“That’s how they get us, you know,” Geneva said. “They make us all so numb and indifferent that we can’t fight back.” “Who, Geneva?” Liam asked without looking away from his painting. “The world, I suppose,” Geneva said. “Don’t mind me, I’m just thinking aloud.” Geneva looked around uncomfortably, as if she were trying to decide if she could trust Liam. She felt she could; after all, nothing mattered to Liam but his paintings. Liam also was unlike the other Swiss nationals she had come to know. He saw Geneva as a woman, not a Negro woman, not an African woman, but simply as a woman—no, a person—and that liberated her and gave her strength. “I’ve been thinking of leaving,” Geneva announced.
“You’re always thinking...