On entend également Louki évoquer sa vie sans horizon dans un Paris en noir et blanc. Le titre Dans le café de la jeunesse perdue – un joli titre emprunté au «philosophe sentimental» Guy Debord -, il renoue le fil de son œuvre tissée depuis près de quarante ans.
“Well, there we are, Guy . . . That’s it . . . ,” said Hutte, with a sigh.
A stray file lay on the desk. Maybe it was the one belonging to the dark little man with the frightened expression and the puffy face, who had hired us to follow his wife. In the afternoon, she met another dark little man with a puffy face, at a residential hotel, in Rue
Thoughtfully, Hutte stroked his beard, a grizzly, close-cut beard, but one which spread out over his cheeks. His large, limpid eyes stared dreamily ahead. To the left of the desk, the wicker chair where I sat during working hours. Behind Hutte, dark wooden shelves covered half the wall: there were rows of street-and-trade directories and yearbooks of all kinds, going back over the last fifty years. Hutte had often told me that these were the essential tools of the trade and that he would never part with them. And that these directories and yearbooks constituted the most valuable and moving library you could imagine, as their pages listed people, things, vanished worlds, to which they alone bore witness.