I cannot say how old I was when I noticed that I was different from all the other children about me. In my home, as in all the Xueta homes, it was forbidden to speak about it, hushed not to mention it. Anyway, I recall a quaver of mystery, something shameful and hidden that popped up here and there during conversations: Silences, movements, cut-off words, a tension unknown in our otherwise apparently happy lives.
My father, a merchant, curious and optimistic, dragged along his entire life some indefinite fear. Of course, I could not discern it until in his old age he uncovered weaknesses that I hadn’t known of before. Today I am sure that his identity as a Xueta and his mother’s absence (she died when he was a child), were the two singular causes that cast a pall upon his life.