Trifariam, The Lost Codex (2012) Read Free Page A

door were two sets of shelves with piles of old books, the majority of which written in Latin. Just to the side of them, although hidden upon first glance, was an old clock on the wall. Whenever its bells chimed, it was yet another headache for the young academic.
    Some old wooden stairs led to the upper floor which was split into three rooms, two of which were empty, and a small bathroom. They were shadowy and looked totally neglected; in one of them a thin layer of mildew even extended from the upper corner in the ceiling all the way down to the floor. The third bedroom was decorated with fifteenth century furniture but until yesterday, it looked as if it hadn’t been used for a very long time. The bathroom, which, although cramped, seemed to be the cleanest area of the house despite lacking one small detail: a mirror.
    The sound of a loud horn broke the silence in the house. A taxi was waiting outside. Twenty minutes had gone by and still nobody had deigned to come out, not even to ask him to wait a few minutes. Tired, he had lowered the handbrake to leave when a man of around thirty-eight, well-built and smart-looking, strode down the hall steps while he smoothed his mane of hair down to his shoulders.
    “Good morning. Sorry about the delay but there was no hot water.”
    James’ face looked honest. The long periods of time he had spent in the country, studying art and the architecture of its churches, meant he had picked up some Italian, although he spoke with a strong North American accent. He quickly opened the rear door and collapsed onto one of the seats.
    Without taking his eyes off the rear-view mirror, the taxi driver replied aggressively. “I have been waiting for you for twenty minutes and I’m thinking about adding it to the fare, whether you like it or not.”
    “Don’t worry. I want to go to the Gallerie dell’Accademia in Florence. I’d like to see - ”
    “Michelangelo’s David,” interrupted the taxi driver again. When faced with the foreigner’s surprise, he tried to explain. “Almost half of the tourists who book a taxi want to visit David, but the vast majority aren’t capable of appreciating the great complexity of the work, or feeling what the artist was trying to convey.”
    “I see that you understand art.”
    “More than that, sir. You could say I am a true aesthete.”
    James couldn’t stifle a grin. It had been a while since he had heard that expression, employed by all those who love art and consider it of essential value. However, judging by his scruffy appearance, his coarse vocabulary and his crude manners, he asked himself whether the driver was aware of another meaning of that word, one which would certainly be unfitting for him: an effeminate male.
    “I’ve visited the vast majority of Italian museums,” he continued. “Many of them when I was young and studied Fine Art, but when I realized how hard it was to find a good job, I went into the same business as my father.”
    “So I see,” said the academic, not mentioning his job for fear of starting a never ending conversation. Obviously, the taxi driver was annoyed by the wait. Even so, he seemed to want to engage James in conversation - something that didn’t appeal to him at the moment. Besides, the taxi driver was the one who had arrived before the agreed time and hadn’t given James enough time to shave; he sported a five-day old beard, which lent him an air of mystery. He reclined in the back seat and closed his eyes in the hope of finding a moment of peace.
    James was an attractive man. His classes at the university were always full of people. Not just for his way with words and the ease with which he explained the most important ideas, but because three-quarters of those who attended the class were girls who could not take their eyes off him. He had sometimes told his closest friends how he felt as if some of his female students were undressing him with their eyes, and on more than one occasion he had had