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Millat was a Paki no matter where he came from; that he smelt of curry; had no sexual identity; took other people's jobs; or had no job and bummed off the state; or gave all the jobs to his relatives; that he could be a dentist or a shop-owner or a curry-shifter, but not a footballer or a film-maker; that he should go back to his own country; or stay here and earn his bloody keep; that he worshipped elephants and wore turbans; that no one who looked like Millat, or spoke like Millat, or felt like Millat, was ever on the news unless they had recently been murdered.
Afficher en entierAussi loin que remontaient ses souvenirs, ils avaient pourtant bien commencé tous les deux. Au début du printemps de 1946, il était sorti, titubant, de l'enfer de la guerre pour entrer dans un café florentin,où une serveuse belle comme un soleil s'était occupée de lui : Ophelia Diagilo, toute de jaune vêtue, répandait caleur et volupté en lui tendant un cappuccino mousseux. Ils s'étaient lancés dans l'aventure tels des chevaux pourvus d’œillères.
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