Read Online The Art of Waiting by Christopher Jory - Free Book Online Page B

dad?’
    â€˜From Burano.’
    â€˜Where the women make lace and the men make babies. A fisherman, is he? Boat-builder?’
    â€˜No, he has a restaurant, just a small one. Casa Luca, in Dorsoduro.’
    â€˜Casa Luca? Don’t know it.’
    â€˜You wouldn’t. It’s not your kind of place.’
    â€˜What’s that supposed to mean?’
    â€˜Nothing. It’s just my dad’s old mates who go there, really. My turn?’
    â€˜Wait, with all this excitement I’m dying for a cigarette.’
    She got out of bed and padded across the floor and retrieved her cigarettes from a drawer. She stood at the foot of the bed, placed acigarette between her lips, struck a match and sucked hard, drawing in the smoke in the light of the flame, enjoying his gaze.
    â€˜Want one?’ she asked.
    â€˜A what?’
    â€˜A cigarette, stupid.’
    â€˜I don’t smoke.’
    â€˜Go on, try one. I might as well corrupt you in as many ways as I can.’ She threw the pack of cigarettes onto the bed. ‘Go on, take one.’
    â€˜I’d rather choose my own vices.’
    â€˜Oh, you’re the one in control now, are you?’
    â€˜I’d rather not.’
    â€˜Suit yourself.’ She got back into bed, leant across to kiss him, and transferred the smoke from her mouth to his. ‘Your turn, Tintoretto. Ask me a question. Make it a good one this time.’
    â€˜So, if this is also your husband’s room, where’s he now?’
    â€˜Why do you want to know that? He’s not here, and he won’t be back until tomorrow.’
    â€˜Those aren’t the rules. I was honest with you.’
    â€˜He’s in Rome.’
    â€˜Is that it? No further details?’
    â€˜No. Confidential information, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜What about the truth?’
    â€˜Temporary postponement of the rules.’
    â€˜How convenient.’
    â€˜Shut up, Aldo. My turn now. What’s your favourite position?’
    â€˜My favourite position?’
    â€˜Yes, you know, for making love. For fucking. Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot – that’s not a fair question, is it? For someone of your limited experience . . .’
    â€˜Well, I quite liked the first one we tried.’
    â€˜The first one?’
    â€˜Yes, you know, the first one.’ He stumbled slightly over his words as she breathed out another lungful of smoke.
    â€˜Which one was that?’ she asked, smirking slightly.
    â€˜What, you want me to describe it?’
    â€˜Yes, that might help.’ She took an especially long drag on the cigarette, then stubbed it out in the marble ashtray she kept on the floor by the bed. ‘Maybe we could try it again if you tell me.’
    â€˜When I was, you know, like this . . .’
    â€˜Oh yes, I like that one too. You can’t really see who’s there and you can imagine, well, anything, anyone. Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, I really do forget who’s there.’
    â€˜You forget? Are there really so many . . . possibilities?’
    â€˜I suppose there must be.’ She laughed and raised her hand to her mouth in mock embarrassment. ‘It could be my husband, of course, although it would be difficult not to recognise his style. Or Pierino, or Vincenzo, or Alberto, or . . . what was his name? The Spanish one . . . I can’t remember. I think he only came here once in the end. Such a shame.’
    â€˜You’re joking with me.’
    â€˜Why would I be joking?’ Her voice had lost a little of its playfulness. ‘Aldo, did you really think you were the only one? Do you think a married woman who brings someone she hardly knows to her room and pulls him into bed barely before asking his name isn’t likely to have done the same thing before, probably many, many times?’
    â€˜I hadn’t really thought . . .’
    â€˜Poor Tintoretto. You don’t