Escape (39 page)

I switch off the computer and run down the hall. As I bang the door
behind me Clara's last few words ring in my head. The
first time on my
own
. I've lived with a man all my adult life, I suddenly realise, but I've
always felt on my own.

The people at my table have left the chair at the head empty. An
impossibly good seat. Odd, when the view from here is the best in
the house. Centre stage, 360 degrees, uncluttered vision. Maybe no
one wanted to be conspicuous, like kids hiding up the back of the
hall at school assemblies. After all, magicians are famous for picking
out volunteers from the audience, asking for their watches, a five-dollar
note, a random body to chain or cuff . Most people don't
know that these volunteers are plants, carefully trained in the act of
innocence.

My table companions have obviously been here for a while,
judging by the litter of empty glasses with lemon slices stuck to the
sides. Not that I'm judging. As a waiter comes past I order a gin and
tonic myself, and grin at the woman next to me. She winks back and
empties her shot glass in one mouthful. Then she sucks on a quarter of
lime. Tequila. There is a little salt trail on the inside of her thumb.

I take out my notebook. A loud laugh cracks in my ear. I begin to
write some observations about the theatre but an elbow jolts mine,
making my pen run off the page. The tequila woman doesn't notice.
She's having a drinking competition with the man opposite, the glasses
lined up like soldiers.

I look at the tables around the room. I can't see right to the back,
the second tier is a blur of colour and noise. The roar of talk rises up
the walls, the shiver of lights spangling the chests of laughing women
in lycra. The atmosphere in this theatre is a very distant cousin to
the reverent hush of the Capitol Theatre. Hardly related. I miss the
awed quiet, the plush velvet obedience of the seated rows. 'You're
not at
church
, Mum,' I could imagine Clara scoffing. Well, I just hope
everyone settles down when the show starts.

The lights dim without warning. In a second we are in total darkness.
The notes of a flute, panpipes perhaps, drop into the black. The room
eddies around the sound. A shot of excitement spurts through me. We
have begun.

The flute picks up notes like stitches, weaving a tune in the
darkness. We cling to the music, our only clue. We could be anywhere,
at the top of a cliff , falling through the night. It's eerie, almost
frightening, this cowering at the foot of the darkness. There is a stir in
the audience, and the hush is shot through with uneasy whispers.

Then a green light flicks up over the stage. A pinpoint of hope,
the colour of a lime fizzy drink. It flies out like a ball to the audience. I
want to catch it. My arm flinches, ready. It hovers over our heads, dives
and swoops. The tips of a man's fingers are splashed in neon green. It
dances away, illuminating a woman's tortoiseshell comb, a man's gelled
hair. The light is cheeky, endearing, it has a personality. You could call
it bouncy. Someone laughs, as if at a cute child. Then it disappears. It
leaves no trace of itself. The silence of darkness is complete after the
light. Even the flute has been swallowed.

We're left to feel the full weight of the dark. It settles like a burden
on our shoulders. There are not even the stars here. People whisper.
Someone coughs. A glass clinks. Small sounds of life protesting the
blackness. But nothing tears the dark. Even the memory of the light is
not enough. It is overwhelming, like the end.

And then quietly, with the pure high notes of the flute, the arc of
light rises again. But now it changes from green to brilliant red to blue
and gold and orange, and a rainbow spouts out toward us from the
stage and the flute blooms into an orchestra and gradually, like the sky
at sunrise, the stage fills with light so that we see a tall man in a silver
coat stretch out his arms towards us.

'Welcome to an enchanted evening!' cries Jonny Love, and bursts
into a flame of blue lightning.

After the show there is a queue for taxis out on the street. I wait,
pulling my coat around me. I'm glad of the night air, the thrill of the
cold. When my taxi arrives I hesitate, eyeing the empty seats. It seems
so snooty, unfriendly really, to choose the back. But then I've got so
much to think about; I need replay time. 'The Park Hyatt ,' I tell the
driver sheepishly, and slide in behind him.

I'm aware of the yellow cubes of light blazing in office buildings,
tall honeycombs crowding the night sky. A dribble of rain is starting,
washing headlights into the street. But the catalogue of magic is blaring
in my head.

After the hushed power of that first light trick, the show grew in
volume and dazzle. Illusions were performed quick as drumbeats. In
the breathless rhythm I had time only to write single words, the name
of a trick, a joke in the patter. But Jonny appeared relaxed from start
to finish; he was conversational, funny, charming. His solemn 'butler'
helped him with certain domestic tasks – the Floating Glass Trick,
the Vanishing Bottle, the Magic Ladder. Jonny assumed a patient,
princely manner with his assistant, who was constantly befuddled by
the glass still floating in the air after he'd stopped holding it, the bottle
of ketchup disappearing from inside the paper bag as he crumpled it
in his hand, a solid metal ladder appearing out of nowhere. A band
of girls in silver tights and space helmets appeared in the third act to
chain Jonny to a flaming torture crib. While he struggled they danced
happily in formation, their limbs flaring like sparks along a wire. But
the final illusion was the most extraordinary and courageous escape
act I'd ever seen.

As I get out of the taxi and pay, I have an urge to tell the driver
about it. In his whole life he may never catch an act like this. On the
bare stage there'd been a large cage, with one of the dancing girls inside
it. She moved her hips and bottom to a rock song, sweeping in entire
circles like the girls I'd watched wistfully on
Countdown
as a child.
Jonny rattled the bars of her cage, in maddened lust, so that the butler
had to come and save him, like a sailor from a siren, throwing a white
shimmery curtain over the cage. The stage darkened then as the rock
music deepened into African drums. The room pulsed with the beat.
We were hypnotised. The dark stage became something alive, booming
with the jungle and the threat of the wild and there was no other light
or sound to take us back to safety. When Jonny finally swept the cover
off the cage and the lights exploded, there was no longer a girl inside,
but a
tiger
. A live, steaming tiger!

I stand with my hand on the door of the taxi, remembering what
it felt like to be just metres away from that animal. A drop of saliva had
sparkled on its whiskers. The fur rippled over its shoulders as Jonny
led it on a leash out of the cage, and across the stage. It had looked too
much like a tiger to
be
one. 'Is he real?' I'd asked the woman next to
me. But her chin had dropped onto her chest and her eyes were closed.
She'd missed the whole thing, which was a shame.

I hover on the pavement, trying to decide how best to transmit
the splendour of such magic to the taxi driver, when he leans across
the front seat and says, 'Shit, you waiting for
change
from that lousy
ten bucks?'

'No, no,' I say hastily, 'keep it!'

The Park Hyatt has views over Sydney Harbour. It is only a short
walk down from the Lobster Bar where Guido and I had our first
date. The bar is called something else now, the wooden chairs
and tables replaced by minimalist steel. It's nothing special, only
one link in the clinking chain of cutlery and conversation going
on in the bars, restaurants and cafes strung along the water. As I
walk past our first date a wave of sadness sloshes in my belly, and
suddenly my shoes hurt. I've forgotten how to walk in high heels.
I feel like an untrained circus performer on stilts. I think longingly
of the fluffy tracksuit and socks scrunched under my pillow at
home.

The lobby floor of the hotel shines, laid with squares of pink
marble. Cigar smoke and leather smells envelop me as I linger among
the huddles of potted palms, beige couches and suited businessmen.
The palm leaves, spotlit by the lamp bowls above, sketch cross-hatch
patterns over the pale sofas. I want to sit down on one, breathe in the
smell of safe arrival, let the palms doodle on my face. But I don't. I find
the sign to the main dining room, and go in.

Warm golden wood, heavily panelled walls, tables lit with candles
inside manicured glass vases. My eyes sweep the room – waiters
dressed like minstrels in black and white, red tablecloths, plumes of
roses rising from glass flutes set into the walls.

I hover at the reception desk near the entry.

'Can I help you?' The young woman is smiling up at me.

'I'm, um, meeting someone.'

'And the name?'

'Jonny Love.'

The woman examines her list, licking her finger to turn over the
page. Guido loathes that habit; if he saw someone do it, he'd make
the motions of vomiting. I suppose that's why he didn't borrow much
from the library, only handling the books I chose with his fingertips.
'You cannot imagine the amount of dried spit on library books,'
he'd say. He used to hold his breath for as long as he could in public
bathrooms, too. He'd emerge gasping for breath as if he were in the
grip of a heart attack. 'The smell is made up of molecules from other
people's evacuations. You want to breathe
that
in?'

The young woman is frowning. 'Jonny Love, you said?'

'The magician. He's staying here,' I tell her. 'I just saw him lead a
tiger around on a leash. It was extraordinary! He's been at the hotel for
a week, I think.'

She licks her finger again and turns another page. Her face clears.
'Yes, here he is, under Guests.'

She looks up at me, smiling again, unaware that she has committed
a crime of hygiene, enough to condemn her forever to the wintry cells
of Guido's disapproval. I smile freely back at her, overjoyed suddenly
that I can.

'And you are here first!' she exclaims, as if I've won a competition.
'Mr Love has not arrived yet. I'll get our head waiter here to show you
to your table.'

A long-boned man responds with alacrity to the woman's
eyebrows. He makes his way elegantly between the tables, his back
slightly stooped, his shanks moving loosely inside his black sheen
pants. His nose is beaked, his expression focused as if all his attention
is on his legs, which will carry him swiftly, efficiently, to his next task.
He looks rather like a well-groomed emu.

'This way, madam,' he says, heading for a table next to the palm
in the corner. I follow gratefully, basking in these pleasant exchanges
where people notice me, lead me to my seat like royalty, like a special
guest. I smile at him but the waiter is looking steadily to my left , a
strained wariness tightening his features. There is something familiar
about his face, the eyes set far apart that don't quite see me. He is
courteous but absent, concentrated on some higher task.

I go to sit down at the table but he pulls my chair out for me,
spreads the napkin over my lap. 'Madam is punctual,' he approves,
'would she like to look at the wine list?' I think of Clara's email and her
difficulty with the third person, and grin. How quaint. I'll have to tell
her about this.

'Yes, please.'

'Certainly, just a moment.' He lopes off swiftly to the desk where
the menus are placed in a neat pile and is back in a blink. 'Here you are,
take your time, you can be looking while we wait for
Sir
.' He frowns
briefly, checking his watch.

'Thank you,' I say. He dances away, straight back to his post at
the desk like a dart to a dartboard. Looking at his rounded back,
his long shankbones, I feel uneasy. I don't know why. He is like a
shadow, an echo of something dark cast over the light in this royal
room.

I smooth the napkin across my knees, feeling the cotton ironed to
the smoothness of silk. I study the wine list and decide to ask only for
a glass; who knows what Jonny will like, white or red, or what kind of
buongustaio
he will be.

As if the waiter knows exactly when I make the decision, he
returns, negotiating a path between a huge man built like a mountain
bent in the middle and a woman swaying backwards with laughter. I
want to clap, as if he's just finished a magnificent dance. Emu Lake.

'I'll have just a glass of pinot noir, please.'

'Certainly, madam. An excellent choice. And sir will be here
directly, I am sure. He was rather ambitious, if I may say so, making the
time 9 pm. He is never able to make it back so quickly after the show.'

'Oh, so you know Jonny Love?'

But he has whisked away.

My heart is racing uncomfortably at the thought of Jonny's
imminent arrival. I check in my handbag for my notebook and pen. I
decide to place the items on the table, where I can see them.

The waiter brings my wine, putting it down with a flourish. I drink
half the glass quite quickly and then, with my back leaning comfortably
into the chair, the heels of my shoes kicked off under the table, I relax
and survey the room. The palms, like those in the lobby, create intricate
patterns on the walls. I remember the palms at the disco in Fiji, when
I couldn't wait for the night to finish, to lie in bed with Guido. Well,
who knows what may happen with Jonny? I look at his place setting
opposite me, the folded napkin, the wineglass catching the light, the
candle flickering. Soon he will drink from that glass, put his lips to
that napkin. And here I am about to meet this magical man across
a dinner table! I rub a hand over the silky stockinged surface of my
thigh. Smooth, loofahed skin. I slide my hands under my hair, check
the bounciness, the way it springs away from my fingers, clean.

The waiter comes into my line of vision, doing his loping long-boned
dance. He could be clearing the path for landmines. Behind
him is the tall figure of Jonny Love.

I try to stand up and hit my thigh against the sharp edge of the
table.
Typical
, says the voice.
Why don't you just collapse in front of him,
paws in the air? The
wineglass totters, but, thank god, doesn't spill.

'Rachel?' Jonny extends his hand.

I put my hand in his. It is large and warm and exquisitely dry. A
confident hand that wouldn't dream of sweating.

I feel my eyes widening to take all of him in. Large grey eyes,
high forehead. A strong, chiselled, handsome face. His forehead is
reassuring, etched with neat parallel lines like a network of freeways.
The lines hadn't appeared in his photos. I like them. His hair is touched
with silver. He is older than his photos, than I expected. A charismatic
maturity. His eyes hook mine, then travel down the V of my dress. I'm
glad suddenly that I made the brave selection.

'It's so lovely to meet you!' I gasp.

'The pleasure is
mine
,' he says smoothly. His smile broadens and
he nods, as if he likes what he sees. We stand for a moment, our eyes
meeting. We're both grinning, it's hard to stop grinning. There is
the shimmer of the stage about him still, making him taller, almost
imaginary. I remember him standing beside the tiger, like Tarzan or
some brave prince in a fairytale.

He smiles. The waiter pulls his chair out for him, smoothes
the napkin over his lap. 'Most happy to see you, sir,' says the waiter,
pouring sparkling mineral water from a blue bottle. 'Just ten minutes
late this evening.' He taps his watch, snatches up the wineglass.

Jonny grins at the man and rolls his eyes at me. 'This guy sure
looks after me, doesn't he?'

'Will sir be having the risotto? Tonight we have pumpkin done in
rosemary.'

'Sounds good.' Jonny leans toward me, tapping the side of his nose.
'I think you'll like the risotto just fine, it's great for this hour, light,
nutritious and packed with fibre. But of course if you're a carnivore,
you may want to look at the menu.' He's smiling, but he says
carnivore
the way you'd say slut. And what about the wine – isn't he having any?
Can I have another?

I glance in confusion at the menu lying near my plate. Filet
mignon, Atlantic salmon, duck à l'orange,
oh!
Confusion hits me like a
door. 'Um,' I say.

The two men are looking at me. Waiting. I hear a sigh. This is not
how I imagined at all. He seems to be in a hurry, as if he's arrived late
for his dentist appointment. I thought we'd savour our meeting, like
a good wine. Even with Doreen or Lena, who I might have seen only
the week before, we're so busy chatting with each other that often we
don't even look at the menu for
multiples
of ten minutes.

'Madam?'

Have the risotto
, says the voice.
Don't be a slut!

'The risotto sounds wonderful!' I enthuse.

'Would you like to see the wine menu again?' the waiter asks.

'Um, aren't you drinking, Jonny?'

'No, I don't drink at all. Not for ten years. The acids on the stomach
are deleterious, not to mention the damage done to my concentration.'
He makes a face, pushing up the lines above his eyes. 'I have an
extremely sensitive digestive system – I need a lotta pampering!' He
shares a conspiratorial glance with the waiter. 'No, sparkling water's
the only choice for me.'

'Oh.' I look at the waiter. He is looking at his watch. I won't be able
to get through this without more wine. But you aren't allowed to get a
whole bottle just for yourself. 'I will have another glass,' I mumble.

Jonny and the waiter both look at me with surprise. I stare back.
'Thank you,' I say loudly. It's a full stop in the conversation. Or maybe
an exclamation mark. The waiter nods and leaves. That
was rude
, says
the voice. Why, because I made a different choice, had a different
opinion?