Escape (7 page)

'What?' my mother frowns. 'What are you all talking about?'

Guido sighs and turns to my father. 'I've also been working on a
film script—'

'What?' I choke on my wine.

Dad gives a low whistle. 'I bet it's not easy to sell a film script.
Plenty of people try to get into the movies, from what I hear, but not
many succeed.'

'One of my students,' Guido taps the table in irritation, 'she 'as a
very good friend who is a producer. They are always looking for new
work. In Australia, there are not so many good-quality scripts. Is all
cinematography, landscape, kookaburras and desserts—'

'Deserts,' I say.

'There is not much about the deeper levels of human experience,
of motivation and fantasy and these abstract things. This student often
asks to see what I am doing. She is a script editor, very experienced.
She lectures, too, in creative writing. She knows my poetry well, always
encouraging me to develop my script.'

'Is the student Silvia?' I ask.

'Pardon? Oh yes.' Guido stretches and yawns, not bothering to
cover his mouth. 'Well, our girl has an early flight tomorrow. I am
tired, so I will be off to bed.'

'But we haven't even had coffee and cake yet!'

'I've eaten enough.' He stands up and faces my parents. 'Good
night then.' He bends stiffly, from the hips, just like he did at our
wedding, and kisses my mother's cheek. Then he turns to Clara,
his voice softening. 'Come to my room for a moment,
amore
. I
'ave something for you.' He smiles around the table, gives another
stretch and disappears down the hall.

'Oh, well, I suppose it is getting late,' my mother says.

'Don't go just yet,' Clara protests. 'I'll just nip in and see what Dad
wants. Wait for me!'

The cake is apple, with cinnamon icing, Clara's favourite. I serve it
as she comes back into the room.

'What's that in your hand?' I say.

'An exercise book of Dad's – his poetry when he was young. It's all
handwritten – see the big loopy letters?'

I read the name on the front. Gianni Leone. 'But who's that?'

'His friend – they used to write poetry together. They were best
friends, Dad said, and they wrote these poems when they were exactly
my age. Gianni tried to put them to music. He played the guitar, Dad
said he was brilliant, like Bob Dylan. I can't read them now, though,
because they're all in Italian, but he reckons that soon, after I'm living
in Italy for a while, I'll understand pretty well all of them.'

My heart is thumping oddly. Maybe it's trying to adapt to all the
new and disturbing bits of information flying right at it.

'I've never heard of him having a best friend. He never told me.
What happened to him?' I ask Clara.

'He died.'

'Of course,' I mutter. I always see his family as a stack of dominoes,
relatives pitching forward one after the other in a long black line,
leaving only Guido standing, defying the laws of gravity.

'What? Jesus, it's not Dad's fault he has such bad luck!'

'No, no, that's right. Well, eat up that cake, won't you. It's full of
apple. Lots of vitamins. Just what you'll need to fight off all those
flu germs on the plane – I hope you remember to eat your fruit over
there.'

'I can't wait until I'll be able to read these poems,' says Clara. 'In
Italian I mean. I wonder how long it will take. It'll be like getting to read
a treasure map or, I don't know, like breaking a code.' She's examining
the pages, holding the open book up to the light like something written
in invisible ink. Guido's words. Why is it that when a person offers so
few, each one is as precious as gold? It seems so unfair.

I can't help thinking of Guido's sarcastic comment about
my
present to Clara. 'So that's his going-away gift?' I say, pointing to the
book. 'How practical! I'm sure it'll be a great help to you in finding
your way around Italy.' I glance at Clara's hurt, angry face, and away.
It's happening again, the words out before I can stop them.

Clara gives a grunt of anger. 'Well, what about
your
going-away
present: a lock-picking tool set, for Christ's sake!'

Dad's laugh is cheerfully practised, dropping a smooth blanket
down to cover the bumps. 'Just think about those boys at the refuge,
Rachel! Give some of them a gift like that and they'd have been
breaking into the first car they could find.'

I get up and bring the beautiful tool set over to him. 'It's a lovely set,
just look at the elegant leather pouch it comes in. I got it at Baudelaire's
– you know, that magic shop. Remember you once said it was the most
surprising shop you'd ever been in.' I pull out the small printed guide
that goes with it. 'And Baudelaire wrote these notes himself. Listen to
what he says:
Picking is an art. When you have developed the ability to
pick locks, you are special. Be a hero not a zero! Repeated successes will
build your confidence and self-esteem
.' Well, it's a bit jingly, but don't we
all need that? Self-esteem?'

Mum shakes her head. 'Rachel never did seem to realise no one is
remotely interested in escapology. Lives in a world of her own, poor
mite. Of course that dreadful marriage doesn't help.'

I don't look at my mother. 'I just thought the tools might come
in handy if you see Maurizio, Clara. You may get work at the school
tutoring or who knows, in a show, anything could happen.'

'Oh, Jesus, Mum, I don't even want to
see
the guy, how many times
do I have to tell you! Dad says his father was an interfering old fart.'

Tears gather behind my eyes. They'll spill any moment, I can't
help it.

Clara looks stricken. 'What I mean is, I'm more interested in just
seeing what happens in Italy, looking around, you know?'

My father leans over and gives her a hug. 'But
I'm
still worried
about you being all by yourself over there, missy. I wish there was
someone you could contact.' He looks over her head at me. 'What
about that fellow who used to write to Guido, Rachel – I remember
you telling me about an old friend. Is he still in Italy?'

I sigh. 'James Heartacher. But he was English, not Italian. Guido
met him on holiday as a teenager and afterwards they corresponded.
Or at least, James wrote to Guido.' I don't want to think about him.
Guido gets so angry whenever I mention him.

'Oh.' Dad looks down at his knees.

I finger the elegant leather pouch, flipping over the collar at the
top. 'So, anyone for coffee?'

'Just a quick one, sweetie, that'd be nice. But we don't want to keep
you up.'

When I come back with the cups, Clara is sitting comfortably
tucked up under Dad's arm. 'I'll write to you,' she's telling him.

When he sees me, he straightens up. 'Hey, Rachel, remember
Danny? Danny Shore? Stayed with us when you were a kid. He was a
nice boy—'

'Peculiar,' puts in Mum. 'Always washing his hands. Obsessed
about dinner being on time. All through the afternoon he watched the
clock on the kitchen wall.'

'Oh, well,' says Dad equably, 'we all have our little eccentricities.
And he was only young. He'd be getting on now, of course.'

'He wasn't so much older than me, was he?

'No, I suppose not. But we're all getting on, aren't we. Anyway, I
hadn't heard from him in the last ten years or so, and I wondered—'

'Is he dead?'

'No!' Dad looks shocked. 'He rang up out of the blue the other
night. He's got a job in a top restaurant. Sounded happy, but there was
so much noise in the background I couldn't hear where. Adelaide?
This damn hearing aid keeps falling out. Anyway, he sounded fine. He
probably keeps his eye on the clock, tapping his watch and making
sure everyone is punctual for dinner!'

I try to smile. Remembering Danny is like touching a nerve or
plunging back into a bad dream. It is not a place I want to be. I look
at Dad. He's grinning all over his face. He seems so genuinely pleased.
How strange to hear him talk like that about Danny, as if he were just an
ordinary event in our lives, like an old neighbour dropping in for a chat.

'There wasn't enough funding for youth refuges,' Mum tells Clara.
'We had to have the boys stay at our house.'

'Yes, I know,' says Clara. She makes a knowledgeable
tsk tsk
sound
with her tongue.

'Ah well, better days now, eh, Deborah? We'll go home and put
our feet up and catch the late news. We'll let our young'un get to bed.'

'She's got to finish her packing before she can even
find
the bed!'
I say.

Clara shakes her head at me and then her face disappears in the
hugs of her grandparents as they say their goodbyes.

I'm rinsing the plates when Clara comes back into the kitchen.

'I'll stack them when you're done,' says Clara, hovering.

'You should go and pack.' I try to smile but panic is rising like the
tide in my throat as I think of her shipwrecked room, how late it is,
how early we will have to leave, the mountain of dishes towering on
the kitchen bench and Guido curled up unhelpfully asleep in his bed.
I want to hurl the damn plates at the wall. I know it's Guido I'm really
angry with, but sometimes it's so hard to stop the rage from spilling
over.

'I don't know why you have to leave everything till the last
minute,' I say. 'Why does everyone in this house wait for me to nag
them? It's always been like this, your assignments, your chores, bloody
everything! Nothing gets done, so
I
have to do it all!'

'Well, tomorrow I'll be gone and you won't have to worry any
more about what an idiot of a daughter you have!'

'Oh, Clara!' The pit opens at my feet.

'Oh, Mum, I didn't mean it,' cries Clara, clutching my arm. 'I'm
sorry.'

I shake my head, but I can't speak. I give her a clumsy hug and
sniff . 'No, no, I make such a mess of things.' Out of the corner of my
eye I spot a cockroach emerging like a black thought out of the top
cupboard. It's as long as my finger, waddling leisurely towards the pool
of Penne Siciliana sauce on the bench.

'Ugh, how gross is that!' cries Clara, following my eyes. '
Porca
miseria
, 'ow can we leeve like this!'

She does such a perfect imitation of Guido, her hand on her hip,
the horror on her face so devastating that I break into a wail of laughter.
She grins too but a frown still perches uncertainly between her brows.
I pat her hand, wishing I knew how to say all the things I feel about her
leaving. But then again, perhaps I shouldn't.

'That book Dad gave me?' Clara says hesitantly. 'It meant a lot to
him, you know. And me, I guess.'

'Yes, yes of course,' I say quickly, squeezing her hand. 'I'm sorry I
made that snappy remark about his going-away gift – I just . . . Well, I
just can't help thinking how you are going to
his
country and why hasn't
he done more about it, he could have even gone
with
you or maybe we
all could have, or he could have sorted out some contacts—'

'It's okay,' says Clara. She's putting the dishes into the dishwasher
without making a sound. 'Look, Dad just says he wants me to be
independent and to form my own views about the world, apart from
him or you. You know? He reckons I haven't had enough of that. Being
free to explore, I mean. Being free. That's what he values. It's just his
way.'

I'm struggling with my face. So Guido thinks our daughter hasn't
had enough freedom – but what's
he
contributed? Left it all to me,
hasn't he?
And look what a mess you've made
, says the voice.

I turn back to the sink and keep rinsing. The tap is behaving itself.
The tomato sauce is washing off nicely, without having to scrape.

'You're a wonderful person,' I say into the sink.

'What?

'I'll miss you.'

Clara puts the last plate in the dishwasher. 'I guess I better go and
finish packing, hey?'

I just wish she wasn't going to be all alone. That she had a friend to
go with. Someone like Saraah maybe, a practical person whose mother
was a nurse.

'Mum?'

'Yes?'

'Are you going to be okay?'

'Of course!' I put down the Wettex and turn to her. 'And look,
darling, you don't have to take that tool set from Baudelaire – who
said to tell you
bon voyage
by the way.'

'That's okay, Mum, I'll take the tools. I always liked Baudelaire. I
was with Saraah a few weeks ago and I took her into Hey Presto for
a browse. She thinks it's the coolest shop. She bought some of those
magic coins.' Clara grins suddenly. 'Remember that trick you played
on me when we had to wake Dad up?'

I shift my feet uncomfortably. Guido liked to be woken up after his
siesta with an espresso coffee, but he was always so horribly grumpy,
no matter what creative manner of awakening I chose. I grew a bit
phobic about it, running in there with the coffee, tapping him on the
shoulder and running out again like a zookeeper feeding a lion. By the
time Clara was in fourth grade, she and I were tossing a coin to see
who would enter his lair. It wasn't until years later that she discovered
I'd been cheating. I used a trick coin in our game – double-headed –
which Baudelaire had sold me.

'Well, your father was always happier to see you than me when he
woke up, anyway,' I say. 'Did Saraah really like the shop?'

'Yeah, totally. She thinks magic is cool. Funny, isn't it. Old Baudy
showed her some tricks—'

'Oh, which ones?'

'Um, a card trick, the exploding wallet, the pop-out wand—'

'I don't know that one. Is it good?'

'Excellent. Anyway she was totally hooked. She said she always
admired you when we were at school, thought you were a real freak
– in a good way, I mean. She envied me having such an exotic mum.
Ha!'

A blush of pleasure goes to my head like wine. 'See? Good magic
can't fail to impress. You've got the skills, Clara, you'd be easily as
proficient as Baudelaire. If you
do
go to see Maurizio and just say he
offers you a job, he might want you to do an audition. I was thinking
you could start with the Thumb-Tie Trick. You know that so well, you
could do it in your sleep.'