That morning my father died. His heart, for various reasons, could not eject blood into his body and brain. It stopped beating. I had been waiting and fearing that call for several years: fearing the harsh truth, fearing becoming an orphan, fearing embarking toward a new continent. Like Magellan, I had a feeling that I embarked on a vessel heading for an uncertain destination, uncertain destiny. I knew, but I did not know. I guessed but could not quite imagine where would I put my foot.
I always knew that my father’s business was not quite transparent. As a child, I always found it strange to know that if certain people called, one had to say that my father was not there; it almost became a game: a game in which my twin-sister and I indulged; we knew that if this or that person called, we were to say, “he is not in”. After a while we did not even need to consult our father - we knew which answer to give. We lied for him, and it did not bother us, we didn’t question it.
The hours that followed his death were of a completely different nature since they opened for me a door to a world that I had suspected, but on which I had never put words or numbers. Face to face with lawyers and notaries, I discovered in a very concrete manner that my father was not only a painter but also a crook, a big-time crook, one of those who manipulate, charm, lie in order to extract very large sums of money from people. The continent on which I landed was a terrifying lie, a firework of lies, a firework that from hour to hour, from day to day, grew larger and plunged me into appalling and abyssal darkness.