“That was how I spent my youth until my mother fell ill, and that brought me back home.”
“To the Tynesdale Estate.”
“Yes. But I left again,” he says. “Ten years ago, when my mother died.”
He was twenty-two at the time and headed straight for America, spending time in cities like Detroit, Chicago, and New York. After that, he worked on the Panama Canal and even picked sugarcane in Cuba. He also returned to Britain for a while, enrolled in university, and took courses in English literature and anthropology.
“You never thought to settle down?” I ask.
Byron takes a sip of his drink. “I always knew I’d return to Jamaica someday.”
“The Tynesdale Estate is one of the largest rum businesses on the island.”
He glances at me over the rim of his glass. “Yes, it is.”
“How did you know about the cops’ raid on our meeting tonight? And why did you warn us?”
“Do you think I have a hidden agenda for what I did?” He presses his tongue against his cheek. “I do, but it’s not sinister. If my name wasn’t Tynesdale, would you question my motives as stringently?”
“Yes, I would. I make it a habit not to trust anyone I don’t know.”
He rubs the lower half of his face as if peeling off the last remnants of a mask. “That’s what Allan told me. He also said you’re an excellent judge of character and that I needed to meet you—before he’d consider having someone with my last name join the labor movement. Of course, I didn’t plan for it to be tonight, but after the close call with the constables, I figured, why not tonight?”
I’m sure I look confused. “Why would Allan ask you tospeak with me?” I say this almost to myself because, as the words come out of my mouth, I also feel proud. Allan trusts me.
Byron leans back in his chair. “He believes in your instincts, especially regarding new people. I want to join the movement, and Allan is a smart, cautious man. He is someone I’ve known and respected for quite a while. Of course, he will ultimately decide if I am worthy, but if you say no, I’m out before I’m in. I don’t want that to happen. So, I’m trying to impress you with the truth about who I am and who I aspire to become.”
“Who do you aspire to be?”
“One of the first plantation owners to support and implement a labor union for workers.”
“That’s a nice speech, but it’ll take more than nice speeches to convince me you’re not your father’s spy. Besides, I thought you had nothing to do with your family business.”
“It will be my business one day.”
“And you aren’t in cahoots with the constable?” I ask in a mocking tone.
“This is not a joke to me, Zinzi.”
“It’s not a joke to me either,” I reply. “You were the one who said you wanted to share. I am simply encouraging you.”
He places the empty glass on the table.
“Touché.” He takes his napkin, wipes the corners of his mouth, and clears his throat.
“My mother died a decade ago, and I blamed my father. He never struck her or did anything to harm her physically, but he married her and ignored her. I hated him for that. So I left Jamaica, never intending to return.” He adjusts his shoulders, and his eyes cloud over.
“Sorry,” he says after a moment. “She and I were very close.”
“My condolences for your loss.”
“And for yours.”
“How do you know about my losses?” I ask, offended, but then I remember. “Oh, that’s right.” He heard some of my story at the union meeting. “Thank you.”
“You see, my mother was mulatto. My father was a womanizer, but despite that, she fell in love with him and gave birth to a blond-haired, green-eyed son.” He points at himself. “When he married her, she had to live as white in his world. Some of her family—my family—worked as field laborers on his sugar plantation. I can’t understand why she loved him.” He exhales loudly. “Anyway, when she died, I didn’t handle it well. So, I left.” He gestures toward the waiter passing by.
“Another whiskey, sir?” the waiter asks.
