The Art of Waiting (10 page)

‘To remind me of someone. Of something I have to do. It's a part of me now.'

And he walked up the stairs, a new companion on his arm, and in his head was the image of a pig, the name of a man with a moustache, a hole in his soul, and the shadow of an echo in his heart.

After Luca

Venice, autumn 1941

Aldo arrived early at the market just along from the Ponte di Rialto. The fishermen watched him as he went by, one or two calling out their commiserations.

‘See you at lunchtime,' said one to Aldo as he passed. Aldo ignored him, not really meaning to, just too late to acknowledge the greeting by the time it had hit him. Just being nice to him, as they all had been, trying their best to get him over it, the thing that he had done. Fuck the lot of them, Aldo thought, they think I did it. They are wrong. He collected the bags of fish from the usual place, paid the man, feigned a smile, and headed for Casa Luca. He unlocked the door and shoved it open. The smell of the past struck him in the face, that Casa Luca smell, without its Luca now, its name suddenly meaningless, just a memory of what Luca had been and what he had built here. The room was dark, the stale odour of yesterday's wine heavy in the air. Aldo put the bags of fish in the sink behind the bar and rested his hands on the top, rubbing the wood, feeling the grain. Chestnut, got it in one. Antonio would be proud of me. Sure he would. He thought of Antonio at the boatyard just over the canal, of the apprenticeship he would have to give up now, so soon after he had perfected his coffee-making, able now to recognise the various woods, permitted even to repair some of the older boats, those that belonged to the least demanding customers. But all that was finished, all that would have to end if Casa Luca was to remain as Luca would have wished rather than as Fausto Pozzi had always wanted. Aldo's mother could not do it all on her own and Aldo would have to fill the unfillable void that Luca had
made when he left them. Aldo looked at the sawdust on the wooden floor, picked up a handful and nosed the different scents. He cast it back down, scuffed at it with his foot, flicked on the lights and opened the door, letting in the fresh, cool morning air, clearing out something of the past. He cleared away last night's dirty glasses from the tables where the customers had left them, breaking one against the sink as he tumbled them into it. Then he wiped down the tables and set about sweeping away the old sawdust and replacing it from the sack in the far corner, under the shelf where the money was kept in a locked wooden box. He rearranged the tables and chairs, pulled the door to and set off over the arched bridge towards the boatyard. He knocked as he entered and passed the bench where the lathe sat under the corrugated canopy of the shed, then went out onto the slipway. He found Antonio crouched under a curved black hull, poking at a small imperfection with his stubby fingers. He hauled himself out at the sound of Aldo's footsteps.

‘Hello there, Aldo. How are things?'

Aldo shrugged.

‘Yes, of course. Stupid of me to ask. Here, let me show you this heap of old timber.'

He led Aldo to the far side of the yard where an ageing gondola rested on trestles. He began to pick at a hole near the stern. ‘See this, Aldo? Here, look. Whoever did this last time missed a bit and the water's got in. How can you miss the same bit with every coat? Can't have been done here, that's for sure. Must have been those idiots in Castello.'

He continued to pick at the hole, making small exasperated noises as he did so.

‘Fancy a coffee?' asked Aldo, a spare part here now. He knew it, Antonio knew it too.

‘Coffee? Sure, why not?'

Aldo went into the kitchen, in the corner by the tree, filled a blackened pan with water and set it on the stove. When the coffee was ready he took it to Antonio and they sat at the water's edge.

‘Not bad,' Antonio said, as he sipped the hot dark liquid. ‘Remember that first cup you made me?'

‘How could I forget it?'

‘How could
you
forget it? It was me that had to drink it.'

‘I don't recall you drinking it. Didn't it end up in the canal?'

‘Probably. Like all the others,' he grinned.

They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping their coffee and watching an elderly couple amble arm in arm along the quay on the far side of the canal. A whole life together, thought Aldo. The luck of it.

‘Have you had a chance to think about things, Aldo? About your apprenticeship?'

‘Yes,' he said, removing his gaze from the old couple. ‘I'm sorry. I haven't really got any choice.'

‘Yes, I suppose your mum will need you at the trattoria.'

‘She can't do it all on her own, that's for sure.'

‘I understand, Aldo, I really do. Come down here at the weekends if you want. Keep your hand in.'

‘Thanks. I'll pop along when I can. And I'd still like to come for the sawdust, if that's all right?'

‘Of course, every Friday, just like Luca did. Casa Luca wouldn't be the same without it.'

Aldo looked at him. It wouldn't be the same anyway now, old man, truth be told. Not now, not ever.

‘Here, take some of it now. There's a sack over there.'

‘Thanks, Antonio. See you at lunchtime?'

‘Of course. What's on the menu today?'

‘I don't know. Mum hadn't arrived when I left. Fish, anyway, I got it on my way in.'

‘Yes, fish. Sure to be.'

‘See you later, then.'

‘See you later, Aldo. Keep your chin up, son.'

‘Sure.'

He picked up the sack and walked out of the boatyard and towards Casa Luca. His mother had arrived now with Elena and
was in the kitchen chopping onions, big purple ones. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

‘It's just the onions,' she said as Aldo looked at her doubtfully.

Elena shrugged.

‘The tables need putting out the front,' his mother said firmly, and resumed her chopping.

Aldo put a couple of tables outside and sat and watched the waters of the canal as his father used to do, but he couldn't stand it for long. Then he went back inside and helped to get things ready for opening time. By midday, everything was done and the first of the regulars began to arrive. They nodded at him as they approached the bar. Aldo took down the squat glasses from the shelves behind him, poured the wine, and they drank. As the restaurant filled, the noise increased, and it almost seemed as if nothing had changed as Elena ferried plates piled high with food to tables where hungry men sat and ate and filled their stomachs to the brim with wine. But then they looked across towards the unfamiliar figure behind the bar and reality shoved its head back in through the door. The only blessing was that Fausto Pozzi did not put in an appearance that day.

When the men had gone and the restaurant had fallen quiet, Aldo took his violin case from the shelf in the back room. He laid it on the desk, cluttered with unpaid bills and unanswered letters, flicked back the catches, lifted the lid. He took the violin in his hands, picked up the bow and ran it gently across the strings. He thought of Isabella, the shape of her, the sounds she had made, almost singing up at him, her body humming as he touched her. He had not seen her since that night they had spent together, a week ago, or was it more? He had lost track of time in the interim. He had hoped to see her again, under the pretence of recovering the gondola, but the hunting accident and everything that had followed had put paid to all of that. As Aldo played, he glimpsed his mother through the open door, sitting at the kitchen table, listening. Aldo played a last, discordant note, placed the instrument back on its red velvet bed and gently closed the lid, as an undertaker might close the lid of a coffin.

As Aldo hurried into the church near the Rialto that evening, he could hear the other musicians already tuning up their instruments in a side-room.

‘Come on, Aldo. You're late,' scolded Bruno, a rotund jovial man in his forties who had been playing recitals in the churches and music rooms of Venice for more than half his life.

Aldo quickly tuned his violin as the others waited and then they came out together and stepped up onto the marble platform, took their seats in front of the altar, and the music began. The audience sat in the half-light and watched the rhythmic movements of the musicians' elbows, or cocked their heads at odd angles, tuning their ears to the music. One member of the audience sat motionless but for the occasional lift and fall of her eyes. She listened, but mainly she watched, staring at Aldo as he played. She observed his alternating expressions of furious concentration and desperation, strained to pick out the notes of his violin, sought to distinguish it from the other beautiful sounds that filled the air. At the end, when the church was silent and the lights had been put out and everyone else had gone, she was still in her seat and she stood up as Aldo approached her along the aisle.

‘Aldo, will you walk with me a while?'

He followed her out of the church and they walked through Campo Santo Stefano and on towards San Marco.

‘I heard about your dad, Aldo. I'm so sorry. You must feel terrible. I've been thinking about you, how you must be feeling.'

‘Thank you, Isabella. That's kind of you.'

‘I wanted to see you sooner, you know, but I thought better of it. Not the right time, perhaps.'

‘No, it hasn't been good.'

‘Well, it's good to see you now, anyway.'

‘Yes?'

‘Yes, Aldo.'

‘I wasn't really expecting to see you again. You know, what you said, not really bothering with people more than once.'

‘Did I say that?'

‘It sounded that way.'

‘But you left a part of you behind.'

He looked at her.

‘The gondola . . .'

‘Ah, yes, of course. But it's not really mine.'

‘Will you take me out in it again sometime? In fact, why don't you take me out in it now?'

They walked unobstructed across Piazza San Marco, its tide of pigeons having ebbed away earlier with the fading hours, then up Calle degli Specchieri and under the low arch that led into the courtyard. Aldo remembered now the figure at the window that morning as he had sneaked away like a thief from the scene of a crime, snatching away something that didn't belong to him.

‘Did you watch me leave that morning, Isabella?'

She looked puzzled, shook her head.

‘But there was somebody at the window.'

‘Not me.'

‘But I heard voices when I was leaving.'

She raised a finger to her lips and turned the key in the lock. They slipped through the unlit hall, past the foot of the stairs, then out through the back door and onto the jetty, the gondola nodding on the gentle waves. Aldo stepped aboard, Isabella following, her entrance more dignified than that first time when his nerves had nearly overwhelmed him and he had hauled her aboard. She sat on the cushion on the black wooden bench and leant back as Aldo took up the oar, set it in its rest, and pushed them out into the canal.

‘Where to?' he asked.

‘The lagoon.'

‘There's not much to see out there at night.'

‘We can look at the stars.'

Aldo looked up at the sky. ‘On a cloudy night?'

‘Yes, Aldo. The stars are always there, even if you can't see them.'

‘How romantic . . .'

‘I was just being ironic.'

‘Of course.'

But he wondered. Something hadn't rung true in the way she
had said it, just an inflection. They headed out towards the eastern end of the island. As Aldo tired, the boat slowed and they began to drift in the dark.

‘We should really have a light on the prow, you know. There are collisions sometimes.'

‘Don't worry, Aldo, just look at the stars.'

He looked up again. The clouds had parted above them now and beyond hung the velvet black of the sky, dotted here and there with crystal light. He sat on the stern and watched as distant suns were alternately buried and exhumed by banks of passing cloud. A fine drizzle began to descend.

‘I'm cold,' said Isabella suddenly. ‘Take me home.'

He turned the boat and pushed the oar against the current. His arms ached as they approached the Riva degli Schiavoni. Several times he nearly lost the oar to the pull of the water but finally he guided the gondola under the low bridge and into the side-canal that led to Isabella's house. Once more, Aldo found himself in the hall, Isabella's hand around his own, guiding him up the darkened stairs beneath the chandelier and the portraits, then past the doors on the landing and along the passageway to the room at the end. Her room, Isabella's room, no matter who else had been here. It was exactly as it had been that first night, the big bed, the arched windows, the ceiling in the darkness high above, and Isabella clutching him to her again and again. They lay together and listened to the humming of the night and she felt the burning face of the pig, its hot fetid breath where Aldo's arm curled around her. She rubbed her hand along his arm, felt the raised and wounded flesh, soothed it with her fingertips, caressed it with her tender lips.

‘It still hurts you?'

‘It'll hurt me forever,' he replied. ‘It'll be with me wherever I go. Even if I go to the war it'll be with me.'