More from Malta…
We need to start talking about why you look Mexican.
Being Maltese I am – we are – sufficiently mixed with Latinate blood to pass, especially with the right facial hair, for something resembling a Mexican. Buy, my daughter, why you have to look like an Aztec princess gazing down on a queue of sacrificial victims, I don’t know.
But I have a right to know. Even though you were never born, never got to see the light of day, the whirring planet, the libidinous roller-coaster that is civilisation – you are still my daughter.
And for me, your miscarriage gave birth to the American Dream.
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When your mother and I went to New York I found work as a commis chef in a decent, busy French restaurant in Midtown. My daily commute to work took me past the places even you have heard about; the Empire…
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