Escape (43 page)

He steps out the door, the two shirts over his shoulder. The waiter
in the cafe where we first met, the tea towel over his shoulder. But
Guido never wore a tea towel. He only ever changed Clara's nappy
once. He never cooked, washed up, noticed me. Each of us in our
solitary confinement, in our marriage.

As the door closes behind him I run up the hall into the kitchen.
I grab the kitchen stools, one, two, three, and hurl them to the floor.
No, wood on cork doesn't make a big enough noise. The fury is a
wind inside me, screaming, lifting things up, throwing them down,
a poltergeist of rage. The wind whips the fire burning in my belly up
my chest into my arms, I am a fire roaring into a storm, I will burn
everything in my path, what can I destroy, lift , smash with these strong
arms? That framed picture of Guido and me at our wedding, smash it
on the floor, shards of broken glass screaming, I walk in it, good to feel
the pain, fucking bastards fucking pain. I grab the metal pencil case
that still holds Clara's coloured felt-tip pens and throw it at the wall.
That's good, the crash is loud and the pens spray their rainbows into
the air and clatter to the floor, a river of noise, what next? The china
bowl that Maria gave me for our wedding, poor Maria who I never
saw much of afterwards because fucking Guido was fucking jealous.
I smash it to the floor, and the sound of my anger is good and loud,
it exists, I exist! The crashing of that china bowl, the splintering into
a million blue and white pieces is the sound of my rage. That is who I
am, that is who I have become, that sound of rage is real and it is the
sound of the voice breaking. Take that! I scream, and grind my heel
into a sharp piece. I hurl myself into Guido's room, trailing footprints
of blood that will never come out like dogs' paws left in wet cement
and I slam open the drawers and take out those filthy papers and tear
them into pieces. Take that! I scream and the wind fans and howls and
bellows inside me until I'm no longer carnivorous soiled flesh but all
glass and air and my head is a balloon floating off out the window into
the sky above all earthly gravity-bound things.

I sink on the kitchen floor like a corpse amid the glittering glass
and china. I start to cry.

Oh, boohoo, is that all you can do?

'Fuck off !' I yell. 'Aren't you DEAD yet? I'll dance on your grave,
I'll drink a whole bottle of whisky and dance all over your dead fucking
face! Let me out!'

I lie on the floor and forget about getting up. The cork is cold on
my skin where my dress has risen up. I don't think. My mind is a pure
deep lake, unmoving.

The oven clock says 3.11 when I stand up and go into the bathroom. I
run some warm water. I rinse my feet and sit on the edge, picking out
the slivers. It takes a long time. Then I put socks on so I don't bleed
into my slippers and get the dustpan and broom and start to sweep.
I put the stools upright, pick up all the coloured pens and the bent-out-of-shape
metal container and the glass from the framed photo
and I am not sorry. I am not sorry that I was so destructive and broke
that photo of our marriage. It was a miserable marriage and deathly
and damaging for both of us and all the time Guido was an illusion I
wanted to believe in. Poor Guido. Well, he's gone and the illusion is
gone with him and maybe now I can be free.

I listen for the voice's mocking tone. Come on, you arsehole, I
think. I'm ready for you, I'm ready with my brick to smash you. Fuck
off , I whisper, but I must have got in first because it hasn't made a
sound. In the still cool air of early morning, the cork floor swept, the
stools upright, a clean space on the mantelpiece where the photo used
to be, there is no room for the voice, as I expand inside, oxygen filling
my lungs, resuscitated. Only my feet keep me tethered to the ground,
sliding around in my bloody socks.

I wake to see tiny stars break open on my doona. I spread my fingers,
watching the sun stripe my skin. There's no warmth in the sun yet.
A quick light feeling in my chest lift s like a breeze. Will I run today,
like every other day? The breezy feeling is unfamiliar. I stretch my
legs wide under the white doona, my toes reaching the corners of the
queen-size bed. The sheets are soft under my thighs. My legs scissor
open and closed. I can move them where I want, there is space and
freedom enough. The breezy feeling is hope, I remember it now from
childhood. The time before the boys, or maybe even in the early days
after the boys had arrived, when I still hoped they would go away. That
I could still have something for myself.

I won't go running this morning. I stay in bed with the stars of
sunshine that eventually flatten out into long honey-coloured lines
drawn over the doona. I get up to pee and make a cup of English
breakfast tea. I make it with lots of milk and place two digestive
biscuits on the saucer. There
you are,
I say aloud,
you can have a treat
.

I go back to bed with my tea and watch the mulberry tree
split the sunlight outside my window. As the breeze lift s leaves
stir, shooting up a spray of gold over the wardrobe, the carpet, the
bookshelves. I watch, absorbed. Beyond the tree, the pool winks
and shines. I feel the sudden warmth of gratitude, of affection for
that quenching body of water, for this house beaming with morning
sun, for my parents who found it. 'We've done our best,' they said.
A beautiful best, I think, with that automatic generosity of theirs,
natural as breathing. I drink my tea, dunk the rough biscuit smooth
and let it melt on my tongue. The flavour breaks out in my mouth
like an explosion. Splinters of sunlight dance. When you get to sixty,
Lena says, you'll only have half your tastebuds left . Well, enjoy them
while you can, I say. There's tea and digestive biscuits and morning
sun and the breeze and hope.

Ciao Mamma,

Wait till I tell you about the book club! The women arrived all
together like an elegant army – at 4 o'clock, after their siesta – in high
heels and silk scarves, even though they've just come to hang out at their
friend's place! So much time is recquired in front of the mirror here – it's
expected, obligatory even. Shoes a particular shade of brown to match the
fleck in a woolen skirt, a necklace, the clasp earings, the eyeshadow. How
do they do their scarves in that miraculous knot that looks barely tied but
never falls out of place? At home I used to run up the shops in my daggy
old tracksuit pyjamas, hair unbrushed. I did that just once here and Lucia
caught me at the door with an expression of horror on her face. 'Ma non si
fa cosi!' – One should not do like this!

I made the caffé and brought out the torta di mela soon after the
ladies arrived. Nerve-raking. Had to remember to use the formal 'lei'
while hunting for the gender of nouns like tablecloth and napkin, while
concentrating on not slopping the coffee in those tiny little cups of espresso.
I cut the cake and gave everyone a plate and watched them through my
hair. For at least an hour no one even picked up their fork they were so
busy talking about the book! The cake didn't look right. It wasn't golden
and moist like Lucia's. The apple slices poking out on top seemed soggy,
not caramelised. What if it isn't cooked inside, I kept thinking. Why don't
they just bloody well eat it? I was tempted to start mine but thought
maybe it wasn't very polite.

Then I noticed their voices were getting louder. The book lay on the
coffee table and I picked it up. It was called L'Arte della Gioia – dark
red cover, black and white photo of the author, Goliarda Sapienza. She's
looking right at you, like Mantegna's Christ, but there's just her face and
shoulders, piercing black eyes, a cigarette in her hand. I started to flip
through the book and came to the photos of her at the back. They start
with her as a child and finish with her at seventy, sitting on the floor, a
chair knocked over, her legs straight out in front of her, hands upturned as
if to say, that's me, that's all I can do, take it or leave it. I was shocked. I've
never seen a picture of an old person like that. A WOMAN – the age of
all the women in Lucia's living room, with its polite furniture and upright
chairs. I looked at Goliarda then I looked at the women. So different –
like comparing an elephant with a fish. And yet in the photo Goliarda
has high heels on those sprawled legs, and you can spot the sheen of silk
stockings. Amazing.

A lady sitting near me was pointing her finger at the photo on the
cover. Her finger was shaking. Certain words shot out at me clear as
gunfire – 'assassina' and 'lesbica, egoista, morali'. Other women were
nodding their heads.

I put the book back down on the table. Lucia was trying to
remonstrate with the women but she couldn't get a word in. I think it was
Lucia who'd suggested it for the book club – I remember her saying she
couldn't stop reading it one night and didn't turn the light out til dawn.
Then she leant over to me and said 'the book wasn't published for thirty
years – it was too shocking. A critic swore that as long as he was alive he'd
never allow it to be published.' She shrugged. 'But the heroine, Modesta,
was a partigiana, you know, a member of the underground fighting the
Nazis.' No one was listening. She smiled resinedly around the room and
that's when she took a bite of the cake. I watched her chew. She took a
while. When she'd swallowed what was in her mouth she looked over at
me and winked. 'Buono!' Thank christ.

I was so busy checking out the effect of the cake I didn't notice the
ladies had fallen silent. They were all looking at the woman with white
hair opposite me. She sat straight-backed with the book in her hands. I
realised that all the others dyed their hair in various shades from brown
to blonde. This woman wore her hair short but layered to look naturally
mussed, elegantly casual. Long thin face, high cheek bones. Aristocratic.
Just bare skin and good bones, not much make-up. She must have once
been a brunette because her brows are still dark, almost severe. And now
she clutches the book tight in one hand and leans on the arm of the chair.
She's using it to support herself, she's standing up. Her neck is all red.
There's something about her face that pulls you in. I know what it is, her
eyes are like Goliarda's, unafraid. You don't often see that in women. Gli
occhi senza paura – eyes without fear.

She opens the book and starts to read. She is riveting. Her voice
is strong clear deep. She speaks slowly as if every word is heavy and
important as gold and she has to lift each nugget with her full weight,
keeping her back straight. It was like a spell she was casting and you could
have heard a pin drop in the room and I had that feeling again that I get
sometimes in the piazza, of being connected, of flying out of myself into the
real world and being strung along a chain with all the other people and
paintings and churches and pigeons roosting in the eaves and while she
read the feeling kept spreading out and I just wanted her to keep speaking
so I could keep feeling. It was frustrating too because I couldn't understand
everything and I wanted to understand more than any other time since
I've been here and I got hung up on that, but then somehow, I let go, ping!
and I drift ed away, my mind just sort of lying there, floating on its back,
trusting.

She closed the book, saying something about how one can't have gioia
– joy – without freedom, or freedom without possession of self. 'Modesta
was a woman in complete possession of her self. Of her emotions and
her body. She took orders from no one.' The woman stopped for a second
and looked around the room. 'Can any of you say that?' She looked at
each of the ladies, right into their eyes. She almost spat at the pointing
woman, who looked down at the floor, smoothing the pleats on her skirt.
But nothing would placate the standing woman. The more she spoke,
the louder and angrier she got. Tears welled in her eyes but when Lucia
touched her hand she brushed it angrily away. Then suddenly she put the
book in her bag and marched out without even saying goodbye.

'But that was my book!' Lucia said.

'Pazienza,' said the pointing woman. 'Sophia was always difficult.'

The women were quiet, studying their knees, but they soon started
talking again and hoeing into the cake and wanting more coffee. They
seemed to like the cake but I kept looking at Sophia's plate which was left
untouched. Somehow I wished more than anything that she had tasted
hers.

I switch off the computer and get back into bed. I'm allowed! I listen
to something classical on the radio, Puccini perhaps, and think about
Clara. Her life is unfolding on the other side of the planet. She is
far away but I feel connected to her. I'm not lonely any more in the
spot inside where Clara lives. I can imagine her handing out coffee in
Lucia's living room. Clara could work those notes up into a story, call
it The
Book Club
. Perhaps I'll suggest that. Or maybe I'll just listen. I
hope I can do that.

Hope – it's not the same thing as illusion, is it? Hope is knowing
where you are but imagining where you'd like to be. More like a
goal than an expectation. You can't keep your feet on the ground
when you're caught up in illusion. You can't keep possession of
yourself.

My mind travels towards Danny. I don't flinch. His face hovers
above the white doona, wide blue eyes, bad teeth, anxious smile. But
a smile. He's alive, a head waiter at one of the top hotels in Sydney. He
wears a black bow tie and a smart black waistcoat. His teeth are stained
but at least he has them all. He has to suffer bad-mannered, demanding
customers like Jonny, but there are probably others who acknowledge
his skill and dedication. He might enjoy the orderly bookings at the
hotel and punctual people arriving and the multitude of gleaming
clean surfaces, the shiny cutlery. He might make plans. Have hope.
He's not lying under an old overcoat somewhere, murdered by a bad
decision.

When my tea is finished I find my notebook and pen on the
bedside table. I'm going to make a plan of my own. Just a small
one, for the next month. I will be lenient but firm, and not have
Great Expectations. This
fortnight,
I write,
I will type up Jonny Love's
interview and finish him
. I cross out 'finish him'. I won't do that – I
won't tell about his wandering sock or his virulent misogyny or
the withering way he treats people with less power than him or his
preoccupation with his diet or his inability to hear anyone who lives
outside the Love cone of silence. I won't write the furious speech I
delivered to the hand basin in the hotel toilet. I'll stick to the subject
– Magic and Jonny Love. I'll describe the Light from Nowhere, an
exquisite illusion which I consider to embody the essence of magic.
I'll do my best to convey the ambitious creativity of the show, which
succeeded in imitating the cycle of life itself: the dark 'nowhere'
before life, the birth of light, the blossoming of wonder, the mortal
struggle against constraint and conformity culminating in the
celebration of nature's wild miracles. It really was a brilliant piece
of art, and a person could be forgiven, perhaps, for entertaining the
illusion that the mind behind it must be as beautiful and wise as its
product. Yes, Forgiven.

Dearest Mum,

You know what? I never had a chance.

Turns out Roberto had a fiancée called Amanda who came from
Australia. Broome, to be exact. She left him late last year and went
home. Now I know why he wanted me, why he sort my company –
he even tearfully explained it to me – I have the same accent as the
beloved Amanda, come from the same country, even have red hair like
her. No wonder he pounced on me. He was still in love, still mourning.
Jesus it hurts. He never even saw me. He was only interested in the
bits that made me like Amanda. Feel so betrayed, so invisible. After
he told me he said, 'Why don't we make love?' He was completely
bewildered when I said no. 'But it will make you feel better, we are still
friends, no?'

I let him take me home on his vespa. I couldn't face the bus. Marisa
says it's good to have found out now, much better to know the truth now
than months or years down the track and suddenly you're looking at
someone completely different than the person you thought you knew. It's
true, everyone pretends at first to be the person they think the other would
like. For instance, I pretended I was fascinated by the Australian outback.
I remember the story I made up about our family always going camping
out in the wild. Makes me laugh now – dad, with all that insect life
crawling into the tent! Can you imagine? He'd have had a heart attack.
Un infarto!

love from your sad Clara, x

Oh, darling one. I wish I could reach my arms across the world to hug
you. My dearest love. Remember, Clara, even if he is gone, you still
have your feelings – look at you, you can feel
love
! You can turn inside
out with it. And you'll feel it again. He hasn't taken it away with him
– he hasn't taken your
self
. You can write about the russet hills, live
inside them. You still have you and your beautiful words and your
love. Think of Goliarda.

Hi Mum,

This morning I went down to the pannetteria and the alimentari,
bought some stracchino and una ciabatt a which Lucia and I will have
for lunch. The stracchino here is delicious, especially when eaten fresh.
I remember how it used to stink out the fridge at home, and you said it
smelled like sweaty feet. The trick is to eat it straight away. Fresher the
better.

Food is a great comfort isn't it. Roberto and I have broken up. Oh
well, it will be a relief to stop doing all that reserch on outback Australia
– I never want to go to Broome in my whole life – or use one! I must have
put on 3 kilos this week. Lucia has been great – she suggested I go away
for the weekend with Marisa, have a change of scene, so that's what we're
going to do. We'll go to Pisa, and then she'll go up to check on her aunt.