“Did you know I met Byron at a boarding school in London?”
“You went to boarding school?” I say, surprised.
“No, my mother worked in the school kitchen and my fatherwas a soldier,” Allan explains. “Byron’s mother was alive back then. She visited him often, but I never met his father. Despite our different backgrounds, we became mates of a sort. He occasionally wrote to me about his adventures. We were both back in Jamaica when his mother passed away, but after her death, our paths didn’t cross—until recently.”
“Is that when he asked about joining the movement?” I glance at the posters on the wall. “Can one person really make that much of a difference?”
“The right man might tip the scales once or twice,” he says, sipping his coffee. “Besides the obvious, what else bothers you about him, Zinzi?”
My mind flashes to the recipe on his typewriter. “He wants more than just to bring the labor union to Tynesdale Estate.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps he’s seeking vengeance and his father is the target.”
“Well, we need to find out, then, don’t we?” Allan thumbs through a few pages of his ledger. “How about you invite him to join us for the Victoria Park rally?”
“That’s an important rally. Are you sure?”
“If he doesn’t work out, we can move on. No point in wasting time. We’ll find another dissatisfied heir to a kingdom to join our cause,” Allan says with a cryptic smile.
I sigh.
“Talk to him about the rally, okay? When will you see him again?”
I gulp down the rest of my cold, sugary coffee. “We’re having dinner this evening.”
Edna’s Diner, Jubilee Square, Kingston
Edna’s Diner is a small, family-owned spot near Jubilee Square and one of my favorite places to eat. Fishermen, sponge divers, factory workers, hotel employees, and market hawkersagree, and grub on a tin of good food, a cup of wine or rum, along with friendly service and conversation.
When Byron picked me up at the Constant Spring Hotel, I made it clear: We are dining at a place of my choice, not at one of his fancy tourist spots. “Plantation workers don’t respect a man who looks and sounds more like a Londoner than a Jamaican. You’ll have to prove that you know your way around sugarcane fields, not just inside a plantation owner’s mansion.”
Byron and I now sit on simple wooden benches at a long, narrow table, just a slab of wood placed over a stack of bricks. Henry, the diner’s cook, stands at a flat iron surface heated by a blazing firepit below, grilling meats, fish, okra, and pots of rice, along with callaloo, a leafy green vegetable. Byron closely eyeballs the plate of food placed before him.
“Have you been away so long that Jamaican food feels unfamiliar?” I chuckle.
He takes a bite of jerk pork. “This is really good.”
“It always is,” I reply. “Don’t you trust me?”
“I never doubted you.”
“I doubt you. Considering your family’s businesses, I have every reason to question your commitment to the labor union movement.”
He doesn’t flinch at my serious tone. “That’s why I’m here,” he says. “To change your mind.”
“You think you can?”
“Just tell me what I have to do and I’ll do it,” he says, planting his elbows on the table too quickly, almost tipping it over.
“Careful. The table isn’t made of concrete.”
“Yeah, right.”
“We should have some rum, what do you say?”
“All right.” He exhales and tells the cook’s helper, “Rum. Two glasses.”
