The Art of Waiting by Christopher Jory

their respective occupations or wandered home to pass the afternoon in heavy-limbed slumber, and by three o’clock the place would be virtually empty. It was no coincidence that Fausto Pozzi rarely put in an appearance before then. Well endowed though he was with self-importance, he knew better than to turn up while the regulars were still around. On the few occasions that he seriously misjudged his time of arrival, the room would fall silent as his hulking silhouette hesitated in the doorway, blocking out the light. There would be a brief but significant pause, and the noise would then erupt again as abruptly as it had ceased, the renewed tumult masking the various colourful oaths that questioned Fausto’s parentage, sexual prowess and nocturnal preferences. Thrusting out his amplechest, Fausto would stride towards the bar as Luca took down the only tall-stemmed glass to be found on the premises, filled it with pinot grigio , then placed a plate of deep-fried whitebait, without lemon, next to it on the bar. A forced smile might be offered in welcome, which Fausto Pozzi would sometimes replicate, depending on the value of recent takings. Words would be exchanged, the conversation pregnant with brief and awkward silences. Often Aldo, on his lunch-break from the boatyard, would be busying himself behind the bar or ferrying plates of fish about the place, and Fausto would regard him with an odd mixture of pride and admiration which occasioned Luca to seriously contemplate Fausto’s reputed sexual ambiguity.
    â€˜That’s a fine boy you have there,’ Fausto said one afternoon, dabbing at his thick moustache after polishing off his whitebait. ‘He’s got his mother’s eyes . . . and his father’s smile.’ He grinned wickedly and Luca grimaced. ‘Hey, Aldo, come over here. Where are you playing this evening? Maybe I’ll come along this time. Best young violinist in Venice, you know, Luca. Best young violinist in Venice.’
    Fausto patted Aldo heartily on the shoulder and Aldo smiled in genuine youthful pleasure and then shifted uneasily as he sensed Luca’s disapproval. Fausto withdrew his fat paw and looked at the floor. Recovering his composure, he began to quiz Luca on the week’s takings. Aldo excused himself and went into the kitchen. His mother, sweat upon her brow, was tending to hot pans of spitting fish, conscious of the low monotone of Fausto’s voice but mercifully unaware of the attention he had been paying to her son.
    â€˜Fausto’s here again, is he?’ she asked.
    â€˜Yes, he’s talking to Dad about money again. Same old story.’
    â€˜That bloody man! He’s a blight on all our lives.’
    She grabbed a lemon and placed it upon the chopping board and sliced it into rather more pieces than was strictly necessary.
    â€˜He’s all right,’ Aldo said. ‘I don’t know why you and Dad hate him so much. He’s always nice to me. Who knows why, but he is.’
    â€˜Yes, who knows why,’ Maria would mutter.
    Back by the bar, Luca would usually try to ignore Fausto’sunwelcome interest in his son, but occasionally his irritation would manifest itself in a few barbed words. Fausto invariably bit his tongue and let them pass. There’d be plenty of time for confrontation later if it really had to come to that. Instead, he would ask politely after Maria, drain his glass, and mention something about coming back at a more convenient time. Dozens of eyes would fix on his back as he made his exit. Back outside on the quay, he would loudly exhale his exasperation, anger and relief. Then he would take a deep breath, his proud chest would re-inflate and he would float away across the bridge at Accademia and on towards San Marco.
    These were highly embarrassing episodes for someone of Fausto Pozzi’s exaggerated yet fragile self-esteem. Usually, just as the last of the regular customers were leaving, he