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    Albert Foudre
    Albert Foudre
    Albert Foudre
    Ebook114 pages1 hour

    Albert Foudre

    By Boleslaw Lutoslawski

    ()

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    About this ebook

    One day Albert Foudre, a carefree citizen of the world, is told that his best childhood friend, Conrad, had been kidnapped and subsequently murdered in Sierra Leone, West Africa.
    Albert decides to take revenge on the people responsible for the crime.
    He starts a private inquiry and soon discovers the terrible truth: Conrad’s murderer is a mafia boss, whose net covers almost the entire world.
    Albert prepares a vendetta.
    The book is not only a crime story entwined with a taste for good life. It is also a tale about double meanings, honesty towards another person and the fuzzy boundary between what is moral and what is not.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBoleslaw Lutoslawski
    Release dateMay 8, 2016
    ISBN9781310429552
    Albert Foudre
    Author

    Boleslaw Lutoslawski

    Bolesław has been a portrait photographer for over 40 years working with some of the most diverse and interesting theatres, ballets and figures all across Europe. He has taken portraits of Stanisław Lem, Andrzej Wajda, Krzysztof Penderecki, Wisława Szymborska, Witold Lutosławski, Glenda Jackson, Sławomir Mrożek, Tom Stoppard, Simon Callow, Bill Brandt, Paloma Picasso, Ernst Gombrich, Tambimuttu, Tadeusz Kantor, Marina Warner, John Peel, George Martin, Konrad Swinarski, Peter Hall, John Tusa, Mieczysław Jastrun, Leszek Długosz amongst many of others. Worked on assignments for The Independent, The Guardian, Vogue, Newsweek, Harpers & Queen, The Illustrated London News and for the BBC & Channel 4. Bolesław has also lectured on film and photography at colleges and universities in the UK & Poland. Individual exhibitions since 1969: Krakow (3), Wroclaw (2), London (4), Edinburgh (1) Cambridge (2), Kazimierz Dolny (1) Books: While photography is his core profession, Bolesław also published several books in Polish, more recently: Korzenie nie znają granic (autobiographical) - recommended by a journalist and writer Ryszard Kapuściński. Alchemia Portretu 2011 (on the subject of Portrait Photography). This publication was supported by various media organizations and very well received by the press. As a result Lutosławski had multiple meetings with readers and also students of photography and journalism. At the same time Bolesław was invited to write for Revue Organon, the European philosophical journal (in English) Portrait Photography and Philosophy.

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      Book preview

      Albert Foudre - Boleslaw Lutoslawski

      Albert Foudre

      by

      Bolesław Lutosławski

      Copyright 2010 by Bolesław Lutosławski

      Albert Foudre

      Bolesław Lutosławski 2010

      All rights reserved

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

      or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,

      please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did

      not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to

      Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work

      of this author.

      Chapters:

      1 Orleans

      2 Otterlo

      3 Park in Kröller-Müller

      4 Amsterdam

      5 Cambridge

      6 Berlin

      7 Milan

      8 Naples

      9 Venice

      10 Moissac and Ronda

      11 Paris

      12 Paris, Trocadéro

      13 Sierra Leone

      Orleans

      I watched Madeline’s closed eyes, sensual face. I listened to her even breathing and felt a sudden urge to kiss Madeline’s hand, which rested on her breast. She opened eyes for a moment, touched my face with fingertips, and cuddled into me.

      But the street was calling with the warmth of a summer morning, so I slipped out of bed, touched Madeline’s smooth, fiery hair scattered on the white cover of the pillow, and she stretched: ‘No. Don’t get up.’ ‘I’m hot’ she added, and slipped the thin cover off her body. As she was still asleep, I went out.

      I started my exploration from a brassiere round the corner, where I ordered freshly pressed juice, black coffee and two croissants. A very young, maybe sixteen year old girl, probably the owner’s daughter, brought them to me.

      I was sitting next to a large window, watching girls walking by: girls in jeans, girls in skirts, girls refreshing their make-up, girls with long hair, girls with short hair, girls with hair tied in the back, girls with pony tails, girls with pig-tails, girls with fashionable handbags and such a vast diversity of shoes that I wouldn’t have the words to describe them.

      Then I realised I missed Martha, even more than I had thought. I called her, and she picked up the phone immediately, as she just got up to make breakfast for her sons. We were chatting - Martha – from her home with three boys talking around the table, me – sitting alone in a French brassiere. Martha – with her phone locked between her arm and her ear, pouring milk into bowls of some currently popular cereals; me – with a cup of espresso, sitting at a widow overlooking a baroque church; Martha – dressed in her white bath robe; me – also dressed in white. The conversation was relaxed and flowed naturally, and after a dozen of minutes or so Martha said: come to visit us as soon as possible, today if you can!

      I agreed – I should be in your place by the late afternoon – I said.

      The city, pulsating with the gentle excitement of summer, enveloped by its smells – those from the nearby bakery, and colours from the street market a few yards away. I bought a couple of apples there and eating the first one, I stopped in front of a window display of a tiny shop with posters of the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Edith Piaf and Barbara Streisand. I walked in to check what it was all about. The small space was filled to the ceiling with old vinyls. A large man with a thick beard and tortoise-shell glasses, dressed in white trainers, black trousers on red suspenders, violet shirt, topped with a flat hat was sitting in this treasure throve of currently silent melodies.

      - Do you have Marlene Dietrich? – I asked standing on the threshold, as there was no space to walk between the shelves and look on my own.

      - I’ve got Nina Simone – the man informed me in an indifferent tone and handed me the vinyl, so I took it. I paid and made my way. At first I walked so that my shadow overtook me, then – so that it marched along on my left side until I reached a playground surrounded by a fence, where I sat on a bench under a purple maple tree to eat the rest of the apples bought on the market.

      The morning was gorgeous, just like the day before, when I walked out of the hotel, run down the stairs onto a small square, and then turned into a cul-de-sac a dozen steps later, only because I was intrigued by a woman with a shock of red hair, dressed in a green jumpsuit. She was putting together an iron installation in the shape of an open hand.

      Naturally, I came over to help her. She thanked me with a smile and shaded her eyes from the sun with her hand. After a minute or so she said in a deep voice:

      - Madeline – and extended her hand to shake mine.

      - Madeline? I used to love a girl with this beautiful name in the kindergarten!

      - And what’s your name?

      - Albert.

      - I’m sorry, but I never used to love an Albert! Maybe because you’re the first Albert I’ve ever met!

      - An answer with a promise…what’s going on here?

      - We are organising an exhibition of José Rodrigo Dupuye. An amazing sculptor from Chile.

      There were some fifteen other hands around.

      - Is this art? - I asked.

      - These are palm-shaped candlesticks.

      - Are candlesticks art? Is anything missing here?

      - No, no, nothing’s missing here. This is art. The candlesticks are like bones, and when we wrap them with a body, energy will flow out of the fingers.

      - So the flame will symbolize the energy of existence?

      - Yes.

      - And what will the body be made of?

      - It will be made of transparent ice, adorned by José with embedded colourful stashes and precious stones.

      - It will be a very transient exhibition then. It will be gone soon after you have opened it; it will melt in the fever of existence.

      - Does it really matter?

      - Actually, not. A bit like with life.

      - Exactly.

      - I like the idea. Because our hands are beautiful and important.

      - Yes. Our hands are creative.

      - In our hands we hold hands of those who need us.

      - We write letters with our hands.

      - We open the doors to the unknown with our hands.

      - We make coffee at the start of a day.

      - We wash children’s hands with our hands.

      - We love with our hands.

      - We wipe tears off our eyes with our hands.

      - You are a beautiful man – said Madeline.

      She looked charming, and I felt the danger of desire was…close at hand.

      - Is José your husband?

      - No. José is an artist…and that’s all.

      - It must be an interesting relationship.

      - Absolutely. This is precisely why I am organising his exhibition. We are going to open it tomorrow night. And now, I would like to eat something.

      - Can I invite you for a lunch?

      - That would be lovely.

      We went to one of those restaurants that pour out into the street with their tables. We ate tuna in some intricate sauce, washing it down with Pinot Noir from Côte de Nuits, Chambolle-Musigny! The wine caressed our mouths like velvet. And for the desert, we shared a paper-thin crêpe with maple syrup and a coffee.

      - Do you like good food? - I asked, as if that wasn’t obvious.

      - Oh, of course! We are what we eat, after all!

      - When I look at you I can clearly see you must eat the most alluring dishes in the world!

      - Food is a sensual experience. You shouldn’t forget about it.

      Madeline took me to her place, outside Orleans. I spend a few hours with her on a garden swing the size of a sofa, wrapped in a soft, black blanket with a pattern of white crosses.

      Madeline (dressed for the afternoon in a black, cashmere dress, which looked like an existential sweater of the highest quality, and silk tights in the same colour) slipped the velvety-black flats off her feet and seductively propped them against my thighs, asking for a foot massage without saying a word. Madeline’s thoughts hid in the mass of her fiery hair. Her earrings made of gold, ruby droplets and some jet-black material I did not know, twinkled flirtingly from time to time, to the rhythm of the swing.

      We were sitting immersed in the intimate atmosphere of the warm afternoon, on a swing overlooking a fairy-tale garden. Madeline told me about her life, when she used to perform all around the world: from Carnegie Hall in New York to Sydney opera, Milan and Moscow, playing

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