The Art of Waiting by Christopher Jory Page B

pushed off into the night.
    As he edged along the backwater that ran up from the Canale Grande towards Campo Santo Stefano, he saw Isabella waiting forhim where they had hurriedly arranged. She was standing close to the wall by the water’s edge, wisps of mist around her feet, a halo of light upon her from the streetlamp above, and for a moment Aldo had a vision of an angel suspended on clouds somewhere out in space. He steered the gondola in alongside the quay and she gave him that slow, assured smile, delicate lines around her eyes half-lost behind raven hair. He saw her offered hand and he clutched at it, too abruptly, brushing her fine white fingers as the gondola moved beneath his feet. He lost his fragile composure and his balance, took an inadvertent step backwards, and hauled Isabella unceremoniously off the quay and into the boat. He felt her collapse on top of him, an elegant heap, and the gondola rocked vigorously. She breathed in deeply, then out, her breath caressing his face with its fragrant warmth. He was simultaneously terrified and elated by the physicality of her presence and the ridiculous prospect of her lips lowering themselves to touch his own, fearing now that he would not be up to the challenge. She bowed her head as if considering whether to run the tip of her tongue slowly across his lips, then withdrew and looked him in the eye.
    â€˜Hello there, Aldo.’
    â€˜Hello.’
    A stupid response, and he felt such a fool as he said it.
    â€˜Don’t you think you should help me up now? That would be the gentlemanly thing to do.’
    The sound of her voice made him jump again. ‘Oh yes, of course, I’m so sorry.’
    â€˜Don’t be so keen to apologise. It won’t do you any good, you know.’
    She eased herself aside and Aldo squeezed himself out from under her. He helped her to the bench and took the oar and began to turn the boat around.
    â€˜So, dear boy, where are you planning on taking me? Surprise me, now. I do so like surprises.’
    â€˜Er, well, let’s see . . . well, I don’t know, really. Where would you like to go? Any ideas?’
    She clicked her tongue, shook her head, flashed him that wicked smile again. ‘I must say I’m terribly disappointed, Aldo. Not at all a good start to the evening. I thought you’d have come better prepared. You’ve had nearly a week to think about it, after all. Haven’t I been on your mind? Too many other things to think about? Too many other girls?’
    â€˜No, no, not at all. I mean, yes, on my mind, yes, of course. But no, not much else to think about. Nothing that could compare, anyway.’
    She raised an eyebrow.
    â€˜San Marco, perhaps?’ he said. ‘It’ll be nice down there at this time. Nice and quiet.’
    If she replied, her voice was inaudible, so Aldo rowed on in silence, observing the side of her face, as pale and blank and beautiful as an alabaster mask, savouring the moment as one does when you know it to be a fleeting one. Another gondola slipped by, a lantern placed just behind the notched iron ferro that protected its bow, the passing gondolier calling out to Aldo as he disappeared into the gloom. The mist was lifting now and the two waterborne strangers watched the shadows of buildings drifting by, as if it were the houses that were moving, suspended on the water, and the boat that lay motionless. They passed the point of Dorsoduro, the domes of Santa Maria della Salute towering above, the darkness around them speckled up high by gulls, and as the boat moved beyond her protecting lee and into the broader expanse of the Canale di San Marco the waves took on more intimidating proportions. Aldo was suddenly aware again of his inexperience as an oarsman and, for the first time since catching sight of Isabella in the glow of the streetlight, he began to concentrate more on navigating the waters of the canal than the equally unfamiliar labyrinths of