Two cups of rum appear on the table shortly after, served from a large clay jug.
While I sip my drink, I realize there’s no better moment to pose another question to Byron. “What was that recipe you had on your typewriter at the hotel?”
He laughs. “I was trying to recall the family rum recipe.”
“Do you remember it?”
“I’ve only seen it once, on my sixteenth birthday. Now, it’s locked away in the vault in my father’s office.”
“You could steal it and sabotage your father’s rum business,” I reply sarcastically.
“Certainly, if my goal was to harm my father, taking the rum recipe would be the way to do it. But you’re mistaken about the rum recipe. I’m not looking to destroy Tynesdale Estate or its operations—I genuinely want it to thrive under my leadership.”
“You’re saying all the right things, but it might not matter if sugarcane continues to lose ground to the United Fruit Company’s banana empires in twenty years.”
“You keep up with Jamaica’s economy?”
“Why wouldn’t I? Allan keeps us informed, and I read newspapers and listen to the radio,” I say proudly. “Besides, there’s much more to this island than what the upper class chooses to tell us.”
He raises his glass. “Touché.” His jaw tightens. “We’ve talked about me. Now tell me about you.”
“Abrupt change of subject.”
“Just expanding the conversation to include more about you, Zinzi.”
“There’s not much more to tell,” I say soberly. “You heard some of my remarks if you were paying attention.”
“I was,” he replies. “But I’d still like to know more.”
I shrug. “As I mentioned, there isn’t much to tell. I grew upin Cockpit Country, Accompong, and briefly worked at your father’s plantation before moving to Kingston a decade ago. In the city, I led a quiet life, making ends meet by working in harbour shops, cleaning floors, and taking out the trash. I also studied and improved my reading, writing, and math skills. For over five years, I have worked as a maid at Constant Spring Hotel.” I exhale. “That’s about all there is.”
“How long ago did you join the movement?”
“Five years ago.”
“And in those five years, you’ve become one of Allan Coombs’s most trusted union organizers.”
“He trusts all the people he invites to join him in this mission.”
“He does?”
“Yes, he does.”
“What about me? Have you given me a thumbs-up?”
“As a matter of fact, Allan would like you to join us at a rally we’re holding tomorrow in Victoria Park. Will that work with your schedule? It will take the entire day.”
His face lights up. “Yes, of course I’m available.”
“I didn’t do anything. It was Allan’s decision. I’m only the messenger.”
“Whatever you say. I’m excited to get started.”
Byron’s boyish enthusiasm is somewhat contagious, and I smile, but then I become serious. “We have a lot to prepare in advance. From writing and printing pamphlets and flyers to organizing volunteers, we expect a large crowd and potential trouble with the police. We must keep our enthusiastic supporters calm and focused. While we can’t control the constables, we can do our best to keep the workers out of harm’s way.”
He raises his arms overhead, fists clenched like a victor in a sporting event. “Thank you, Zinzi.”
“Once again, this is Allan’s idea, not mine.”
