By Wu Ming, Luther Blissett
1954, the peak of the chilly struggle. In Hollywood memebers of Her Majesty's mystery provider have a deadly challenge for the stylish Cary provide. And in Bologna, Pierre Capponi, a lovelorn younger barman, is ready to embark on a painful odyssey looking for his lacking father.
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The Midwest lies in entire ruins after a catastrophic catastrophe kills tens of hundreds of thousands and leaves millions injured. Nicholas Keller emerges out of the devastation as a shining gentle of wish for all. yet his newfound repute comes with a cost that his aunt won't permit him pay. They flee into the shadows as a way to defend his mystery.
«Esiste il according to sempre? » mi avevi chiesto. Ti avevo stretto a me con ancora più forza. Sotto lo strato di maglie, maglioni e giacca a vento, avevo sentito vivo e caldo il tuo esile corpo. «Esiste solo il according to sempre» ti avevo risposto. period questo il patto d’amore e di vita, il filo indissolubile su cui avevano costruito l. a. trama dei loro giorni.
Jayant Mathur is located murdered in his mattress, shot at point-blank diversity along with his personal revolver. notwithstanding she’s super disturbed via his demise, Jayant’s spouse Anjali is much extra disillusioned approximately whatever else. Who stands to achieve by means of killing the tycoon businessman?
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Als type schon fühlte sich Wanda Wiericke in der Musik vollkommen aufgehoben. Später, als gefeierte Konzertpianistin, vermisste sie nichts und niemanden, auch nicht ihren Mann. Jetzt, in einem Dorf in den französischen Pyrenäen, spielt sie nur noch für sich. Und doch ist ihr, als fehlte etwas, als habe ihr geliebter Klavierlehrer Max de Leon, der eines Tages für immer verschwand und ihr einen Koffer voller Noten hinterließ, ein Geheimnis mit sich genommen, das alles erklären könnte …
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Additional resources for 54
Gennaro Iovene closed the case of veterinary instruments, and headed for the stable door. The intense light dazzled him as soon as he was outside. He hesitated for a moment, then took the path to the right, towards the tracks, seeing the horses entering the gates in the distance. The man in the black coat, hands in his pockets, turned his back on the track. Iovene merely nodded at him, and when the man lit a cigarette he knew that his signal had reached its target. He walked on without turning around, hearing the mounting excitement of the public ‘The horses are in the starting gates.
But some of them do, like the filuzzi dancers, for example, show up looking like they’ve stepped out of an American movie, with their mackintoshes on and smoking their cigarettes without their hands, and you’d think they were about to order a whisky, and instead it’s always a Fernet or a Sambuca. Afterwards off they go to the dance hall, and some of them have routines that would put Fred Astaire to shame. We like it when they drop in to have a drop before going dancing, because we all feel a bit like those men with their towels over their shoulders who massage boxers before they go into the ring.
Pierre stayed at the bar for at least three or four numbers, sipping a vermouth. He knew very well that there was a girl waiting just for him. Even now, when she was dancing with a guy, she made eyes at him each time she span. Apart from anything else, she moved better than all the rest. Pierre figured she would be a fantastic filuzzi dancer as well, chucked away his cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe. He crossed the floor as though it were Piazza Maggiore on a Sunday morning, keeping his hand in his trouser pocket, under his jacket, more Cary Grant than ever.