Escape (48 page)

I feel my cheeks burn. 'No, well, I just came in. I mean I knocked
for a while but the door wasn't locked.'

Simon groans. 'Oh, well, at least I wasn't away long. Only up the
street to get the stuff .' He runs a hand through his hair. 'These last few
days though, my concentration seems to be shot. Been forgetting to
do a lot of things.' Our eyes meet for a second. The green of his eyes
turns to topaz in the light. How beautiful. 'Found my screwdriver in
the oven yesterday.'

I laugh. 'I know, I keep my brush in the fridge!' It's so good to
laugh.

He shakes his head again. His grin is sheepish and uncertain and
desirous and urgently sexy and it's all I can do not to fling my mouth
upon his. That full, generous mouth. He stands there, hands full of
Milo and Vegemite. But he doesn't move towards me. The moment
catches, and something freezes in me, blanking into cloud. My hands
are clammy and the shame rises in my throat.

'So, um, are you going to visit the children now or are they coming
here?' I point to the food, the moment breaking. Shattering.

He bends to put the tins in a cupboard next to the sink. When he
straightens up, his face has lost its smile. 'They've just been granted a
temporary visa. We think there might be a Sudanese family who will
take them in, eventually go for adoption.'

God. 'Have you told the kids, have they said . . .?'

'I'm taking the kids to meet the family this afternoon. That's
why I've asked for days off work. I'm trying to talk to them about it,
introduce them to the new situation. They're afraid of anything new,
you can see why. Any change could mean horror for them, that's been
their experience. They've become institutionalised.'

'I see.' What can a comfortably off middle-class person say in the
face of this kind of misery?

Simon is silent. I wonder if he's waiting for me to go. He's got a
lot to do this afternoon. He probably wants to get on with it. I pick up
the bananas. They can go in the fruit bowl. When I've finished with
the fruit and bread I open the pantry for the olive oil. It's well stocked,
like the fridge. Organic lentils, brown rice, fair-trade coffee from New
Guinea. He's stacking the fridge with chunks of cheese, rashers of
bacon. I wish he'd say something, make some move. But I suppose
it's up to me. I'm the one who forced my way in here. What can I say
about the children, his extraordinary acts of kindness?

I lean against the bench, studying his back. 'I just don't get it.
People who make those decisions, who put children in detention, it's
as if they have no empathy. Or it's been worn away, like weathering or
something. Do you think?' Simon doesn't turn around. 'I guess that's
what happened to me,' I mumble. 'Lost my empathy somewhere. You
can lose it in a long shitty marriage. You just look out for yourself.'

Simon doesn't turn around. He says nothing but his hands have
gone still inside the fridge.

'What I mean is, there's no other explanation for how I could have
said something so thoughtless the other day.' I stare at the faded blue
denim of his shirt. It's worn thin and soft , almost white at the elbows.
His wrists are brown from the sun, strong and capable, used to bearing
weight heavier than his own. I wish he'd help me out here, show some
response. But his back is determined. Or indifferent. I take a deep
breath and close my eyes. It's like a jump off a cliff . I don't look down.
'You came to see me with those beautiful flowers and I said to you that
awful thing about Jonny Love—'

Simon swings around and looks me in the eyes. 'It wasn't awful,
it's how you felt. Feel.'

'But I don't—'

'I just realised how stupid I'd been, how futile this was. Years I've
been visiting you, feeling . . . seeing your misery, wanting to help,
hoping. But how could I ever compete with a guy like Jonny Love?
Money, charisma, power, good looks – it'd be a pretty magic package,
right, hard to resist! I'm just a guy from Poolwerx with too much weight
around the middle who has a van with a dinky clutch that I don't even
own, living in a house with a ridiculous mortgage that I'll never pay
off , or only if I live to a hundred and twenty-three. Hopes,
shit
. . .'

Simon slams the fridge door and walks out. I try to slow my
breathing. My heart is pounding much too fast.

When he comes back in, he stands so close I can smell his soap.
Imperial Leather. His breath is warm on my forehead. 'Why did you
come here, Rachel?'

I glance down at his sandshoes, a smear of tomato on the toe. I like
the comfortable way he dresses. His clothes are for work and playing
with the kids and walking in the bush and cleaning the leaves out of
gutters. He's a beautiful man who talks about ideas and children and
how Joe Cocker makes you jump out of your skin. I feel such a rush
of wanting to be in his arms, smell the faint chemical burn inside his
collar, be inside his space. But even more, I want to talk to him. Use
my voice. Hear his.

'Simon, so many things are new to me, I can't quite make them out
at the moment. But what I'm thinking is I've been distracted by the
big showy things, acts of god they look like, tricks of light, and they let
me escape from myself – you know, all the drudgery and the gritty bits
of life that stick in your teeth.' I grin sheepishly. 'I love all that – the
escaping, I mean. But I've always looked to a man to do it for me – I
suppose a lot of women do.'

'I've never been any good at that, Rachel. Wouldn't know where
to begin. A lot of the time I just feel like I'm floundering. It's only now
and then I even get my head above water long enough to take a gulp
of air before I sink back down again. But some guys, you know, they
prance around up there
walking
on water.'

'That's how it looks from the outside. Like some people are
perfect. But no one is, are they? Everyone spends time underwater.'

'I came out on top when I saw you.'

We look at each other. His face is softer. 'Me too,' I say. 'I could
be myself with you. But I didn't see the value of it at first.' I grin,
shamefaced. 'I had these illusions, you know, wanting to be the girl
in a man's show. But it's like looking at the sun and everything behind
goes black . . . '

'You don't have to explain—'

'No, I know I don't have to tell you, but I
want
to. Meeting
Jonny brought it all home to me – he has presence, sure, and he's
a great magician – but he never showed any curiosity about me as
another human being. In fact he treated me as a magician's assistant,
snapping his fingers and expecting me to obey.' A wave of sadness
rises into my throat. 'You know, believing in a magician and his
illusions, it's like believing in god. But in real life, isn't a relationship
a double act? With Guido – you know it's not his fault, my misery –
when I married him I signed up as magician's assistant, and when he
stopped behaving like a magician, well, I didn't know how to do a . . .
career change.'

Simon is watching me. His gaze goes right through me. His eyes
are wide, his mouth slightly open – he is listening to me, hearing my
voice. He wants to know.

'You were brave coming here today,' he says. 'That was a bold act.
I like that about you.'

I smile, and look at the watch on his wrist. We both shift our feet.
'Do the children speak English?' I ask.

He coughs, looks surprised. 'A little . . . not well. They'll need
English classes but they're not provided by the government any more.
It'll cost.'

'I could do that.'

'What?'

'Help with English. You know I used to be a teacher. Not ESL, but
I taught reading . . .'

I feel an excitement rising. You can't fix the whole of Tanzania, said
Zuri, but you can help where you can. Start locally. Couldn't I reinvent
myself, like Clara talks about, like Jonny says, teach English
using
magic
– magic is like music, it can cross borders, language, culture . . .

'So if it's not about the bright lights and money, what else do you
think life's about?' says Simon softly. 'Like, after teaching English to
kids who need it, and supporting your family, and paying your bills,
what else is there for us godless souls?'

I look at him. I don't know what he means.

'What do you do for fun?'

'Oh.'

'Pleasure. What gives you pleasure?'

I feel my face start to burn. 'Oh I don't know – I've always
thought pleasure, the pursuit of it anyway, was illegitimate somehow.
Something slightly illegal!' I finish in a rush.

Simon laughs. 'Maybe that's another thing that could change.
With a bit of practice.'

I stand with my hands hanging by my sides. We look at each other.
It's as if we have no clothes on at all. He looks down at my face and
takes my hands. Then he puts his mouth on mine and we don't close
our eyes and the colour of his eyes is like the sky at the top of the hill
where I run, bursting free of the black wires and the grey clouds and
just for a moment I let go and sail up there with him, no strings, side
by side.

Mum, I hope you are sitting down. I went to Sophia's again and this time
I brought the exercise book dad gave me. I put it in her lap. She read the
name out loud. 'Gianni Leone.' At the sound of her voice the skin on my
arms tingled.

Where did you get this? Her tone was so sharp it was like teeth on tin.

My father gave it to me. He said it was his best friend's book.

That is my son's name. Gianni Leone.

But your surname is different

I went back to my maiden name after the divorce. What name does
your father use?

What do you mean, use?

I'm sorry, what is your father's name?

Guido Leopardi.

She closed her eyes. Mum, are you sitting down at your desk? Make
sure you are sitting down for this next bit. I'll never forget it as long as
I live. It was terrible, like a natural disaster, but thrilling too, like being
saved from it. I won't forget these five words, or the way that she said them.

Clara, I am your grandmother.

Mum? I'll ring you tomorrow night. Be home please. 7 pm your time

I read Clara's email seven times. Then one more, to make it even. I
get up and go to pour a glass of merlot. I pick at the label, wet from a
spill. Bits of white and purple writing tear off under my nail. I leave the
soggy bits there. It's three o'clock in the afternoon. I look at the wine
still sloshing in the glass. It settles, dark as blood. Clara has discovered
her own blood, over there, in Italy. A woman with white hair and black
eyes and an apartment in Florence half a world away, a woman she met
only three months ago, who gave birth to her father. I read the email
again. I'm waiting for the words to become heavy, grow into their
meaning. They are grains of sand, all alike, scattered on my eyelids. I
need them to separate, gain enough weight to make a splash as they
fall into my mind.

What does this mean? Even a different name. Gianni. Not Guido.
Gianni Leone. Mrs Rachel Leone. Leone would have been so much
easier to say. So much more room for mistakes with Leopardi. A
clunky name, too many syllables, expectations. I'm still waiting to feel
something. It must be the numbness of shock. My whole body has
turned concave inside, like a huge mouth of horror, flexing back from
the knowledge. Clara went to Italy to find out more about her father.
She's discovered she knew nothing about him at all. How would that
feel?

I think of Guido snorkelling at Port Douglas. Typing up his poems
at Silvia's desk. Pacing the hallway with his stiff , right-leaning hair.
Why did he change his name? Why did he leave himself behind? It's
like listening to familiar music suddenly set in a different key. There is
everything to question, no accepting of one note after another.

Guido should be here for this conversation with Clara. He will
have to be here. I have never felt more separate from him. My only
connection is that he is my daughter's father. And he needs to be
here for her. In my mind he is so far away. With every second he is
retreating, smaller than a pinprick, prick that he is, a speck of dust,
finished, over, a piece of grit in the eye. Tears will wash him out, there,
he's gone.

I get up quickly to hunt for my address book. There's Guido,
under 'H' for husband. I hardly feel the sting, it's remote, gone like
Guido. I find Silvia's phone number. Guido was reluctant to give it to
me. I know he wanted to believe that once he left , I wouldn't be in the
world any more. I didn't want to see it then. It was just part of his usual
mystery, his reverence for privacy. Now I wonder if he isn't more like
Piaget's infant who believes that when his ball has disappeared under
the sofa, it no longer exists. It's less painful that way, means you can
move on to other things more quickly.
Get over it.

I sit down at the desk with the address book. My head is clear
as an hourglass. The sand is trickling through one grain at a time. I
can see the shape and weight and texture of each one, it is almost too
much, too much to deal with, and everything inside the glass is too
clear, like when you have a cold and you blow your nose and suddenly
your nostrils feel like crystal, and air cuts the little membranes with a
knife.

I dial the number. 'Guido?'

Silence. An intake of breath.

'Hello, Guido?

A sigh. 'Yes?'

'You're back from holiday?'

'Obviously.'

'Oh, well, yes, it's just that I've had some rather . . . look, I've
had news from Clara and I felt you ought to know. That we ought to
discuss it before . . . Actually it's something
I'd
very much like to talk to
you about. Although, well, I'm not sure now if I do, I just don't know
what to think . . . Guido, are you still there?'

'Yes.'

'You're not saying anything.'

'I'm listening to you . . .
talk
, if that is what you are doing.'

'You sound hostile.'

'And you do not sound rational. Also, I don like you telephoning
me at this place, I've told you.'

'Well, what else can I do? Clara keeps emailing you and you don't
answer. Are you just going to cut her out of your life the way you've
cut off your mother and your brother?'

Silence. Not even the sound of breathing.

'I don know what you are talking about. You really 'ave gone crazy,
Rachel, and you are very wounding. Is difficult to believe you could
talk to me this way. You are so invasive and just because you are lonely
you wan to break my balls. You have always been unstable. I cannot
carry you any further, Rachel, you must understand this. I am sorry
for you, but I cannot fix things for you any more. I have learnt a lot
in these last weeks. You should meditate, I keep telling you, learn to
detach.'

'Guido, listen to me. Clara has met your mother. Sophia. She is
living in Florence, she is a friend of Lucia, the woman who employed
your daughter. Your mother has not been well. Her son, your brother,
is James Heartacher. Guido? Are you still there?'

'James Heartacher is not my brother. He is a mistake my mother
made.'

'What do you mean?'

'I do not wish to talk about it now.'

I am trembling. His voice cuts like steel. I lean my forehead against
the kitchen wall. Hard and cool and concrete. The slide starting at the
back of my head gathers into a wave, bringing debris with it, broken-up
sticks of words: uncle grandmother skin sit down mum, piazza della
signoria, ring at seven . . .

'Seven. Clara is going to ring at seven tonight.'

Nothing.

'Guido?'

'Why?'

'Why what?'

'Why is Clara ringing?'

'Guido, have you heard anything I've said? Do you understand
what is happening?'

'I've done nothing wrong!' His tone is trapped, fearful, like a little
boy caught out.

'Guido, have you been reading your emails? From Clara?'

'I've been away, I did not bring with me all these machines. I
needed a break, this island, Heron Island, at night there are just the
stars and the palm trees. little turtles hatching on the sand. You must
not disturb their long path to the sea or they are disorientated, and
will never arrive. Like many things in life. There is the need to stay
concentrated. There are these things that matter. I found some peace,
Rachel, I do not need this stress. There is so much to do, you haven't
heard my news, we have been given funding, Rachel – they liked our
treatment, they have given us money to turn into a script.'

'Us?

'Yes, me and Silvia. She contributes—'

'But have you looked at your emails since you've returned?'

'Yes, yes, but we just got back . . . Clara is well, no? Okay? No
major dramas. As Silvia says, leave that for the screen.'

'Guido, you can't have heard what I said. Or you can't digest . . .'

'What?'

'Before, what I said about—'

'You are not making sense today. I will try to forget what you
said.'

I press my forehead harder into the wall. A cool numb spot the
shape of an egg forms between my eyes. The wave inside my head tilts
and backs up against the wall, like the sea against sandbags. Stand with
your two feet apart, I tell myself. There, can you feel your centre of
gravity? You don't have to be unbalanced all your life.

'Look, Guido, we need to talk about Clara and her . . . your family
history. I don't think the phone is a good way to do this. Why don't
you come over this afternoon or we can meet at a cafe and we can . . .
can you hear me?'

'No, I am too busy.'

'But Clara is ringing at seven. She will want to speak to you about
this. She's expecting to speak to you. Here, at seven.'

A sigh. 'I must go now, there is a meeting.'

'Fuck, it's the least you can do, you lying shit! You
have
to! You . . .
can't live your whole life denying the truth—'

'Oh, Rachel, what is truth? Life is all an illusion, no? Just like the
stage—'

I bang the phone down. I lift it up and bang it again and again and
the kitchen is ringing with fury. Then I stop. If I break my phone, I
won't be able to talk to Clara tonight. And that is the most important
thing, surely.

At ten past seven Clara rings. I have to tell her that Guido is not here.
I say it straight out. I don't make excuses, tell the truth. Clara says she
will ring back in twenty minutes, in case he is just running late.

He doesn't come. Of course.

'It's okay,' says Clara finally. 'Dad needs time. Maybe I need time,
too. He's had twenty-one years of living this lie. I've had just three days
of discovering it . . . Mum, Sophia has told me everything. Do you
want to talk to her? It's incredible, like this big weight has slid off me.
I've always felt, like, a bit removed from Dad. Wondered if we're really
made of the same stuff . And now, Sophia seems like a way through. Do
you want to speak to her?'

'Yes, no, oh Clara, not yet. Mostly I want to talk to you. I think I'm
too angry with Dad right now – and I don't want to be angry with his
mother.'

'Yeah, she's had a pretty rotten life, sounds like to me. But that
sounds so blah – how can you sum up anyone's life? She has such
energy – when she's not sick! – and such interest in life, people. She's
not a miseryguts. But she says Dad will say all this is her fault.'

'It's always the mother's fault. So Clara, can we talk about this? Are
you okay? It's not too painful? I don't know where to start. But how
does James Heartacher come into it? I feel like I met him practically as
soon as I met Guido.'

'James is the baby Sophia had out of wedlock, as she calls it. She
said her husband—'

'Carlo?'

'Yeah, he was a cold man. Was only interested in his political
career, you know the kind, didn't have friends, just
contacts
, people
who could help him get ahead. Well, Sophia was probably lonely,
and she fell for someone else, heavily. It turned out the man wasn't
interested in a commitment, it was all too messy for him and also,
Sophia thinks now, he was probably threatened by Carlo or his
henchmen, so he broke it off when he found out she was pregnant.
But this is the part that really gets me Mum, and to think I am related
to such a heartless—'

'God, Carlo's not alive too?'

'No. He died only a few years ago.'

'In a car accident?'

'Yes, strangely enough – just thirty years or so later than Dad
said . . . well, so Sophia begged him for a divorce – you know how long
that takes in Italy—'

'What, was this recently?'

'No, Mum,
listen
. It was back then, when she had to tell Carlo she
was pregnant. She said she would rather have been penniless than to
live under his cold judgemental eye, always reproving her, punishing
her . . . But he wouldn't let her go. Not because he loved her, of course,
but because divorce would look so bad on his politician's CV. He tried
to force her to have an abortion—'

'And she wouldn't?'

'No. She said she loved the baby by then, it was already three and
a half months, and she'd loved its father. She couldn't do it. He said
he'd kill her if she left . Then he seemed to change his mind and said
let's start over and I've neglected you and all this crap and if you go
away to have the child, some luxury place in the mountains, and adopt
it out, we'll make sure the parents are top class, blah blah, then maybe
we can start over again. And Gianni needs you, you know that.'

'Gianni?'

'Dad.'

'Oh yes, I forgot. Just can't digest it.'

'I know, me neither. It's all I've been doing, no sleeping, nothing,
just sitting here trying to see it all. And I've had the benefit of hearing
it first hand. Must be harder to grasp for you.'

'So, did Sophia accept the idea? Did she believe Carlo was
sincere?'

'I think so. But it was her son – Gianni – that she was thinking of.
Carlo would never let her take Gianni if she left him, Gianni was his
possession, he wouldn't have her steal anything of his.'

'How old was – Gianni?'

'Six.'

'That's the age he was when he said his mother died.'

'All I can think of is that must be how he felt. Because when his
mother came back, she was a different person. That's what Sophia said.
She'd sit in her bedroom and hear him calling and she just couldn't get
up. It was like she had lead in her legs. Some part of her registered the
call and then the crying and she could see him in her mind, lying on
the floor of his bedroom among all his lego and stuff , alone, but she
just couldn't get up. Sophia says that looking back now, she realises
she was depressed. She wanted to die. She was deep inside herself and
just couldn't come out for anyone, not even her little boy. Every time
she looked at him she thought of the baby she gave away.'