Escape by Anna Fienberg Read Free Book Online

You'll see, I'll come
home speaking like a native, una vera italiana !' Her tone has a false
gaiety about it, an exaggerated bravado. But Clara isn't saving her own
face, she is saving mine. A wave of darkness comes over me. How often
has she run between us, holding up the white flag of herself?
    'Well, it's always good to have work,' my father declares. 'Rachel
tells me you often meet interesting people through the institute,
Guido.'
    'Yes, she thinks my life is very exotic,' he laughs, 'because I go out
to see exhibitions occasionally, or the theatre. But is true, there are
some students who have been coming to my lessons for years – seems
they like my style of teaching. We make conversation, of course, but I
introduce the extra elements of history and philosophy which I think
are not available to them before. Is so important to understand the
culture of a country whose language you are studying and I am able
to supply them with this. My study of Italian literature, and my own
writing is, of course, a unique advantage.'
    'Very smart, these serviettes, sweetheart,' Dad calls from the
dining room. He's tucking one into his shirt collar. I see Guido smirk,
watching him. Peasant , he's probably thinking.
    'Red, green and white for the Italian colours!' I exclaim, carrying
bowls of olives and bocconcini to the table.
    'Well, let's make another toast to our Clara,' says Dad heartily,
'now that we're all here.'
    Guido leaps up with his hand extended. I think he's going to help
with the plates I'm juggling but he just selects an olive, pops it in his
mouth and sits down again. Luckily Dad sees the bowl teetering and
catches it in mid-air. The quick reflexes acquired during his police
career often come in handy for diverting disaster.
    'Here's to a wonderful journey,' says my father, raising his glass to
Clara.
    'To Clara!' my mother beams.
    'Safe journey,' I add.
    ' Salute! ' cries Guido, ' e buon viaggio! '
    We all take a sip. Mum and I take two.
    'Hard to believe, isn't it,' Dad says, passing the olives, 'our little
Clara all grown up. Seems like only yesterday she was a little girl
wrestling with long division.'
    'Oh, do you remember that year, Clara?' I touch the top of her
head a moment. 'We divided everything up – bananas, oranges, cars
in the parking lot.'
    Clara snorts and picks an olive.
    'Well, you must be good at arithmetic now, Clara, the way you've
saved your pennies at that lingerie shop,' Dad says. 'Got your airfare
and a bit of living expenses, great work! I'm so proud of you. Will you
try to find a job over there too, do you think?'
    'Yes, that's the plan,' I say quickly, seeing Clara struggling with the
olive in her mouth. 'Don't talk, Clara, olives are lethal if they go down
the wrong way. Remember when Doreen had to squeeze Saraah that
time – what was it, the Heineken manoeuvre—'
    'That's a beer,' says Dad.
    'Oh, well, anyway, I've given Clara Maurizio's address in Milan –
you know, the magician who originally employed Guido?'
    'Maurizio died six years ago!' Guido says sharply. 'I showed you
the obituary published in La Repubblica . What are you talking about?'
    'No, no, I mean his son,' I say. I can feel my face reddening, as if
it's been slapped. 'His son is called Maurizio too. I forgot to . . .' I'm
almost whispering now. I'm so flustered. How can I have made that
mistake? It's dreadful when you start a sentence and then realise you
can't possibly finish it, so it hangs from your mouth like a dead snake.
    'You never told me you were in contact with the family ,' Guido
says sharply. 'Why would you do that?'
    I give a little cough. A prickling wetness starts at the back of my
nose, and the table seems to slip a little. 'It's just that . . . I always felt so
bad about the way we parted. I liked Maurizio. Senior, I mean. He was
a good man. And his son seems a very nice . . . person.'
    Dad looks at Guido, who is suddenly preoccupied picking out the
almonds from the mixed nuts bowl. Almonds are his