1953, Brooklyn
The year 1953 was reeling out its thread in Brooklyn, weaving days that, for many, seemed to resemble each other in their ordinary nature. Yet, at the heart of this New York neighborhood, life was taking a very different turn within the vast estate of the Cortez family. Their property, encircled by high walls of sculpted stone and hidden behind a shaded lane of majestic plane trees, was not just a residence; it was a bastion, the nerve center of an influence that was said to extend over all of Brooklyn. It was a seemingly normal day in this opulent residence. However, the calm was deceptive, for the Cortezes were no ordinary family. They were recognized, whispered the tongues of the city, as the most powerful dynasty in the neighborhood. The patriarch, Anthony Cortez, ran this empire with the grip of a general and the prudence of a banker. He was a man whose mere appearance was enough to impose silence: a severe silhouette, a face framed by a millimeter-trimmed beard that accentuated his square jaw and an icy blue gaze that never betrayed his thoughts, making him extremely suspicious. Reigning at his side was Selena Cortez, his wife. Possessing a beauty that did not seem to fade with time, she wore expensive outfits and discreet but high-value jewelry. Viewed from the outside, she was magnetic, but those who knew her knew her true nature: an authoritarian woman with relentless demands and, more secretly, stingy with affection as well as compliments, reserving her impulses for those who promised her an even brighter future.
The Cortez succession rested on the shoulders of two sons, raised in the shadow and light of this power. The eldest, Christopher Cortez, in his twenties, was the figure of accomplished success. Brilliant in all areas, from finance to art, he wielded intelligence with natural elegance. But, contrary to the family austerity, he possessed a rare asset: a good heart. He had gone on a business trip to extend the interests of the Cortezes, a role he assumed with ease. The youngest, Francisco "Franc" Cortez, was a nine-year-old boy with deep brown hair. He was already an enigma. From an early age, Franc had shown an exceptional aptitude for studies. This predisposition, combined with his high regard for school and extra-curricular research, earned him the most love from his parents, who saw in him and his older brother the assurance of a bright future for the dynasty. Despite all this attention and the promises of a grandiose destiny, a heavy feeling gripped young Franc: a profound loneliness and a dull sadness. Christopher's absence made the residence even emptier. But what isolated him the most was Anthony's arbitrary decision: he categorically refused to let Franc attend public school like other children his age. The patriarch's justification was simple and categorical: Franc was "different from other children". To alleviate this exclusion, a private tutor came to supervise him daily.
That morning, Franc woke up with the same resigned thought: Here we go again for another boring day. The garden, luxuriant and meticulously maintained, was his only escape, his silent theater. He would settle near the flowerbeds, observing the incessant and orderly movement of insects. These tiny creatures, caught in their life cycle, seemed devoid of the burden of time.
"At least, these little critters can't get bored," he murmured, a slight sigh betraying his own boredom. The silence of the garden was broken by the voice of a maid calling Franc. His private tutor had just arrived, punctual as a sentence.
"Yes, I'm coming," replied Franc, his voice devoid of enthusiasm. Mr. Nelson, the tutor, was the embodiment of a certain form of rigid authority. A man with an intimidating face, his piercing gaze was hidden behind steel-rimmed glasses. A long grizzled mustache masked an often-pursed mouth, giving him the appearance of an examining magistrate rather than an educator.
"Good morning, Mr. Nelson," Franc greeted politely.
"Good morning, Mr. Cortez," replied the teacher. "Well, without further ado, we will continue with percentages".
"Yes, Mr. Nelson". Mr. Nelson's lessons were famous for their austerity and complexity. In other schools, students hated him, not only because of the difficulty of his explanations but also because of his unsettling character and his particularly archaic teaching methods. However, throughout his professional career, the teacher had never met a student like Franc: calm, thoughtful, and doing his best to follow his complex demonstrations with an almost stoic concentration.
Despite all his discipline, a calculation error occurred during the day's evaluation. Mr. Nelson, his forehead furrowed, did not hide his annoyance. "Mr. Francisco Cortez," he exclaimed in a dry voice, "how could a person of your stature make such an error?"
"I'm sorry, I'll pay attention from now on," replied Franc, his throat tight. "No, you deserve a punishment". Mr. Nelson had a reputation for having a bad temper and often hitting his students, although this practice was formally prohibited by the school that employed him. Franc felt fear rising, his eyes clouding.
"I am truly sorry, sir, I won't make that kind of mistake again". Suddenly, the deep, familiar sound of a luxury car broke the tension, stopping right in front of the residence's entrance. Mr. Nelson glanced out the window. He saw Christopher Cortez, the eldest son, getting out of the car. "It's your brother who just arrived," commented Mr. Nelson, his tone becoming sharper. "He will be very disappointed by what just happened".
Christopher entered, his features drawn from the journey, but his face immediately darkened. He found Mr. Nelson scolding Franc, who was on the verge of tears, his face wet. "My respects, Mr. Nelson," greeted Christopher, his polite voice masking a growing irritation.
"Good morning, Mr. Cortez," replied the tutor. Christopher turned to his little brother and greeted him, his gaze soothing.
"Hi, Christ," replied Franc, visibly relieved, but still saddened.
"Mr. Nelson, is there a problem with my brother?" asked Christopher, his tone now firmer.
"Yes, Mr. Cortez. Mr. Franc has just made a big calculation error".
"Is that true?" Franc replied with a silent nod. Christopher sighed, a gesture of weariness in the face of the teacher's rigidity.
"Mr. Nelson, you know, Franc is only nine years old. He can make mistakes like other students".
"But you forget that Mr. Franc is not like other students".
Christopher took a moment to look at his brother's reddened face before continuing: "In my opinion, it is by making mistakes and correcting them that one can progress. I was like that too when I was his age".
The teacher, faced with the calm authority of the heir, backed down. "That's fine. I'll let it pass this time. Don't let it happen again".
"Yes, Mr. Nelson". Christopher smiled at his brother. "Now, you can go play, Franc, it's already time".
"Thank you, Christ". Mr. Nelson left the residence, visibly annoyed, while Christopher leaned over Franc's work. He analyzed the numbers, his eyebrows raising in surprise. "He's already reached this level at his age," he murmured.
Then, a revelation struck him. Christopher understood that, as Mr. Nelson had said, Franc was not like other students; he possessed "something more," an intellectual capacity that even he, Christopher, had not possessed at the same age. "Franc is a person I would describe as a genius".
Continuing his examination, Christopher made an even more significant discovery: Franc had not made a mistake. In reality, Mr. Nelson was the one who had made an error in the correction. The next day, the call of the insects became more insistent. Franc, seeking to escape again, went out into the garden to resume his usual observations. The sun's heat filtered through the leaves of the immense hundred-year-old oak that dominated the lawn. While he was absorbed by a flight of ants, a sudden, cold jet of water hit him. Franc was completely soaked by the new gardener, who was watering the rose bushes with a hose. The cold and unexpected jet of water abruptly pulled him out of his entomological reverie. The water had quickly soaked into his thin cotton shirt, causing a chill that was both unpleasant and surprising. Franc, who hated sudden changes, suppressed a grimace, his attention turning to the involuntary author of this morning shower.
"I am sorry, Mr. Cortez," the gardener immediately apologized. His voice was deep, tinged with a slight melody that Franc did not identify. It was the voice of a man who knew his rank and the power of the family he served.
"No, it's nothing," replied Franc, trying to appear nonchalant despite the dampness of his clothes. "I'll just go change".
The man, visibly contrite, put down the watering hose. His body stood in a posture of profound apology, his hands nervously wiping on a worn work apron. "It was an accident. I apologize again," he insisted, a subtle accent rolling on the words. It was at this precise moment that Franc, driven by a mixture of politeness and childish curiosity, raised his head to look at the gardener. What he saw froze him in place. All trace of boredom, all thought of percentages and punishments evaporated from his mind to give way to a single and unique emotion: stupefaction. He was stunned, astonished by what was before him. It was not the dark green uniform, nor the muddy boots of the gardener that caused this shockwave. It was the man himself.
Franc had grown up in an environment carefully filtered by the austerity and selectivity of Anthony and Selena Cortez. The Cortez residence, however vast, was a cocoon of marble and ivory, populated by servants with familiar features and pale-complexioned tutors. Standing before him was a man whose skin was a rich, deep color, a brown leaning towards ebony, reminiscent of the fertile earth his hands had just worked. His hair, black and kinky, formed a dense crown around his skull, and his eyes, a warm brown, contrasted powerfully with the gleam of his teeth when he had smiled with a contrite air. It was a beauty of contrast, a figure of quiet strength and palpable dignity. The shock for Franc was a brutal and silent realization: yes, it was the very first time in his entire life that he had seen a man of color.