Escape (2 page)

Just talking about it gave me a hollow, sick feeling in my stomach.
I snatched up one of the tools. 'What pick is this?' I said, waving it
playfully in the air.

'Half diamond,' she said.

'And when do we use it?'

'First stage.'

'Hmm?'

'We insert the pick into the keyway of the cylinder,' she sighed,
'until the tip stops at the back of the plug. Then we lift the pins as high
as possible. Satisfied?'

I flung my arm around her and gave her shoulder a squeeze. 'That's
my clever girl!'

'Oh, Mum,' she said, 'I'm twenty-one!' She wriggled out of my
embrace. 'Why couldn't you have given me a wallet, or one of those
suitcases with wheels that you pull along behind you? Doreen gave
Saraah one when she went to Europe. She said it was great, made
travelling a breeze.'

That's when I got up and went to the library. At least Clara was
able to be open with me, I thought, as I gathered up my keys – she was
able to say what she felt about the gift . I couldn't have done that with
my mother. But really, if I'm honest, that's about all there is. I've been
a pretty lousy mother, and wife. Guido says that's why Clara never
worked hard at school. She resisted acquiring any extra knowledge
because she got too much of it at home. He says I'm
ossessiva
. That she
is going away for a year so she can breathe.

'You want her to be exactly like
you
,' he claims. He looks at me,
lifting his left eyebrow in that withering way he has. Clara practised
the lone eyebrow lift for the whole of third grade before she gave up.
These facial acrobatics are genetic, I told her, and unfortunately, she
was stuck with mine. I explained that the single raised eyebrow is in
the same class as rolling up your tongue or whistling through your
teeth. She didn't want to hear. My father can do all these things, she
kept crying, so why can't I? Clara didn't inherit her father's dark good
looks – his olive skin, his liqueur chocolate eyes, his tall, slender build.
I wish she had. Instead she is all her mother, both of us red-haired,
pale and soft as pears.

To me it is laughable, the idea that I would want Clara to be like
me. Well, laughable in a mirthless, tragic way. If only he knew, if only
they both knew how much I'd wanted the very opposite! Christ, who
would
want
to be me? When I was talking on the phone to Doreen the
other day, I'd mentioned how I felt about our 'Last Supper' with Clara.
I was trying to make a joke of it but my voice wobbled. When Guido
heard me he yelled at me to
settle
, stop it! He is very superstitious. I
know he is just as anxious about her as I am, although he would never
admit it, because that might mean a conversation.

I open the red wine and add a generous slurp to the baking dish.
Perhaps I'll pour a glass for me too. 'And what about Simmo,' I say, 'did
he come?'

'Seemmo? What kind of name is that?'

'You know, the pool man, Simon, the one who's been coming here
for the last three years when something goes wrong. The pool filter's
not working.'

'Can't you fix it?'

'No, I've tried. I'm not Wonder Woman.'

There is a snicker of agreement from behind the desk. It's probably
the only thing we've agreed on for the last ten years.

'We never use the pool, anyway,' says Guido. 'Why do we need to
spend all this money?'

'Because it will go green and slimy with algae if it's left to itself.
Mosquitoes will breed and it'll be a health hazard.' I shove another
garlic clove into the soft flesh of the veal. 'Heavens, listen to us, how
self-indulgent are we, complaining about the cost of our swimming
pool when two-thirds of the people in the world have never even had
the chance to use a telephone?'

'Well, now I remember. That man Seemmo just suddenly appeared
at the window this afternoon. I wish you would tell me when 'e is
coming. Nearly gave me an
infarto
. . .'

Guido goes on to say something else but I'm thinking about
Simmo. Simon Mason. I like his hands, big square fingers, his nails
cut short, skin roughened at the tips by pool chemicals, weather and
work. How peaceful it is when he explains the balance of things, the
need for equal parts of acid and alkali, strategies to reduce chlorine
consumption and algae growth. You can't afford any compassion for
algae, he said once. But his face looked sorry.

'The plumber said the flush is fixed but 'e doesn't like the way the
water is filling up the bowl. Is still not at a good level. But 'e could not
stay, 'e was sorry, there was the funeral of his sister's wife.'

'Husband.'

'Yes. So 'e said 'e would come back tomorrow to finish the job,
which is not at all convenient for me, but that man Seemmo said he
could take a look at it while 'e was 'ere, if I wanted. Said it would be
free of charge, so I told 'im yes, why not?'

I can't help smiling. That's typical of Simon. So helpful, and at the
end of the afternoon when all he probably wanted to do was go home
and put his feet up. Sometimes we've sat out on the porch after he's
fixed the filter or cleared a hose and I've made a cool drink. I feel more
relaxed just thinking about it.

Guido comes into the kitchen. 'Did you buy anything for me to
snack on before dinner? I ham so 'angry. That Seemmo knows a lot
about us – 'e knew Clara was going to Italy tomorrow. Do you tell the
garbage men all our business, too?'

I don't bother replying, handing him some cheese and crackers
from the fridge. He wrinkles his nose in a bewildered way as the fridge
door opens and closes. I take a deep breath and hold it, then open the
fridge for the butter. Propped right next to it is my hairbrush. God!
Quickly, in a sleight-of-hand move, I whip out the butter tub, flourishing
it in front of Guido's face while I slip the brush into my apron pocket.
There! I feel pleased for a moment at my expert misdirection, but
really, this kind of thing is happening far too frequently. I just don't
seem capable of concentrating.

For instance, I find it almost impossible to sit still and do my
work. The book I am contracted to write at the moment is entirely
different from my others – although because it's about magic, most
people wouldn't appreciate that. It's not about illusions, and how to
make them. I'm used to talking about misdirection, which is, of course,
the fundamental tool of illusion. I must have described a hundred
different ways for diverting attention to, say, the left hand – clicking
your fingers, pointing, making the shape of a bird – while the right
is busy with substitution, coins for feathers, an ace for a king. These
are practical steps, made simple for children. Now I have to write a
book for grown-ups, about four renowned magicians. I'll have to
research them, discover their inner motivations, bring them to
life
.
But I'm stuck at the very beginning, on Harry Houdini, the father
of escapology. Harry died at the age of fifty-two from a blow to the
stomach, which was a tragedy, but in a sense ensured his immortality.
He became a legend, never to be trapped by the slow constrictions of
old age like the rest of us. That is, the rest of us in the
western
world.
Just this morning at the library I read that the average life expectancy
in Zambia is thirty-seven. Isn't that the sort of thing a person
ought
to
be writing about?

Magic is such a frilly thing, says Clara, a mere accessory to life
like a handbag – why don't you write about something important?
But I wouldn't know how to write about anything else. I wish I did.
I find Harry's life – and death – mesmerising. I just can't move on.
The book is a year late and every time I sit down at my desk I think
about running away – going to live somewhere else, somewhere
anonymous, a cold little mountain village maybe, like the one Guido
once wrote about. A place where no publishers would be waiting
for manuscripts, no eyes would settle on me as people rushed over
cobblestones with coats buttoned up against the cold, noses and
mouths forming triangles of ice in the pure, bitter air. Doreen says
it's normal at our age to want to escape the lives we've made for
ourselves. That's what holidays are for. I told her it's more like life
has settled around me, like dust on an ornament. If you stay still for
long enough, I said, the dust mats into a film that is impossible to
peel away.

Weariness overwhelms me as I look at the pumpkin on the kitchen
bench. It's as big as a football. Organic. I'll be making soup for weeks.
I start chopping it up, to put in with the veal. My father loves baked
vegetables. He'd be a vegetarian if he could. Hates the thought of
those poor cows with their big dark eyes walking, trusting as children,
to slaughter. The eggplant, capsicum, mushrooms and tomatoes I'll
bake separately, as a ratatouille. That's Guido's favourite. Perhaps it will
lighten his mood and encourage him to be more loquacious at dinner.

Guido is hovering in the doorway, munching crackers. He seems
to have abandoned his work for the moment.

'Here,' I say, 'do you want to give me a hand? All these vegetables
have to go into the oven quickly. You could use the new classy knife,
you know, the one you admired the other day.' I offer it to him, twirling
it like a cheer-leading baton so the bright blue handle catches the light
in an appealing way. 'You could help me chop up the pumpkin – it
always makes my arm ache.'

Guido frowns. He looks at the knife I push towards him. 'Mm,
okay, but I just 'ad a brilliant idea that I should write down before I
forget. Is about the slow tide of death, of death as a symbol rather than
the physical fact, what I intend is the death of self . . .'

The phone on the kitchen wall rings. I reach for it but Guido is too
quick for me.

'
Ciao bella!
' he says, sudden warmth suffusing his voice. '
Un
momento
,' and he lays the receiver carefully on the kitchen bench. 'I'll
take it in the bedroom,' he whispers to me, 'put it down when you hear
me pick up,' and he strides smartly up the hall.

'Hey, what about your idea?' I call, 'you know, about the slow
tide of death?' but his door closes with a bang. When I hear voices –
Silvia's, I think, his star pupil – I obediently hang up the phone.

In all the years we've been married, I can't remember Guido ever
doing something for me at the time I've asked him. Doreen says that
men are just like that, it's a control issue: we remind them too much
of their mothers so they have to rebel. Well, I don't bother asking for
anything any more because it's much faster to do the thing myself,
whatever it is. I was always like that with Clara, too, I suppose, and
that's why she's never learnt to cook. She said something like that to
Saraah the other day: 'I won't be able to get a job in a kitchen. I don't
even know how to make scrambled eggs!'

Mothers are supposed to teach their daughters how to cook
, said the
voice,
not how to escape
.

I start slicing the skin from the pumpkin. Even with the fancy
new knife the skin is so hard you have to put all your shoulder into
it. You wouldn't want to miss as the knife comes down. The blade
is so sharp. Like death. Not a numbing tide but quick, red. I hope
Clara looks both ways when she steps off the kerb in Italy. Will she
remember they drive on the right? I flinch as I watch her being mown
down by a speeding Fiat.

The front door slams. 'Is that you, Clara?'

'Yeah.'

I pop my head around the kitchen archway to see her wheeling
the suitcase up the hall. She grins, pointing at the case. 'Cute, isn't it?'
She disappears into her room.

I love her smile. I am smote by her face, so full of light and
forgiveness. I hurry to finish peeling the pumpkin and potatoes, chop
them up and throw them around the veal, sprinkling olive oil on top.
Then I wipe my hands on my apron, rush into my room to get the new
book I picked up at Baudelaire's and a few other little last-minute items
for her trip, and run down the hall.

Her door is closed. I look at the blank scabby face of the wood and
count to ten before I knock. By the time I get to nine maybe I'll know
whether to go in. I remember when she first closed her door at thirteen
and put a sign on it saying KEEP OUT ON PAIN OF DEATH! It felt
as if I'd been kicked in the stomach by a horse. Or what I imagined
that would be like. Something with a lot of weight and muscle and
hard hoof.

There's no answer, just a loud thud as if something heavy has been
dropped, followed by 'Shit!'

I open the door a few centimetres, the book in my hand. 'I've got
something for you,' I say, and hold it out.

Clara looks up from the floor where her open suitcase must have
fallen, and rolls her eyes at me. 'Don't tell me, it's about Houdini
escaping from a burning plane and you want me to learn how to do
the trick before dinner.'

I smile back at her, pretending to be amused. Harry did in fact
flirt with air travel. He was the first person to fly on the Australian
continent. 'She's like a swan,' he said, very poetically I thought, of the
French Voisin Biplane, and he wrote to a friend, 'I have been very bisy
trying to win the Australian Prize, and I'm pleased to inform you the
trophy is MINE!!!' His spelling was his only weakness. Endearing,
really.

I hover there, thinking feverishly how to describe Harry's
enthusiasm for flying. Clara could take him with her, this picture of
him holding his trophy high. She could imagine him, this courageous
man with his emotional barometer always set to optimistic, as
she
took off on her first flight. I stand, bristling with words, my foot in the
door.

'Oh Mum, you look like a Mormon with a bible. Put that book
down whatever it is and come in then.'

'It's actually an account of his early life,' I say breezily, inching into
the room. I deliberately make my voice light because she once told me
how much it annoyed her that I reserved a special tone for Him, sort
of low and thick and reverent, as if I were in church.