The Art of Waiting (20 page)

‘I tell you, if I'd got the call, I'd have told them where to stick it. There's no way I'd have helped those fascist bastards.'

‘If they called you, you went. You had to.'

‘I know plenty of people who didn't.'

‘We had no choice!'

Aldo was gritting his teeth now and he slammed his cup down on the saucer, causing the spoon to bounce noisily onto the floor.

‘Hey,' said the barman. ‘You're not the only one who's been in a war, you know. Plenty of people suffered here too. And
you
chose to go.'

‘I had no fucking choice! None of us did!'

‘Take it easy, will you? This is a respectable joint. And watch your mouth – even if you are some sort of hero back from the war!'

‘Fuck you!'

Aldo turned away and walked towards the door. The barman put down his cloth and ran out from behind the bar and caught Aldo and dragged him into the street. Aldo swung a punch at him but the barman was bigger and stronger, better fed all these years, and he pushed Aldo to the ground. Aldo got to his feet and swung again with one fist, then the other, but the man dodged easily out of the way and Aldo overbalanced and fell to the ground. He stood up and swung again and this time the man knocked him down with a punch to the mouth. Aldo stood up and slipped away, blood streaming down his chin now as the crowd buffeted and barged him as he made his way along the street towards the station. When he got there the young men in sunglasses had gone and he sat and waited for his train, but he felt suddenly unable to take the last of a million steps towards home. After so long in its company, longing had become such a part of him that he was now merely a small and insignificant part of a greater suffering that existed independently of him, all the things he had felt, all the things he had seen, and he feared that if the longing disappeared there would be nothing left of him at all. And so when
his train finally arrived he remained on the bench as the other passengers got on board and the doors closed and the train departed without him, then another, and he walked out of the station and back into the street and he skulked around for another hour or two. Then he went back to the station and finally another train arrived and he got on board and found a seat by a window and he wished the train would carry him well away from here, back over the horizon, back to where he could lose himself again. He watched through the window, his reflection in the glass a pale ghost in the sunlight, imprinted upon the countryside that was speeding by outside. Then the train went into a tunnel and his face was suddenly a shocking presence in the darkened glass and the noise and confusion and darkness of the tunnel reflected the noise and confusion of his thoughts and the gathering darkness of his heart.

The train reached Mestre late that evening and it rolled onto the causeway and over the lagoon to the island of Venice. In the distance, away to the left beyond Cannaregio, Aldo could make out the Renaissance church of San Michele, its blanched face of Istrian stone turning pale orange in the fire of the setting sun, and at the sight of it his doubts began to fall away. He stepped down onto the platform and stood there for a moment, savouring his moment of homecoming as the other passengers pushed past him. Outside the station he came to the bridge that led across the Canale Grande to Santa Croce. Somewhere over the bridge to the right lay Casa Luca with its bittersweet memories and its promise of a confrontation with Fausto Pozzi. To the left, the streets of Cannaregio and home. For years he had ruminated on this moment, had never really known which route he would take, which path would tug at him most strongly, but now that he was living the moment for real, and not for the umpteenth time in his dreams, there was only one option. He turned for home. The business with Fausto Pozzi would have to wait. Familiar sights and sounds lightened his step, the sense of anticlimax dissipating now, and he felt a curious sensation, a rising excitement, even happiness, as each step took him closer to the end of his road. He walked as quickly as he could towards the house on
Fondamenta della Sensa, a home he had last seen eight years before, that he had given up all hope of ever seeing again, and as he walked he imagined everything as it had been, his grandmother by the fire, his sister, Elena, playing with the dog beside her, his mother busy in the kitchen, and his father . . . and his father, at least in the land of imagination and dreams, still seated at the table and cursing Fausto Pozzi.

As he approached along Fondamenta della Sensa, Aldo could see the small arched bridge opposite his house, fifty yards away, the silhouette of a familiar figure standing upon it, a small dog by her side. He quickened his pace in expectation, but as he rushed towards the woman she turned away. He arrived at the house just as the door was being closed in his face.

‘Mamma,' he called out. ‘Mamma, it's me, Aldo. I'm home.'

He heard shuffling inside the hall as he banged on the door. The dog began to bark. The door opened a fraction and a man looked out.

‘What do you want?'

‘Who are you?' said Aldo. ‘Let me in.'

‘I'm sorry, but I think you've got the wrong house.'

‘No, I haven't got the wrong house. It's you that's in the wrong house.'

Aldo leant against the door as the man tried to push it shut.

‘Look, if you don't go away I'll fetch the police.'

‘But where is everyone? Maria Gardini, don't you know her? I'm her son, Aldo.'

The man opened the door a little more. ‘Listen, we've been here for two years. Signora Gardini went away, she went to live elsewhere.'

‘But that can't be true.'

‘Look, we didn't really know her. We bought the place, she moved out, we moved in, that's all.'

‘Didn't she leave a forwarding address? For when I got back?'

‘Aldo, you say? Her son?'

‘That's right.'

‘Well, I think she thought you were dead, everyone did. Look, I'm really sorry . . .' He began to close the door again.

‘And what about the restaurant?' Aldo said hurriedly.

‘What restaurant?'

‘Casa Luca, what about Casa Luca?'

‘Listen, like I said, I don't know the details. I'm sorry,' and he closed the door in Aldo's face.

Aldo headed straight for Casa Luca, stumbling as he walked, bumping into people who were coming the other way along Strada Nuova. He crossed the bridge at Accademia and hurried up the Rio di San Trovaso. He saw the bridge just ahead and Casa Luca beside it, but something about the place was wrong. Many things were wrong. The lights were brighter than before and there were people seated at the tables outside. He saw a waiter emerge from within, a silver tray on his outstretched arm bearing an array of tall glasses of gently fizzing liquids with lumps of ice and cocktail cherries and little paper umbrellas, and small plates of bourgeois snacks, olives stuffed with overworked delicacies, anchovies pierced on cocktail sticks and unnaturally wedded to delicate little silverskin onions and gherkins that had been plucked too soon from their bush and plunged into vinegar. And then he saw the hulking presence in the doorway. Aldo glanced up at the sign above the door. And then he looked again. Oh my God, there it was, just as he had feared all these years, the hated name painted in large bold letters, ANTICA LOCANDA FAUSTO. He stared hard at the figure in the doorway. Fausto Pozzi hadn't noticed him yet – he was too busy admonishing a waiter for the sloppy delivery of a plate of
frutti di mare
. The trailing claw of a lobster had upended a glass of
prosecco
into a diner's delicate lap and she cried out loudly in a language that would never have been heard in Casa Luca before the war. Aldo stood by the bridge and watched the spectacle. He looked back at Fausto Pozzi and the furtive porcine little eyes wandered across his own, moved on, then looked instantly back. The dark mouth beneath the moustache fell open and for a moment Aldo saw something like fear in his face. Then Fausto hurried across and took Aldo by the arm and tried to lead him away from the bridge, away from the tables that nestled beside it in the glow of red candles. Aldo shook the outstretched hand violently away.

‘Aldo, Aldo, but what a surprise!'

Aldo stared at him.

‘It is Aldo, isn't it?'

‘Of course it's me. Don't play your stupid games with me, Fausto.'

‘But, Aldo, you've changed.'

‘Of course I've fucking changed.'

‘I mean I barely recognised you.'

‘Well, I fucking recognised you. Which is more than I can say for this place.'

‘Keep your voice down, Aldo. And watch your language too.'

‘I'll say what I fucking like. What have you done to this place? What's all this shit? And where's Mum? Jesus Christ, I can't believe she's allowed this to happen! Look, even the bar's gone. That was chestnut, you know. Chestnut! Do you know how many elbows leant on that bar over the years, real elbows, real people's elbows, not like that lot you've got sitting over there now?'

‘Aldo, look, you're not making much sense. Are you drunk?'

‘Of course I'm not fucking drunk.'

‘Well, have a drink, then, on me. Wait here. I'll go and get you something.'

‘Don't bother. Is Mum in the kitchen?'

Fausto paused. ‘No. No, she isn't, I'm afraid,' and Aldo thought he saw a fleeting sadness in Fausto's eyes.

‘Well, where is she, then?'

‘Aldo, listen. She's not here any more. She's moved away.'

‘I don't believe you. She would never have left this place.'

‘She wanted to, believe me. She couldn't manage it on her own. It would have closed anyway. I mean, it was closed for such a long time during the war, it was really going to ruin, and then she tried again but, you know how it is, it was so difficult for her. So I helped her out. As a friend. She wanted to sell up.'

‘Liar.'

‘She wanted to. No one else would have the place.'

‘Liar!'

‘So I helped her out. She was grateful. It meant, with the money from the house too, she could move to Rome.'

‘To Rome?'

‘Yes, Aldo.'

‘You're a fucking liar!'

‘It's true.'

‘Why on earth would she go and live in Rome?'

‘Because of your sister, Elena. Her husband's from Rome. He has a business there.'

‘Her husband?'

‘Well, I assume he's her husband now. They didn't have much choice, if you know what I mean.'

‘You're a lying bastard.'

‘Come on, Aldo, calm down. Let's sit down and have a chat. Do you need help? Do you need a job? Maybe I can sort something out for you here, a few hours in the kitchen, perhaps.'

‘I'd never accept any help from you, not even if I was dying.'

He pushed his way past Fausto Pozzi and past a waiter and into the restaurant. He looked around at the tables covered in fine pink cloths and the empty space where the bar had been and the violinist serenading a couple in the far corner.

‘Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck are all of you?'

He gripped the edge of the nearest table, lifted it up and turned it over, then moved on to the next and then the next, and he strode across to the violinist and snatched the instrument from his hands and smashed it against the wall and crushed it with his feet. The place was in uproar, the customers all up on their feet, Fausto Pozzi standing open-mouthed just inside the doorway.

‘This isn't the last you'll be seeing of me,' Aldo shouted as he pushed his way past him and out onto the quay. He seized the nearest table and dragged it into the canal. It floated there, legs upturned, the pink tablecloth drifting away under the bridge and sinking out of sight. He strode off down the other side of the canal towards the boatyard, calling back at Fausto Pozzi as he went.

‘This isn't the last you'll be seeing of me, I promise you that!
Not by a long way, you lying bastard! I'll be back. I've waited long enough. I'll be back. I'll be fucking back!'

Inside Casa Luca, a man with a high domed forehead, a pair of gold teeth in his lower jaw, and hair slightly too long for his profession, took Fausto Pozzi to one side and spoke to him in a voice barely audible amid the haughty din of offended diners.

‘He's going to be a problem, that one. Let me sort him out.'

‘No,' said Fausto. ‘Leave it to me. I'll deal with him.'

‘I think we're better equipped for that,' the man said. ‘If you know what I mean.'

Fausto cast a glance at the ceiling. ‘No, I said I'll deal with him.'

The man appeared unmoved.

‘Please. Please let me deal with this,' repeated Fausto. ‘You know it's important to me. Please.'

‘All right,' said the man after a suitably authoritative pause. ‘But make sure you do, or I'll certainly do it myself.'

Outside by the canal, Aldo walked past the eastern wall of the church of San Trovaso and into the square beyond. He pushed against the door of the boatyard. It creaked but would not open.

‘Antonio? Antonio, open up! It's me, Aldo.'

But no one came to the door. It was nearly dark now and Antonio had probably left two or three hours before, so Aldo walked along the Zattere and stopped at one of the cafés overlooking the Canale della Giudecca and Il Redentore, the same café where he had sat with Isabella as she told him about the breakdown of her marriage, where they had drunk red wine before rushing back to her room and straight into bed.

He set off again now for Isabella's house, just behind the Basilica of San Marco. He walked under the arch and into the small courtyard beneath Isabella's window. He rapped on the door. A man in his fifties opened it.

‘What do you want?'

Aldo recognised the voice, the one he had heard that night at the top of the stairs.

‘I'm looking for Isabella,' Aldo said.