Escape (8 page)

Clara is staring at me. At least her eyes are open wide but they
have that unlatched, nobody-home look that Guido adopts. 'Clara?'

'Pardon?'

I knew what I was doing, I was losing her goodwill, but I couldn't
help it. It was as if my mouth had a life of its own. A mother has to be
a mother first, surely, before being a friend. If Clara secured a job in
Italy – god, imagine being a magician in Rome, with an audience and
a salary,
imagine!
– she'd never leave for a scary, dangerous place like
Africa, where you can catch hookworm even in your sleep.

'What I'm saying is, Clara, that a thumb tie mightn't seem like
a serious escape, but it doesn't matter, as long as you
entertain
. Why,
even Harry frequently included the Needle Trick in his act – you know,
where he picked up needles with his eyelids. Not strictly an escape act,
but you see what I mean.'

Clara gives a muffled scream. She tries to hide it by picking up the
pasta saucepan and bashing it down into the sink.

'That's clean, I've already washed it,' I tell her.

'Oh. Okay, Mum, well, I'd better go.'

She's already walking away down the hall but my feet are following
her. She's saying 'fuck fuck fuck' under her breath. But I can't let it go
like that. The stars are beginning to spark behind my eyes and the
carpet is tilting. It's as if one of us is dying – me, of bone cancer – and
I have only this moment to offer my last motherly words of advice. As
I follow her into her room, standing at the doorway, I suddenly have
a terrifying sense of unreality, as if we are figures in a fairytale and we
are at a fork in the road. I am the old woman dying of thirst on her
path, and Clara is the girl on her quest.

'Clara, do you remember the story of Harry and the German
straitjacket?'

Clara doesn't answer. She is picking up T-shirts from the floor.

'Well, it was the hardest escape he ever had to do. An hour and
twenty-nine minutes it took him to get out, it was agony—'

'Oh,
fuck
Harry! That's all you ever want to talk about. What
about
me
? What about the fact that I've saved enough to go to
Italy and made the decision to do something for myself – didn't
I prepare for that? Didn't I organise all the things necessary for
that? I fucking
am
doing something, it's just that it's something
you don't approve of, something you don't hold up as worthwhile!
Because what
I'm
doing has nothing to do with your pathetic
fucking Harry.' She kicks the white wardrobe with the dirty sole of
her trainer. It leaves a big grey smudge with a crosshatch pattern.
'All my life you ask me how to get out of a torture crib, a mailbag,
a Czechoslovakian Insane Muff – you never want to know what
I'm
really
doing.'

'Oh, but I
do
, how can you say that? No, it's just, I want to remind
you that whatever you do, you'll only achieve results with practice.
That's how someone like Harry got to where he did. First in his field.'
I pause for breath, holding onto the wall for support. 'And you know,
don't you, what the point of all his training was – he learnt to steal slack
during the tying process. That was his secret. Remember it always. Just
in case you get low on money and need to...But that's where the skill
lies. You have to steal slack.'

Clara slowly turns around to face me. Her eyes are only inches
away from mine. They are wide, staring, but completely focused. 'And
that's exactly what I am going to do,
Mummy
. I'm gunna steal about
20,000 kilometres of precious slack to get away from
YOU
!'

Guido was sitting in the Cafe Vesuvio when I first saw him. He was
drinking from a small white cup that reminded me of the doll's tea set
I'd had as a child. At home, we took our coffee with lashings of milk in
bottomless mugs that Mum bought at Woolworths. Later I would learn
that Guido only ever drank espresso coffee, black, sweet and strong,
and that he could drink it any time, even late at night before bed, and
never suffer from insomnia. It was another magical thing about him.

There was music coming from the cafe, an Italian song, 'Nessun
Dorma'. I'd first heard it when my mother brought home an album
called
Famous Italian Songs
. I was only ten but I remember it because
if ever my mother bought herself a present, it was usually something
useful like a new frying pan or a tablecloth. I saw how she hugged the
record to herself like a secret. She'd put it on and sway to it while she
dusted or washed up.

A waiter with a red napkin slung over his shoulder began to sing
along to the music. His voice washed out of the cafe, onto the pavement,
drenching me. I shivered, thinking of the afternoon I'd come home
early from school and heard 'Nessun Dorma' turned up frighteningly
loud. The sound came streaming out of the house, colouring the pale
walls, shaking the outside light fittings. I found my mother on the
sofa; her vacuum cleaner was lying on its side like something injured.
For a moment I thought she was dead. Her eyes were closed, her arm
lay at a funny angle as if it didn't belong to her. And then I saw tears
sliding out from beneath her lids, a watery mysterious smile and the
tears were flowing onto her housecoat and suddenly she didn't look
like my mother any more at all.

Later, when I was sixteen, I brought out that record and listened
to all the songs for myself. I turned it up to full volume for 'Nessun
Dorma', and goosebumps came. A wave of longing rose in me, for what
exactly I couldn't say. As I listened to the surge towards the climax, I
longed for something to reach deep inside me – something marvellous
and startling like the crash of cymbals, something that would flick me
into life like a wand summoning doves from the air.

I stood propped against the doorway of the cafe, listening. The
ordinary sunshine fell down on my shoulders, cars crawled along the
city street, girls in bright floaty skirts hung around shop windows like
bunches of flowers. It was a Saturday morning in November, and I was
twenty-five.

The song changed to 'O Sole Mio', and I stayed to hear that, too.
The foreign voice offered sudden shelter from the sun, lending exotic
shade to the bland light glancing off polished duco and glass. Inside,
there were cream laminex tables and a picture of a snowy mountain on
the wall. The singing waiter walked across the room to a table in the
corner where a couple of men sat talking and put a plate of horseshoe
biscuits in front of them:
biscotti alla mandorla
, I would learn. The man
nearest the biscuits glanced up, pushing his dark hair back from his
face.

When he smiled, the breath just sailed out of me. He was the most
beautiful person I'd ever seen in real life. I forgot to take a new breath.
If you could mesh those perfect notes of 'Nessun Dorma' into a shape,
this man's face would be it.

His eyes were almond-shaped, outlined with dark lashes like an
Ancient Egyptian's. As he smiled at the waiter, crinkles broke out at
the corners. You wanted the waiter to think of more jokes to keep the
crinkles coming. He leant with his back against the wall, one elbow on
the table, his cheek resting in his hand. He was long and regal, graceful
as a dancer. With his other hand he picked up his cup, ate a biscuit.
Then he took a cigarette from a pack on the table and lit it. Because of
his beauty, each movement, unremarkable when performed by anyone
else, seemed important.

The man next to him was broader, greyer. He was leaning forward,
gesturing enthusiastically with his hands. The more he strained
towards the young man, the more the other relaxed back against the
wall. The older man suddenly laughed too hard, grasping the young
man's arm. It was a pleading gesture, and I waited for the man with the
beautiful face to respond.

But he wasn't paying attention. He was watching his cigarette,
as the long grey column of ash dropped into the ashtray. He played
with the sugar packets, piling one on top of the other, his eyes drifting
over the biscuits, the ashtray, the coffee cups. Then he just stared at
the doorway, looking outward but inward, at something in his mind.
He was impervious to the energy of the other man, throwing him an
absent smile every now and then, the way you'd pat a dog.

The song ended. In the sudden silence, the older man gave up. As
he twisted around, signalling to the bar, I felt sorry for the slope of his
poor hunched back, the dispirited slump of his shoulders.

And then the young man's unlatched gaze focused on me. He was
looking at me! His eyes widened, as if in recognition, then smiled, the
crinkles opening up. He winked – I thought it was a wink – but my
heart started to beat so quickly and the red in my cheeks was rising so
fast that I just walked off , blindly, tightening the strap of my shoulder
bag.

I marched up George Street, past Best Bikes and the camping shop
where my father had bought the tent for Danny, towards the Capitol
Theatre. I'd meant to look at the summer dresses in the windows on
the way, which my mother had pointed out would be on sale by now,
but I saw nothing. I just kept thinking of the beautiful man and how
dazed I felt, as if struck by lightning.

I had come into the city to do a reconnaissance of the Capitol Theatre
because the following Monday I would be taking my class for their
annual excursion. When you're about to enter a new environment,
I've found it's best to rehearse it first, particularly when the happiness
of thirty children is in your hands. I wanted to know exactly where the
bus would stop, how long it would take to walk there, the location of
the traffic lights, and the layout of the theatre.

I had been teaching at Wanganella Public School for three and a
half years, and this year we third grade teachers were told that we could
each choose our own school excursion. The weight of the decision
was quite crushing. I imagined all the children coming home to their
parents – that is, providing I didn't lose any of them – complaining that
their day out with me was the worst, most tedious excursion they'd
ever been on. Their little faces would be pale with disappointment
and the realisation that they would never get to have a grade three
excursion – or this day – ever again.

To be honest, the whole business of teaching, the responsibility
of all those young minds, was exhausting. Sometimes I'd stand outside
myself and look on, wondering what on earth that woman thought she
was doing.

Adult life seemed to be largely a mixture of boredom and terror.
I'd gaze wistfully at the children playing their make-believe games,
thinking the best part of being a child was that you were allowed to
make yourself up. No one said 'don't be silly' or 'oh dear, you seem
to have a mental problem' when you were four and being a mermaid,
your legs tucked cunningly together into one limb of your mother's
green wool tights.

In kindergarten I'd wanted to grow mermaid tresses, but my
mother said it wasn't practical – my hair was thick and untameable
and she just didn't have time to comb it constantly. '
I'll
do it,' I'd said.
And I did. At eight it was long enough to plait and I learnt how to do
a beehive and a bun and a French roll. Sometimes my mother and I
played hairdressers in the kitchen and she let me massage her head
and rearrange her hair
.
She had
vibrant
hair, I told her and really it was
a crying
shame
that she didn't show it off more. She'd giggled; she liked
'vibrant', I could tell.

But then my father stopped being a policeman and started
bringing home the orphan children instead. This meant no one could
be bothered to talk for even five minutes any more about French rolls
or beehives. There were real live crying shames needing attention in
our kitchen.

Shame seemed to have attended most decisions in my life. It
was like an unwanted guest who lingered too long. Still, when you
were a teacher of grade three, decisions had to be made, and quickly.
Eventually the possibilities for excursions were narrowed down to
three – the zoo (fresh air and educational), volleyball on the beach
(cheap and fun) or hiring bikes at Centennial Park, with a picnic. But
what if it rained? And then I thought of myself at their age, my love
of mermaid glitter and harem pants and Jean and Dean in The
Magic
Show
.

There had been notices in the theatre section of the newspaper
for a couple of months about the Magic Masters coming to Sydney.
From the ancient world the Magic Masters will bring mesmerising illusions
combined with spectacular lighting effects guaranteed to keep audiences
on the edge of their seats! There
would be the Table of Death, the
Domino Card Trick, Mysterious Fountain, the Slicer, Escape from the
Straitjacket. I had fantasised about going myself – booking a ticket and
maybe having a drink first at the fancy bar pictured in the paper – but
knew it wouldn't happen in real life. I don't make plans like that just
for me.

Tentatively I brought up the possibility of the Magic Masters with
my class, and they went wild. Literally! Jimmy Manson leapt up on
his chair and danced, while Sam, who nowadays would be classified
as having attention deficit disorder, ran around the room five times.
I didn't stop him. His enthusiasm was life-giving. I was so pleased I
could have run around with him. That's the lovely thing about children,
they never behave differently from how they feel just to be polite. You
always know where you are.

It took a while to persuade the principal, because it was an
expensive idea. But the theatre gave special concessions to schools,
and the enthusiasm of the children lent me confidence. It wasn't a bit
like asking for something for myself.

I'd noticed that the Magic Masters' publicity blurb emphasised the
art of escape. We hadn't touched on this branch of magic, but when
I brought the newspaper clipping into school, the children seemed
interested. They wanted to see pictures of the Slicer – would it be an
enormous carving knife or a rotating spoked wheel coming at you like
in a James Bond film? The idea of an escape from a straitjacket caused
an awed silence. Jimmy Manson said his great-uncle had spent twenty
years in one. As I read, the magic shows of my childhood slipped into
my dreams. It was so tempting to fall gently into the tide, the water
closing above me. But I knew the children would get so much more out
of the day if they understood some of the mechanics behind the magic.
And that meant that I had to. I was determined to stay conscious. This
was supposed to be an educational excursion, after all.

Once I started reading, it was easy to go on. I read late into the
night. The idea of a person actually choosing to confront death is
fascinating when you think about it, because everyone else seems to
be doing their best to avoid it. The men I read about couldn't wait to
hurl themselves off bridges, hang by chains from cliffs, be buried alive.

Naturally I didn't talk about this with the children – mainly
I concentrated on the principle of creating slack, strategies of
misdirection, picklocks, shims and keys. The children did a project on
an escape artist of their choice, and Bill Cooper wrapped himself up in
rope in the same configuration as Houdini, working his way out of it in
less than five minutes. Everyone was so excited, and when the principal
saw how Bill had written it all up, with diagrams and photographs on a
cardboard poster, he gave him a gold merit card to take home.

I once told Clara how much my students seemed to enjoy
studying magic with me and she said that's because
they
got to go
home afterwards.

That Saturday, after the music and the cafe, I'd almost arrived at the
theatre before I realised I hadn't looked once where I was going. The
whole point of this rehearsal had been missed.
Idiot
, said the voice,
you
can't stay conscious for five minutes
. I trudged on, looking at my watch,
trying to work out what time the bus had dropped me. I couldn't
remember. At the cafe, time had stood still.

How trite you are
, said the voice. Trite but true. I hadn't even
breathed while I'd watched that man. Afterwards, as I'd marched
along, I'd had to gasp for oxygen as you do when you come up from
underwater.

The walls of the theatre were hung with large gold mirrors and
velvet curtains. Just stepping inside this luxurious building would be
a startling experience for the children of Wanganella Public. It should
have been for me. It was like entering a palace. But I didn't deserve to
be there. I felt flat, defeated by the voice.

Dutifully I looked at the foyer and found the ticket box and the
girls' and boys' toilets. I went up and down the marble stairs, entering
the theatre by Door 2. The tiered seats rose in an endless semicircle
around the stage. Greek statues and painted columns and medieval
cupolas climbed toward the ceiling. Downstairs there was a glass case
on the wall which, instead of a fire hydrant, enclosed a real straitjacket
worn by an Insane Person in 1901. It looked menacing, like a warning.
Billy Cooper will love this, I thought. But I still felt as if I were walking
alongside myself. And then I saw the colour poster announcing the
Magic Masters.

The poster was life-size. I was staring into the eyes of the beautiful
young man. I could feel the hair prickling on the back of my neck. My
mouth went dry. It was him. The man from the cafe. His elegant hands,
the ones I'd seen playing with sugar packets, rested on an upright
sword. My breath ballooned in my chest. He was looking straight out
of the picture, his Ancient Egyptian eyes following me. The other
'master' in the poster was the older man from the cafe.