Piper's Gate [antikvár]

Chapter I Dean Sheldon drove into Turin early in the afternoon of a brilliant summer day — and saw, dismayed, that the streets were crowded with people who had come to see the Festival advertised in swinging banners over shop windows. The hotels would be full, he thought; the city seemed unbearably hot, there was too much noise, and too many people. He decided to drive on to the mountains north of Turin, where it would be cool and peaceful — and that impulsive decision changed his whole life. He left the teeming streets and drove northwards until the broad road narrowed and began to climb steeply. The car soared as effortlessly as a bird, leaving a cloud of white dust in the wake of its flight. Dean had an odd feeling that the twisting road, shimmering in a heat haze, was a highway to adventure, marking the beginning of the strangest journey of his life. He laughed aloud at the absurdity of his own thoughts. All he wanted, he reflected, was somewhere quiet in which to spend the last, lazy days of his Italian holiday. A small breeze ruffled his thick dark hair, and he began to sing to himself as he drove. He had spent three wonderful weeks marvelling at the colour and beauty and variety contained in one small country. He had seen the green water-roads of Venice where gondolas sailed like black swans, the grandeur of Florence, discovered the magic city of Rome where the old world rubbed shoulders with the new — and it had all delighted him.