“Don’t be silly. He behaves like he behaves at home. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, François.”
He pauses for a second, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his elegant nose. He’s been up since three thirtyAM, on set at four forty-five. They’d shot for eleven hours and were looking to do a similar day tomorrow.
“Where is this coming from, Cile?”
“Bancroft. I went to a parent discussion this morning on race and ethnicity, and it was mind-blowing.Incroyable. All these things I hadn’t thought of. Or maybe at some time I had thought of them, but they didn’t feel pressing. And now they do. Racism in France is more subtle, Fran. It exists, but it’s more, like, who doesn’t get the top jobs versus who gets killed by the police. And no amount of my teaching Julien self-esteem and perseverance and pride is going to protect him from a cop’s bullet.”
“Oh là-là là-là. Okay, slow down. Julien is not a target. He’s not Black.”
“Of course he’s Black! What are you saying?”
“Il est métis, Cecilia. He doesn’t look Black really. He looks mixed or Arab or Brazilian or Mexican or something else. Not African American. They’re not going to target him in the same way.”
I pause for a second. Deep down, I know that this is mostly true. But it doesn’t make me feel any better. My son, depending on his location, the company he keeps, the stereotypes and prejudices of the given culture, will be targeted in myriad ways. Terrorist. Criminal. Undocumented. Thug. Furthermore, teaching him that he benefits from not being regarded as fully Black is not exactly the message I want to convey. He is Black. He will always be Black. That will forever be part of his history, his identity. Regardless of what else is coursing through his veins. Teaching him otherwise will do him no favors.
“They will still target him, François. He is still ‘other’ to them. They will target him. And this is America, where they shoot first and ask questions later.”
For a moment he’s quiet, his hand running back and forth atop his head, his eyes closed. “Okay, okay. I understand what you are saying, but Cile, Julien is thirteen. He is still a child. He is not driving yet. He is not getting into trouble. He still plays with Legos. He is safe where he is, in this expensive school, and expensive neighborhood. And we will be back in Europe before he is man-size, and it will be okay.Je te jure.” He emphasizes the last bit, opening his eyes and leaning into the computer.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“I’m serious, Fran—”
“I know. Look, why don’t you call Anouk? She has a son, right? Ask her how she deals with it. I’m sure she can give you advice.”
“Sacha?? Have you seen pictures of him? He’s as white as you are. Maybe whiter. Plus, Anouk lives in a bubble. That kind of money and beauty and fame. The real world doesn’t affect her in the same way.…”
“Welive in a bubble now, Cile.Youlive in a bubble.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. You don’t appreciate it, but you do.En tout cas, jepeux pas en parler maintenant. I’m going to be late for dinner. Call Anouk.Je t’aime. Bise.”
She answers on the third ring.
Her voice welcoming, warm. And I wonder why I’d hesitated to reach out for so long. Why I feared that one day she would recall the details of that shoot and choose the wrong person to blame for what had happened to her.
“I was wondering if you’re available for lunch sometime later this week,” I start. “François is off shooting in the desert, and I am slowly going out of my mind and could really use some adult company.”
She pauses for a half second. “Adult company? That sounds exciting. Is this a date?”
“A date? Um… it’s… lunch.” My ears and cheeks are suddenly warm. Is she propositioning me? Does she think I’m propositioning her? Is she mocking me, perhaps? Did something get lost in translation?
After a prolonged moment, I hear her exhale, and then casually she says, in French, “I am just messing with you. Yes, we can have lunch. I’m crazy this week with meetings for our family foundation, but can do next Tuesday, if that works.”
“Yes. Tuesday’s good.”
“Tuesday is so far away. I have this thing tomorrow. A low-key charity boutique fundraiser for a conservancy in Africa. I can’t promise for sure, but it might be interesting. Come with me. Be my plus-one.”
“Your plus-one?”
“My plus-one,” she repeats. “My adult company. Not a date.”
There are three of them in the water. Just at the shoreline. Fran, Bas, Anouk. The sky is beginning to pink. The sun a whisper or two above the horizon. I have been to this beach before. The rock formations at both ends creating a symmetrical horseshoe. Coral reefs visible just below the surface. Golden sand. Mexico.
