Livingstone rooms in the attic 
's a rainy day. Lily went up to the wires of the immense network, along with his boredom. Even ghosts get tired of the rain and Lily was looking for a story that would lead and snatched away from that annoying ticking sound that even under the sky of asphalt could spray the air of his world like a bathroom after a hot shower without the benefit of the heat. For this, Lily immediately began to read, because the stories, you know, more of a warm fireplace.
The stairs leading down from the attic so steep that it seems almost the jump of a waterfall Amazon, arrived on the top floor of the big house where he had lived, alone, Grandma Livingstone. Livingstone was a sickly child and very curious, had dark eyes and lively and always wore a pair of spectacles on his nose down, like the great when they stop to read, raising his head from the newspaper to face someone who has just entered the room. Livingstone loved to pay close attention to everything that's happening around him, even when what was happening out the window at school during school hours. Despite the frequent distractions in the classroom, Livingstone had excellent grades in all subjects, was very quick in doing their homework and always seemed to have something more important to do.
In fact, there was something that was almost Livingstone more than anything. More than a pistachio ice cream to eat with the tip of the nose. More than a rock that bounces well four times on the water at the pond in the park. Almost as much as playing ball with Patch, fat beagle grandmother. Precisely what the Father's kiss, when he returned from his business trips. There was a great dream that Livingstone was holding in his heart and he wanted to reach from large, to become an explorer and see the mummies in the face without fear, then that here was no longer a dream, but his whole life. For this, sooner or later, should at least find the courage to go up despite prohibitions in the attic of his grandmother. The grandmother told Livingstone that up there doveva salire perché non c’era niente, che la soffitta era una stanza vuota e che c’era solo un gran freddo in inverno e un gran caldo in estate. Livingstone, però, non ci credeva, perché non esiste posto al mondo dove non c’è davvero niente. Anche nei deserti ci sono sabbia, sassi e scorpioni, oppure tante crepe sulla terra dura, che sembrano le rughe di una faccia che ha visto passare il cielo sulla sua testa per millenni. Poi, una volta la nonna si era tradita, aveva alzato la voce impaurita dicendo che nessuno ci saliva da prima che lei nascesse e che se lassù c’era qualcosa era qualcosa di molto cattivo, forse una strega o un mago aveva fatto della soffitta il luogo dei suoi esperimenti magici e che se lui, Livingstone, there was increased and had opened the door would no longer fell on his legs, but perhaps on his hind legs, if the curse had not even locked in that room forever. Now, Livingstone, as a good explorer, he thought this thing very often. That the grandmother was not a good strategy, his words had opened a door to the curiosity of a child who can not wait. A cold winter afternoon when the sky was raining ice end, the grandmother, buried under the nose and mouth, hand knitted wool scarf that was blocking the position of the neck more than they did years on his bones, was due to go out for a commission , all wrapped in a heavy coat, as rigid container was in a package to be shipped away.
Livingstone came shortly after she departed the hall where the stairs to the attic. Made the first flight, the light began to dwindle, the small window that was left behind who climbed the stairs could not illuminate much. Suddenly, the gray plaster wall appeared to be the tail of a dragon, winding and greenish, with small and sparse darker spears that did not promise anything good. Livingstone saw it just in time, suddenly drew back and fell back, ending up sitting on the seat, with the moccasins that jumped away as if they were the only ones who still want to climb the stairs, it was fortunate Patch that was following, because he's a pillow for the head and Livingstone did not have to justify any purple bump when my grandmother came home. That evening the explorer felt defeated in the bud, perhaps, it was said Livingstone, his fate would be different and what was a dream that would remain for ever, with great loss of water would have just tried wearing a comfortable outfit hydraulic , or he hung his jacket to the chair every morning, before sitting down to stick stamps on envelopes and stamps to distribute millions of letters, until it became useless when the world, far and wide, it would be written only by mail mail. But a few months later, curiosity vinse sul timore dell’ignoto e l’esploratore ritrovò un po’ di coraggio; un giorno di primavera, non appena, dalla finestra che dava sulla strada, vide la nonna arrivare sul marciapiede opposto, con il passo un po’ affrettato dal vento che le spettinava i capelli fino a farli sembrare un fiocco di cotone, Livingstone uscì sul pianerottolo e si tolse i mocassini. Salì in silenzio le scale di legno, trattenendo anche il respiro e gonfiando le guance come fa un trombettista, perché il drago c’era sempre lì sul muro, ma al passaggio di Livingstone non si svegliò e mantenne la mostruosa coda immobile. Quando, però, Livingstone raggiunse l’ultimo scalino che portava alla porta della soffitta, appeared a black snake stretched across the wooden plank and legs explorer lost courage and bought an amazing speed to back, skipping the amount of fat Patch, who was waiting on the landing, like an obstacle on the track an athletics competition.
Ten minutes later, Livingstone had worn his new moccasins and wept bitter tears imagining that since then have seen the face of the mummies only from behind a glass display case in the Egyptian Museum in Turin, or Cairo in the middle of a sgomitanti swarm of tourists. Skipped dinner that evening, his grandmother brought him a bit 'of milk and biscuits in his room, but Livingstone drank only milk, until the last drop. Even the biscuits was not even a crumb, but Patch was to swallow them all.
was the last day of school, there were only the case in the backpacks and the diary to record homework for the holidays. In the courtyard where he opened the large doors of classes, fellow chased Livingstone is hot and sweaty for most of the morning, while the small explorer was defeated with his head down, staring at her moccasins with glasses that protruded from the pocket of his blue apron, imagining himself in the role of caretaker due to him as the only alternative for the future, who knows if it would have been able to keep the glossy black and white tiles that painted like a checkerboard floor of the corridor, this is what Livingstone was wondering when he walked listlessly toward the door, the last to come out among the companions who had run as fast as if they had passed the wings on his feet. His moccasins seemed, however, trudge, as if the glue prevented him from advancing, without taking the steps above the ground, as did my grandmother when she was very tired. What would he do now with all that time he was suddenly released, it still asks Livingstone, without the courage even to get groped by the attic door, Patch also could not help him pass the long days of summer holidays, that beagle was too lazy to follow him with long walks.
But then one day, finished all the tasks, having already eaten a pistachio ice cream smearing the tip of the nose and he bounced four times a stone well in the pond water level in the park, even after having already played ball Patch, Livingstone began to rethink his dream because his father was still in business trip and his kisses were far as he was.
The grandmother had left in a cloud made of fragrant pastel-colored silk, to fill a few hours of summer light that intoxicated for several days, causing an unexpected gain new youth, was away from home for a long time, until there was only in heaven, without thinking, because he knew Livingstone that day would not be left alone too much and would start his surprise holiday.
Grandma was out recently, when the small explorer took off again moccasins, leaving them on the landing from which ran up the stairs to the attic, a good guard patch that did not make a step to follow him.
Livingstone had thought a lot about the dragon and the snake would have waited on the stairs, and it was said, to find the courage to face them, that would be enough to imagine that they were different from what they seemed. So, Livingstone began to climb, and arrived at the beginning of the second flight of stairs, he tried to convince himself that what he could see on the wall could not be really a dragon. Yes, maybe that was just a spot of green mold! And the mold, you know, it does not hurt anyone. Then, when he reached the last step, passed with a wider pitch black snake that now seemed so much an old crack in the wood blackened by dust and not even for a moment feared that this crack head get up to bite a heel, because the cracks, you know, do not bite anyone. Finally he reached the attic door and stopped only a moment, a little 'stunned by the emotion of the company, surprised by the song that seemed to feel and smell of roses that never would have thought to find there. We do not know if he won the curiosity of a child or the courage to un piccolo esploratore, ma Livingstone aprì la porta. Ecco, c'era una soffitta coperta di polvere fin dalle assi del pavimento. Se qualcuno ci fosse entrato, prima di lui, avrebbe lasciato altre orme oltre a quelle che lasciarono i suoi passi, ma poiché erano molti anni che nessuno ci entrava, quando la stanza si aprì agli occhi di Livingstone, sembrò che anche la polvere della soffitta lo stesse aspettando da secoli, come i tesori dei faraoni aspettano da millenni i loro esploratori. Là dentro niente cambiava da anni, se non la luce che entrava dalla piccola finestra posta sulla parete opposta alla porta. Di giorno, quando fuori c'era il sole, i raggi che entravano muovevano un piccolo cono costretto sopra il disegno di un tappeto. C’erano rosebuds waiting to bloom. Small birds plumage indigo expecting the heat to blend the wings and get rid of dust in a carousel of short flights. This was under the rays of the sun entered the window. This was the secret of the attic. And to this day the attic smelled of roses. And that is why the air seemed to echo the song of exotic birds. Probably why no one came in for years, because everything was locked in the attic was like a curse. But it was a miracle. And when the sun set and the window came in the moonlight, Livingstone could not know this yet, the buds are closed and small birds returning property, with his head under his wing. The indigo extinguished in the black of night. Roses took the color of dust. But peace remained in the air, the peace of a world rests. Livingstone passed between the flights of birds, taking care not to trample the roses and went to the window overlooking the city skyline. Maybe what he saw from the window, down below, it was a long black funnel, but his dad was stretched over the roofs of the city to greet him, waving a handkerchief that looked like a tail of smoke. And maybe we can say that a new miracle happened in the attic, when Livingstone Patch heard barking from the bottom of the stairs and a voice calling him that this was not the grandmother was a voice that came from by a dark beard, and two blue eyes shone like the sun strikes the sea. Livingstone was still in the heart of a great dream that was almost more than anything, but now he knew that it would reach an adult. A dream that it was precisely what the kiss of his father when he returned from his business trips. And to find the kiss, now only had to close the door to the attic and down the stairs. Now Lily fell like a tear of joy and went back on his lawn. Boredom was not with her.
