The Art of Waiting by Christopher Jory Page A

would lumber across Campo Santo Stefano, pausing on Ponte dell’Accademia to contemplate the majesty of Santa Maria della Salute a little way along the canal in the direction of San Marco, its two domes illuminated by the sun falling across the back of Dorsoduro. He would then steel himself, make his way down off the wooden bridge, and as he approached the door of Casa Luca his jaw would tighten and his chin jut forward. With a prime location like this, Casa Luca could be – should be – one of the finest and most expensive restaurants in Venice. Tourists should be flocking to sit and eat fine food while looking past the nodding heads of gondolas and across the lapping waters of the canal to the church of San Trovaso.
    Five years before, Fausto and Luca had made a deal. It was quite simple. Luca had the relative youth, energy and desire to leave behind his fishing nets and start up a small restaurant. Fausto had the capital and the contacts to secure a fine location for the business, arrange a suitably long-term lease, and purchase the necessary furniture and other paraphernalia. He would then allow Luca to get on with the serious business of making enough money for both of their needs. They had agreed to share the profits equally. This had seemed a little unfair to Luca, as he would be doing all the work, but as Fausto frequently pointed out, he did not have a great deal of choice. There was no way Luca could have arranged and financedany of this on his own and Fausto liked to think of it as a symbiotic relationship. The trattoria was now well known among the locals as a rare and valued place where basic fresh food could be had in down-to-earth surroundings at a price that reflected the spending power of the local working class rather than fancy-shoed, high-spending foreign visitors or more well-to-do Venetians. This was not quite what Fausto had had in mind at the outset. Of course he had been aware of Luca’s obvious lack of ambition, but he trusted in human nature and felt sure that the younger man would sooner or later accede to the worldwide laws of business. The bottom line was king, however low you had to stoop to get your hands on it, or how vulnerable your posture while stooping.
    Initially, Fausto allowed Luca to get on with organising the place as he wished. After all, it meant less work for him, and he had fulfilled his part of the bargain by arranging the finances and oiling the necessary cogs in the local political machinery. After a slow start, business picked up but profits never grew to the level Fausto had anticipated, and the onset of war had vastly reduced the number of foreign visitors. There had always been enough money to provide Luca with a little bit more than the bare necessities, which is all he really wanted, but Fausto needed considerably more than that. His other businesses did reasonably well, but a couple of shops in Cannaregio, an area frequented principally by locals, would never make him rich. Casa Luca was his one big hope, and as time passed and ever greater quantities of rough country wine flowed cheaply down the throats of Luca’s friends and ex-workmates, it began to dawn on him that he had chosen the wrong man with whom to go into business.
    At first he tried to persuade Luca through reasoned argument. A change of image, a refitted interior, a different menu, or indeed any menu at all, tables overlooking the canal with fine cloths and china, crystal flutes of spumante chiming away the early evening hours, waiters trained in the restaurants of Milan hovering attentively, perhaps the occasional violinist to serenade the honeymooners – these few simple alterations might change their fortunes forever.Granted, Aldo could string together a cracking good tune on the violin, but rumbustuous drunken singing was decidedly not the ideal accompaniment to a romantic meal.
    â€˜But why would I want all that?’ Luca had asked. ‘I’m perfectly happy the way