Free Escape by Anna Fienberg Page A

came streaming out of the house, colouring the pale
walls, shaking the outside light fittings. I found my mother on the
sofa; her vacuum cleaner was lying on its side like something injured.
For a moment I thought she was dead. Her eyes were closed, her arm
lay at a funny angle as if it didn't belong to her. And then I saw tears
sliding out from beneath her lids, a watery mysterious smile and the
tears were flowing onto her housecoat and suddenly she didn't look
like my mother any more at all.
    Later, when I was sixteen, I brought out that record and listened
to all the songs for myself. I turned it up to full volume for 'Nessun
Dorma', and goosebumps came. A wave of longing rose in me, for what
exactly I couldn't say. As I listened to the surge towards the climax, I
longed for something to reach deep inside me – something marvellous
and startling like the crash of cymbals, something that would flick me
into life like a wand summoning doves from the air.
    I stood propped against the doorway of the cafe, listening. The
ordinary sunshine fell down on my shoulders, cars crawled along the
city street, girls in bright floaty skirts hung around shop windows like
bunches of flowers. It was a Saturday morning in November, and I was
twenty-five.
    The song changed to 'O Sole Mio', and I stayed to hear that, too.
The foreign voice offered sudden shelter from the sun, lending exotic
shade to the bland light glancing off polished duco and glass. Inside,
there were cream laminex tables and a picture of a snowy mountain on
the wall. The singing waiter walked across the room to a table in the
corner where a couple of men sat talking and put a plate of horseshoe
biscuits in front of them: biscotti alla mandorla , I would learn. The man
nearest the biscuits glanced up, pushing his dark hair back from his
face.
    When he smiled, the breath just sailed out of me. He was the most
beautiful person I'd ever seen in real life. I forgot to take a new breath.
If you could mesh those perfect notes of 'Nessun Dorma' into a shape,
this man's face would be it.
    His eyes were almond-shaped, outlined with dark lashes like an
Ancient Egyptian's. As he smiled at the waiter, crinkles broke out at
the corners. You wanted the waiter to think of more jokes to keep the
crinkles coming. He leant with his back against the wall, one elbow on
the table, his cheek resting in his hand. He was long and regal, graceful
as a dancer. With his other hand he picked up his cup, ate a biscuit.
Then he took a cigarette from a pack on the table and lit it. Because of
his beauty, each movement, unremarkable when performed by anyone
else, seemed important.
    The man next to him was broader, greyer. He was leaning forward,
gesturing enthusiastically with his hands. The more he strained
towards the young man, the more the other relaxed back against the
wall. The older man suddenly laughed too hard, grasping the young
man's arm. It was a pleading gesture, and I waited for the man with the
beautiful face to respond.
    But he wasn't paying attention. He was watching his cigarette,
as the long grey column of ash dropped into the ashtray. He played
with the sugar packets, piling one on top of the other, his eyes drifting
over the biscuits, the ashtray, the coffee cups. Then he just stared at
the doorway, looking outward but inward, at something in his mind.
He was impervious to the energy of the other man, throwing him an
absent smile every now and then, the way you'd pat a dog.
    The song ended. In the sudden silence, the older man gave up. As
he twisted around, signalling to the bar, I felt sorry for the slope of his
poor hunched back, the dispirited slump of his shoulders.
    And then the young man's unlatched gaze focused on me. He was
looking at me! His eyes widened, as if in recognition, then smiled, the
crinkles opening up. He winked – I thought it was a wink – but my
heart started to beat so quickly and the red in my cheeks was rising so
fast that I just walked off , blindly,