The Art of Waiting by Christopher Jory Page B

things are. I’ve got my house, my children are happy and well fed, and I enjoy my work. Why would I want to change anything?’
    So Fausto resorted to implications of unpleasantness, and then to more direct threats, culminating in an attempt to dissolve the partnership and set up an alternative establishment, Antica Locanda Fausto, on the same premises. He had gone so far as to contract the signpainter to change the name above the door. Luca arrived one morning to find the poor workman perched precariously up a ladder, poised with his brush, having already painted over a part of the sign. Luca was a tall, broad-shouldered man, strong from years of manual work, and he had a Vesuvian temper when provoked. The unfortunate painter’s equipment, ladder and all, was swiftly deposited in the canal, followed for good measure by the painter himself. Luca never bothered to have the sign repainted. Everyone knew where Casa Luca was and what it was called – it was only the uninformed who thought there was a dark little place, just a short distance from the bridge at Accademia, going under the name of Casa Lu.
    Tipped off by his drenched and irate signpainter, Fausto had descended on Casa Luca somewhat earlier than was advisable. He paused outside, contemplating the view down the quay towards the Giudecca, picturing exotic visitors lining up to gild his pockets with their foreign gold. The noisy chatter from within was punctuated by a loud uninhibited belch, shattering his idyll. A couple of the regulars tumbled out, stinking of fish. Fausto Pozzi grizzled his nose and, although it was not yet one-thirty, walked decisively into the restaurant accompanied by his legal representative.
    â€˜Our agreement is terminated with immediate effect,’ Fausto declared to Luca. ‘My lawyer has prepared the necessary documentation. Please sign here. You have seven days in which to wind upyour affairs. I will be maintaining the lease in my name, and shall henceforth manage this business in the manner in which I see fit.’
    Luca observed him from a perspective somewhere between pity and contempt, but leaning towards the latter sentiment.
    â€˜I’ll do no such thing. You know as well as I do that the lease is in both our names, and that one cannot strike the other off without the agreement of both parties.’
    Fausto released a spluttering noise.
    â€˜That was the deal,’ continued Luca. ‘And that’s why I’ve been doing all the work all these years. I’m not your employee, I’m your partner. And you also know that the contract between us states that I manage the business without interference, as long as we’re making a profit. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I still have work to do.’
    Luca stood up and disappeared through the door that led into the kitchen, where Maria raised her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head.
    â€˜Stupid bastard,’ said Luca, as the front door slammed shut.
    He made himself an espresso, sweet and strong, and went outside. He sat at one of the pair of small wooden tables he kept outside on either side of the door. His customers rarely used them, preferring to be in the thick of the fug and gossip indoors, but Luca liked to sit outside, especially on warm evenings when the jasmine was in bloom, and watch the light fragmenting in the canal, the waves lapping at the quayside at his feet.
    On summer evenings, when the door to the restaurant was cast wide open, a breeze would sometimes blow in off the lagoon, displacing the stagnant odours that seeped out of the canal. It would reach inside the dark interior, stir up the sawdust, and play idly with the lace curtains that hung across the windows. The curtains were from the island of Burano, an hour or so by boat across to the northern end of the lagoon. It was there, at the turn of the century, in a powder-blue house towards the southern tip of the island, behind the main square, that Luca was born. On