TIME TO CALL A SPADE A SPADEWith a brusque movement of his hand Anton shoved some papers at me.
“Try to understand, I really need this…”
We were seated at the old wooden table in the yard — the one that had gone all black with age. Anton’s Mercedes sparkled on the other side of the fence and the blokes who had come with him had gone off for a walk in the forest. My husband — who, according to the documents before me, had become my “former” husband seventeen years ago — looked at me coldly and said: “Let’s start calling a spade a spade, shall we? You, or more precisely, certain facts in your biography, are going to be stones around my neck in my election campaign, and they are capable of pulling me down to the bottom.”
I wanted to say, “But that was all seventeen years ago,” but he went
