Escape

by Anna Fienberg

  Is that such a bad thing? I asked her. Where you're born is kind of random isn't it? 'I knew someone who went to Australia,' said Sophia. 'Furthest place on earth from here.' I told her that actually New Zealand is further, the direct opposite on the globe from Italy. But she must have been thinking about something else because she didn't argue. 'Sempre difficile,' she said. 'Always such a troubled boy.' I got the feeling she would have said more but the cough began again and it went on for ages, draning all the energy out of her. I went to get her a glass of water which she drank and it seemed to settle her. But I could see she was exhausted from the coughing and probably from the conversation so I helped her back into bed.

  I felt her forehead but she didn't feel abnormally hot. She said she just needed to rest, she'd be all right, and she closed her eyes. I sat for a while on the bed, just watching her breathe. Mum, there's something so strange, what's that word, inixplicible. I feel such a fondness for her. No, it's more than fondness, deeper, a different texture to the feeling you might have for an old woman you've only just met. When I touched her forehead, her skin was a shock, so soft you could just keep stroking it, like a piece of comfort silk. It felt familiar. When I bent close I smelled her skin. People have their own definable smells don't they, that make them separate. But Sophia's smell didn't cut her off from me, it held her familiarity in there. I had such a funny feeling mum, sitting close to her on the bed. I felt that if I just sat there long enough I would remember. I'd find the beginning. Of what? You know when you wake up from a dream and you can see in your mind the last scene and all the colours and feelings but the more you try to probe and remember the less you grasp and it disappears down some tube in the back of your head like water running out of the bath. Well it was like that.

  Chapter 30

  The bell on the door of the shop buzzes as I open it. The young man standing at the counter doesn't look up. He's frowning at a computer screen and as I approach he sighs, pressing a key. I think of Clara's Italy, where men froth at the mere sight of a female. But they probably don't do it to middle-aged women. They probably don't even see them, looking straight through their spreading hips and wrinkled knees to see what delicious young thing might be coming behind. Women my age are invisible to everyone, everywhere, except perhaps to major charities and superannuation schemes. And maybe, whispers my new, kind voice, Simon Manson.

  'Yeah, can I help you?' the man asks. He has stringy blond hair and drowning eyes. The way he scratches his head, it's as if he's troubled and could do with some help himself.

  'Hi, I rang a few days ago? Rachel Leopardi? I wanted Simon Manson's address. Have you seen him?'

  The man looks at me steadily, but I can tell his mind is somewhere else. He glances back at the computer. 'Lady, I just come in Tuesdays. The boss's gone to lunch. Do you know anything about computers?'

  'A little. What's the problem?'

  'See, I shouldn't of touched it but there's nothing to do here and I got so bored I thought I'd play pinball but I meant to press save first, you know for his program, except I hit somethin' else and now it won't . . . Oh, fuckit.'

  I go round to his side of the counter and we peer together at the blue screen. 'All I know is how to type on these things,' I tell him, 'but often I make tragic mistakes and sometimes I can undo them.'

  The young man smells of salt and something musty, wet towels, maybe, left scrunched up on a bedroom floor. His eyes are still fearful but a flash of hope flickers through them. 'Do whatever, couldn't make it worse.'

  I fluff around, looking, thinking. He's right, I probably can't delete what isn't there. It's a scary, blank screen. In fact, that's it, maybe I can un-delete his delete! I press the 'undo' button and a beautifully ruled spreadsheet showing chlorine and stabiliser and pool acid price-lists springs up on the screen.

  'You're a fuckin' genius!' cries the man, and claps me on the shoulder.

  'Thank you,' I beam. I press save in case he forgets to.

  'Oh sorry, shit . . .' His cheeks flush bright red. He scratches his head and pale particles fall in a shower from his hair, scattering onto the counter. 'I swear too much, my girlfriend's always telling me. I'm just so fucking relieved!' Unconsciously he's herding the particles into a little pile. We both look down at it. I see that it is varied in colour and texture, with gritty, gold, dark and pebbly bits. Sand, I realise, not dandruff . Somehow this endears him to me enormously. He probably surfs every day except Tuesday and his girlfriend's always telling him to get a proper job and wash his hair as well as to stop swearing. But he can't help it.

  'If swearing is your worst vice, then you're not so bad,' I tell him. 'I wish I'd told my daughter that. Given her a bit of slack. I swear too, in secret, plus I drink too much red wine and flirt with bad magicians.'

  He looks at me blankly. Oh, why can't I just stay inside the lines? The sharp chemical aroma of the pool shop overwhelms me for a moment. It bleeds into the primary colours of the pool toys and the awful vision of myself, a middle-aged droopy-eyed spaniel standing on the electrically nylon blue carpet, wheedling for a man's private address. The swirly world behind my eyes is tipping into a slide. I grab the bench.

  'Hey, are you okay?'

  'Yes, look, I might get some chlorine while I'm here and um, some acid.'

  I delve inside my big black bag for my wallet, breathing deeply. Although large handbags are handy for containing a multitude of diverse and bulky items like singlets, hairbrushes, notepads, cardigans, handcuffs, apples and sanitary pads, their bulk can cause panic. It takes so long to find what you're looking for. As I'm searching, I remember the haste with which I made the decision to come here. I didn't think things through. I forgot to brush my hair or do up that difficult button on my skirt, and as I got out of the car, discovered that the shoes I'd put on my feet were each from a different pair. One had a slightly higher heel than the other. I had to limp across the pedestrian crossing like a person with a new hip replacement. Urgency, like a great wave, had pushed me ahead, out the door and into the street, a helpless piece of debris. Clearly, I hadn't thought to check if I had brought my wallet.

  The young man looks back at the computer screen while he's waiting.

  'Look, maybe I'll have to forget the chlorine.' Luckily my face is buried in the bag.

  'Whatever.'

  Suddenly my hand closes over the smooth leather surface of the wallet. See, you're not as inefficient as you think, I tell myself kindly. I bring it out onto the bench with a silly laugh.

  'That'll be twenty-five dollars, thanks,' says the young man.

  I open the wallet and to my dismay flames leap out instead of money. I snap it closed, and they disappear.

  'What the fuck?' He jumps back in fright.

  A faint whiff of paraffin mingles with the chlorine in the air.

  'That's surreal!' says the young man, stooping to pick up the plastic bottles of pool sampler he has knocked from the shelves. 'How'd you do that?'

  'Magician's secret,' I say, tapping my nose mysteriously, as if I'd meant to bring the trick wallet instead of the real one. 'Look, what I really came in for was to ask about Simon Manson. He works here on contract. Drives a van? Does service visits? I need his address.'

  The young man looks wary. 'I don't think we're supposed to—'

  'I just haven't heard from him in a long time and I want to check he's okay. It's all right, I'm a friend. Do you have a register of employees? Maybe you could just leave it open here on the desk while you check on . . . something out the back.'

  The man hesitates.

  I nod at the computer. 'How's it going now, all fixed?'

  'Okay then, but be quick. I dunno when Bob's back.'

  While he's gone to get the book, I riffle through my bag again and come up with a notepad and a pen. He leaves the book open and goes back to the computer. I flick my eyes down the page and see Simon. 101 Chapel Street. I write down the home phone number too, just in case.

  'Can I have a go?' the young man s
ays.

  I pass the wallet over. 'You've got to open it up quickly, with a snap. Go on then, it won't burn you.'

  He does it and whoops with delight. 'Fuckin' hell, wait till I tell my girlfriend. Where do you get a thing like that?'

  'Hey Presto, a shop near here. Ask for Baudelaire. Au revoir!'

  I almost skip out the door. At least that's what I wanted to do but in my uneven heels, I settled, just in time, for a little disabled hop.

  Hi mum,

  Just before I left Sophia's she had this awful coughing fit. She was trying to say something – 'more', or, I don't know – she couldn't get her breath. I felt so scared for her. When I got home, I told Lucia and she said it might be a good idea to get the doctor around, to give her a shot of penicillin.

  But I'm still worried. I hope you don't mind me going on about this woman you don't even know. It's just that there's no one here to share it, no one who really knows me, like family. I'm okay, though, it's just – something has shift ed right up under my heart, you know, bypassing my brain. It's like the way a bit of music, a certain smell waft s past, suddenly changing the way you feel – you're lost for a moment, in search of a memory or a dream. I can't leave it alone. Marisa says maybe I'm having a past-life experience, maybe I've got a sixth sense or I'm sychic or something. But I can see she doesn't really relate to it all – and why should she? Enjoy it while it lasts, she says. But it's not exactly plesant. More mysterious and there's some wisps of grief to it, as if I've lost something I didn't even know I had. I get teary for no reason. And I really, really want Dad to write to me. Would you mind very much getting him to do that?

  I'm waiting to see if Simon calls. I would rather do that than go stalking him at his own home and arrive unannounced. That is a scary prospect. He may not be at all pleased to see me. It is easier to wait now that I know where he lives. It's like having valium in the bathroom cupboard in case of emergency. Not to be taken unless strictly necessary. I've driven past his house a couple of times, during the day when I know he won't be there. He doesn't live far away, just over the hill on the other side of the dam, at the beginning of the bush. There are silver scribbly gums and red bloodwoods behind his house, and when the wind rises, thick grasses the colour of limes sway like the tide turning in a river.

  I like the look of Simon's house. It's a shock at first. A stark simple cube under a witch's hat, reminding me of the houses I drew as a child. Two windows for eyes, a front door for a nose, and a garden path leading down to the letterbox. It has a sense of humour, Simon's house. Structurally dull, it's painted bright blue like a tropical bird. The front door is a rainbow of orange and yellow stripes. You might see those colours in pictures of the Caribbean. Or Africa. Once, he told me that he let his daughter decide on the colours. I'd love to see inside. I wonder if the furniture is an outrageous purple or the cushion covers are zebra-striped.

  I see the therapist once a week. It is the most interesting and satisfying thing that happens to me. Sometimes I bring coffee to the sessions to help me be braver and we talk about the week and my feelings and motherhood and men and afterwards I can taste the breeze on my lips and hear the sensible warmth of her voice and it almost stays with me until next time. 'Look after yourself,' she says as I go out the door. She says it with a special smile that comes out in her eyes. I'd never examined that expression before. People say it all the time. But she means it. Look after your self. Don't go expecting other people to do it.

  I run in the afternoons now, after work. It's a lovely time, twilight, when the world is neither day or night, one thing or the other. I run up the hill to meet the horizon and the startling pink of sunset reminds me of the cashmere cardigan Joanna Mulgrade used to wear, soft as teddy bears. The sun melts over the roofs, and in between, black wires lace up the sky, pulling it tight until I reach the top and then the blue bursts open, free.

  Soon, 'my time will be my own' as Doreen forecasts, and I'll write the last word on magicians. The interview with Jonny is transcribed, and I've placed him last in the succession of magicians. Harry has pride of place in the introduction. Patrick O'Leary, with his Bird of Paradise, comes next, followed by Chuck and Chip. Together, these two sound like a pair of TV snacks. But I can't help that. It was their mothers' fault. 'It's always the mother's fault, have you noticed?' says the therapist.

  Rather than hypothesise about the inner life of the magician, I have let the nature of each man's specialities speak for him. Their preferred illusions will stand as a symbol of who they are, an expression of self, a signpost to the outside world. And that is as it should be. Patrick's levitation, where he 'flies like a bird', is gloriously uplifting. A good beginning, I hope.

  Sometimes, in some situations, you just have to let go.

  Hi Mum

  In class today it suddenly came back to me what Sophia said, just before she had the coughing fit. We were translating a page from Cavallo's 'Eternità' and we had to read out paragraphs in turn. 'Voglio morire,' said Caterina, the main character. 'I want to die.' Morire. That's what Sophia said! I'm sure of it. It keeps ringing in my head – that and her sorrowful face. Maybe it was just that she felt so sick with her flu but it seemed more than that. I felt so sad when I thought of her that I couldn't concentrate on anything more.

  Marisa says I must be a creative type, and that one day for sure I'll write a novel because creative types have trouble with their boundaries like me and they can go inside other people's heads and get lost in there. She thinks I've gone inside Sophia's head, and I'm imagining that I'm feeling what Sophia's feeling. Marisa doesn't really approve, though - she says I'm becoming obsesed, and how could an old woman be so fasinating? I told her I'm just exploring a trail, some mystery and she said well whatever it is, it doesn't sound healthy.

  By the way, Marisa is thinking seriously about going to Tanzania after this course is finished. She wants to talk about that, make plans etc but I guess I'm not so interested right now, maybe later.

  Thanks for finding out about dad. Holiday at Port Douglas hey? With Silvia? Saraah and Doreen went there once didn't they. I remember Saraah telling me about the great big cockroaches the size of bread and butter plates. I remember it because I stopped wanting to go there, imagining dad's horror. Wouldn't have been worth it. Well maybe you can tell him to write to me when he gets back.

  Clara xx

  P.S. Ask him about the cockroaches

  P.P.S Roberto told me he's sent 206 letters to Amanda and he hasn't received one back. I went cycling with him again yesterday and it was nice except it rained.

  As the weeks have gone by, my confidence in the mutuality of my friendship with Simon has waned. But I'm not quite so desperate about being alone any more. Not desperate, just separate. The two states don't have to go together, do they? But I do want to talk to Simon. I just want to talk.

  'For god's sake just go round and see the guy,' advises Doreen. 'Why is it always life and death with you?'

  'I don't know, it's just the way I am.'

  'You always care so much what other people think. Look, at our age, does it really matter if you make a fool of yourself? There are more important things, surely! I always sleep well because if anything is worrying me I decide to think about something else when I get into bed. That's what you should do. You just have to decide.'

  I look at Doreen with wonder. We are sitting at an outdoor restaurant nestling in the heart of a nursery. Wood carvings and palm trees and little bridges over streams weave a naturalistic atmosphere, a manageable jungle. There is the faint sound of trickling water, Balinese string music. A slight drizzle has begun, making me glad we're seated near one of those outside kerosene heaters. Such a cosy invention.

  Rita and Lena meet us at the table. 'What are you talking about? Sleeping?' asks Rita before she's even sat down. 'I have such trouble lately, waking up in the middle of the night wanting to pee, then worrying about all the things I didn't do that day and whether I'll be alone all my life, and what if my children
have to look after me, which I wouldn't want, and unstoppable climate change, and should I just go grey or maybe bleach first then go light brown or dark blond? I know some things are more important than others but at three in the morning everything just strings along one after the other—'

  'Did you know,' says Lena, 'that every hour you sleep less than the required eight shortens your life by a year?'

  Rita gives an angry snort. 'Shit, that's a great thing to tell insomniacs – you'll turn us all into hysterectomies.'

  'Hysterics?' suggests Doreen.

  'No, that word, meaning worrying too much about your health.'

  'Hypochondriacs!' I say, triumphant.

  'Yes!' cries Rita. 'God, lately I take so long trying to find the right word, I just go for the nearest thing. Do you think I'm going mad? My mind is so full of carbon emissions and percentages, it's hard to see anything else. Thanks by the way for those last pages, Rachel, they were great.'

  'I think we should just go with it,' I say cautiously. 'The other day when I was at the chemist's I asked where they kept their daughters – instead of dental floss! It just slipped out, but everyone laughed, so I did too.'

  'Yeah, I'm for anything that makes the shopping more fun,' says Doreen.

  'But what about this sleeping thing?' Rita interrupts. 'I remember my mother telling me no one ever died from losing a night's sleep and that used to comfort me.' She turns to Lena with a cross frown. 'And now you're telling me it's not true.'

  'Well, why don't you just masturbate?' says Lena. 'Works for me every time, have you tried that?'

  She looks up to see the waiter at the table, about to pour the wine. His cheeks redden, and he gives a tentative grin.

  Doreen grins back at him. 'Does it work for you?' She kindly doesn't wait for an answer. 'Let's have some wine. Lovely! You're talking nonsense, anyway Lena, because as soon as you get a good night's sleep, your body makes up for those lost hours. You forgot that bit. Hey, Rachel, my Saraah wants to talk to you about something. She's going to give you a ring.'