Escape

by Anna Fienberg

  Walking home from school I'll have to cross the Piazza della Signoria which is my favorite. When it's bustling with people, which it usually is, you can feel the energy lift off the cobblestones – most of the outrageous events in Florence happened right here. I bet this is where that mad old monk Savonarola lit his bonfire of books. Love his portrait in the San Marco Museum.

  It's so cool seeing the David guarding the steps of the piazza and in the evening the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio is lit up, gold against the navy sky. If I feel lonely or the verbi irregolari are getting me down, I go and sit in the piazza and the feeling whooshes away like smoke. I close my eyes and imagine the whispers and intrigues and clandestine meetings and romances going on back through the centuries and even though when I open my eyes the girls have red tights and short skirts and whiz past on vespas with i pods in their ears, they kind of dissolve into the bigger atmosphere of humanity. And I feel a part of it! I'm connected with my roots and the beginning of time and the moon that shines and has always shone on this square.

  Marisa's just come in and said we betta get to breakfast. I'll write more when I start the job. Gotta go and yay, after this week no more stale biscotti and marmellata!

  love

  Clara xx

  I look at my watch – it must be eight o'clock in the morning there. Amazing, she sounds so awake. I take two deep breaths. They're more like gasps. Amazing, extraordinary, this news, it's all so . . . I don't know what to feel. Money, already, must be running out – it's probably much more expensive over there than she realised. But she clearly hasn't called Maurizio. Face it, Rachel, she'd rather clean houses than do magic. I take another breath, let it out. I read the letter again. And again. I close my eyes. Don't know what I'm feeling. But I'm smiling, aren't I? How strange, a big hot balloon of a smile is growing inside me. My cheeks are on fire. Maybe I'll explode. I don't understand it at all, this feeling. My face is beginning to ache, but I can't stop smiling.

  Why is it? My daughter, a cleaner. How does that sound? 'Oh, and what is young Clara doing with herself these days?' Over the last few years people have politely asked about Clara, dying for me to finish floundering so they can tell about their son or daughter's high distinctions in law, engineering, bio-genetics, marine biology . . . 'She's a cleaner,' I'll tell them. That doesn't stop the smile.

  It's the kind of letter you'd write to your mother, or your friend, isn't it? She's told me more about her life than any time I can remember. And she's made a decision about how she's going to keep herself. She sounds sensible, curious, independent. How brave she is! Okay, cleaning isn't exactly challenging, but it will be temporary, surely, a brief interlude like a summer school job. And if it's an old lady's house at least there won't be any wild, drug-fuelled parties, and she's not living with some man who could turn out to be a serial killer or possess quietly weird habits or a cellar. And maybe we can ring her there, too, when she's settled in, and Guido could speak to the old lady . . .

  I look back at the email – Clara doesn't give an address. Still, it's so handy being near the school, and as she says, she will have more chance of practising her Italian than back at the dorm where they speak and fart in English all the time . . . The smile has come back, bubbling up in my chest as I read that sentence again. Look at her being spontaneous and enthusiastic, happy, there's not one curl of the lip, or flick of sarcasm. I don't even mind her atrocious spelling—

  The front door slams and I jump with fright.

  'Guido? Come and see this email from Clara! You're late for a Thursday night, aren't you?'

  'Sì, there was a movie. Disappointing. The structure was similar to that mystery film we saw last year, what was the name? Doesn't matter. Beh, why are you smiling like that?'

  'News from Clara.'

  'Again?'

  'Yes, aren't you glad?

  'Of course! Clara carissima, come va?'

  'Very well – excellent I'd say. Read for yourself!'

  He continues to stand at my shoulder even though I clear away the papers from the stool for him to sit next to me. I read the email again with him, the smile tugging at my lips, but I've only reached 'mostly waiters' when Guido's body suddenly clenches.

  'PORCA MISERIA!' He pounds the desk so that my clippings of Jonny and the jar of pencils and the handcuffs and the box of shims and picklocks all leap up and fall in a clattery tangle.

  My heart is thudding. 'What? What is it?'

  'Un lavoro di contadino!'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Cristo dio, my daughter goes to Italy to become what – a cleaner? Una che fa le pulizie?'

  'Well, yes, I understand it's not exactly the heights of ambition, and for that matter, I don't see why she wouldn't at least ring Maurizio if she needs work but—'

  Guido roars again and instinctively I put out my arms to protect the keypad and the mouse and all the other precious things on my desk. But he's off striding around the room, his hands pulling at his hair so that when he stops the dull black mass of it stands up straight as if he's been electrocuted.

  'This is your fault!' he shouts, and punches the wall.

  'What is?'

  He gives a grunt of disgust. His hands fly up in the air, palms outward, a helpless gesture that reminds me fleetingly of Harry. 'You! Why do you think she goes for this job, the lowest she can find? A servant! You were always nagging at 'er, she never 'ad a moment to breathe. You with your locks and picks and manuals and che lo so, birdcages . . . Now she finds a moment to choose for herself, she must think what it is she wants to do, and she makes this bad decision. She will be judged – you don know, she will be seen as a . . . a . . . sventata, ignorante—'

  'A what?'

  'She is confused. You have not let 'er grow up. She does not know 'ow to think for herself!'

  'But who will judge her? No one even knows her over there. What are you afraid of?'

  'My daughter, che fa le pulizie, che vergogna! You should be ashamed, but you smile! What kind of a mother are you?'

  I pick up the handcuffs and slap them down. The happy warmth in my cheeks has turned to rage that could burn down a house. 'I should be ashamed? What about you?' Oh dear, is that all you can do? The level of the playground.

  'Me?' He turns around. He smoothes his hair, his breathing even. 'So now you are asking about me? It 'as been a long time.' His voice has cooled to ice. He stands in the centre of the room, balancing perfectly on his heels. He rocks back and forth slowly, heel, toe, heel. Calmly he places his index finger to his chin, in the manner of a philosopher pondering a student's question. He holds his position, the seconds ticking into the silence, as still as the eye of a hurricane. 'Hmm, now let's see: What about me? What kind of a mother am I? Well, I would say that was your job, cara. And, since you ask the question, 'ow would you rate yourself, do you think, now that your daughter has run away to become a servant?' His eyes are narrowing to black points, his voice growing louder. 'Would you give yourself an A? Or an F?'

  'No, a father, I meant as a father!' Thoughts fleece out into long strands of cloud, almost disappearing. What do I mean? 'She didn't arrive by immaculate conception! When have you made any contribution to her education, or . . . or . . . taken any responsibility for anything?'

  'Anything? Rachel, do try to be more specific. You still don understand the issues. I stayed in this country and married you, is that not true? I did my duty. I stopped writing poetry to teach, is that not true? I brought money into the house, I was 'ere for our child. These are the essential duties.'

  I pick up the handcuffs and feel the smoothness of the cool steel hoops under my fingers. 'But it's not as if you had to stop writing completely. You didn't! And who said you couldn't go back to Italy?'

  Guido goes still again. Then he smiles patiently. 'You were not well when Clara was a baby. You were, 'ow shall we put it, not able to cope.' His lip curls with disgusto.

  'Why is a job in pulizia so much worse than a job in lingerie anyway? And why are you
so judgemental and class conscious, like some right-wing upper class snob, when your parents were humble socialists? Weren't they? Maybe your own mother cleaned houses! Who knows, you never really bothered to give your daughter the benefit of your family background, your history, art, magic—'

  In one heartbeat Guido drops his stance of cool detachment and leaps at me across the room. I jerk back in fright but he reaches for the handcuffs and tries to wrench them from me. My fingers clutch at the steel, I can't let go and we're locked in, pulling against each other, the steel searing the insides of my fingers. Our noses are almost touching, his tobacco acid breath puffing in my face, my heart hammering and then the strength of him is overpowering and he seizes the steel cuffs and hurls them in one wide arc across the room. They hit the big oval mirror framed in gold leaf. We watch, frozen, guilty, suspended inside the moment and somewhere ticking at the back of my mind is the magical thought that if the glass doesn't break then this hasn't happened. We could both pretend this descent into the pit did not occur. But as we wait the glass cracks into one long line like a surgical incision, then forks slowly into lightning before shattering into a million glittering eyes like the tiny mirrors sewn into the Indian cushions strewn so creatively, lovingly around the house when we were first married.

  Guido turns and rushes out through the door. I'm caught between relief at his exit and terror that he's gone. 'Guido! Come back, please, why are you so upset about this – is it because she's in your country now, or is it—'

  He swings around suddenly in the hallway.

  'Don you see what you've done to 'er? From the beginning you took 'er over, as if she was a land already conquered. So how could I make a contribution? The schooling 'ere, the customs, this education, is not like my country! Is your country! You are the madre! And my advice you always dismiss as superstition!'

  'Well, wouldn't anyone? Your advice when she got earache was to pour onion juice in her ear – you avoided touching her the day she turned seven because she might bring bad luck—'

  'I did not. Was just a comment. You are so literal, like a child. I 'ad to go out because the 'ouse was filled with Doreen and 'er feminist clichés and that diabolica birthday cake you made and I was suffering a crisis with my poetry. If I don write I don exist. Is like this for me. If you ever bothered to understand how I am done, you would know this. But no, you pretend when we first meet that you are interested, and then after, when you 'ave your child and your 'ouse, you don care any more about your husband.'

  'I had a baby to look after – almost as soon as we were married! I was worried out of my mind!'

  'Sì, eri fuori di testa.'

  'I was not mad. I was anxious, well, maybe a bit mad but I just needed—'

  'You made no time for me. You ignored me, a stranger to this country, with no friends or family. We did not go out, do anything together.'

  'Well if you'd helped me a bit maybe I wouldn't have felt so—'

  'Why you need all this help? Is a mother's job to bring up her child. This is what women do.'

  'Well, why do you criticise me then for being so involved or . . . taking such a hand in Clara's upbringing?'

  'A hand? Total control! You are like the Roman army invading. Being a mother should not be the only thing in your life. It ruins the child. And what about your husband? You made a promise, but then you—'

  The phone screams from the kitchen.

  'You changed, you were saying nothing to me, giving me nothing, but you talked on that damn phone, talked to all your friends but not me.'

  'Doreen helped me with – oh, don't you think we should answer it, what if it's Clara?'

  'I am not a man made of wood, I am flesh and blood. What am I supposed to do when my wife ignores me, turn into a saint? I don believe in them, all hypocrites in this society, those men wearing aprons and smiling while they wash up, staying 'ome to do the vacuuming in their underwear, what is it that Doreen says, so sexy a man that cleans, che ridicolo!'

  I try to block out the ringing, but it's impossible and I see myself stretched out thin as chewing gum between Guido and the scream of the phone and I'm going to snap right down the middle unless I—

  'Hello? Hello? Yes, I'm here . . . Oh, Mary! No, it's okay, I was just running up the hall, yes, just got home. Look, I'm . . .' Guido is hunting for his cigarettes in the jacket slung over the armchair, slamming his fists into the pockets. He'll rip the seams. Muttering.

  'So, how are you, Rachel?' says Mary. Her voice is settling in for a cosy chat; it's full, ripe and rich with news that she has planned to drop slowly on me, in her own time, to savour my reaction, share it. Guido lights a cigarette and throws the match on the coffee table. He doesn't even bother trying to hit the saucer.

  A wave of desperation rises and crashes in my throat. He's staring at me as if he wants to kill me. He's mouthing something . . . get off the phone!

  'And so, guess what!'

  'What?'

  'I've just been speaking to Jonny Love! Rachel? He was telling me about the show. Here in Sydney. It's going to be huge, with twenty dancers – it's called Enchanted Evening – he's so charming, Rachel, you'll just melt . . .'

  'Look, Mary—'

  'Have you watched the DVD? He said he was looking forward to meeting you. Have you really looked at him? Rachel?'

  'Yes, yes—'

  'Aren't you excited? You sound strange. What's wrong with you?'

  'Well, actually it's difficult to—'

  'Talk about drop-dead gorgeous! And he was so delightful on the phone . . . So he said he would be available for dinner. Isn't that wonderful?'

  'Wonderful.'

  'He's thinking about the nineteenth. That's not opening night, he thinks that will be a bit frantic, he usually needs a few days to get used to a time zone. He obviously wants to be at his best to meet you! So you'll have dinner with him after the show? The nineteenth? Have you got a pen?'

  'Oh no, wait, look Mary, can I ring you back? Guido is about to set fire to the house—'

  'Okay, so he'll arrive here on the thirteenth, the gala press night is on the seventeenth and you'll see him the nineteenth. He might have had some rave reviews by then, and you can incorporate them into your book. And we'll set up a photographer during that week too. It's great, isn't it? Rachel?'

  Guido is striding up the hall, a thin stream of smoke trailing behind him like a scarf. He stops at the linen cupboard, plants the cigarette between his lips and reaches up to the top shelf.

  'Yes, well, it all sounds great!' He's hauling down something big and bulky. My stomach drops like an elevator. 'Mary, I've got to go—'

  'So you'll be available then? I'll tell them to set it up? He'll be at the Park Hyatt , you know, in the city—'

  It's the old brown suitcase he arrived with twenty-two years ago. The one that Clara refused to take: 'You've gotta be kidding me. That old thing, with no wheels? It'd be like lugging around a dead cow.'

  'Yes, fine! Bye, Mary!'

  Guido is marching towards his room. I run after him and reach his door just as he goes to slam it. 'What are you doing?'

  'Leaving.' He's opening drawers, excavating underwear, socks, the belt with the silver buckle I gave him for Christmas last year.

  'What do you mean? Leaving? For how long? Like a holiday?'

  He snorts. The cigarette he left on his desk drops on the floor. The smell of scorched carpet. I bend to pick it up. 'Where are you going? Why are you taking all your things?'

  The phone rings again. On and on and on. The sound is as red as a siren, the scream in my chest.

  'The phone is ringing, Rachel.' Guido's voice has the detachment of a narrator in a documentary, making mild observations on life in the wild. 'Shouldn't you obey its command?'

  I dig my toes into the shag-pile carpet. There is an ugly black scorch mark where the cigarette dropped, the size of a five-cent piece. What kind of a mother are you? says the voice. That could be your daughter on the phone.

  'Don't
leave me,' I whisper.

  'Pardon?'

  The phone stops. And starts again. On and on and on. Whoever is calling must be desperate. This must be a very important phone call. Urgent. That sound is so terribly urgent.

  Shirts, two pairs of jeans, papers from his desk, mobile phone, suitcase snapped shut. He leaves it on the bed and pushes past me, marching back down to the living room. Not the door. He's not marching to the front door.

  It's like a reprieve from the electric chair. 'Can I make you some coffee? Or maybe a glass of wine, yes, let's have a drink, let's talk about it. Please, please can we talk, I'll listen—'

  'Too late. I'm just getting my jacket.'

  When he picks it up, small feathers, light as dust, float out of the inside pocket. He doesn't notice. He puts it on, doing up the second button. He takes a long time with the button. The eyehole is smaller than the rest because it tore once and I overstitched it, just like I overdo everything.

  I inch over and help him with the button. 'Can't we just sit together for a bit and talk?' He looks down at me and sighs. Our eyes lock and he looks beautiful to me all over again, new, possible, an unmapped world. 'There are so many things I want to talk to you about . . . like, I was just thinking today, we need to do more things together. We've grown so distant, haven't we, sort of lost in parallel worlds. Imagine if we could work together—'