Tea with a Tiny Racist

Teatime and other violences

You don’t look alike, she says the moment she opens the door.

She fingers the rings on her rheumatic hands.

We walk into the dining room. I can see her pool, guarded by two leopard statues.
The garden is vast. The view stretches past the fence, past the little creek, into green fields and tall trees. It’s like she lives in a park.

Nice house, I say.

I actually mean it. It’s overstuffed with antiques but tasteful. She has set the table for three, with gold-rimmed Villeroy & Boch porcelain and little plum cakes. She is so tiny and skinny, and I am so tall and huge. I don’t want to take off my coat, but I do.

Chanel? she asks.

When we’re seated, she plays with her string of freshwater pearls and says:

It’s hard when you’re beautiful.
So many men follow me. They ask me to tea.
Isn’t it awful?

I nod.

You are very pretty, she says, then looks at my mum.

She is prettier than you. Bigger eyes, fuller lips, but not in that awful American way.

You don’t have negro lips, she says, looking at me.

I have trouble swallowing my bite of cake. Did she really just?
Why isn’t Mami saying anything?
Why am I not saying anything?

We sip the weak tea politely. She watches us through her kohl-rimmed eyes.

I’m not hungry, she says. I had two tomatoes for lunch.

I have no response. I finish the cake. I want to leave.

When we finally do, she grabs my arm.
It really is awful, she says. Isn’t it?

I still can’t answer.

We get into Mami’s dusty old Citroën, and I watch her through the window.
As we drive off, I watch her shrink into the distance.

Soon, she is nothing but a tiny speck.