First chapter First Paragraph Tuesday Intros: The Road to Urbino by Roma Tearne

First Chapter ~ First Paragraph Tuesday Intros, now hosted by Vicki at I'd Rather Be At The Beach, where bloggers post the first paragraph(s) of a book they are currently reading or planning to read sometime soon.

Sorry for late post, but am blaming it on a certain addictive game I'm playing, Royal Chaos, where ten minutes turn to three hours...I'm done with Master and Margaret and have begun my book tour book, Stefan's Promise by Sam Rennick. So far it's really enjoyable :) I still have quite a long way to go with Forgotten Reflections. But yes, my first 2020 book is Stefan's Promise by Sam Rennick which is about the friendship between men. 

The book I'll feature today, The Road to Urbino is going to examine how culture plays into our actions and deeds, and its supposed to be vivid, detailed and descriptive. Enjoy's today pick!

The Road to Urbino by Roma Tearne

I

1 

Learning to paint a fresco

Last night I dreamt I was in Talaimannar again. With the ancient lighthouse casting yellow stripes across the water and the rock rising steeply against the sky. The sea was calm and Adam's Bridge was clearly visible in the dusk. In my dream Good triumphed over the demon Ravana and I saw once again the rutted lane that led, through a thicket of trees, to the old beloved place. Through the unlatched gate I went, followed by I know not whose footsteps,  with the scent of lotus flowers all around me. Towards the lighted house I walked with steady gaze and saw again the rattan roof on which the rain had tattooed out a sweet, sad song of childhood memory. When I woke my face was wet. 

"I want to find my daughter," I cry.

In spite of all my efforts, my voice comes out in a whine. It is morning. Grey and dull. And we are sitting in a windowless room where neglect and cigarette smoke and lavatories stifle the air. Someone has repainted the walls. Beneath the mango green there are hints of a Venetian red. Away from nature, green holds no attractions. On one wall I notice a mark, dark and strangely shaped. I stare at it. Normally I would wait behind bullet-proof glass for my visitor. But you are no normal visitor. Glancing sideways at you, I see a thin, tall woman in a trouser suit. Someone I would never have noticed in a crowd. I expected you could say the same thing of me. We have shaken hands briefly, a formality that does nothing to reassure me. My hands tremble. As I watch, you pick a small red thread from the sleeve of your jacket. It is red like your bag. Red like the colour in the painting.