Just the mention of his name... and for Elise Sanderson the years simply rolled away, bearing her back on a sea of bittersweet memories to those heady, dangerous days before the flames of war had ravaged the East.Then, in the golden days of her youth, she had swept through the doors of the Orient's great hotels, into a world where bell-boys ran to answer every whim, where the champagne was permanently on ice, where elegant men in tails and women in exclusive haute couture danced to the endless music of orchestras.It was then, she recalled that she had first seen him, lounging languidly in a rattan chair, already in uniform, cigarette smoke curling lazily around half-closed hazel eyes. It was a dangerous face, she had thought in that first startled moment. A face to be reckoned with . . .But then the War had intervened . . .
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"On n'est pas dans le futurisme, mais dans un drame bourgeois ou un thriller atmosphérique"
L'auteur se glisse en reporter discret au sein de sa propre famille pour en dresser un portrait d'une humanité forte et fragile
Au Rwanda, l'itinéraire d'une femme entre rêve d'idéal et souvenirs destructeurs
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