Escape (16 page)

So we flew to Fiji with Rainbow Cruises and snorkelled in the Coral
Sea. The water
was
turquoise, just like the advertisement had claimed.
I couldn't wait to tell my mother, who had sniff ed and said the
picture was probably colour-enhanced. At the resort Guido signed
up for all the free activities, saying we should make the most of our
opportunities, and we raced from one appointment to another. At
eight every morning we were up for Tennis Clinic with Coach Dennis
Ball, and Guido's backhand improved tremendously. When you get
something free, Guido said you should make the most of it.

I did enjoy the mango trees, the green-skinned purple figs and
bilberries that popped on the tongue like bubble-gum. The landscape
seemed edible. Even the air, heavy and perfumed, had a taste. When
we woke at dawn it was already humid, like being inside a steamy
bathroom. The heat urged a new intimacy, where formality slid off as
easily as our clothes. There was the throb of frogs, loud as traffic, and
fireflies wheeled through the dark. On the second night, we went to a
kava ceremony in a village lit by bonfires and I felt as if I were falling
through the earth as we walked home.

I enjoyed, too, the maids strolling along the orchid-lined paths of
the resort, their arms full of stiff white bed linen, smiling 'Bulla!' each
time they saw me, as if overcome with delight. But the best moments
were climbing into bed with Guido each night, my aching hamstrings
or whatever Coach Ball called them wrapped around Guido's, his
mouth against mine.

Although I would have relished long luxurious mornings in the
king-size bed, the pace of our activities meant it was easy to glide
along the surface of this picture postcard island. Not everyone in Fiji
was living the Rainbow Resort lifestyle, as my mother rightly pointed
out. But I only thought about this later. For that week, I loved turning
on the gold taps in the bathroom, and soaking in a bath of bubbles.
The black velvet nights studded with stars were a perfect backdrop to
my fantasies, and I was so grateful for the scenery.

On our last night, there was a disco in the Hibiscus Room. Potted
palms and strobe lighting striped the walls. The air pulsed with the
beat of gospel soul. We sat at a table for two, our hands silvered in the
light blooming under our small private lamp. My fingers drummed to
Stevie Wonder's
Living in the City
.

'Is all so authentically Fijian,' remarked Guido, his eyebrow arched
in derision. I grinned, nodding ironically, but I couldn't help bouncing
my knees to the rhythm. A woman with a mini-dress just like mine
was dancing alone, eyes closed, bottom circling under the silk. Guido
was looking at her too and then he asked me if I wanted to dance.

On the wooden floor, near the traveller's palm, Guido held me
tightly against him. He moved minimally, elegantly. I leant my cheek
into his shoulder. I wasn't dancing with an idea of myself like that
other woman on the dance floor. I'd done that before many times. I
was dancing with Guido, whose pelvis was grinding into mine, his
hands at my back, moulding me.

At dinner Guido talked about the differences he noticed on this
island, where there were trees you could eat and bracken soup for
dinner. I watched, surprised, as Guido devoured his lobster mornay
without thorough investigation. It was as if we were both not only
removed from our usual habitat, but from our usual selves. Or maybe
it was that we were able to
be
our selves. Over our mango dessert I told
Guido that I thought travelling offered a kind of shorthand to living,
where you were free to dispense with all the usual anguishing over
consequences. It was a bit like living in hotels – whatever mistake you
made, you could just move on.

'You know what, I'm
tired
of consequences!' I cried. I must have
had too much of that kava. A man at the next table stared at me. I
looked away. 'But really,' I leant forward earnestly. 'Imagine living your
true self. You know, acting on impulse. Let's do it, let's go to Italy one
day – you know, Florence, where you grew up, Sicily, Greece, I could
save, it'd be fab—'

Guido's mouth turned down. He looked strained, embarrassed.
I saw myself from the outside, a loud clumsy woman with overenthusiastic
red hair and sweat on her upper lip, everything about
her obvious, clingy, emotional. I was spilling like one of those water
torture chambers Guido had told me about, where Houdini hung
upside down, holding his breath, contained. I had crashed through the
glass.

'We 'ave finished our dinner?' He motioned to my forehead where
my fingers felt a smear of mango.

'Yes, I'm so full, aren't you?'
God
.

'You would like coffee, or we will go?'

He wanted the night to finish. But hadn't he said he wanted
to be free, invent himself? I was sure we wanted the same things,
it was just the clumsy way I expressed myself that created this
awkwardness.

'Let's dance!' I said, and sprang up, reaching out my hand.

'Straight after dinner?' Guido shook his head. 'Will you not 'ave
the cramp?'

'Oh!' I was left stranded, standing at the table, hulking over Guido,
the chair teetering against the back of my legs.

But then he relented. He smiled. It was like the sun coming out.

'Okay, yes, is good to 'ave a live band, is a waste not to use it,' and
he got up with me.

When a Latin American song came on Guido showed me how to
do the rhumba. My hands were around his neck, our hips meeting; it
was wonderful having actual steps to follow, your feet measuring out
the rhythm together, holding each other instead of performing out
there on your own.

As we left the Hibiscus Room, there was a cracking sulphurous
storm. We ran out into it, pelting along the flowered pathways. We
laughed as we ran, singing The
Midnight Hour
, and my mouth tasted
of salt. Guido's lips brushed my throat and I looked up to see the
air pearled with rain. Veils of moonlight were drifting over the sea,
jewelled with raindrops and sea spray, and as we raced past the dining
room and the surf equipment and the tennis courts, I thought with
wild anticipation of how we would leap into bed, our limbs clapping
together like cymbals.

We were free, free to do anything we liked, and I knew that with
Guido I would never feel trapped again.

When I told Guido I was pregnant, he said
porca miseria
. I discovered a
few months later this meant 'miserable pig'. But it was all right because
by then I'd come to understand that it didn't mean you were literally
calling someone a miserable pig, it was more an overall expression
of despair or incredulity, much the same way that in Australia the
expression 'G'day, you old bugger' doesn't imply that your friend
practises sodomy. It's just a way of expressing affection.

Still, it wasn't the reaction I'd been hoping for. I tried to keep
my face from moving. I didn't really know what to say next. 'I was
only joking' would have been good, to see the relief in his eyes. But
I couldn't do that. I was already eight weeks along and my burning
nipples never let me forget.

You couldn't even get that bit right,
the voice said.
What an idiot –
fancy using a diaphragm without the jelly stuff , just because of the smell.
Now look what's happened. Do you imagine he'll like
this
?

Guido's face had closed like a window when the blinds are pulled
down. I searched his eyes but only saw myself reflected back. Then he
said something that astounded me.

'How do you feel about it?'

This was the first time he had ever asked me such a question.

For hours the night before I had been rehearsing this scene. I was
prepared for 'Oh no, how could you have let this happen?' or 'There
goes our freedom!' or 'Why would I choose you to be the mother of
my baby when I could have any woman in the world?' But not, 'How
do you feel about it?'

I searched myself, sitting there in our favourite cafe, trying to
find the right words – well, some phrase that Guido would be pleased
with.

My heart was pounding painfully. My toes curled up inside my
sandals. I looked into his face. His eyes were narrowed. This was a
test, I knew it, and my answer would determine whether Guido would
want to continue with me or not.

The thought of not keeping the baby had flitted across my mind
only once, making me flinch.

'Wonderful,' I blurted. It was true.

He smiled. It was a beautiful smile.

Now you'll gush and spoil the moment
, said the voice.

My hand inched towards his, closed over it. He didn't take his
away.

I couldn't believe it – I'd got the right answer. He'd given me a tick!
A warm sweet feeling started in my stomach, trickling down through
my legs. I forgot to breathe as images rushed through me like a fast-forwarded
film – a laughing baby snuggling into my lap, Guido's arms
around the dark-eyed child, ourselves on holiday in a snapshot some
tourist kindly took for us.

But then Guido withdrew his hand. He started playing with the
sugar packets and frowned. 'Will I still come first?'

'What?'

He said nothing. He was still playing with the sugar packets. A
corner tore and sugar spilled on the table.

'But what do you mean?'

Now he looked at me. 'You 'eard me.'

Then I got it. It was hard to believe my ears. Even the voice was
speechless. I looked around for just a moment, making sure he wasn't
addressing any other person. Then I whispered, 'First with me, do you
mean?' I laughed too loudly and lunged forward, clutching both his
hands. 'Of course you will. How can you even ask? What an amazing
thing to say! I'm so glad I'm having your baby, Guido. I'd been
dreaming of this, I mean before I even knew, not that I planned it or
anything – oh god, you know what I mean it's just . . . I never wanted a
baby before I met you, imagine it, a little boy just like you, I love you
so much . . .'

Guido was watching me now, sitting entirely still. His scrutiny of
my face was methodical and intense, as if I were a new magic trick he
needed to learn. For once, this was an easy test. All I had to do was
show him the truth of me. How much I loved him. How right it felt to
commit myself to him until the end of time. I didn't even have to think
about it. I had never been so sure about anything in my entire life.
A fire of courage was burning in my belly. Maybe that was the baby.
Maybe that was me. It felt magnificent.

He must have learnt what he needed because suddenly he nodded
and squeezed my hands. '
Va bene
,' he smiled. He gestured to the waiter.
'An espresso for me and a café latte for the signorina.'

When he said caffe latte, he didn't even grimace. Milk coffee
after ten o'clock in the morning was considered unsophisticated, I'd
learnt, so normally I drank espresso like him, or macchiato. I stroked
his fingers. The steady warmth inside flared. Maybe he didn't mind
the
latte
now because it would be good for the growing baby. Was it
possible? Did he really choose me to be the mother of his child?

I would keep working at Wanganella Public until the week before the
baby was due, we decided. The Education Department granted three
months' maternity leave, and then, well, who knew what might turn
up? Maybe we'd go to Italy and see Guido's childhood home, maybe
we'd even live there for a while, and I could learn Italian and walk down
those narrow cobbled streets holding my child's plump little hand and
we'd stop at the cake shop where Guido said you could buy those
delicious
bugie
, the 'little lies', which are ropes of the lightest, crispiest
pastry you ever saw, woven together like girls' plaits and sprinkled
with sugar. We'd buy two each for morning tea, just for us, and then
we'd stop and get the prosciutto and a nice ciabatt a for Daddy's lunch
and perhaps that strong, nutty kind of lettuce that he liked.
Ruccola
,
that was it.

My parents seemed appalled by the news. At first. Dad made the
quickest recovery. 'My little Rachel!' he said.

'But you hardly know him!' cried my mother. 'And what will you
live on? And who will look after the baby?'

'I will.' My hand went to my stomach instinctively.

'But you're hardly established in your career – what, are you going
to depend on Guido to keep you?'

'What would be wrong with that?'

Deborah rolled her eyes. She started to say something but Dad
tapped her arm. 'I'm sure they'll work it out together,' he turned to
me, 'won't you, darling?' He grinned. 'Remember when we began,
Deb? We lived on baked beans and beer.'

Mum didn't smile. 'And it was bloody hard traipsing to work
every day with the carry cot and a baby and all the baby's things and
taking the train and being exhausted by nine in the morning and then
worrying all the time whether she was all right and trying to look after
all the other children as well—'

'It's okay,' I said quickly, because Dad's eyes were beginning to fill.
He was coughing to cover it up. 'I'll get childcare or something.'

Mum rolled her eyes again. 'Childcare is expensive, or haven't you
noticed?'

'Well, maybe you and Dad could, you know, help too, with
minding it or whatever . . .'

Mum stood up and her chair clattered against the wall. She began
clearing away the coffee cups.

'It'll all be fine,' said Dad, taking my hand. 'Fancy, my little
Rachel!'

And it
was
fine, the pregnant part, at least. In fact, the whole
pregnancy felt like my finest hour. I was queasy and tired for a couple
of months but the knowledge that I was no longer just me, that I had
this miraculous little piece of company inside, caused such stunning
happiness that practically nothing could dim it for me. I felt lit up, like
one of those enormous Christmas trees they put up in Martin Place.

My breasts continued to burn and swell, demanding attention.
I examined them daily, as if they didn't belong to me but were just
borrowed for a while. I could see bluish veins developing and the
nipples grew darker, more prominent. It was hard to believe that
my body was doing everything it should to become a baby-making
machine. Just like a real grown-up woman. My breasts tingled, my
belly was full and the empty space in the pit of me almost disappeared.
Weeks went by without the voice.

'You're eating for two now,' people told me. In the staffroom they
always gave me the biggest slice of cake.

'Here, I brought you these organic bananas,' Maria would urge
me, 'the potassium is great for the baby.'

As I munched carrot cake and drank caramel milkshakes I felt
virtuous, almost worthy, for the first time in my life. Each mouthful
was helping to build my baby. Why, I only had to keep breathing to
be doing my duty. Whatever I did for myself was also,
mainly
, for
someone else. I never wanted to stop being pregnant.

When I was five months along my parents gave us enough
money to put a deposit on a house. It was money that Great Aunt
Leah had left my mother, money I knew she was keeping for her
retirement.

'Oh, no, thank you,' I said. 'No, I couldn't possibly. I would feel
awful, taking your nest egg, sorry, no . . .'

'It's family money,' said Mum and Dad together. 'Don't be silly.'

They had found a nice little three-bedroom fibro house for us near
Cuthbert Street, close to my work, and if we were quicksticks, they
said, we might be able to snap it up before auction. There was even a
pool in the backyard and a sand pit. Dad had been so enthusiastic he'd
already had an inspection done and discussed a price.

I wrung my hands. I had been looking forward in a vague kind
of way to moving out of the neighbourhood I had lived in forever,
and into another. In my fantasies I'd been imagining a small flat with
a cheapish rent, something very unsuitable and temporary, where
we could tack up hemp weavings on the walls and fling about those
Indian-covered cushions with little winking mirrors sprinkled among
the swirls like treasure. We could be a free young couple, at least for a
while, discovering how we wanted to live. Maybe we would go to Italy.
Maybe I would be a different person over there, capable, adventurous,
not sorry.

'You don't want to throw away good money on rent,' said Dad.

'And you'd be at the mercy of landlords who can jack up the price
any time they like,' said Mum. 'Why give money to the capitalists
when your family can provide you with a home?'

It was true. And entirely sensible. The only responsible thing to
do. And how lucky was I to receive such a generous offer! A family
home. I felt a door closing in my chest. It was like the Door of Death.

'Of course we must take it,' said Guido when I told him of the
offer.

'But it's my mother's nest egg—'

'Egg?'

'It's money my mother was saving for her retirement.'

'Ah, Rachel, you will see that when you 'ave children, you want to
give everything to them. That is just the way. You will want your child
to 'ave a better start in life than you did.'

'Yes, but couldn't we just rent instead for a while, and save? I know
we'd have to work hard but just for a bit until we know where we want
to live. I don't want to spoil my parents' retirement when they could
perhaps go on a holiday, treat themselves. I'll feel guilty, I know I will,
guilty and burdened and sorry—'

'That is selfish, Rachel, you cannot think only of yourself now. You
must think of the baby, and of me. We will be a family!'

'Oh, yes, of course I—'

'This is a very good start for us. Is not practical to refuse. Is
childish. Rachel, I would like for us to own this 'ouse. Just think, I
could write my poetry without distraction, no petty matters of money,
l'affitto
every month . . .'

'You mean the rent? But we'd still have to pay the mortgage, it'll
be huge—'

'It will be okay, you will see, and as I 'ave told you, we must not
turn away good luck or it will come back to curse us. You see, we 'ad
this luck with Fiji and look, now we get the 'ouse as well!'

'And our baby.'

'Yes, of course, the baby – you see, all will go well.'

So we moved into number 53 Beatrice Street the following month.
There were three bedrooms, a sunroom, a palm tree and a pool. I was
afraid of the pool. It needed to drink the right balance of chemicals
every few days or it turned a slimy green. It was like having a big
demanding person at the bottom of your garden, sulking. You couldn't
ignore it. But you were supposed to be pleased about it. Grateful. I had
never been any good at chemistry at school. The man at the pool shop
said you had to put hydrochloric acid into the pool to stop the bacteria
proliferating.
Acid!
Isn't that something serial killers use to burn the
face off their victims? Perhaps, the pool man said, but judging by the
sample you've brought from your pool, you'll need a good couple
of litres. Be careful, he added, lowering his voice like a wizard in a
fairytale, the acid and the chlorine together are an explosive mixture.

The big blue bombs of chlorine were heavy. Once, I felt a sharp
stab in my side when I was carrying a container from the garage to the
pool. What if it harmed the baby?

'I'll take over the pool,' said Guido. 'You shouldn't be lifting
anything heavy,' and his arm muscles flexed beneath his shirt.

All that week at school, when the children were busy writing
in their books, I let that sentence float in my mind, 'I'll take over
the pool', and a thrill began to thrum right where the baby curled
inside me.

We spent hours making love, in all kinds of positions, mainly
with me bent over the large velvet armchair. I didn't buy the black
lacy underwear I'd fantasised about, though. Somehow the idea
of the pool with its acid and the Hills hoist in the garden and my
growing belly kept me shy as I had always been. I learnt to make
veal parmigiana and chicken cacciatore. Guido said they tasted
buono
but he laughed at how long I took preparing them. He said I
was like a scientist measuring up the exact amounts of ingredients.
Sometimes I wished he would go out in the afternoons so that I
could work alone, making my usual mistakes, like having to throw
out two litres of milk and semolina because the balls were too hard
or the white sauce developed nasty lumps. I wished I was one of
those wild, free kind of cooks who crack open eggs like champagne
and throw spices around without fear. But I wasn't. Sometimes,
too, I'd try to wake up earlier so there would be time to at least
put mascara on before he saw me. It was so different living with a
man – there was no time to arrange myself or stop my lashes from
disappearing, or cover up my absurdities. There was nowhere to
hide while I recovered from things.