By Isaac Asimov
6 hommes se réunissent une fois par mois, dans le même eating place. A journey de rôle ils invitent une personne qui a une énigme policière à leur proposer, sachant que cette tierce personne n'a pas los angeles answer. Il s'agit le plus souvent d'un problème qu'il a ecu dans leur vie.
Tout au lengthy du repas, les 6 veufs noirs discutent, établissent des hypothèses, pointent les faiblesses de ces dernières, échafaudent des théories.
Durant tout ce temps, Henri, le maître d'hotel, les sert, débarasse, suggest les liqueurs, mais surtout, écoute, en silence et en toute discrétion.
A los angeles fin, vous avez deviné qui trouve l. a. resolution. Elle est logique, argumentée, implacable.
Pas de grandes aventures, pas de robots, pas de area opéra, mais un Asimov tout en finesse à découvrir ou re-découvrir.
Originally titled "Banquets of the Black Widowers" (1984)
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Extra info for A table avec les veufs noirs (Veufs noirs, Book 4)
After what he’d told me about this song, I kept looking up at that window, but there was nothing from Mrs. Gardner, no movement, no sound, nothing. Then we’d finished, and the quiet and the dark settled around us. Somewhere nearby, I could hear a neighbour pushing open shutters, maybe to hear better. But nothing from Mrs. Gardner’s window. We did “One for My Baby” very slow, virtually no beat at all, then everything was silent again. We went on looking up at the window, then at last, maybe after a full minute, we heard it.
A bit like those plays when the same actor’s playing two parts. You can’t get both me and Emily in the same room at the same time. ” “This is obviously a bad time for me to have come. I’ll go away, straight after lunch. ” “What are you talking about? You’re not listening. I just told you. ” “I thought that was your way of saying …” “No, you idiot, I’m the one who has to clear out. I’ve got to go to a meeting in Frankfurt, I’m flying out this afternoon. I’ll be back in two days, Thursday at the latest.
After that, I knew it wouldn’t work out. But my mother, she never stopped believing it. And every time she felt down, maybe like you are tonight, you know what she did? She put on your records and sang along. All those long winters, in that tiny apartment of ours, she’d sit there, knees tucked up under her, glass of something in her hand, and she’d sing along softly. And sometimes, I remember this, Mr. ’ I used to watch my mother carefully, but it was like she hadn’t heard a thing, she’d be listening to you, nodding her head to the beat, her lips moving with the lyrics.