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

desire, and as it scurried away Aldo slipped outside, breathed in the cool air, and hurried off along the quay. His mind buzzed with uncertainty as he made his way along Fondamenta della Sensa and down the shopping street of Strada Nuova, built by the practical Austrians during their time in charge, then on through the chaos of narrow alleyways and passages, dimly lit and damp, between San Marco and the Ponte di Rialto. Crossing Campo Santo Stefano, he passed the statue of Niccolò Tommaseo, who had led a popular revolt against those practical Austrians about whom Aldo had written a history essay in his final year at school – a schooling that had been a torment for him, desperate to get out, to free himself from its walls and do useful things, things with his hands, not with books. As he hurried on he saw a familiar shape heading his way from the other side of the square. It was Massimo, his best friend, walking in that fat, busy way of his.
    â€˜Hey, Aldo!’ Massimo’s voice was as full as his belly, each preceding the rest of him by a distance.
    â€˜Oh, hi there, Massimo. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Aldo replied, all in a rush, as if keen to hurry on past. Massimo was a diverting companion, and they had spent so much of their youth together he was almost a brother, but any time spent chatting here would leave even less of it for Isabella – and whatever it was she had in mind for Aldo that evening.
    â€˜Wait, Aldo, wait. I was just on my way round to see you. I thought we could go down to the bar after dinner?’
    Massimo had clearly had his dinner early. He usually did – that way there was always time for another one. He lifted his hand now in that habitual way of his, an involuntary motion, rubbing his chin with an open palm as if something edible might leap out of it and into his mouth. Aldo noticed the grime beneath his friend’s nails, a crescent of slime from the fish he flung about in boats every day. Massimo was a fisherman’s son, and his hands would always smell of them now, just as Aldo’s would have done if Luca had not found a place for himself, and therefore his son, on dry land. And it occurred to Aldo now how important to this evening’s events his own clean fingers might be. However little he knew about Isabella, he was quite sure she wouldn’t want a fisherman’s breamy hands upon her, a fisherman’s stinking fingers in the perfumed waves of her hair. But he was getting well ahead of himself now, and he hauled himself back in and suddenly realised that Massimo’s mouth was full again with words.
    â€˜So, how about it?’ Massimo’s question came again. ‘Just a couple of drinks before bed?’
    â€˜Oh, I don’t know, Massimo. I’ve got to be up early tomorrow, you see.’
    â€˜Come on, Aldo, don’t be a bore.’
    â€˜Er, well . . .’
    â€˜Please, Aldo.’
    Aldo thought again of Isabella, the look he had seen in her eyes. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, Massimo. I’m on an errand, you see. I have to dash.’
    â€˜An errand? No problem, I’ll come with you. I fancy a walk.’
    Aldo looked at him, considered his options. ‘No, really, er . . . look, Massimo, really it’s . . . well . . . you see, it’s a private errand.’
    â€˜A private errand?’
    â€˜Precisely.’
    Massimo looked at him, then burst out laughing and punched him on the shoulder, almost knocking him over.
    â€˜Oh, I get it, Aldo, you little devil.’ He laughed again. ‘I thought you looked a bit too spruce. Scrub up well when you want to, don’t you? Go on, then, who is she? Do I know her, the little minx?’
    â€˜Can’t say. Sorry. Listen, got to go.’
    â€˜All right, all right, tell me all about it tomorrow. I’m only your best friend, after all. Don’t forget, though!’
    Aldo was hurrying away now, glancing back to