'Harry who?'
'Houdini!'
'If you were out there on stage, what kind of show would you do?'
We had to shout over the music but neither of us wanted to turn it down. Eric Clapton was doing his solo in 'Layla'. The electric guitar, sweet and strong as coffee, made my heart race. I felt brave, loud, fearless. Not invisible. It could have been the music, or the wine. Or both. But sitting there with Simon, anything seemed possible. I was aware of the rough sofa under my legs and the spot where the stuffing gaped and the shabby old carpet but I was also leaping off a rugged cliff into pure air, a new place, thinking aloud. I saw myself emerging triumphant from a locked trunk, an electric chair. I could be strapped to a torture crib, something where I'd have to use my whole body, struggle against an Insane Muff , be a Female Force . . . Simon was laughing, but in an encouraging way. He was finding the best in me, I felt suddenly sure.
'Can I see the handcuffs?' he asked. 'I've never seen the real thing,' and he looked as eager as a third grader. I leapt up and got them and showed him the fearful click as they closed and the dear little keys, precious as jewels, and then I handcuff ed him to the light stand. He looked alarmed when I pretended to have lost the keys, his mouth opening in an oval of surprise as I produced a shim from under my hair.
I watched his eyes, waited for the sound of laughter. But nothing happened. His chest heaved – and suddenly I felt panicky. His face grew red, he looked as if he were in pain. I prodded him, and then the laugh came, deep from his belly and it started me laughing all over again.
Ciao mamma,
Come stai? I went with Roberto into the hills yesterday, through Stia to Arezzo where we stopped for coffee in the piazza. Such an amazing day! Old men in dark suits sat smoking cigars, studying us gravely as we pulled up chairs at a cafe, saying nothing, arms folded over their bellies. They remind me of the cypresses guarding the hill, horders of ancient secrets. As we sipped our espresso, a whole pig on a stake was brought into the square. Its eyes were open, dried in terror. At first I found Roberto intimidating – thought I'd have to be on my best Italian speaking behaviour. But turns out he speaks English well and like Lucia, wants to practise it. He is so interested in everything Australian – it's incredible, he wants to know how life is there, what people eat and talk about, what the 'empty outback' feels like. Not knowing a lot about the empty outback sometimes I'm lost for words and I make it up from books or movies or docos I've seen. Mum why is the soil so red, you know near Uluru? Is pearl-diving a major industry in Broome? Roberto wants to know. He's mad about Broome. Stay well, mammina!
Chapter 26
I am sitting in the bath, shaving my legs. Joe Cocker's 'Unchain My Heart' thunders through the open door of the bathroom. Stubby hairs swim among the scum of soap and skin flakes. 'Don't start that shaving business,' my mother warned when I was thirteen, 'the hairs just grow back fiercer.' It's true, look at them now, riding together in packs, out hunting.
I slip the strap of the loofah onto my hand and scrub at my knees. Maybe the wrinkles will come off . Guido hated my loofah. He regularly disappeared my carefully selected natural sponge, even when it was still crisp and new. Sometimes I found it at the bottom of the kitchen tidy bag and once, buried with three others, in a small grave dug near the pool. He said having to face that dead fibrous marine skeleton every morning when he stepped into the shower was more than he could bear. 'Your life is disgusting,' he said, 'is a cemetery for your deceased skin, a breeding ground for parasites.' So I kept it in the cupboard where it grew mouldy and even more disgusting.
The sponge smarts on my legs, and my thighs tingle rosily. I think with satisfaction how I won't have to stuff the loofah back in the cupboard now, under the sanitary pads and toilet rolls. After it's rinsed clean, I can hang it up by its string to drain, looped over the hot tap. That will be its new home. My Outed Loofah.
I survey the body lurking under the soapy water, cupping my breasts so they rise heroically over the proletariat submerged beneath. Tonight, when I go to dinner with Jonny Love, I'll wear the black dress I bought with Maria twenty years ago. It has a low flattering neckline. As I bend over the menu, Jonny Love's eyes might linger there.
Guido's face swims into focus. Like a collage it pastes itself over Jonny's. He's looking down at me, shaking his head in disapproval. 'That dress is too short for a woman with wrinkles on her knees.' I sink down into the tepid water, letting it close over my head.
When I climb out of the bath, steam is rising into veils of vapour. Clouds breathe on the mirror, obscuring outlines. Your mother has a pacemaker and you've left her with no dinner. A surge of heat rises in my chest. God, how I hate the voice. And what about Maria? Poor Maria, who helped you so much all those years ago. And you haven't even rung her. Shame on you!
Something rolls over in my head and the bathroom slides. Maria! The funeral – it had gone completely out of my mind. I turn and face the mirror, swathed in steam.
I like myself, says the red lipstick.
'Fuck off ,' I tell the voice.
The sliding sensation stops. I feel my two feet on the furred bath mat. The good thing about being alive, says the therapist, is that you get a second chance. I will ring Maria tomorrow. Take her out for lunch, tell her the truth – and afterwards, there will be no one waiting at home to answer to. As a reward I could put on 'Dancing in the Dark' and turn it up so loud that the windows shake. Time to get ready now, I tell myself kindly. Not long before we have to drive to the ferry.
I get a fresh towel from the linen cupboard.
Such a silly thing to write about, says the voice, magic.
'Fuck off ,' I say again. I keep saying it under my breath as I pat my legs dry and put on moisturiser. Then I take off the towel around my head and brush out my hair. Why do women have to spend so long having to make everything about us smooth? Our legs, our hair, our elbows, our voices, our wants, our personalities . . . smooth, nothing to ruffle anyone, nice.
I pad out of the bathroom into the hall. A movement catches my eye, a flash of shadow passing behind the glass at the front door. Over the music now there's a sharp rapping. I can just make out a tall outline distorted by the stained glass. Damn! I duck into the bedroom and slip on my dressing-gown. There's wine all down the front. It feels musty and stale on my freshly washed skin. And I was about to put a clean dress on, the first time in a month.
'Oh, Simon, hi!'
'Hello, how are you? I just, well, came to see how you're going . . .' He shuffles on the front step, looks down at the cracked wood under his shoes. Unusual for him to be at the front door. Normally, he strides down the side, past the lawn and my struggling impatiens, heading straight for the pool. In his hands there is a small brown terracotta pot.
'What are these?'
'Just African violets, thought you might like them. You were saying the other day, you know, how nice it would be to have a few more flowers around . . .'
'Oh, how lovely, but do you think I could keep them alive? Aren't they terribly temperamental?' I beckon him through the door. 'Come in, Simon.'
'Not if you look after them. And you do that well, looking after things!'
'Thank you so much, I'll put them here on the kitchen table, it'll cheer the place up!'
'There, see?' Simon finds a straw table mat and places it underneath the violets. The pot does look pretty on the warm wood. A lush little oval of jungle. He draws up a chair and sits down. He places his hands together on the table, looking preoccupied, as if he's about to launch into a story, or an explanation. But I'll be late if I stay here. I haven't got time for a long story. I'll have to tell him now before he starts. Tell him the truth, be myself. Isn't that what we said to each other that day? The good thing about growing older? Growing up? You wouldn't dare, says the voice. You can't be rude when he's gone out of his way to help you. But it's not rude to state the truth, is it?
'Simon, thank you so much for these flowers, that was so thoughtful. But listen, I can
't stop now because I've . . . I'm going to the theatre! Well, actually, to the casino.'
'What? Now? How come . . .?'
'You know I told you about the magician Jonny Love, one of the men I'm writing about? Well, he's performing at the theatre in the casino and afterwards I'll have the opportunity to interview him.'
'Oh! So you're getting ready now? Do you want me to give you a lift? How are you getting there?'
'I'm taking the ferry in, it's a lovely night for it.' A shiver of anticipation wiggles down my neck. 'Imagine, there'll be the moon on the water – it's full tonight. How long since I've been into the city at night! All those lights, and then the theatre, licence to sit and dream with your eyes open.'
'And you've got the right music to get you in the mood!'
'And after the theatre,' I go on dreamily, 'I'm going to meet Jonny at the Park Hyatt , so swanky! Maybe there'll be duck à l'orange, my favourite, and French wine. Oh, what to have? Decisions, decisions . . . And then there's Jonny, of course. Have I shown you his photo? What charisma he has.' Excitement leaps into my throat like bubbles rising in a glass of champagne. I can feel the edge of a slide beginning just above my right ear, but I will it back, stomp on it. Dinner, candles, the moon on the water, a handsome magician. 'Jonny's a magnetic performer, by all accounts, it's going to be hard to concentrate but who knows, maybe he'll be on the look-out for another female assistant . . . someone who'll stay this time and persist, rise to be his partner. Unchain my heart, all right!'
Simon's face changes. His smiles for a moment, or tries to. 'Well, better keep going then.' He gets up so quickly the chair tips over. The crash of wood is loud in the spell cast by the jungle flowers. 'Oh sorry, shit. Well, listen, you have a great night,' he says, righting the chair, rushing up the hall, opening the door, disappearing.
'Bye!' I call as the gate clicks behind him. 'Thanks again!' But he's already out of earshot.
I hover for a moment at the door. I hear a dull thud from the footpath like a shoe kicking metal and then a van door slams like a pistol shot. The van revs loudly and screeches off around the corner at the top of the hill.
African violets, maybe from Tanzania where his wife grew up. Oh, how could I have been so inconsiderate, conceited! 'Rise to be Jonny Love's partner' – as if! How ridiculous I must have sounded sitting there in my musty old dressing-gown, with my magic books for kids and my wrinkles and stringy wet hair. Maybe he needed to tell me something about his daughter; she's over in Tanzania right now. Maybe he needed to talk. What if something bad has happened? He looked so serious. And you've spent the last hour in the bath fantasising like a bourgeois madam, shampooing your hair!
Bugger. I go into the bedroom and open the wardrobe door. There's a grinding sound and then it swings towards me, a heavy plane of solid wood. It's almost off its hinges. Unhinged, I think, we're all unhinged in this house. Another thing that needs to be fixed. I take out the black dress, and hold it up.
It's work, I tell myself. Interviewing Jonny Love is part of my job. I couldn't really have done anything else. Such a frilly job. I try to turn my mind to the ferry and the city lights and Jonny's picture. I look at the dress, its sheen of silk, like the black water with the moon on it. The last time I wore it was for the launch of Guido's first book of poems. Fifteen years ago. God, I hope it still fits.
I put it on and go into the bathroom. I have to stand on the bathtub to see the whole length of me. Somehow we never got around to getting a full-length mirror for ourselves in the bedroom like real married people. The dress fits. It looks good. A little loose around the hips. I suppose that's because of all this running. I didn't run much when Clara was young. Well, only around the house.
I look at the mirror. The dress finishes just above my knees. The knees with two wrinkles each. How did I get here, a martyred old nag in a black dress, standing alone on the bathroom tub? Oh, why don't you just fall off and break your neck?
'Fuck off ,' I tell the voice. If I squinch my eyes up I see a shapely woman in a black dress with a low-cut neck and the tops of her breasts showing. I'll wear that necklace which glints like gold lights on water, like the highlights you long for in your life.
I lock the back door and the side windows, check the oven and stove are off , the answering machine is on. As I pick up my keys and handbag I pass the computer in my room. The green light is winking. The power is still on. I check my watch. There's six minutes to spare for getting to the ferry on time. I can't resist. What if Clara's been 'flying' along on that Vespa and overturned in a field somewhere?
I open my inbox and, yes, there is Clara!
Hi Mum,
Roberto came to pick me up tonight. He met Lucia. When I got home she said, 'Stai attenta – young men like Roberto are good at seduction but bad at commitment.' Marisa reckons I should just enjoy it while it lasts, not get too involved. Too late.
Dad doesn't write to me much. I suppose he's so busy writing himself – so to speak. How can you tell what men are thinking? Drives me crazy. We went out to dinner to a fabulous restaurant . . . and Roberto was ordering wine, laughing with the waiters, complimenting me on my dress – yes, a DRESS, mum, I felt so special sitting with the starched white tablecloth, the grissini in the wicker basket, all that male attention. But it was so wierd, half way into the main meal (chicken with gorgonzola and pine nuts) he closed down. All the lights went off inside him. I'd just been telling him the stuff you wrote about Broome, his Special Place of Interest – thanks Mum – so you'd think he'd have wanted to hear, I mean it wasn't as if I was raving on about me or San Galgano or my father and his mid-life crisis – do you think that's what he's going through mum? – but somehow the more I said about pearl-diving and the mixed ethnicity and the romantic sunsets of Broome etc, the more quiet and absent he got. It's hard not to lose interest in yourself when the man does.
Marisa says he's just moody. But how can you be sure YOU'RE not the problem when there's just the two of you sitting at a table and nothing else in the room has changed? Anyway, tomorrow afternoon the book club ladies are coming to our apartment, so I'm going to try to concentrate on that instead of male misteries. I've watched Lucia make the apple cake but its different doing it alone isn't it? Like watching someone drive then getting behind the wheel yourself. Remember that bloody song Dad used to sing when I was on my L plates? God it annoyed me – 'Andiamo in Città' – he sang it over and over through gritted teeth. I was supposed to be fooled by his light carefree singing. Didn't fool anyone. His face was white as a gost, his right hand always hovering near my knee, ready to grab the wheel. Afterwards he went straight to the cupboard and poured himself a big glass of Scotch. Still, at least he took me. You wouldn't even let me have a bicycle! – you and your 'that hill will be the death of you!' I had to learn on Saraah's bike and she always made such a big deal about lending it to me so I had to bribe her with all kinds of stuff and still now I can only go strait ahead – any corners looming and I'm screwed.
I've decided I'll get up early tomorrow morning and polish the floors. Or maybe I should do the shopping first – if you don't get to the shops by one o'clock everything closes until late afternoon. In terrible sincronicity the metal screens roll down, loud as gunfire. It's a strange custom – people disappearing in the middle of the day. The apples have to be very ripe, Lucia says, or the cake will be dry. Wish me luck!
P.S. How is Nan? Hope you're getting on with your book mum. How good will it feel when it's finished! Are you okay on your own? It must be the first time in your life. Funny, same with me. It's a great feeling sometimes, doing for yourself, as the song says. Is that happening to you? I hope so . . .
I switch off the computer and run down the hall. As I bang the door behind me Clara's last few words ring in my head. The first time on my own. I've lived with a man all my adult life, I suddenly realise, but I've always felt on my own.
The people at my table have left the chair at the head empty. An impossibly good seat. Odd, when the view fr
om here is the best in the house. Centre stage, 360 degrees, uncluttered vision. Maybe no one wanted to be conspicuous, like kids hiding up the back of the hall at school assemblies. After all, magicians are famous for picking out volunteers from the audience, asking for their watches, a five-dollar note, a random body to chain or cuff . Most people don't know that these volunteers are plants, carefully trained in the act of innocence.
My table companions have obviously been here for a while, judging by the litter of empty glasses with lemon slices stuck to the sides. Not that I'm judging. As a waiter comes past I order a gin and tonic myself, and grin at the woman next to me. She winks back and empties her shot glass in one mouthful. Then she sucks on a quarter of lime. Tequila. There is a little salt trail on the inside of her thumb.
I take out my notebook. A loud laugh cracks in my ear. I begin to write some observations about the theatre but an elbow jolts mine, making my pen run off the page. The tequila woman doesn't notice. She's having a drinking competition with the man opposite, the glasses lined up like soldiers.
I look at the tables around the room. I can't see right to the back, the second tier is a blur of colour and noise. The roar of talk rises up the walls, the shiver of lights spangling the chests of laughing women in lycra. The atmosphere in this theatre is a very distant cousin to the reverent hush of the Capitol Theatre. Hardly related. I miss the awed quiet, the plush velvet obedience of the seated rows. 'You're not at church, Mum,' I could imagine Clara scoffing. Well, I just hope everyone settles down when the show starts.
The lights dim without warning. In a second we are in total darkness. The notes of a flute, panpipes perhaps, drop into the black. The room eddies around the sound. A shot of excitement spurts through me. We have begun.
The flute picks up notes like stitches, weaving a tune in the darkness. We cling to the music, our only clue. We could be anywhere, at the top of a cliff , falling through the night. It's eerie, almost frightening, this cowering at the foot of the darkness. There is a stir in the audience, and the hush is shot through with uneasy whispers.
Escape Page 37
