Escape (44 page)

I see Roberto at school, which is awkward. He's always coming up to
me after lessons, trying to talk to me. It's too painful to look at him. When
the phone rings I tell him I'm busy cooking or cleaning or studying my
verbi irregolari. He says I can do that with him. I tell him I'll ring back but
I never do.

I've decided I'm going to try to read L'Arte della Gioia – a book in
Italian! It will take the whole year, but if I keep a dictionary with me it
will be a rewarding project. Lucia agrees, says she's going to buy me my
own copy so I can write words and their translation inside. She's helped
me a lot with dad's poems too – sometimes I can't make out his writing,
that loopy old-fashioned style he has, but Lucia must have been brought
up with a similar style, because she reads it easily. There's one page where
just a name is repeated over and over, written in different styles, like a kid
practising his signature – Gianni Leone. That's his friend – the one who
put the poems to music. But I think all the poems are Dad's because they
have a similar tone and style. Where is he by the way? I don't like to ask
you about him, but when he doesn't reply I wonder.

At the pannetteria just now I saw the signora Sophia – you know,
from the Book Club. Well, Sophia – the white-haired lady – had a hat
on so I didn't recognise her at first. She was all rapped up with a scarf
too, even though today it must be at least twenty-five degrees. 'Clara!'
she called. It was so nice to hear my name. I went straight to her, about
to take her hand but she said, 'Oh don't get too close, I think I'm getting
the influenza. My bones ache.' She spoke to me in perfect English! It was
such a shock, there was even a northern English accent. She laughed at my
surprise and for a second she looked so much younger, like a cheeky kid.
She said that actually she'd lived in England for most of her childhood,
moving here when she was twelve. We stood there at the counter, holding
our ciabatt e and cheese and salame all rapped in those imaculate packages
and I found I was telling her about my decision to read L'Arte della Gioia
and about Roberto and how awful it was to be deceived and how hard it is
to not be seen by the person you love, to be just a filler-in for someone else.
It was such a relief to speak in English and be understood by a person who
was so much a part of this strange italian world but who could also cross
over and stand where I was. Such a strange sensation.

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.

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 course 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.

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.