Lessons in French by Hilary Reyl

politics, the climate of suspicion. I found it all maniacally entertaining. Until the day it became too much.
    We were having tea in the kitchen.
    “Clarence, how can you possibly say that Britain isn’t a racist country? What a ridiculous thing to say. Don’t you agree, Katherine?”
    They both widened their eyes over me, clam shells parting to take in water.
    Then Lydia continued at Clarence. “I’ve heard you, yourself, use the word ‘Paki.’ Don’t deny it.”
    “Utter fantasy on your part, but that’s beside the point. The term ‘Paki’ will be reclaimed, like the term ‘Black’ in America. Someday it will be turned on its head and seem to be made powerful.”
    “Seem to be made? Will it be powerful or won’t it? Say something, Clarence, that actually means something, please.”
    “My point, and don’t pretend you can’t fathom my point, is that it’s not in the interests of capitalism to be racist because capitalism is not about your nature or who you are. It’s antimaterialist. It dissolves differences. It wants everyone to be a consumer regardless of race or religion. The whole danger of capitalism is this.”
    “The whole danger of capitalism is that it isn’t racist! Good one! Put that in your book.” Lydia turned from him to give me a big satisfied smile. She was stirring one of her papaya pills into a tall glass of water. “I need a longer spoon. Clarence, have you seen the long spoons?”
    “Not lately. Maybe that Olivier bloody bastard sold them at the flea market to buy a Birkin bag for his mother.”
    “You’ve got to love a man who knows his handbags.” Lydia was talking directly to me now.
    Clarence winked at me as he addressed his wife. “Lydia, all I’m saying is that your approach to the Muslim problem in England is all wrong and it’s going to be bad for your career. People are accusing you of missing the point, the point not being Mr. Rushdie, the paranoid publicity hound. The point—”
    “The paranoid publicity hound who is much more famous than you will ever be and—”
    “Whose books are unreadable.”
    “I liked The Satanic Verses. Katherine liked it too—right, Katherine?”
    “It’s funny,” I said.
    “That’s neither here nor there, my friends.” Clarence heaped a spoonful of Olivier’s honey into his tea. “The point is that capitalism is pluralistic. Like fashion.”
    “I have an idea!” Lydia cried. “Why don’t you stay here and write about fashion not being racist and I’ll go to England to take racist pictures.”
    “Don’t think I didn’t see you jump outside Bon Marché yesterday when that Arab kid got too close. When you’re not working, when you’re a private citizen, you’re as racist as the next person.”
    “First of all, you’re lying. I did not jump at all. Second of all, we’re not talking about me as a private citizen. We’re talking about my work, which you have no right whatsoever to control. I’m going to England to photograph an identity crisis.”
    “What did Susan say about photojournalism, that it’s sublimated looting?”
    “Susan loves my work.” She turned to me. “That’s Sontag, by the way.”
    “Don’t patronize Katie. She knows perfectly well who Susan is.”
    “ You are calling me patronizing. I give up.”
    “It would be one thing if you were going to England to see the people , but you’re going to go take portraits of that rubbish writer in his overpriced, overhyped isolation.”
    “The man’s life is in danger.”
    “He’s a symbol. I can’t believe this! You’re complicit, Lydia! Rushdie is becoming a symbol and you are complicit!”
    “He’s not a symbol. He’s a man, actually, and I believe you’re jealous.”
    “No, I’m not remotely jealous, you preposterous woman. I’m simply worried about a crisis in your career. People are saying you’ve abandoned your photographer’s impulse and are becoming a sycophant. They are saying—”
    “What people? Your quote, unquote