Free The Art of Waiting by Christopher Jory Page A

late, nearly nine, when night became day and Aldo woke for the first time in his life in unfamiliar surroundings. Isabella’s room was very different in daylight. The autumn sun lit up the room and the voices of the delivery men in the canal echoed up from below. Aldo could still sense Isabella’s presence, the hint of her scent, but when he turned to her the bed was empty. He slowed his breathing and listened. The house was quiet. He had to leave straight away – Antonio would have been waiting for him at the boatyard since eight – but he was suddenly anxious as to who or what he would find on his way out. He got up and slipped on his clothes. He thought about leaving a note but could not think what to write. He picked up his boots and crept out of the room, down the passageway and onto the landing. The doors were all firmly closed. He leant closer to the one that had lain ajar the night before. He heard breathing, a sigh, and then a man’s voice speaking in low insistent tones. He was just about to turn away when he heard another sound – a woman laughing. Or was it a sob? His hand moved towards the handle of the door, but then he withdrew and moved off down the stairs. The chandelier hung motionless and mute as Aldo passed beneath thedisapproving gaze of the portraits and down into the hall. It was only then that he remembered the gondola. He could not risk taking it out onto the canals in daylight, and he certainly couldn’t take it back to the yard while Antonio was there. He would leave it where it was and come back for it later. He let himself out of the front door and into a small courtyard, wisteria climbing the walls, and walked quickly towards the arch that led into Calle degli Specchieri.
    As he was about to disappear from view, something made him turn and look up. A figure was standing by a window, just far enough back for the face to be hidden from the light. Aldo turned quickly away and passed out of sight, troubled thoughts flocking around him as he waded through the pigeons on Piazza San Marco. Then a black dog snapped through the winged throng, sending the birds up into the air in a flurry of white feathers, and the white feathers floated down on Aldo like an early dusting of snow as he made his way towards Dorsoduro, Casa Luca and the boatyard.
    When he got there, Antonio was in a rage. ‘Some fucker stole one of the gondolas last night. That damned Giuseppe, I bet.’
    â€˜Giuseppe?’ said Aldo. ‘Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised. Not exactly trustworthy. What on earth was he thinking?’
    â€˜Aldo, just you wait till I get my hands on the bastard! Just you wait and see!’
    Aldo gulped, then went off to the kitchen to make Antonio his coffee.

Casa Luca
    Venice, autumn 1941
    Casa Luca lay just a short distance off the beaten track, only a street or two back into Dorsoduro from the bridge at Accademia, but it had never attracted the hordes of tourists who streamed over the Ponte di Rialto and in and out of the bars and restaurants along the Riva del Vin. This had never bothered Luca Gardini very much – those who valued simple Venetian cooking at sensible prices knew where to find him. Rich tourists and celebrities, having lost themselves in the backstreets on their way to the hotels and restaurants around San Marco, would sometimes glance by chance through the door, stare for a moment, mutter something incomprehensible and depart. Luca could tell by the tone of their voices, even if he did not understand their myriad languages, that they would instantly forget the dim little trattoria that had confused and perhaps offended their refined and delicate senses with its multitude of unfamiliar stimuli. A peculiarly fragrant sawdust spread out across the floorboards, collecting in great drifts in the backwaters of the floor, mingling with the detritus of discarded crusts of bread, empty mussel shells, fish heads, and the occasional bone from one of the