of your neck – hot, shaming, hungry.
My mother retreated from the war. There was a look of fear on her face whenever she talked to Dad. I remember that. I told the therapist and she said, 'What do you think Deborah was afraid of?' I hadn't ever thought about it – she had always seemed so powerful. 'I don't know,' I said, and the clouds drift ed into my mind, blurring the landscape. I felt dumb, numb, and I had to sit in silence on the black leather couch for the rest of the hour. The sliding feeling made me want to lie down. I looked at the therapist's books, so many interesting titles, the pictures on her walls. 'It's okay,' she said at the end of the session. I looked at her closely. She seemed to understand that I wasn't holding back on purpose. During the week, away from her, I thought about her voice saying, 'It's okay, we're on the way' and I felt her smile behind it. 'We're on a journey together,' she said. Sometimes, just the thought of her is like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. That light behind the door. She doesn't tell me how I should feel, who I should be. 'There's just what is,' she says, 'and what was.'
It's hard to fall asleep with Clara away. My eyes snap open at the faintest sound. Those herbal pills do nothing. Passionfruit and Valerian flowers, maybe they work on people with no regrets. Danny keeps coming back into my mind, when I haven't thought about him for years. Sometimes he's winged, on fire, like a shooting star, or an angel. His eyes are always closed. I hope he isn't a message from a dying light source. I wanted to find him back then, afterwards, when everything was over. I wanted to undo my words, but at ten years old I didn't know where to start looking, and I was afraid to even say his name out loud: the word was powerful, like black magic.
Lately, staring into the darkness, I see how Danny's departure became a defining event that gave shape to all others. There was Before Danny and After Danny. When I grew into a teenager, he became less of a real person than a symbol of my character. 'Describe yourself,' my English teacher in high school told us. 'Describe yourself so well that a stranger could pick you out in a crowd.' I saw my gritted face hard as stone, my hands lying in my lap, heavy, passive, cruel. There was my long witchy nose, my red hair. Women with red hair used to be burned at the stake as witches. But everyone knew now that hair was just dead protein. Only the root was alive. I saw Danny's face when I saw my own, his flooding eyes. I caused his pain, I thought. Like a spell. That's the sort of person I am.
It could have been different, I realised when I turned sixteen. If I'd been a nicer person, everyone would have had a good life. But it had been too much for a child, hadn't it? How does a child make that decision?
When I was teaching grade three about democracy and our parliamentary system, Bill Cooper asked why children weren't allowed to vote.
'It's a very big responsibility,' I said. 'If you're not ready, and you don't have all the facts, decisions like that can be crushing.' I went on to discuss the agony of choice for human beings, how if you decide on one option you kill the other. My voice gave out as I talked and Bill went to fetch a glass of water. The rest of the class sat quietly pondering, I suppose, the terrible power of democracy.
When I had my own child, there were big decisions to make every five minutes. Decisions with consequences, deep and dangerous as holes in the ground. I read scores of parenting books, hoping I might learn how to make the right ones. One book said a traumatic event in a child's life can arrest their development. I read that part over and over. When I had finished I thought, I'll make sure nothing like that ever happens to my daughter.
I knew all about my own arrest and sentence.
In dreams, Danny became confused in my mind with the boy my father shot. I always woke with the feeling that it was me who had pulled the trigger.
Instead of lying on the couch at night, I've tried to change my routine and go to the computer instead. Your best is good enough, says the Confucius quote above my desk. I like myself, says the mirror in the bathroom. Jonny Love's Sydney show starts in just three weeks. How can time keep rolling along in the present, unsnagged by the undertow of the past? I sit at the computer with a glass of wine and try to concentrate. Mary has sent more interview cuttings and photos of Jonny, so I read through them, underlining the relevant quotes with a pink highlighter. But how do I decide what is relevant? How would Jonny see the highlights of his life? Why am I writing this? What would I know?
I write I want to go to sleep for the rest of my life. My eyes ache. I look down at my trackpants spotted with red wine. I've worn these pants and T-shirt for the last three days. Nobody's noticed. What's the point of getting dressed if no one else sees you? I rather like not having to shower. Washing your hair and cleaning your teeth and getting dressed take up so much time, are such boring activities and, like housework, you only have to do them all again the next day. You don't have to do any of that when you're dead – something to look forward to. I don't clean down the kitchen bench now in the morning before I start work or do the washing-up. I think, fuck it. Sometimes I say it out loud. The cockroaches in the cupboards are ecstatic. Even when I imagine them doing the tango in the sink, climaxing over the crusted egg on the frypan, I don't waver. Sometimes, when I come home from lecturing at a school, I rip the top off a bottle of red and drink it before I get a glass. If only the voice would piss off, I might even feel free. Whatever that is. I wonder if Jonny Love feels free. I look over what I wrote last night:
'About ten years ago I reached the point where I realised that as a single act, I'd gone about as far as a man can go. I guess I accepted my limits. For a magician that is no small thing!'
Jonny's insight triggered a fundamental change of direction in his work. His show, The Magician's Assistant, which opened in Chicago in 1997, was the first to feature this personal and professional revolution. The whole performance became more like a play, rather than a series of self-contained magic acts. Some people liked it, some didn't. 'Well, if an artist doesn't continually reinvent himself, then he's dead in the water,' says Jonny.
The new show opened with an argument between Jonny and his assistant, who demands that he train her to be an escape artist. It is apparent this is an old argument that the assistant usually loses, but as the show proceeds, she becomes increasingly rebellious and comically defiant. After deliberately bungling a vanishing trick (she refuses to disappear!) she storms off – taking Jonny's top hat with her. But when she puts it on, something about her miraculously changes. She turns back to Jonny with a brilliant smile and they begin a new act, where her performance is impeccable, inspired – she has become a true professional! She takes over now, escaping from the Bohemian Torture Crib, the Electric Chair Illusion, the Water Torture Cell – she is like lightning, as elusive as Houdini, and soon she is doing things even Jonny can't explain.
'Obviously, any show is enhanced by the presence of a lovely female and the more you use her assets, the better off you are,' Jonny told the media. 'Simply lopping off her head or cutting her in half is hardly my idea of that! The Lady Assistant, developed to her full potential, not only illuminates the act but contributes charm and saleabilit
y. Seventy-five per cent of my act now is built around my assistant, who thus becomes no more an assistant but an active partner.'
Jonny married his protégé, Carole Evans, when they arrived back in Chicago after touring in Europe. They took their honeymoon in the Caribbean, where Jonny gave an interview to The New York Times.
'I've found the love of my life,' he said. 'I feel so lucky to have someone to share all my life with – work and home! Not many people find either one . . .'
Carole turned out to be such a brilliant protégé that only two years later she went on to have her own show. Life imitated art! She and Jonny separated in 1998 when stupid Carole left him, an act so moronic that it is hard to believe, unless of course she is an absolute nut case and suffers from delusions of grandeur, and it will now be necessary to explore the history of mental instability in the life of Carole the fuckwit, the dickhead, the cretinous abuser of good luck who has no understanding of her own good fortune.
I fan out the photos of Jonny on my desk. He is compelling, even when two-dimensional and in black and white. Imagine a magician such as he – famous, admired among his peers, faultless at his work, a creative artist – making way for a woman, whom he grooms to become a star! Look at his lean, muscled thighs in those black leather pants, the shouting masculinity of that chunky jewellery. As he said, it is no small thing for a magician to see his limits, when busting the limits is what they do! No small thing for any of us.
I look at the picture of Carole. She was a magician with him, an equal on stage, he was teaching her everything he knew. He took his time, coaching her patiently, letting her have the glory. She held the audience in the palm of her hand, had love and commitment and admiration. Carole didn't have to sit alone swearing to herself, checking in mirrors to see if she still existed, drowned by waves of inexplicable rage at the sound of the telephone, the mower next door, photos of moronic women. What an idiot she is, how I hate her! I grab the pencil on my desk and stab her in the eye. The point goes in deep and I do it again and again hard with my whole fist and the lead breaks off . I put Jonny's picture together with Carole's and I look back and forth, trying to see what is in their eyes, the connection or the attraction, but it's difficult to see anything now because Carole's eye is all bunged up and smeared with lead, serve her right. Look at Jonny, Carole – Christ he's gorgeous, he's actually a LIVING relative of Harry Houdini and he's actually admitting he needs you, wants you to be a part of his act, he's willing to work with you, polish you, make you a star, isn't that what you always wanted? You should be so grateful!
I get up and go back to the computer. Procrastination is failed escape, says another note above my desk. I can't remember where I read that. Or maybe I made it up.
There's a photo of Jonny and Carole sitting under a palm during their honeymoon. They are facing each other, in profile, and his hand rests on her cheek. His eyes are wide, as if he is drinking her in. His slight smile is almost awed, reverent.
I look into his eyes and imagine my face next to his instead of Carole's. He is looking at me adoringly, his hand wanders into my hair. His fingers trace lines over my skin, grip the back of my neck. As he looks down my body, his eyes swoop and darken like Harry's, he carries Harry's dreams, my dreams. He wants to have me, possess me, make me his . . . star.
I start to weep into my glass. Oh stop feeling so sorry for yourself, says the voice, and do your stupid work. You can't even do ten minutes' writing, can you, without crying, or getting up to scratch, or lying on the floor or looking at your emails. Hopeless.
Emails! I click on 'send and receive' and yes, there is Clara. Saved!
Hi Mum & Dad,
So sad to hear about Nan – what a shock, but glad she is okay!! I know you said there's no need to come home Mum, but I feel bad about it. Do you really think nan's okay? Marisa said her nanna had a pacemaker put in ten years ago, and she's still doing fine. She carries one of those little buzzer things to press in case of emergency, does our nan have that? Are YOU okay Mum, is it getting very tyring looking after her? I bet Pop is being a hero as usual.
love and hugs,
Clara xxx
Chapter 23
I sit at my desk with my four magicians. Jonny and Patrick and Chuck and Chip. Outside, the night is moonless. The electric heater is warm on my ankles, which are encased in thick wool socks. My knees are cold. But the red wine in my glass is hot. The bottle was so icy from just standing out on the kitchen bench tonight that I put it in the microwave for fifty seconds. Then I took it with me back to my room. The wine warmed my stomach, all the way down.
You can do that kind of thing when you live alone. You can also take up smoking, eat a whole packet of biscuits in ten minutes, fart, let the pee whoosh noisily into the bowl, sing off key and swear out loud. Nobody is there to judge or disapprove. You can also stop doing your pelvic floor exercises because no one cares any more about your stupid old vagina, least of all you. It's like a pet you used to love that's been stuff ed and left on the shelf. A sad reminder. It's not as great as it sounds, this living alone. It only seems to encourage the worst kind of behaviour. At least, that's what it does to me.
'There's a difference between the words alone and lonely,' says the therapist. I think of that puzzle, Spot the Difference, which I used to play with Clara. Personally, I can't see the difference here. To me, alone means being lonely forever. I see myself with my electric heater, ploughing through all those Russian novels I never had time to finish, The Idiot, Crime and Punishment, drinking too much red wine, falling into a stupor, nodding off . I'll grow bitter and dark and old and cultured like balsamic vinegar. That's a substance you'd only ever want a drop of, not a whole bottle, because it sours everything.
The only source of sweetness in this long dark month is Clara. Oh, Clara's emails – I savour them, save them up, like breaking open my expensive Lindt chocolate. She tastes bittersweet. In the last five years, all together, she wouldn't have shared so many words with me as she has in these few weeks. Her emails offer the texture of her days so I can feel them, spotlight her feelings so I can see them. They are marvellous to me, even the bad spelling, utterly surprising, each one.
Hi Mum & Dad – thanks for the news, so good to know Nan is out of hospital and recovering. We don't have to use the school's email any more – see I have a new email address – the signora has a computer that I can use any time I like. Life is good – exept for worrying about Nan. I'm getting to know the signora – she's quite chatty and said I could use 'tu' for you instead of the formal lei which is a relief. Marisa says I'm lucky – when someone is so much older and in a position of athority you hardly ever get to drop the lei. I find this whole formal business really strange – will it ever get normal, using the third person to speak to someone standing right in front of you? Like I go to Lucia, 'Does She want the floor swept now? What would She like for dinner?' How weird is that!
Lucia seems glad that I speak English – she wants to improve hers so she can talk to her grandchildren when they come to visit. They live in America. She asks me a lot about Australia, if everyone is white and pink like a merang, like me – I was a bit ofended even though I didn't show it but she said merangs are delicious and very difficult to make, like sufflés. Lucia's really helping my Italian conversation – last night she sat down with me and started to go over the verbi irregolari which she says I am 'assassinating'. Roberto – that's the teacher – keeps picking me to translate stories set in the passato remoto which are full of these damn verbs and I have to stand up in class and read. I don't know why he chooses me when there are other people in the class who are much better. Marisa for instance. Next to her I'm like a lumpy scone. She dresses with that Italian elegance I just can't get. Lucia's invited me to go shoe shopping with her – I swear her wardrobe is like that old Imelda Marcos – so many pairs of shoes, and not old lady shoes either. Lucia loves scarves too and she's given me some to wear but actually I'm decorating my room with them.
; Oh mum you should SEE my room. I have my own desk and chair and all my things are put away. My books and the Chanel No 5 perfume from Duty Free are on the bedside table, my jumpers and t shirts in the chest of drawers. I have 2 keys, a map and all of Florence. AND I'm getting paid! The windows have those lovely 'serrande', the wooden shutters you can close so that the room becomes completely dark even in full daylight. Yesterday at the market I bought blue ireses and an enameled white jug and when I got home I put them on the chest of drawers on top of a rainbow mat woven by Africans and it all looked fantastic. With the shutters open the afternoon sun shines straight onto the blue like an arrow at a target and the flowers turn a kind of flaming purple. Like royalty. That's how I feel when I wake up in the morning and slowly take in the fact that I am here, in Florence. Too lucky, too special for words.
Clara x
Twenty thousand kilometres of slack. Does distance from me allow her more freedom? Whatever it is, I don't mind, I just want it to keep coming. When I write back I am careful not to judge, to celebrate her small successes. And suddenly I wonder, is this what I should have done always? Is this perhaps how good mothers behave, applauding the small victories, those victories that might not be the ones you understand, but the ones chosen by this beautiful, good creature who is an individual, a living breathing person separate from you, who has to fill her own hours of her own life in a way that will make her happy?
Well, at least you've made a start, I tell myself. You're listening.
A bit bloody late, only twenty years late, the whole of your daughter's life so far!
The voice grates like a tin cup rattled against metal bars. I thump the desk with my fist and shout, because I can and no one will know, 'LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT OF HERE!'
Break out then, why don't you? Haven't got the guts, you couldn't break out of a wet paper bag, isn't that what you are, a sodden lamenting crying shred of toilet paper?
Escape Page 33