The Art of Waiting by Christopher Jory Read Free Book Online Page A

on a little further.
    â€˜Oleg, could you do me a favour?’
    â€˜It depends.’
    â€˜You see, Vassili Ivanov . . .’
    â€˜Hmm . . .’
    â€˜I’d like a photograph of him.’
    â€˜What are you asking me for? I haven’t got one.’
    â€˜I know. But you live in the same house.’
    â€˜Not any more, I don’t.’
    They walked on in silence until they got to the courtyard.
    â€˜See you,’ said Oleg.
    Katerina didn’t reply. Oleg went into his house and closed the door. Katerina sat on the step and waited. A few minutes later Oleg came back out and ushered her over to the alleyway. ‘Close your eyes,’ he said. ‘All right, now open them.’
    She looked at the photograph for several long seconds. ‘Thank you, Oleg! Where did you find it?’
    â€˜Where I expected – in the bin. Your mum not back yet?’
    â€˜No,’ she sighed.
    â€˜Come in, then. We can sit in the kitchen until she gets back. You’ll be warmer in there.’
    â€˜Thank you, Oleg. You’re my best friend.’

PART TWO
    Italy

Isabella
    Venice, autumn 1941
    Aldo Gardini watched dusk arrive, gradual and furtive, bringing with it a late-autumn mist that hovered in threads above the Rio della Sensa, a chill lifting up from the waters of the canal as the sun dipped behind the buildings of the ghetto. He wiped the condensation from the window with his sleeve, peered out at the people passing below in the dim glow of the streetlamps, and wondered if Isabella would really be there to meet him as she had promised. He could hardly believe what was on the cards, but could see no other reason for her invitation. Well, he would find out soon enough – he could hardly wait! He looked again at his watch. Time to go, no more waiting now, no more bated breath. He took the key from the table by his bed, pulled up the collar of his coat, and hurried downstairs. He could hear his parents talking in the kitchen, something about Fausto Pozzi. Mussolini’s strident voice maintained its familiar steady rhythm in the background, intermittently cut short by the crackle and fuzz of poor reception, struggling to be heard above the insults that Luca, Aldo’s father, hurled at the radio at regular intervals.
    â€˜Fucking delinquent!’ he was shouting, the usual thing. ‘Jumped-up bastard! War-mongering pig! Go fuck your mother! Go kiss Hitler’s fat fascist arse!’
    Then Aldo’s mother’s voice, quiet, reproachful, ‘Calm yourself, Luca. The children might hear.’
    Then Luca’s voice again, quieter now, still muttering profanities. As Aldo walked through the hall he could hear his teenage sister, Elena, in the front room, singing something to herself, one of those songs she was always inventing about love, and the sound of theirmaternal grandmother snoring by the fire, the air rattling up out of her throat, dreaming of her native Ukraine again, no doubt, slipping ever closer to her past as her advancing years took her closer to death.
    â€˜Aldo, where are you going?’
    It was his mother’s voice again now. Damn it, he thought, not now! Not now that his time with Isabella was so close! His mother must have heard the creaking of the stairs as he descended.
    â€˜Dinner will be ready soon, Aldo!’
    She emerged from the kitchen, a freshly plucked chicken in one hand, a filleting knife in the other. The family dog followed, turning its nose to the dead bird and tentatively licking the skin, ears pinned back in anticipation of the coming blow.
    â€˜Get off!’ she said. ‘Bloody dog!’
    â€˜I’m off out for a walk,’ said Aldo. ‘I’ll be back soon . . .’
    His mother’s eyes narrowed, then she noticed the increasingly bold attention that the dog was paying to the principal ingredient of the evening meal. She struck the animal across the rump with the object of its