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Zusatztext “Baricco continues to blend the best elements of cinema and poetry. . . . Without Blood applies the delicacy of Baricco's style to dark territory: war! human cruelty and revenge.” — San Francisco Chronicle “Mesmerizing and starkly beautiful. . . . The effect is awesome.” — The Observer (London)“Powerful. . . . Designed not for consumption! but for meditation. This story hangs around the neck! curls into you.” — Review of Contemporary Fiction “The lightness of Baricco's prose and his ability to zero in on inexplicable moments of beauty and meaning make Without Blood a compelling read.” — Time Out New York Informationen zum Autor Alessandro Baricco was born in Turin in 1958. The author of four previous novels, he has won the Prix Medicis Etranger in France and the Selezione Campiello, Viareggio, and Palazzo del Bosco prizes in Italy. His third novel, Silk, became an immediate bestseller in Italy and has been translated into twenty-seven languages. It is the basis of an opera by Andre Previn and a film produced by Miramax. Klappentext An unforgettable fable about the brutality of war - and one girl's quest for revenge and healing! from the author of the acclaimed international bestseller Silk .When - in an unnamed place and time - Manuel Roca's enemies hunt him down to kill him! they fail to discover Nina! his youngest child! hidden in a hole beneath his farmhouse floor. After this carnage Tito! one of the murderers! discovers Nina's trapdoor. Enthralled by the sight of Nina's perfect innocence! he keeps quiet. By the time she has grown up! Nina's innocence will have bloomed into something else altogether! and one by one the wartime hunters will become the peacetime hunted. But not until a striking old woman calls upon a familiar old man selling newspapers in town can we know what Nina will ultimately make of her brutal legacy. The old farmhouse of Mato Rujo stood blankly in the countryside, carved in black against the evening light, the only stain in the empty outline of the plain. The four men arrived in an old Mercedes. The road was pitted and dry--a mean road of the countryside. From the farmhouse, Manuel Roca saw them. He went to the window. First he saw the column of dust rising against the corn. Then he heard the sound of the engine. No one had a car anymore, around here. Manuel Roca knew it. He saw the Mercedes emerge in the distance and disappear behind a line of oaks. Then he stopped looking. He returned to the table and placed a hand on his daughter's head. Get up, he told her. He took a key from his pocket, put it on the table, and nodded at his son. Yes, the son said. They were children, just two children. At the crossroads where the stream ran the old Mercedes did not turn off to the farmhouse but continued toward Alvarez instead. The four men traveled in silence. The one driving had on a sort of uniform. The other sitting in front wore a cream-colored suit. Pressed. He was smoking a French cigarette. Slow down, he said. Manuel Roca heard the sound fade into the distance toward Alvarez. Who do they think they're fooling? he thought. He saw his son come back into the room with a gun in his hand and another under his arm. Put them there, he said. Then he turned to his daughter. Come, Nina. Don't be afraid. Come here. The well-dressed man put out his cigarette on the dashboard of the Mercedes, then told the one who was driving to stop. This is good, here, he said. And shut off that infernal engine. He heard the slide of the hand brake, like a chain falling into a well. Then nothing. It was as if the countryside had been swallowed up in an unalterable silence. It would have been better to go straight there, said one of the two sitting in back. Now he'll have time to run, he said. He had a gun in his hand. He was only a boy. They cal...
