The Art of Waiting by Christopher Jory

check that Massimo was not coming after him on the sly. But his fat friend would not have been able to keep up with him anyway, not if he ran. And run he would. He would run miles for Isabella, he would cross the whole city just for the thought of her. He quickened his pace now, thrusting his hands deeper into his coat, warming them, the fingers of one hand closing once more around the heavy key, the other around the little fish he had carved for himself out of oak the previous week. He hurried across the wooden bridge at Accademia. From there it was just a short walk along the Rio di San Trovaso, past his father’s trattoria – Casa Luca – to the boatyard where he now spent most of his days learning his new trade from a master. A fresh doubt sidled up and whispered in his ear: ‘Might Antonio still be there?’ He usually left the boatyard before dark but you could never be sure and no one would want to get on the wrong side of Antonio, least of all one of his young apprentices.
    Antonio ate regularly at Casa Luca and it was six months earlier, over a jug of lunchtime wine, that Luca had first brought up the idea of Aldo helping out down at the yard. Aldo was nearly eighteen and needed to learn a proper trade. Fishing was always a possibility – the boy seemed to enjoy helping out on the boats and at the Rialto market in the holidays, and he had made innumerable crossings to and from the lagoon island of Burano – but Luca knew from experiencewhat a hard life that would be. If Antonio would take him on, Aldo would work for virtually nothing for the first year, learning the basics, after which another arrangement could be made. This suited Antonio and so the two men cemented their agreement over plates of polenta and squid and another jug of wine.
    Aldo began the following week. His first task as an apprentice was to learn to prepare Antonio’s coffee just the way his new master liked it, an undertaking that required the best part of a week. In the interim, numerous offerings were pitched into the canal, much to the amusement of the other craftsmen who would chuckle at the newcomer while whittling their wood into intricate shapes.
    â€˜I can’t drink that!’ Antonio would bellow, startling passers-by on the other side of the canal and sending the neighbourhood’s pigeons up into the air in fright. ‘How can I teach you to build the most beautiful boats in the world when you can’t even make me a decent cup of coffee? In this yard, only perfection will do, and don’t you ever forget it! Go make me another!’
    And the pigeons would settle back down as Aldo returned to the kitchen for another attempt. Finally mastering the art of the perfect espresso, Aldo then learned to clean the yard to Antonio’s fastidious requirements. As the long, sleek, gently curving boats took embryonic shape upon the trestles – their three-month gestation a reflection of the paternal pride of the craftsmen – the resulting sawdust and chippings, in nearly a dozen different varieties, kept Aldo busy with the broom. If it wasn’t the beech, pine, larch and elm that he swept up into bags, then it was the cherry, mahogany, walnut and oak. Every now and again Antonio would toss an offcut in Aldo’s general direction, scattering a carefully gathered pile of sawdust.
    â€˜What sort of wood?’ he would growl.
    â€˜Walnut?’ Aldo would venture.
    â€˜Walnut?! Look at the grain.’
    â€˜Elm?’
    â€˜Elm?!’ Antonio would rage, shoving it close up under Aldo’s nose. ‘Elm?! That’s oak! Oak! Smell it! Touch it! Feel its weight! Go make me a coffee!’
    Soon Aldo came to know each type of wood – initially by sight, then by smell, and finally, with his eyes lightly closed to heighten the sensation, by touch, his long fingers running gently up and down the lengths of wood, tripping across the grain which, as he came to know it more