I don't know what made me tell her, I'd never dream of telling anything so personal to those other matching brown-shoe women. Or even to Lucia. Maybe it was her perfect English. Maybe it is just her. But Sophia didn't seem surprised. That's what I like about her. It's as if she's seen it all and she's not judging. She just listened to me and said gravely, 'You've got to keep something back for yourself, Clara. That's something they never mention in love stories. Women find out the hard way. Men just seem to do it naturally.' She smiled then. Kind. 'It's good to learn this lesson when you are young. When you are still a butterfly. Not yet squashed.'
I felt such goosebumps. I loved the way she said my name, Clara. As if she'd always known it, had seen me even before I was born. Funny, I always thought secretly that for me Italy would be about men. Romantic adventures and all that. Seems in a way it's more about women. Or maybe, about the woman I am.
I'm perched on the stool in my parents' kitchen studying the fridge. Thirty years old, a reliable Westinghouse, from the period when your basic whitegoods, as my father says, were made to last. The fridge rumbles and wheezes more than it used to, but still keeps the milk cold. Its essential character, though, is heart-achingly transformed. Posters and flyers, stuck on with fridge magnets supplied by a succession of local plumbers and builders, once plastered its surface in a bright collage. The posters told of rallies against landmines, public school cut-backs, uranium mining, deforestation, so that the fridge itself seemed a hotbed of loud protest instead of the cool softly whispering iceblock it was supposed to be. When friends came to visit they sat around the fridge the way most would sit around a fire. Those bold notices of coming events have gone. In their place are the discreet business cards of doctors, their names and emergency numbers, physio and X-ray appointments, torn-off notepad pages with medication schedules and shopping lists.
Dad hands me a cup of tea. He sips his own, making a show of smacking his lips. 'Needed that. Been working in the garden. Nothing like a cup of tea!' His nose wrinkles. 'But this green tea, I don't know, your mother was keen to try it. Supposed to be full of anti-somethings, extra good for you. You can have up to five cups a day and it only does you good – and hopefully the Indian farmers who grow it.' He grins. 'Pity it doesn't taste better.' He hands me the ginger nut biscuits. 'These help it down. Wonder if you can have five of these too?' He's moving around the kitchen putting back the milk, setting out the tea things, throwing comments around like crumbs from a shaken tablecloth. He's bristling with energy, almost fuzzy with an aura of plans and hopes, but when he stops and comes to face me at the kitchen table I can see the white hairs curling out from his nostrils. Mum used to remind him to cut them. A pain flares, just under my rib. I wonder if this should be my job now?
'So, Dad,' I begin, 'guess who I saw at the Park Hyatt the other night.'
'Prince Charles.'
Mum wanders into the kitchen. 'Is he dead? Who shot him?'
Dad takes her elbow. 'I thought you were having a little rest. Have a cup of tea, Deb?' Dad's tone quivers with concern. It's a special voice, I've noticed, that he only uses with her. It began in the hospital and makes me think of antiseptic and bad news. Or maybe it isn't new, but rather an exaggeration of a quality that crept in years ago.
Mum clicks her teeth with irritation and jerks her elbow away. Her back to Dad, she closes her eyes for a fraction of a second. When she turns back, she is making an effort to smile.
'Tea, lovely – but only if it's green!'
'Of course.' Dad is so hearty you wouldn't know if he's noticed the rejection or not. He pours the tea, taking great care not to make it too strong. 'You were saying something about Prince Charles,' he says.
'No, I was talking about someone I met at the Park Hyatt . I went there to interview Jonny Love, the American magician I'm writing about for the book.'
'Did someone shoot him? There was a case in the paper about a group of angry Japanese magicians who wanted to take the government to court for outing the secrets of their coin trick, some abuse of copyright. Did you see it?'
'No, Mum. I went to the Park Hyatt for dinner to meet Jonny Love – but guess who served us?'
'Who?' Mum peered down into her tea. In a loud whisper she says, 'Always with the guessing games, you'd think she'd have grown out of that by now. Why doesn't she just say what she needs to say? I was never good at games, and it's worse now, always losing the thread. Was there a clue before and I didn't get it?'
My cheeks burn. Dad brushes my hand. 'You know she doesn't mean it. She's just become very sensitive about her memory. Feels at a loss.'
Mum gives a grunt of anger. 'Are you talking about me? I'm still here, you know!'
I want to get my keys and my handbag and leave. I stare down at the bench, swallowing. 'I saw Danny Shore at the Park Hyatt . He's the head waiter there.'
'No!' cries Dad.
'Yes!'
Dad beams. He thumps the table, making the cup bounce and clatter in its saucer. 'What do you know! How is he? Did you talk to him?'
'Yes,' I smile back at him. It's so good to see that genuine pleasure in my father's face. 'I recognised him and at first he didn't seem to know me, but then he did. He seemed fine – very anxious to please, but he seemed happy.'
'That's Danny for you, hasn't changed, eh.'
'No, but he's got a job and seems to be doing it well, taking pride in it. He asked after you very fondly.'
Mum looks up from her tea. She focuses on me, fixing my eyes with hers. Alarm twangs inside me. She looks as if she's about to deliver one of her stinging remarks. 'I always thought you were so brave,' she murmurs.
'What?'
'You said no. I never could have done it. But I wanted to. Instead I let my daughter do it for me.'
I stare at her. She looks down at her tea. I flash a glance at Dad. The smile is gone. He looks pale. Slowly, his eyes fill. I wonder if my mother has ever said this before. I don't think so. All three of us examine the cream plastic benchtop. There is a small scorch mark in the shape of a half-moon. Must have been from a saucepan. And two or three scratches from chopping knives slipping from the cutting board. I remember doing one of them myself. I run my fingernail along it.
'Don't, you'll just make it worse,' says Mum.
Dad wipes his eyes quick as lightning with the back of his hand. 'Have another cup of tea, Rachel?' He smiles, trying to make the best of things, trying to cheer us all up, trying to fix the world. He just doesn't realise that there are some things you can't fix. I feel a rush of love for that brave face of his. Soldiering on, stopping off to do the shopping, making the tea, propping up pillows, watering the garden. Carrying on as if there is hope and everything is still beginning.
We grin at each other and together we rinse up the tea things. Mum drift s out of the kitchen. A loud sigh comes from the hall, followed by an exclamation. I can't make out the word. Dad and I don't mention it.
When I get home I go to lie down on the sofa. I dangle my legs over the edge so I don't have to take off my shoes. Then I think, who cares? and curl up comfortably. You were so brave, I repeat to myself, and a new warmth like mulled wine on a winter's night spreads through every part of my body.
Chapter 29
Ciao Mammina,
I told Lucia about meeting Sophia in the pannetteria and she looked worried – she asked if I could look in on her tomorrow. Sophia lives alone and last winter when she got a cold it developed into newmonia. No one knew she was ill and there she was lying in bed delirious, too weak to even go out and shop. Luckily her son rang up and then he rang Lucia. 'It's ridiculous,' Lucia said, 'a man living all the way over in England has to be the one to tell her friends who live around the corner!' Lucia went on then about how annoying Sophia is – that she doesn't really trust anyone, not fully. Never tells about her bad times. The only way anyone knows she's feeling low is when she stops answering her phone. Lucia is so fond of her, 'as if she were my own sister', and she tells her that, but . . . Well, of cour
se I wanted to know why Sophia doesn't trust anyone and how many children she has and where they all are. Funny, I'd just assumed that she had no children – she seems so solitary, a self-contained package.
'There's a sad history,' Lucia says. 'Why don't you make us a caffe and I'll tell you.' So we went to sit in the kitchen, which I actually prefer – it's full of the good smells of last night's cooking and fresh bread. 'It is like so,' Lucia begins (as she always does), spreding all her ringed fingers out on the table. 'Sophia was divorced, way back when it was considered a terrible sin for a woman, worse than death. Italian marriage has always been difficult to, how do you say, break? Especially for the woman. Even now, there is still no pension for the single mother – if she can't afford to look after a child, the state will only pay an institution, yes, an orphanage, for its care. So the child has to leave its mother.' Lucia snorted then, which made me think of Nan. Imagine what Nan would say to all this!? 'Sophia's husband was a very successful politician, and he was furious about their separation and . . . other things. A divorce is not good for a man in public life. Fine for a man to have mistresses, but you have to know how to keep your wife quiet. He made it very bad for her.'
'What about the children?'
'There were two boys, both of them left the country.' Lucia finished up her coffee and then the bloody phone rang. Lucia went to get it, which was very kind of her as she knows how I feel about the phone at the moment. Her knees seem to be in very good form these days, I've noticed.
It was Roberto on the phone, wanting to know if I'd like to go bicycling at the Cascine. Bicycling, as if!
Clara x
P.S. I meant to tell you, Lucia often asks about you, mum – she admires you, for writing books and getting them published, for the magic tricks you've taught me. She's fascinated by magic. I've showed her a couple of card tricks and a thumb tie. She says next time I write to you to say 'G'day' from Lucia. I've taught her to say that. She has to pinch her nose with her fingers to achieve the nasal twang. She thinks you're dead exotic. Funny how Australians here are seen as a curiosity, like kangaroos or box jellyfish or red belly black snakes.
P.P.S. I notice how you haven't mentioned Maurizio or magic for ages. Don't think I haven't noticed. And I appreciate it. Have to tell you, too, how much I'm loving this writing business. When I write in this room, with just me and the silence, it's like travelling somehow, going somewhere else, and I start to discover what I think. I get really hot, it's as if my chemistry changes, and the sweat pours off me. Anyway, love you, mum.
I'd like to tell Simon this – what Clara says about writing and travelling. How both take you somewhere, landing you in a different place to where you started. There are a lot of things, actually, I'd like to share with Simon. But he hasn't been around.
Mum – Just came back from the Cascine – it was wild! It's just outside Florence – was once an estate of the Medici, now an enormous park with long avenues, green lawns. We went by vespa – bliss, and hired BICYCLES – terror. Racing bikes, so high off the ground! I told Roberto I'd changed my mind and I'd just walk around while he went for a ride. He wouldn't hear of it. Pretended he didn't understand English.
So I gave in. There was no way out. At first I wobbled dangerously, always on the point of falling off . Wobbled because I went too slowly but also because I was SO embarrassed. Roberto rode behind me, and the more i thought about him looking at the 4 kilos I've put on, the more self-conscious i became and the more I wobbled. But he just kept on calling out encouragement. He didn't give up. Told me to look up, see the willows? See the ducks on the water? Go faster!
'Learning to ride a bicycle,' he called, 'is more important than learning a language!'
I think he's right.
'Va bene! You're doing fine!'
And suddenly I did feel fine. The feeling rose like those ducks taking off into the air. I was finding my balance – this rightful position between earth and sky – it's like coming across the centre of your being, or that special place you lock into in music, when you never want the beat to end.
Sono andata in biciclett a!! The wind was strong today swishing the leaves overhead, stirring my hair, whooshing at my face. Sometimes fear is exhilarating, isn't it? Like when you write yourself into the unknown. I truly loved Roberto today for the experiences he's offered me. I'm seeing him differently – without the romantic stuff , it's as if I used to be miopic and suddenly I've got glasses on – I see him clearly, he's just a normal guy. A nice man, a bit insensitive maybe, but friendly, kind, my unlocker of secrets Italian, generous owner of vespa, friend . . .
Today I took courage and risked falling, looking like a fool, admitting my inexperience – everything in front of a MAN I admire. Isn't that amazing? With Roberto I've learnt something about myself, and I'm seeing the world!
love, Clara x
'Hello, is this Poolwerx? Oh good, this is Rachel Leopardi, I'm one of Simon Manson's clients? I was wondering if Simon was there?'
'No, you've just missed him. He's gone out on service calls. Is there a problem with your pool? You could try him on his mobile.'
'I've tried but there's just a message service. He never rings back.'
'Well, that's not good enough, is it, madam. I must say I'm surprised to hear that about Simon. He's one of our best. Usually very reliable. But if you've got a problem and he's not performing his job then I'll—'
'Oh no, Christ, no it's not . . . Look, I'm a friend of his, he's always been fantastic with the pool, responds to calls of distress with alacrity! No, it's just, usually he drops in when he's nearby and so, when I hadn't seen him for three weeks I got worried—'
'Well, madam, if it isn't a service problem there's not much I can do. The shop is starting to fill up – I'm sorry, but I'll have to leave you there.'
'Could I have his home number then?'
'It's not our policy, madam, to give out numbers over the phone. You can understand I'm sure regarding privacy issues.'
'Yes, of course, but—'
'Goodbye.'
The phone clicks in my ear. Rude bastard, who does he think I am, Osama bin Leopardi?
I look at Simon's Poolwerx card on the table. There's a cartoon smiley face drawn on with biro. I must have done that doodling on the phone. Simon's real face swims up at me. 'I like your garden,' he said that day. 'I like your home.' He feels like home to me, or the closest thing I've had to that feeling. At least I know now that no physical tragedy has befallen him, because the man at Poolwerx said he'd just been at the shop. I'm relieved – the last few nights I've woken with night sweats, dreaming that he'd fallen under a car or tripped at someone's poolside and sunk to the bottom like a stone or had a heart attack in the night, although he's too young for that to be a major possibility and he doesn't even smoke, but then he's had so much sadness and stress in his life.
So why would he so suddenly stop calling?
He got sick of you, who wouldn't? says the voice. Shut up, I tell it.
I lean against the table. I look at the African violets. I remember the way he picked up my groceries at the supermarket, poured my wine, danced with me. And then I went and said that stupid thing about Jonny Love.
Idiot!
*
Mum, such a strange experience. I'm still kind of breathless. It was like this, cosi – When I got home from cycling the other day, Lucia said that she'd rung Sophia, but she didn't answer the phone. We were both worried, so this morning I went to the shops to buy some fresh food and take it to her.
I bought fresh bread and fruit, milk and some vegetables to make a minestrone. It was cumbersum loading all the bags onto the bus but a nice man climbed right out and helped me up the steps. VERY nice, actually. Probably too old for me, at least thirty, but lovely eyes. I basked in his admiring glance all the way to the stop after Piazzale Michelangelo.
Sophia lives in an apartment on the second floor. Grey and pink stone-flagged floor, bold expressionist paintings on the wall, a lush oblong of
deep red carpet in the living room. Two peacock feathers in a glass vase on the coffee table. And bookshelves almost as tall as the ceiling line the walls. It's a lovely space to be in – it's a thinking space, not sleepy.
Sophia was in bed when I came. She stood at the door in her nightie and slippers, her hair hanging straight and limp. I told her to go back to bed, I'd just put away the food. No no, she insisted, she would put on her dressing gown and sit up for a while. Make coffee. So we did that and I stayed to drink it and eat a biscotto. I told her about the bicycling and turning Roberto into a friend and my progress with L'Arte della Gioia. Sophia grinned and told me how she was reading Dickens again and what a pleasure it was and then she read me a line from the book open on the coffee table that made me forget to breathe – 'Do you want to be the hero of your own life or let someone else take your place?' I thought about that for a while. She asked me about Australia then and where we lived and was there wildlife everywhere like in the travel brochures, kangaroos hopping down the streets of Sydney? I was a bit disappointed with that comment because I never expected her to be so banal – people are forever saying 'kanguri?' as soon as I mention Australia, and you have to smile and nod and carry on. But then I realised she was grinning at me with that raised eyebrow of hers and I knew she was having me on. She asked me if I miss it, and I said no not at all (sorry mum) well not yet anyway. Be careful, she said, places can grow on you and after many years you're not sure where home is.
Escape Page 42
