“Your father phoned.” “My father…? Let me see, let me see... hang on a sec. No, doesn’t ring any bells, sorry.” “Don’t play dumb with me.” “I’m sorry, Laura, but you’re the one playing dumb. If you want to tell me something, go ahead, nothing’s off limits, but don’t mention the Shadow’s name in front of me! At least not while Franco is still alive.”
EXTRACT FROM WILD HORSES BY JORDI CUSSÀ 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 98
I was born and bred in Bonanova and schooled at the Lycée Français. My pitiable progenitor was a nomadic consul in the Franco regime and I learnt geography at the same rate that I forgot his face: Marseille, Bratislava, Dubrovnik, Dortmund, Rotterdam, Edinburgh…
I’d see him for a week at Christmas and 10 days in summer if we happened to be in the same city. It’s no wonder then that when poor Antònia—my long-suffering mother—died we ended our relationship with one another in 10 minutes flat: I was 20 years old, an active member of the Trotskyist wing of PAU (Partit d’Acci…