Escape

by Anna Fienberg

  I bang my head against the wall, the pain feels good, right as rain, you deserve it you stupid sodden bitch, go on, knock yourself out.

  'I walked into a wall,' I say to Doreen. She's looking at the bruise on my forehead. I peer with her, into the mirror. It has purpled and bloomed. I laugh. 'Too much of that cabernet sauvignon!'

  Doreen laughs back. 'Ah well, at least you're enjoying your freedom. You should put ice on it. Just don't drive like that!'

  'Fell over,' I say to Dad. I can't stand his look of concern. It makes him look older, but younger, too, vulnerable. I laugh again. I couldn't bear him having to worry about me as well as Mum. 'I'm going to do something about that path of mine – loose stones are such a nuisance. I'm fine, how are things?'

  The therapist just looked at my face and I began to cry. 'You are so hard on yourself, Rachel,' she said. I cried for the entire hour. I didn't look up once, not at her or the interesting books or the picture on the wall. The therapist leant forward and took my hand. She let me cry. She gave me tissues and a cup of coffee. Her face reflected my sadness. 'So hard,' she murmured. At the end she said, 'The voice is just a bad habit, you know. You can kick it. Like cigarettes. Give it a big whacking kick. Why don't you tell the voice to fuck off?'

  It was an astonishing idea. I thought – black pit voice gone door opens light.

  'Do something nice for yourself each day,' the therapist said. 'Even if you don't feel like it. You deserve it. Some small thing. What do you like to do?'

  Here we go, I thought. I'm the person without hobbies, remember? The silence ticked on, empty as my list of hobbies. What a failure of a person, said the voice.

  'Fuck off ,' I said out loud.

  The therapist looked surprised.

  'Oh no, I didn't mean—' My cheeks blushed scarlet.

  She laughed. A rich dark laugh with colours in it and little lights, like the reflection of the city underwater. 'Good on you!' she said. 'That's good.'

  In the silence without the voice, in that split second, I thought quietly, what do I like?

  'I like to read Clara's emails,' I said suddenly. 'I like listening to my daughter. I like hearing her news. And dark Lindt chocolate. '

  There you are! There's a thing. I am. There she is. There we are. I love Clara. I love who she is. The feeling of uncluttered love makes me feel whole for a moment, free.

  'You're smiling,' grins the therapist. 'What's going on?'

  'I'm not frightened. Or guilty.'

  But when I get outside I can't hear what she's saying any more because the voice has come back so loud I want to bang my head against the wall a hundred times to get rid of it.

  As I'm driving away, I try to hold on to her words. 'It's going to take time. Change is uncomfortable, even good changes. But I'm here, we're okay, we're on the way . . .'

  Ciao!

  Thanks for the update on nan, mum. SO good to get your emails! Sounds as if she's doing well. I wish there was a shuttle service running through the kitchens of the universe and I could send her the soup I made last night. It wasn't her Jewish chicken specialty it was minestrone, but it was good. I made it the proper Italian way and Lucia said it was molto buono.

  The food shopping is fun, too – it's so great going into an alimentari shop and coming out with what you asked for! It makes you feel competent like a real Italian or maybe just a proper adult relying on no one else but yourself to survive. Yesterday I bought a ciabatt a for me and la signora, and parmigiano for the minestrone and a cioccolato for dessert. I've come a long way since that first day when I SO cleverly remembered the name of my street, Senso Unico – One Way!

  I'm getting on better with your poems Dad – my Italian is improving – I recognise now little sayings and expresions. It's really fun trying to decode your writing. And you do your sevens with that cross-bow through the middle – looks dangerous, like a medieval scithe – I'm going to do that from now on, it's cool. I've almost read one whole poem – and it's brilliant Dad! 'La Neve' – I love it when you say the silence settles around the house like a moat around a castle. It gives me goosebumps. When I read it the sun was shining in on the polished floor and I was still hot from a brisk walk across the piazza but I got a kind of shiver under my skin. How are you getting on with the script? Is it set here in Italy? I could do any research or anything you wanted while I'm here, remember. Haven't heard from you in a while – I'm sending these emails to mum's computer for you both to read – obviously! But would you like an email to yourself, Dad? Oh anyway maybe you're just emersed in your work . . . don't worry, just when you can.

  A big hug to you both!

  Clara xx

  I've started to run now. I run in my old sandals, whatever I happen to be wearing, bare feet. I just pick up my keys and run out of the house along the stony path. I don't look up, I don't want to see anyone, I'm so ashamed. I come back and I'm sweating and my heart is racing and I say run run run out loud to quieten the voice. I shout at it like a bad-mannered drunk. But it refuses to hear. You're turning into an animal, the voice says. Its true, I'm no longer a vampire but more like a werewolf, with hair that has grown long on my legs and under my armpits, the hair on my head unwashed, unplucked eyebrows . . . And in eight days I'll have to go to the Park Hyatt and meet Jonny Love, the handsomest man I've ever seen, next to Guido that is, and sit still across a table from him for at least two hours and act like a normal human being instead of a werewolf.

  Last night I ran at 2 am. The moon was full, loud as daylight. My breath steamed out ahead of me. I flashed past all the words in my head like a car on a road trip.

  At night, when I have to lie still, I invite Harry in. Sometimes he arrives with Jonny, or Jonny just watches. Harry's eyes are on fire. But the running scenes bleed in; trees shake, dogs bark, my feet slap on the road. I can't get back into my imagined world. When I think of Harry and slide my hand into the cleft of me, I start to cry and everything below my neck goes dead.

  The only time I sit still with ease is when I read my emails from Clara.

  Ciao Mamma e Papà,

  I went to Assisi this weekend – had the weekend off ! Bliss! Walked up the hill into the Piazza del Commune – right back into medieval times. In the early morning, around 5 or 6, the church bells toll, one set finishing as another begins. Outside my window the pigeons pant like dogs. Went to the church of San Francesco – Giotto and Cimabue on the walls! You can breathe the air that Giotto breathed, walk on his ground. Now that's Magic.

  La signora seemed distant when I got back, though – maybe she didn't like my going? Or maybe it's just this book club thing looming. She belongs to a book club and they meet once a month – the ladies are all coming here next week. I'm going to have to cook for them. Lucia wants me to make a torta di mela.

  Big hugs,

  Clara xx

  Run run run . . . I wonder what Jonny's hands are like – to touch. I wonder how the breath of him will feel. Will I see a gesture, a curl of smile, something of Harry? His essence?

  Hi Mum,

  How are you? How are you coping? Dad finally emailed me. He said he was working at Silvia's now – she's helping him with his script. He said you and he are having a break. Is that true? Why didn't you tell me? Where's he living? He said the story he's writing is like a sea he's dived into and he has to make conditions right so he can keep breathing underwater. What the hell is he doing? I'm sorry to ask you, but I don't get it and he doesn't make sense. He sounded okay, his usual obsesed self – only he's living in another house! Or is he just working there? He's excited about his work – he said he's swimming with deep-sea creatures. He wants to get to know these creatures, and that Silvia is his 'diving instructor'. Has he gone completely mad? Look, I know things have been difficult between you both for a long time, but does this mean you two have separated? He gives me deep-sea diving instead of different address.

  Oh mum, so many bad things have happened since I've been away! Should I come home? I don't feel right about thi
s. Being away, having adventures when you are all alone and worried and sad. And I'm not so happy just now anyway. The other day I dropped a whole carton of fresh eggs that a lady from a farm gave us and the sticky mess slid under the fridge as well as all over the floor and even though I've wiped it a thousand times our feet still make that schtuk sound when you lift your souls off the floor. La signora hasn't said anything about it, but I think it's annoying her. And then can you believe it, I locked us out of the house! We'd gone shopping together so she could show me a shop with these special ingredients she wanted, and she thought I'd taken my keys and so did I – but I hadn't! What a fucking airhead! She's probably wondering right now what on earth she's done bringing this person into her home and how can she get me out of it. And I'm not doing so well in Italian, feel like a dunce in this new class. Marisa has gone away for a week, too. I miss her. Maybe I've had enough now anyway – I know I've been greedy and selfish being away when nan is sick and you are going through this painful time. I know I never stick to things – only eggy floors! I'm sorry I said that thing at our Last Supper. Don't know what to do, but think I will come home. My heart is with you mum

  love and love,

  Clara xxx

  Dearest girl, DON'T come back! I'm fine. There's no need to worry about Dad and me. It's good for Dad to have this space to work and it's probably good for me. Clara, I haven't known how to explain this to you and I didn't want to worry you either. Dad has moved to Silvia's apartment like he says, so yes, we have separated, that's the truth of it. I don't know if it's forever or not. I'm taking each day as it comes. It is different, being alone, but I've taken up new habits, like running. I am alone, but not lonely.

  Don't worry about the eggs, I've done that a hundred times and I'm sure the signora has too. She's probably worrying about whether she should get the curtains washed for the book club ladies and what she will serve for lunch and will they approve. We often think people's moods are our fault when really it has nothing to do with us at all. As for the lock – well, I won't say it! Except that can happen to anyone as well.

  I'm getting on with the book, and soon I'll be finished my last magician, who's coming to Sydney for a show. So you see, no need to worry about me – or nan and pop. They're going well. Nan seems to have more energy, and yesterday she was even reading aloud from the newspaper about our crummy new industrial relations laws while I made chicken curry. She reckons the prime minister is a borderline sociopath and should be tried for war crimes. She made a very convincing, cogent argument. And she wasn't even puff ed. AND she didn't mention a single event in the passato remoto. So listen, everything is good and I want you to know that the idea of you over there having adventures and being free to be YOU is a source of happiness and inspiration to me. So you keep going, girl!

  Love and love,

  Mum OOOXXX

  I read back the email – Don't come home. I mean it. Just for a moment, I am flooded with light.

  Thanks Mum, it sounds like you are okay, that's so great! And you know what, I was so rapped up in being negative in that last email I didn't tell you what happened after the lock thingy. Well, we were waiting for the locksmith and I was hunting in my bag for a bobby pin or nail file or something and I discovered a pro-lok pick stuck in the lining of my purse – I couldn't remember putting it there – it must have dropped out of that tool set you gave me. So I thought I might as well use it. Lucia looked at me nervusly – as if I was crazy, or a criminal. But I persisted! It was a pin tumbler lock, 6 pin, fairly standard thank Christ. But I was swetting. It took me a long time. I remembered how frustration can result in a loss of picking feel so I took deep breaths and told Lucia she might like to go and sit in the neighbour's apartment while I worked. The cylinders had those damn tight tolerances which made it long and difficult but Mum how GOOD did I feel when that lock clicked open! Anyway, I called Lucia and then crawled upstairs to send you that miserable email. But when I went back down to help put away the things, she asked me what I had been doing with such an instrument in my bag and did I know I'd just saved her 150 Euro? So I told her about you and your books and my weird childhood of insane muff s and chain escapes and torture cribs and lock picking and she was fascinated. Her eyes got bigger and bigger and she said she couldn't wait to tell the ladies at the book club. Then she confessed that she was really obsesed about those ladies coming around because they're so picky about etiket and houseproud and all. The thing she said that really pleased me was how safe she felt now with me around, what with my streetwise lock picking skills, and now she had someone 'competente' to rely on. Isn't that incredible? Me, COMPETENTE! I repeated it over and over to myself in bed that night and I got so happy that I couldn't sleep, so I had to keep lifting cylinders inside plugs to calm myself.

  I smile at Clara's words. How good to hear her happiness.

  Hi Mum,

  How's the book going? Marisa is still away. She's gone to visit her aunt in Venice – she thought she'd only be a few days but her aunty is pretty sick. I miss her a lot – I guess I'm a bit lonely. It's strange being in a world where no one knew me before the age of 21. Sometimes I wonder who I am when there's no one to tell me who I was. I have to make myself up each day. Back home I couldn't wait for the freedom of that – of being anonimus. But its scary sometimes. Sounds so spoilt but some days are like huge empty warehouses that I have to fill. And there's no one to tell me how or with what.

  Today I took my notebook to the Boboli gardens – so soulful there late afternoon, quiet, just the pale marble statues, running fountains, lovers in the grass. The magnolias are blooming. Walking home in the twilight, a guy rode past on his vespa. He waved at me and smiled – such an electric smile – he gave me a shock! I only realised after that it was Roberto my teacher. That smile made such a difference to the day. Funny what little you need, really.

  God it's nice how generous Italian men are with their compliments. Often, just walking down a street, you can feel like a movie star with all the whistles and compliments and they never seem to expect anything back – they don't get angry or miff ed if you don't respond, they just leave this trail of lovely fading glitter at your back as you move out of sight. Anyway, in the gardens, I was thinking about travel and routine and the difference between them. I was thinking that while we are locked into routine there's the illusion of safety. But when there's a change, and you make a leap, you get a glimpse of the abiss yawning below. Now I hardly ever feel safe, and death or failure or taking the wrong turn seems so much more likely. Makes me think of Houdini and his 'penalty of failure'. Travelling wakes you up. Anyway, I'm raving aren't I. Don't worry, marisa will be back soon and I'll try to pore the spillover onto her.

  Lots of love,

  Me xx

  P.S. I hope it's okay that I tell you these things. It feels bad while I'm writing them but good afterwards. It's a relief to tell. I hope you don't mind and it doesn't worry you and there are so many good days, remember! But sometimes it feels like an achievement just to be happy. Like when I'm miserable I'm failing in the exam of life.

  Mum,

  Going stir-crazy in this apartment – I'm SO longing to hear some loud music, a band you have to shout over, anything to get me out of my head. Last night I went to a restaurant, a little place near the bridge. Had veal marsala and potato in rosemary and a glass of Dolcetto. It was delicious but hard to relax. I tried to take invisible bites, as if the food was disappearing by itself. Why do women eating alone look so shockingly greedy? Or do we just think that? Have you done it yet Mum? Men eating alone with their newspapers somehow manage to look purely functional and economic, refuelling themselves for the work ahead.

  I used to think when I got to live in another country where no one knew me, I could be anyone I wanted. No offence! But now I think that being alone makes you long to be incredibly normal. You so DON'T want to stand out. But I seem to wear my foreigness like a badge. 'Signorina, where do you come from?' I just want to blend in, my aloneness feels li
ke a disease, like a lump always sticking out of my head.

  Marisa's still away. Maybe these first months are the hardest. I've been thinking of writing some stories about travelling. It'll be like talking to myself, only it'll look more normal!

  Hope you're well and working okay, love to nan and pop,

  Clara xx

  Dear Clara,

  What a good idea to write! Have I told you how much I enjoy your letters? Well I do. And no, I haven't eaten out alone, I just eat junk food at the computer – wouldn't mind some of that Dolcetto though! But don't go copying me! I think your restaurant dinners sound like fabulous adventures, and good for your female soul!

  Lots of love from your admiring Mamma xxoo

  Ciao Mamma,

  Marisa's back and we went out into the country, to San Galgano – a medieval church, bellissima! It was Lucia who suggested it – 'take a picnic, make the most of these crystal days of spring'. Giorni di cristallo – why does everything in Italian sound so much more promising? It's like, in the act of translating, the word suddenly springs out at you new and shiny and you see it as if for the first time.

  The church has only half a roof left , open to the sky. We lay on its carpet of grass and ate bread and cheese and drank chianti and dozed in the pale sunshine streaming into the church. It's so good being with Marisa again and afterwards when we walked home from the station we laughed hysterically about nothing and mimicked each other's accents and abandoned our 'let's look Italian and speak properly' routine, shrieking and laughing like any other loud tourist crowding the footpath.

  Oh mum, what is it about being here – I feel more myself than I ever have, yet I don't know any more who I am! It's as if I'm walking in a dream I had when very young – forgotten but esential like my bones or the roots of my teeth and sometimes it's almost there on my lips, the shape of it, but it never lasts. It leaves a trace, though, a change. I feel changed. It's so strange and magnificent here.