“I suppose she’s got a lot on her mind,” Deborah noted. “I can understand.”
Narissa halted, third step from the top. “Don’t ever say that to her.”
“What?”
“That you can understand. You can’t. You don’t. You never will.” Narissa sighed, looking out over the summer-dead lawn that gave a name to this place in other seasons. “You probably have good intentions. But what’s bad in Zawadi’s life . . . ? It’s not something she can take a holiday from, at least not in the way you probably can.”
Deborah followed Narissa up the rest of the steps. The filmmaker stopped again, this time at the entrance to the old chapel. Deborah said, “What am I to say to her, then?”
“Clueless,” Narissa said. “That’s me, not you. Half the time I don’t know what to say to her, and at least I’m mixed race, so I’ve got an advantage.”
“I do know she wants someone else to take the portraits,” Deborah said.
“Sure. Can you blame her? I mean, no way is Zawadi going to make like she’s happy Dominique Shaw chose you. Doesn’t make sense to her. Doesn’t make sense to me either. It’s not like there aren’t any Black photographers in London. But Dominique’s white and she thinks white, which is to say most of the time she doesn’t think at all because she doesn’t have to think. She never thought we might be better off if we hired someone without marshmallow skin, no offence. She liked your book, which meant you were the one to do the job. Zawadi tried to argue the point before you ever came to the meeting and after you left, but Dominique said, ‘This is more important than political correctness, culture wars, and white privilege.’ So here we are, after one hell of an angry debate, by the way, during which Dominique learned more than she probably considered possible about white privilege.”
Deborah saw how the entire project—as envisioned by the undersecretary—might have benefitted from having only Black people affiliated with it. But she also thought about the size of the battle they were mounting through Orchid House, through other organisations like Orchid House, through Narissa’s documentary, and through her own photographic project. She said, “Could it be that Dominique’s intention is to enflame as many people as possible, from all races and all walks of life?”
“Are you suggesting that Black people wouldn’t be able to do that, that only a white project made by white people is capable of it?”
“That’s not at all what I mean.”
“No? Then think about what you’re saying when you say it.”
Deborah felt at a loss. She finally said, “I do want to help. Does she know that? Do you?”
“Oh. Right. You want to help. Everyone wants to help till it comes down to it and help is solicited. People say this is a righteous cause. Always. What else are they going to say? But words’re nothing because when it’s time to step forward or write a cheque, things turn different.”
“I’m not like that,” Deborah told her.
“Really?” Narissa sounded scornful, but she adjusted enough to say, “Well, at some point you’ll probably have a chance to prove it.”
That said, she entered the building, calling, “Who’s ready to talk? Come to the filming room. Take a seat.”
KINGSLAND HIGH STREET
DALSTON
NORTH-EAST LONDON
Adaku had rounded up the required two hundred and fifty pounds. She phoned the number from the card that Easter Lange had given her, made the long journey to Kingsland High Street again, and used the unmarked buzzer next to the door to ring the bell. When a disembodied voice demanded to know who was at the door, she said, “It is Adaku. I have the money.”
The response was, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Are you Easter?”
“If I am, that doesn’t mean I know what you want.” And she ended their exchange abruptly.
Adaku wondered what had gone amiss. She concluded that Easter was not alone. She wasn’t sure if she was meant to wait or meant to come back another time. Then, some thirty seconds into her wondering, footsteps pounded towards the front of the building. Two deadbolts were released, the door cracked ajar, then swung open, and Easter stood in front of her, a white lab coat buttoned over her street clothes. She made no courteous preamble. Instead she said, “Show me.”
“Once I’m inside. Not before.”
Easter’s eyes narrowed speculatively. She kept one hand on the knob of the door and her body blocked any attempt on Adaku’s part to enter. She gave a slow and studied look round the area: across the street, windows and doorways on their side of the street, the same. She said, “Why are you really here? I have a very bad feeling about you.” She looked beyond Adaku again. A street sweeper had rounded the corner, and he was desultorily removing debris from the gutter. Then back at Adaku, she said sharply, “You’re the police.”