The Art of Waiting (26 page)

Aldo put the photos to one side and picked up a bundle of letters. He saw the official stamps and regimental numbers and he recognised his own handwriting on the envelopes. He took the first letter from its envelope and unfolded it and saw the date: 6th August 1942, a time when they were still hurtling towards the Don. He read the letter through, his words then still arranged in long neat lines on the page, like the lines of sunflowers that stretched into the distance under the heat of a Ukrainian sun. He read through the letters one by one, retracing in his mind the path of war in the east, digging up memories of all the things he had seen then and had wanted to forget. As the dates on the letters grew later, the words grew less legible, penned by a hand made unsteady by cold and by bombs. The last letter – 15th December 1942 – was barely five lines long, a quick note dashed off just before the Vicenza were pushed up to support the Alpini near Pavlovsk. And then the time for writing letters had gone and there would never again be a means by which to send them. No word for nearly eight years, he thought – no wonder everyone thought I was dead! He thought too of what it must have done to them back at home when his letters stopped coming, the absence of any news, no confirmation either way, just a gathering assumption that would one day have crystallised into fact.

He shoved the letters and the photos into the pocket of his coat and picked at a few small objects that lay in the bottom of the box, odds and ends from his adolescence, a spent cartridge from a hunting trip, a few hooks and floats and a cloth cap squashed flat. And then there was a sheet of paper, folded neatly twice, his name handwritten in large letters on one side, the letters of a woman's hand. He unfolded the page, luxurious heavy notepaper, the name of one of the better hotels in Venice embossed across the top in gothic font. The handwritten words were warmer and fuller than his own, written in a different language, a different alphabet, Cyrillic. His eyes passed quickly from the opening salutation to the end, and when he saw her name his hands trembled and he remembered the vision of her
he had seen on the quay months before, how he had let the vision pass him by undetained. He held her letter close up to his face now and his breathing fluttered the page, and he read her name over and over again in a whisper, then his eyes darted back to the start and he consumed the words in a rush, trying to take them all in at once, a desperate hungry beggar opening his mouth wide for food.

Dearest Aldo

It's me. I'm here. I told you I would come, and I have. I've told you so many times, in every letter I've sent, that when the time was right we would meet again, that it would be in Venice, that I would come to this house and knock on your door and we would be together again, if perhaps only briefly. And I have kept my promise, Aldo. All through these five long years since they took you away I haven't heard a word from you, of how or where you are, or if you are even alive, but I never lost faith, I always believed. And now I am here, at your door. But they say you are not here, that they know nothing of you. How can that be? I have checked the address a thousand times on the map that you drew for me, and it is this house, undoubtedly it is this house, and now I have no idea where to look for you, but I still hope and I still believe and perhaps I will find you before I go. Perhaps I will find you at the bar – Casa Luca, I think you said it was called? I will ask for it and I will look for you there. I will be here in Venice for one more day and then I must leave for Milan, the next city on our tour. When I leave I don't know if I will ever be able to come back, but I will leave this letter with this family here and I hope that one day you will come back here and they will give you this letter, and all the others that I sent to you from Russia, and you will read my story and it will be like we have never been apart. And you must write back to me, you must tell me where to find you, because I hardly know where to look any more. Write to me at the address below. Write as soon as you can
.

Katerina

Aldo sent the first of many letters to Katerina the following day, but in vain. Months went by and he received no reply and so he finally resigned himself to the thought of his letters, or perhaps her replies, residing like forgotten and lost little birds in the wire cage of anonymous pigeonholes in Italy or Russia or both, and so the bird that had unexpectedly sung up in his heart again stopped singing.

The Chief Inspector

Venice, March 1951

The violin had saved Aldo, lifting him from the trench into which he had fallen, providing the first few coins on his journey back to dignity, drawing Isabella back to him too that first evening outside Caffé Florian in Piazza San Marco, and now that he had been lifted from the depths his reintegration into society gathered pace. He rediscovered old friends, made new ones, people admired his skill with the instrument, unaware of the guilt and the shame that his possession of it entailed. He took to playing again in recitals in churches where tourists liked to sit and listen to
The Four Seasons
in Vivaldi's hometown, and Isabella would sometimes arrive unannounced and sit herself down in the shadows at the back, just as she had in the old days, while Aldo sat on the platform at the front with the other musicians. As he played, he often recalled the face of the violin's previous owner, an involuntary memory dredging itself up out of the canal, and for the umpteenth time he felt the fingers of guilt wrestling with his own, trying to trip him up, to jostle his fingers off the strings. At the end of the piece he would stand and smile and nod in modest acknowledgement of the applause, and he alone would hear the lone hand of guilt applauding in silence, ironic and incomplete. And then he would see that Isabella was still at the back of the church, and it would occur to him yet again that he did not deserve her honesty and her decency, and he also knew that he could never emulate her qualities now, because whereas his guilt was real and weighed heavily upon him, all she had been guilty of was a mere carnal exuberance, a taste for indiscretions of the flesh. In the interval he followed the other musicians into a side-room
where they would rest and retune and pass comment on any particular oddities or attractions among the audience. One evening in March, Aldo found himself sitting beside a newcomer, a cellist who it seemed had previously busied himself in other ensembles around the town. Aldo noticed the man's insistent gaze on the violin and he felt himself gripping it more firmly in his lap, as if it were a jewel and the cellist were a thief.

‘That's an interesting-looking instrument,' the cellist said casually, and Aldo gripped the thing even harder. ‘Where'd you get it?'

‘Oh, it's been in the family for years. Bit of a hand-me-down, really. Tatty old thing, isn't it? Strictly sentimental value, but couldn't bear to part with it now. You know how it is.'

‘Can I take a look?' the man asked, and before Aldo could reply the man was tugging it from his grasp. The man regarded it for a moment, cast a judicial glance in Aldo's direction, turned the instrument over, rubbed its back, sniffed the wood, turned it over again and ran his fingers across a small knot in the wood next to the bridge.

‘It's strange,' said the man, ‘but I'm sure I've seen this instrument before. An acquaintance of mine had one just like it.'

‘Oh, one piece of wood can look very much like another,' said Aldo. ‘They knock these things out by the dozen, don't they? Must be a coincidence.'

‘Yes, must be. Strange, though . . .'

All through the second half of the performance Aldo felt the eyes of the cellist upon him and a voice from the past rising out of the canal. That night, even with panes in his windows and curtains down to the floor and new sheets and blankets on the bed, he felt an unusual chill in the room and he dipped in and out of sleep until dawn, rising early and arriving for work at the
bottega
earlier than usual, and he ruminated on the cellist's questions until Michele turned up as usual at half past eight on the dot. Michele, travelling trimly through his forties as if at least a decade younger, wore his copious dark hair slicked back tight against his skull and his eyes would twinkle especially brightly whenever one of the neighbourhood's young wives dropped by to fill her tall green bottles from his inexhaustible barrels
of wine, smiling his special boyish smile for the ones who spoke to him most flirtatiously. Aldo had got used to him returning late from lunch, whistling as he breezed back in, his cheeks flushed with a subtle blushing of the capillaries. Aldo had been unaware of the reason for his boss's post-prandial unpunctuality until a forty-something widow who lived in the flat above the shop, her eye-shadow as black as her clothes, her nails as red as her lips, relieved him of his ignorance. Calling Aldo upstairs from where he waited for Michele in the rain, she brought him a glass of wine and a little plate of olives and sat herself next to him on the sofa. As he raised the glass to his mouth, Aldo noticed an imprint of her lipstick on the rim.

‘You know why he's always late, of course, don't you?' she asked.

‘Michele?'

‘Yes, my dear, Michele.' She edged a little closer across the sofa.

‘Let's just say he's enjoying himself. Somewhere warm and comfortable.'

‘Yes, I imagine he is. How very sensible of him, with weather like this.'

‘Oh yes, I can imagine it too. And he leaves you standing out there in the cold and the rain. When you could be somewhere warm and comfortable too . . .' She edged even closer. ‘Do you have a wife, Aldo?'

‘Why, are you offering?'

She smiled demurely but before she could answer he heard the chime of keys and the shop door opening downstairs. He jumped to his feet and placed his glass on the table.

‘Thank you,
signora.'

‘Alicia, please.'

‘Thank you, Alicia. You've been very kind, but I'm afraid I must return to work.'

He hurried out of the room as she placed another lip-print on his glass.

In the shop, the clip-clip of Michele's heels danced around the place as he busied himself with his bottles, the scent of
Acqua di Parma
following him in a little perfumed cloud around the room.

Then the door rattled open and a man walked in, short and stocky, hair trimmed short, his expression businesslike yet jovial, his jowls wobbling slightly as he walked. He marched up to the counter and addressed himself in a loud voice to Aldo.

‘I'm looking for Aldo Gardini,' he boomed.

‘You're speaking to him. How can I help?'

‘Inspector Marchiori,' the man said, flashing his badge. ‘Would you please honour us with your presence at the station sometime?'

‘At the station? May I ask why?'

‘I think it's best that we deal with the details in private. Tomorrow would be best. Two o'clock,' he said, and he turned and walked briskly away.

‘I'll need to be back here by two-thirty,' Aldo called after him.

‘We'll have to see. Remember, two o'clock. We'll be expecting you.'

The door slammed shut.

‘Trouble?' asked Michele. ‘Isabella said I wouldn't have any problems with you.'

‘Don't worry, you won't.'

Aldo arrived at the police station the next day at two. Beyond the elaborate façade he found an interior that was practical and bland, tall walls and distant ceilings coated in uniform shades of grey, the floors a durable practical stone. He asked at reception and was directed upstairs to wait outside a door half-way along an anonymous corridor of the same uniform grey, lit only by a small window high up on one wall. Aldo sat on a hard chair and the minutes ticked by. Finally he heard brisk footsteps on the stairs and Inspector Marchiori marched along the corridor.

‘Follow me, Signore Gardini,' he said and he opened the door and went into a small office. He sat behind the desk and gestured to the chair in front of it. ‘Sit.'

The room resounded to his voice, nothing to stop the echoes but the desk and the chairs and a solitary metal cabinet. Inspector Marchiori flicked open a file that was in front of him on the desk. He looked at it casually, then raised his gaze towards Aldo.

‘Now, I suppose you're wondering why you're here? Or perhaps you're not. Perhaps you already know.'

‘On the contrary. I have no idea.'

Inspector Marchiori flicked further through the file, pursed his lips and made a loud sucking noise, as if struggling to ingest an exceptionally long strand of spaghetti.

‘Do you have a criminal record, Signore Gardini?'

‘Please, call me Aldo if you wish.'

‘Thank you, Signore Gardini. I repeat, do you have a criminal record, Signore Gardini?'

‘Of course not.'

‘I see. No criminal record.'

‘That's right.'

‘Officially, or unofficially?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘We have no record of you in our files, but that doesn't mean you've never committed a crime.'

‘I'm sorry, but would you mind telling me why I'm here?'

‘You came of your own free will.'

‘Because you told me to.'

‘Full name?'

‘Aldo Gardini. I thought you knew that? Aren't you going to tell me . . .'

‘Resident in . . .'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Where are you resident?'

‘Burano.'

‘Address?'

Aldo told him and he wrote it on the form. ‘Occupation?'

Aldo looked at him with some defiance now, and just a hint of fear.

‘Here, look, it's probably easier if you fill this in yourself,' said Inspector Marchiori as if suddenly bored.

He pushed the form across the desk and tossed the pen after it.

‘I'll come back in a few minutes. Make sure you're finished.'

He left the room and Aldo sat for a few minutes in shock and then he quickly completed the rest of the form. An hour later Inspector Marchiori returned.

‘Right, let's go, the Chief Inspector wants to see you now.'

He set off again down the corridor, Aldo hurrying after him.

‘Look, I need to get back to work. I can't afford to lose my job.'

The policeman stopped abruptly and turned around, his face black against the sun that shone in through the window at his back.

‘Signore Gardini, this is a most serious matter, most serious, and I would not be doing my duty if I did not deal with it most urgently. It is in all of our interests that we sort all this out as soon as possible so that we may continue our investigations into what is, I'm sure you would agree, the gravest of crimes.'

‘What crime? I have no idea what you're talking about.'

‘You will soon enough. I can assure you of that.'

He led Aldo up a couple of steps and through the open door of a large office. The windows were hung with red velvet curtains, the walls adorned with portraits of past luminaries of the investigative profession. The sole source of light was an elegant desk-lamp of green glass and brass, and in its dimly arcing glow sat the Chief Inspector. He was neatly dressed in a dark blue tie and blazer but he slouched back rather informally in his chair, his face lean and impassive, his forehead high, seeming to stretch way back over the top of his brow, his hairline receding with the years. What remained of his hair was slightly longer than one might expect of someone of his profession, the tight black curls glistening in the light. His eyes were illegible, possibly sad, and while Aldo presumed he never really smiled, he noticed that he had a peculiar manner of speaking, drawing his lips back as he gathered his thoughts, showing little flashes of teeth as he did so. So it was difficult for Aldo to know quite what the inscrutable Chief Inspector might be thinking, good thoughts or bad, or simply nothing much at all, but his brows evidently bore the weight of wisdom on their years.

‘Sit down,' Inspector Marchiori said to Aldo, standing to one side as the Chief Inspector sat motionless behind his desk. The Chief
Inspector did not introduce himself and he left long seconds of silence for Aldo to sit opposite, shifting in his seat, trying to compose his thoughts. Aldo began to speak, the desk-lamp flickered, and the Chief Inspector leant suddenly forwards, cutting through Aldo's words with a voice that was polite, formal and exceptionally cold.

‘Right, now let's keep this really simple. I'm going to ask you a few simple questions and I want you to give me a few simple answers, one simple answer to each simple question. Is that clear?'

Aldo nodded.

‘Good. But before we really get started, I should warn you not to try to outwit me. No one ever has and no one ever will. Now, you play in one of these music ensembles, I believe?'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘What instrument do you play?'

‘The violin.'

‘You possess your own instrument?'

‘Yes.'

‘A violin, you say?'

‘Yes.'

‘And how long have you had this violin?'

‘A few years.'

‘How long exactly?'

‘I don't really remember. Quite a few years.'

The Chief Inspector looked at Inspector Marchiori and some sort of unspoken message seemed to pass between them.

‘I see,' said the Chief Inspector. He drew back his lips and Aldo noticed for the first time the two gold teeth in the lower jaw, as if someone had punched the originals out of him sometime in the past. ‘Let me ask you again. When did you buy it? I assume you did buy it, and didn't acquire it by other means?'

‘No.'

‘No what? No you didn't buy it, or no you didn't acquire it by other means?'

‘No, I bought it.'

‘When?'

‘A few years ago, like I told you. I can't remember when exactly. Before the war.'

‘Before the war?'

‘Yes.'

‘You're quite sure about that?'

‘Of course.'

‘In Venice?'

‘In Rome.'

‘You were alone when you bought it?'

‘No, I was with my father.'

‘He would be willing to corroborate your story, I assume?'

‘My father is dead.'

‘I'm sorry,' said the Chief Inspector, a matter-of-fact condolence. ‘The rest of your family, then? They could confirm it, I assume?'