Double Destinies E-Book

Giovanni Giudici

• Herausgeber: KKIEN Publ. Int.
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

A surprising journey across continents, backwards and forwards in time.... The Parisian writer Anatole France wondered whether chance was the pseudonym of God when He did not want to sign. If you find yourself reading this book, a fine balance of twentieth century art, rediscovery of the soul, awareness of a new vital energy and time travel blended in a unique endless search, you will feel you are taking part in this journey, which is unpredictable right up to the very last line. A fast-paced detective story, set in the future as well in the past, that will take you to New York, Verona, Stockholm, Perugia, Paris, Rimini, Lviv, Cairo, Alexandria, Egypt, Tuscany and Franciacorta. The thread link these places in different periods, while it carefully weaves the many nuances of a passionate love. The author: Lives in Italy and works in Italy and United States. He was born in Brescia (Italy) in 1965. He works in communication and the development of new markets. In 2017 he published this his first novel.

Leseprobe

Giovanni Giudici

Maree

KKIEN Publishing International

[email protected]

www.kkienpublishing.it

Cover: Rodolfo Viola, Energia.

ISBN 9788833260440

First digital edition: 2018

Translated by June Gibson

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Deposited SIAE. Registration no. 2016001217.

Table Of Contents

Prologue

New York, 27th December 2099

I

Verona, 7th December 2023

II

Rome, 7th December 2023

III

Verona, 7th December 2023

IV

Milan, 7th December 2023

V

Verona, 7th December 2023

VI

Perugia, September 2023

VII

Verona, 7th December 2023

VIII

Paris. December 1889

IX

New York, 8th December 2099

X

Rimini, November 2022

XI

Verona, 8th December 2023

XII

Paris, 1889

XIII

Verona, 9th December 2023

XIV

Rome, 9th December 2023

XV

Verona, 9th December 2023

XVI

Rimini, November 2022

XVII

Verona, 9th December 2023

XVIII

Verona, 9th December 2023

XIX

Verona, 10th December 2023

XX

Verona, 10th December 2023

XXI

Rome, 10th December 2023

XXII

Lviv, 10th December 2023

XXIII

Lviv, 10th December 2023

XXIV

Lviv, 11th December 2023

XXV

Lviv, 11th December 2023

 XXVI

New York, December 2099

XXVII

Verona, 10th December 2023

XXVIII

Verona, 11th December 2023

XXIX

Lviv, 11th December 2023

XXX

Verona, 11th December 2023

XXXI

Alexandria, 12th December 2023

XXXII

Rome, 12th December 2023

XXXIII

Perugia, 23rd December 2023

XXXIV

New York, 23rd December 2023

XXXV

Montemaggiore al Metauro, 26th August 1944 – central Italy

XXXVI

Alexandria, 12th December 2023

XXXVII

Verona, 7th December 2023 - Déjà vu -

XXXVIII

Perugia, December 2023

XXXIX

Franciacorta - northern Italy, September 2025

XL

Franciacorta, September 2025

XLI

Alexandria, January 2024

For Lorenzo and Annalisa,

the endless source of all my energy

Prologue

New York, 27th December 2099

Headquarters of the United States National Security Agency.

The last rays of light filtered into the room through the windows. A few more moments and it would be dark. The director of the agency, Martin Polsen, was about to convene the Emergency Response Team. The situation was serious. Their best agent, after three journeys through time, had chosen the worst possible day to create havoc: Sunday. He had returned unharmed from the missions to Paris in December l889, set off again on a mission to Italy, first in December 2023, then in September 1944, but this time he was about to jeopardize his return forever.

Martin had stuck to his habit of wearing a dark blue suit when he was in  headquarters in Manhattan, maybe because anybody could see that he had already risen through the ranks or maybe to remind himself that he was the boss, something which at times like this he would willingly have done without. He nodded to his team to take their places. He switched on the holographic screen and waited for the President of the United States to appear.

I

Verona, 7th December 2023

Piazza Matteo Renzi.

Lost in a whirl of thoughts, Leonard slid his passport out of his pocket. He then opened it carefully in his usual gentle way. As he read his date of birth, without realising it, his thin lips pursed and grimaced: there was no way he could know, but it seemed that he had almost sensed that destiny was about to play a trick on him, shuffling the cards.

Once again on that cold afternoon he heard his phone grumbling, almost as if it was trying to make him understand how tired it was of receiving yet another message from the usual number. But Leonard never tired of receiving messages from that number.

The icy wind was scattering the snow to every corner of the city and as he crossed the square Leonard left prints that would soon disappear.

A tiny figure, who was admiring himself in a flower shop window with evident self-satisfaction, was waiting for him.

Leonard stopped to catch his breath as if he was thinking for a moment, then flashed his best smile and said politely:

“Good afternoon Mr De Martino, I would say that the description I’ve been given was perfect. I couldn’t have mistaken you for anyone else. Pleased to meet you, my name is Leonard Ross.”

The man in front of the shop window turned towards him and blinked as if to interrupt his train of thought. He raised his friendly face and as he examined the newcomer, his eyes showed a hint of satisfaction. He rubbed the buttons which were struggling to keep his dark coat fastened and seemed to relax. He took a step forward, then he spoke, brushing the snow off the hat he was holding in his hands.

“Good afternoon. Here’s the man we were waiting for! Welcome to Verona. I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

“He looks quick-witted,” he thought instinctively, his eyes sparkling with pleasure, proffering a warm plump hand which he had just slipped out of his glove as he said: “My name is Luca, Luca De Martino. Architect by trade, antiquarian by nature. Nice to meet you.”

Luca was maybe fifty years old, but age had not been kind to him and the gray beard on his tired face made him look older.

Leonard promptly shook his hand in return and, with the barest hint of a smile on his lips, said in an intriguing American accent:

“The pleasure is all mine.” He adjusted the scarf around his neck, clearing his throat, he stamped his feet to get rid of the snow, then added: “They say we’re going to have a cold winter this year. Next week it’s going to get even colder.”

Luca went back to absent-mindedly observing the reflection of their shadows in the shop window, then with a movement of the cigar he was holding at the corner of his mouth, and a nod of his head, he led the way.

They descended the steps of the pavement, the icy snowflakes stinging their foreheads, then set off down the road which led south, towards the gate leading out of the city walls that surrounded the historic center, heading for the car park. The architect, who walked clumsily but surprisingly quickly, was surreptitiously studying Leonard, observing him with child-like blue eyes which made a bizarre contrast with the balding crown of grey hair which mercilessly revealed his age. They talked for the rest of the journey as Luca drove the Alfa Romeo at a cautious speed, typical of those who have seen too much on the roads.

After about a kilometre and a half they turned right, still skirting the center.

Sitting in the passenger seat Leonard listened to him attentively, every now and then asking questions, and deliberately not forgetting to make apparently distracted compliments about the Italian car, although to tell the truth he was more struck by the beauty of the historic buildings that he caught a glimpse of in the avenues; they gave off a vague air of charm at that time of day, late in the afternoon, just before dusk. Behind them the horizon was just about to swallow up the last gleams of daylight.

There was no doubt that they had many things to tell each other during their journey: they talked and listened to each other attentively, paying attention to everything the other man said. Leonard took the opportunity to relax after the long journey that had brought him to Verona; he adjusted his position and leaned back comfortably, on the passenger seat of the Alfa Romeo. The architect De Martino realised as he was talking to him that Leonard’s hair was already gray and was in some way different to the photographs that they had sent to recognise him by. Maybe it was the long sideburns? His face, however, was exactly as Luca had memorized it from those snaps which had probably been taken some years before: clean-cut lines marked by big light-coloured eyes, an elegant bearing emphasised by broad shoulders, jeans which revealed a healthy athletic appearance.