The Golden Ritual
The question is whether a man can cut down his own shadow without bleeding, and I stood at the head of the table in my father’s villa in Alentejo, the air heavy with cork dust and old wine, to find out. The banquet was a farce, a grotesque mask for the foreclosure papers I had hidden in my waistcoat, the linen stiff with sweat. Conceicao Ivo, they called me, the master of the house, though the...
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