The Alchemist’s Code Read Online Free PDF Page B

light hinted at a luminous, clear day of the kind we hadn’t had in a long time.
    â€œIt’s going to be a magnificent winter solstice.”
    My wife was already up, but I was still sleepy, so I tried to put off the moment of actually getting up for as long as possible. It was only when the familiar, bewitching scent of coffee crept treacherously into my nostrils that I decided to head towards the kitchen.
    I found Àrtemis there by the stove and kissed her on the neck, while she was still intently stirring the coffee in the pot.
    â€œHello darling – sleep well?”
    â€œExtremely well, I’d say, although to tell the truth, I’m still a bit sleepy.”
    My wife turned around and held out a cup of coffee under my nose, shaking her head.
    â€œThe same old sleepyhead!” she said.
    I love winter – it’s my favourite season. The summer heat has always made me extremely uncomfortable, and I much prefer wrapping myself up for a freezing day to gasping in the noon sultriness.
    However, for a while now, strange nightmares – or, better, vividly coloured dreams – had disturbed my nights, though the memory of them almost always faded upon waking.
    In an attempt to keep my turbulent psyche a little more under control I’d started taking some pills, which I would have forgotten every morning if Àrtemis hadn’t been there to practically put them into my mouth.
    â€œLorenzo, I don’t want you waking me up again tonight because you’ve been dreaming about spaceships made of pasta!” she told me that morning as she met me at the door with a glass of water and the pill.
    â€œAh, so you think that it’s my love of food causing these dreams, do you? Hang on, though – I don’t remember practically anything, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t
food
I was dreaming about.”
    â€œThen you must have a lover called
carbonara—
”
    *
    I left the house smiling at Àrtemis’s joke and made my way to the garage. As I walked, though, and before stopping to pick up a newspaper, my thoughts returned to that night’s dream. My wife’s little jibe had brought a scrap of it back, and in that scrap there was no pasta dish, but a face.
    A woman’s face.
    Ã€rtemis had not been so far wrong after all.
    I tried to focus on the features, but all I could remember was the hair. I was absolutely certain that I had dreamt of a blonde woman.
    I put my dream aside for a moment and walked over to the news kiosk. “Good morning Fausto – the usual please.”
    Just as I was paying the newsagent, someone bumped into me, knocking the money out of my hand and onto the floor. “I’m very sorry,” said the woman who had walked into me as she crouched down to help me pick up the coins.
    â€œPlease, it’s fine.”
    She had a woollen hat pulled down over her forehead, from which a blonde ponytail emerged, and she wore large dark sunglasses. She lowered them quickly, allowing me to see her dazzling blue eyes, and when I met her gaze, my vision blurred for a few seconds and two words escaped my lips: “It’s you!”
    The girl put her sunglasses back on and disappeared without answering or giving me time to add more. I rose to my feet, looking after her, confused, and then turned to Fausto.
    He wore his usual smile and had my newspaper in his hand. “Here you are, Mr Aragona – have a good day.”
    â€œYes, yes – you too Fausto,” I said, handing him the money. And then, before leaving, I added, “Have you ever seen her around here before?”
    â€œWho, Mr Aragona?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, ’who’? The girl who bumped into me just now.”
    â€œI didn’t see anyone, to tell you the truth.”
    â€œWhat? She almost knocked me over.”
    Fausto shrugged. “I’m sorry but there was nobody there, Mr Aragona. The only person to come here in the last few