From the first pages, we discover a little man at the window.
His eyes wide, his features wrinkled, he adjusts his tie while smoking a Fortuna cigarette.
Will luck finally smile on him?
The radio plays its dismal news, while the rain streams on the windows and the shiny pavement.
We are in a fantasy Brussels, in the mid-1970s.
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Black suit, white shirt, discreet cufflinks, François is a modest employee in his fifties who serves as a driver at the Bianca laundry.
On the doorstep of his building, this humble and solitary antihero, lifts his collar and goes to work.
Slim!
He forgot his umbrella again... In a few dazzling plates, the author of
Béatrice
sets up his story with a quiet strength coupled with a dull melancholy.
Its hero soaked to the bone seems lost in this sprawling city as teeming as it is oppressive.
How ironic to work for a laundry when you're brooding.
What a bitch...
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