Escape

by Anna Fienberg

  Then a green light flicks up over the stage. A pinpoint of hope, the colour of a lime fizzy drink. It flies out like a ball to the audience. I want to catch it. My arm flinches, ready. It hovers over our heads, dives and swoops. The tips of a man's fingers are splashed in neon green. It dances away, illuminating a woman's tortoiseshell comb, a man's gelled hair. The light is cheeky, endearing, it has a personality. You could call it bouncy. Someone laughs, as if at a cute child. Then it disappears. It leaves no trace of itself. The silence of darkness is complete after the light. Even the flute has been swallowed.

  We're left to feel the full weight of the dark. It settles like a burden on our shoulders. There are not even the stars here. People whisper. Someone coughs. A glass clinks. Small sounds of life protesting the blackness. But nothing tears the dark. Even the memory of the light is not enough. It is overwhelming, like the end.

  And then quietly, with the pure high notes of the flute, the arc of light rises again. But now it changes from green to brilliant red to blue and gold and orange, and a rainbow spouts out toward us from the stage and the flute blooms into an orchestra and gradually, like the sky at sunrise, the stage fills with light so that we see a tall man in a silver coat stretch out his arms towards us.

  'Welcome to an enchanted evening!' cries Jonny Love, and bursts into a flame of blue lightning.

  Chapter 27

  After the show there is a queue for taxis out on the street. I wait, pulling my coat around me. I'm glad of the night air, the thrill of the cold. When my taxi arrives I hesitate, eyeing the empty seats. It seems so snooty, unfriendly really, to choose the back. But then I've got so much to think about; I need replay time. 'The Park Hyatt ,' I tell the driver sheepishly, and slide in behind him.

  I'm aware of the yellow cubes of light blazing in office buildings, tall honeycombs crowding the night sky. A dribble of rain is starting, washing headlights into the street. But the catalogue of magic is blaring in my head.

  After the hushed power of that first light trick, the show grew in volume and dazzle. Illusions were performed quick as drumbeats. In the breathless rhythm I had time only to write single words, the name of a trick, a joke in the patter. But Jonny appeared relaxed from start to finish; he was conversational, funny, charming. His solemn 'butler' helped him with certain domestic tasks – the Floating Glass Trick, the Vanishing Bottle, the Magic Ladder. Jonny assumed a patient, princely manner with his assistant, who was constantly befuddled by the glass still floating in the air after he'd stopped holding it, the bottle of ketchup disappearing from inside the paper bag as he crumpled it in his hand, a solid metal ladder appearing out of nowhere. A band of girls in silver tights and space helmets appeared in the third act to chain Jonny to a flaming torture crib. While he struggled they danced happily in formation, their limbs flaring like sparks along a wire. But the final illusion was the most extraordinary and courageous escape act I'd ever seen.

  As I get out of the taxi and pay, I have an urge to tell the driver about it. In his whole life he may never catch an act like this. On the bare stage there'd been a large cage, with one of the dancing girls inside it. She moved her hips and bottom to a rock song, sweeping in entire circles like the girls I'd watched wistfully on Countdown as a child. Jonny rattled the bars of her cage, in maddened lust, so that the butler had to come and save him, like a sailor from a siren, throwing a white shimmery curtain over the cage. The stage darkened then as the rock music deepened into African drums. The room pulsed with the beat. We were hypnotised. The dark stage became something alive, booming with the jungle and the threat of the wild and there was no other light or sound to take us back to safety. When Jonny finally swept the cover off the cage and the lights exploded, there was no longer a girl inside, but a tiger. A live, steaming tiger!

  I stand with my hand on the door of the taxi, remembering what it felt like to be just metres away from that animal. A drop of saliva had sparkled on its whiskers. The fur rippled over its shoulders as Jonny led it on a leash out of the cage, and across the stage. It had looked too much like a tiger to be one. 'Is he real?' I'd asked the woman next to me. But her chin had dropped onto her chest and her eyes were closed. She'd missed the whole thing, which was a shame.

  I hover on the pavement, trying to decide how best to transmit the splendour of such magic to the taxi driver, when he leans across the front seat and says, 'Shit, you waiting for change from that lousy ten bucks?'

  'No, no,' I say hastily, 'keep it!'

  The Park Hyatt has views over Sydney Harbour. It is only a short walk down from the Lobster Bar where Guido and I had our first date. The bar is called something else now, the wooden chairs and tables replaced by minimalist steel. It's nothing special, only one link in the clinking chain of cutlery and conversation going on in the bars, restaurants and cafes strung along the water. As I walk past our first date a wave of sadness sloshes in my belly, and suddenly my shoes hurt. I've forgotten how to walk in high heels. I feel like an untrained circus performer on stilts. I think longingly of the fluffy tracksuit and socks scrunched under my pillow at home.

  The lobby floor of the hotel shines, laid with squares of pink marble. Cigar smoke and leather smells envelop me as I linger among the huddles of potted palms, beige couches and suited businessmen. The palm leaves, spotlit by the lamp bowls above, sketch cross-hatch patterns over the pale sofas. I want to sit down on one, breathe in the smell of safe arrival, let the palms doodle on my face. But I don't. I find the sign to the main dining room, and go in.

  Warm golden wood, heavily panelled walls, tables lit with candles inside manicured glass vases. My eyes sweep the room – waiters dressed like minstrels in black and white, red tablecloths, plumes of roses rising from glass flutes set into the walls.

  I hover at the reception desk near the entry.

  'Can I help you?' The young woman is smiling up at me.

  'I'm, um, meeting someone.'

  'And the name?'

  'Jonny Love.'

  The woman examines her list, licking her finger to turn over the page. Guido loathes that habit; if he saw someone do it, he'd make the motions of vomiting. I suppose that's why he didn't borrow much from the library, only handling the books I chose with his fingertips. 'You cannot imagine the amount of dried spit on library books,' he'd say. He used to hold his breath for as long as he could in public bathrooms, too. He'd emerge gasping for breath as if he were in the grip of a heart attack. 'The smell is made up of molecules from other people's evacuations. You want to breathe that in?'

  The young woman is frowning. 'Jonny Love, you said?'

  'The magician. He's staying here,' I tell her. 'I just saw him lead a tiger around on a leash. It was extraordinary! He's been at the hotel for a week, I think.'

  She licks her finger again and turns another page. Her face clears. 'Yes, here he is, under Guests.'

  She looks up at me, smiling again, unaware that she has committed a crime of hygiene, enough to condemn her forever to the wintry cells of Guido's disapproval. I smile freely back at her, overjoyed suddenly that I can.

  'And you are here first!' she exclaims, as if I've won a competition. 'Mr Love has not arrived yet. I'll get our head waiter here to show you to your table.'

  A long-boned man responds with alacrity to the woman's eyebrows. He makes his way elegantly between the tables, his back slightly stooped, his shanks moving loosely inside his black sheen pants. His nose is beaked, his expression focused as if all his attention is on his legs, which will carry him swiftly, efficiently, to his next task. He looks rather like a well-groomed emu.

  'This way, madam,' he says, heading for a table next to the palm in the corner. I follow gratefully, basking in these pleasant exchanges where people notice me, lead me to my seat like royalty, like a special guest. I smile at him but the waiter is looking steadily to my left , a strained wariness tightening his features. There is something familiar about his face, the eyes set far apart that don't quite see me. He is courteous but absent, conc
entrated on some higher task.

  I go to sit down at the table but he pulls my chair out for me, spreads the napkin over my lap. 'Madam is punctual,' he approves, 'would she like to look at the wine list?' I think of Clara's email and her difficulty with the third person, and grin. How quaint. I'll have to tell her about this.

  'Yes, please.'

  'Certainly, just a moment.' He lopes off swiftly to the desk where the menus are placed in a neat pile and is back in a blink. 'Here you are, take your time, you can be looking while we wait for Sir.' He frowns briefly, checking his watch.

  'Thank you,' I say. He dances away, straight back to his post at the desk like a dart to a dartboard. Looking at his rounded back, his long shankbones, I feel uneasy. I don't know why. He is like a shadow, an echo of something dark cast over the light in this royal room.

  I smooth the napkin across my knees, feeling the cotton ironed to the smoothness of silk. I study the wine list and decide to ask only for a glass; who knows what Jonny will like, white or red, or what kind of buongustaio he will be.

  As if the waiter knows exactly when I make the decision, he returns, negotiating a path between a huge man built like a mountain bent in the middle and a woman swaying backwards with laughter. I want to clap, as if he's just finished a magnificent dance. Emu Lake.

  'I'll have just a glass of pinot noir, please.'

  'Certainly, madam. An excellent choice. And sir will be here directly, I am sure. He was rather ambitious, if I may say so, making the time 9 pm. He is never able to make it back so quickly after the show.'

  'Oh, so you know Jonny Love?'

  But he has whisked away.

  My heart is racing uncomfortably at the thought of Jonny's imminent arrival. I check in my handbag for my notebook and pen. I decide to place the items on the table, where I can see them.

  The waiter brings my wine, putting it down with a flourish. I drink half the glass quite quickly and then, with my back leaning comfortably into the chair, the heels of my shoes kicked off under the table, I relax and survey the room. The palms, like those in the lobby, create intricate patterns on the walls. I remember the palms at the disco in Fiji, when I couldn't wait for the night to finish, to lie in bed with Guido. Well, who knows what may happen with Jonny? I look at his place setting opposite me, the folded napkin, the wineglass catching the light, the candle flickering. Soon he will drink from that glass, put his lips to that napkin. And here I am about to meet this magical man across a dinner table! I rub a hand over the silky stockinged surface of my thigh. Smooth, loofahed skin. I slide my hands under my hair, check the bounciness, the way it springs away from my fingers, clean.

  The waiter comes into my line of vision, doing his loping long-boned dance. He could be clearing the path for landmines. Behind him is the tall figure of Jonny Love.

  I try to stand up and hit my thigh against the sharp edge of the table. Typical, says the voice. Why don't you just collapse in front of him, paws in the air? The wineglass totters, but, thank god, doesn't spill.

  'Rachel?' Jonny extends his hand.

  I put my hand in his. It is large and warm and exquisitely dry. A confident hand that wouldn't dream of sweating.

  I feel my eyes widening to take all of him in. Large grey eyes, high forehead. A strong, chiselled, handsome face. His forehead is reassuring, etched with neat parallel lines like a network of freeways. The lines hadn't appeared in his photos. I like them. His hair is touched with silver. He is older than his photos, than I expected. A charismatic maturity. His eyes hook mine, then travel down the V of my dress. I'm glad suddenly that I made the brave selection.

  'It's so lovely to meet you!' I gasp.

  'The pleasure is mine,' he says smoothly. His smile broadens and he nods, as if he likes what he sees. We stand for a moment, our eyes meeting. We're both grinning, it's hard to stop grinning. There is the shimmer of the stage about him still, making him taller, almost imaginary. I remember him standing beside the tiger, like Tarzan or some brave prince in a fairytale.

  He smiles. The waiter pulls his chair out for him, smoothes the napkin over his lap. 'Most happy to see you, sir,' says the waiter, pouring sparkling mineral water from a blue bottle. 'Just ten minutes late this evening.' He taps his watch, snatches up the wineglass.

  Jonny grins at the man and rolls his eyes at me. 'This guy sure looks after me, doesn't he?'

  'Will sir be having the risotto? Tonight we have pumpkin done in rosemary.'

  'Sounds good.' Jonny leans toward me, tapping the side of his nose. 'I think you'll like the risotto just fine, it's great for this hour, light, nutritious and packed with fibre. But of course if you're a carnivore, you may want to look at the menu.' He's smiling, but he says carnivore the way you'd say slut. And what about the wine – isn't he having any? Can I have another?

  I glance in confusion at the menu lying near my plate. Filet mignon, Atlantic salmon, duck à l'orange, oh! Confusion hits me like a door. 'Um,' I say.

  The two men are looking at me. Waiting. I hear a sigh. This is not how I imagined at all. He seems to be in a hurry, as if he's arrived late for his dentist appointment. I thought we'd savour our meeting, like a good wine. Even with Doreen or Lena, who I might have seen only the week before, we're so busy chatting with each other that often we don't even look at the menu for multiples of ten minutes.

  'Madam?'

  Have the risotto, says the voice. Don't be a slut!

  'The risotto sounds wonderful!' I enthuse.

  'Would you like to see the wine menu again?' the waiter asks.

  'Um, aren't you drinking, Jonny?'

  'No, I don't drink at all. Not for ten years. The acids on the stomach are deleterious, not to mention the damage done to my concentration.' He makes a face, pushing up the lines above his eyes. 'I have an extremely sensitive digestive system – I need a lotta pampering!' He shares a conspiratorial glance with the waiter. 'No, sparkling water's the only choice for me.'

  'Oh.' I look at the waiter. He is looking at his watch. I won't be able to get through this without more wine. But you aren't allowed to get a whole bottle just for yourself. 'I will have another glass,' I mumble.

  Jonny and the waiter both look at me with surprise. I stare back. 'Thank you,' I say loudly. It's a full stop in the conversation. Or maybe an exclamation mark. The waiter nods and leaves. That was rude, says the voice. Why, because I made a different choice, had a different opinion?

  'So, Jonny, you must be exhausted after that show. I don't know how you do it – two hours performing at that pace. It's incredible.'

  Jonny bows his head humbly, patting his stomach. 'That's why I have to look after myself. No one else to do the job for me.'

  'Well . . . !' I wish I could. I look into his storm-grey eyes. 'You were marvellous, quite breathtaking. And you made it look easy. I loved the quiet way you began the show – that was so original, that light trick. I haven't seen it before. What's it called?'

  'The Light from Nowhere. I'm glad you liked it – not everyone is impressed by that illusion. It's kinda subtle, less showy than a lotta my tricks.'

  'Oh, I thought it was wonderful. It's like a symbol, isn't it, like hope or something? You know, an idea flickering, hardly there? You can't catch it, hold it in your hand – you just have to experience it, and remember.' The wine is settling inside like a blanket, soothing me. I lean forward confidingly. 'I think that's what magic is all about.'

  Jonny leans back in his chair, glass in hand. 'Why, thank you, Rachel. It's good to hear you enjoyed it.' He smiles, and his knee briefly brushes mine. 'I think we're going to get along just fine.'

  'Oh yes! And of course I've been madly pondering how the trick was done. Extensions or wires or—'

  Jonny laughs. 'And of course I can't let you in on that secret. Magicians' rule book.'

  'Yes, tantalising . . .'

  Jonny takes off his jacket. A semi-transparent white shirt, shot through with a silver thread, reveals a ripple of muscle as he turns to hang the j
acket on the back of his chair. I think of the tiger on the end of Jonny's leash, the power of its shoulders as it padded across the stage. I try not to look at Jonny's chest through his shirt. 'And that finale with the tiger – extraordinary, so brave! The structure of the show was extremely satisfying. And very original, I thought, very artistic. The quiet beginning leading up to the explosive ending. I mean, really, a tiger! I'd love to know how you got that animal to behave. Now you've set the bar – a tiger whisperer as well as a magician!' I beam at him. And a pirate as well, with your dashing torso and mermaid tattoo. 'Do you do that trick every night?'

  'No, only every second night. Really, it wreaks havoc on my system. My doctor says I'm allergic to fur, and my nasal passages run riot. I can't take antihistamine of course because of the side-effect of drowsiness. It's a goddamn pain in the ass – and last year I got a sinus infection that took months to clear up. Had to put a towel over my head and breathe over a sink filled with boiling water.' He sniffs loudly. 'Steam is good for clearing the airways. Especially with a drop or two of eucalyptus. I'm thinking of getting rid of the tiger.'

  'Oh.' Somehow I don't like thinking of Jonny with sinus. Not at all piratical.

  'Ah, here's the bread,' he says, as the waiter places a basket and my glass of wine on the table. Oh good, I think, it'll be garlic or herb bread, lightly toasted, a treat you never have at home.

  'Organic wholemeal,' says Jonny, offering me the basket. 'Good for the digestion.'

  'Thank you.' I look around for the butter. There is none.

  'Butter is bad for the heart and hardens the arteries,' Jonny remarks.

  Silence falls while Jonny chews his bread. I wish I could think of a perfect line to restart the conversation. Possibilities hover in my mind, float past, dissolve before I can catch them. You can never hope for brilliance, says the voice. Hope is just an illusion, like the light from nowhere. Don't hope.