I turn to Othella and Robbie. Although I don’t want to watch them, I can’t take my eyes off them. Robbie is more earnest about the budding romance than Othella, but she’s not as far behind as she used to be. She keeps glancing at me, giggling, and playfully rolling her eyes. It’s amusing how she can appear and act like a child one moment and something else the next, but I can’t quite pinpoint what that something else is.
Tully takes my hand. “Is Katherine dancing tonight?”
“Yes, she is,” I reply.
Just then, Katherine signals to Mr. Greenberger and Hannah. The three of them leave the dinner table and head for the corridor outside the dining room. When they return,Erich walks up to the piano with his wife beside him, her violin tucked under one arm and her bow in the other. Katherine steps into the center of the dance floor and bows deeply. Slowly, in a silent room with no music playing, she begins to move, her body a fearless instrument of poise and elegance, spinning one way and then the other in an effortless series of steps, turns, and poses.
Erich strikes the first chords, and I immediately recognize the opening overture: Mendelssohn’sA Midsummer Night’s Dream. Mademoiselle choreographed a solo to it. Watching Katherine perform the piece now, in her strappy, thick-soled pumps and her white dress instead of pointe shoes and a tutu, makes the dance even more radiant.
As the final note fades, the dining room erupts in applause, and the passengers rise to give the trio a standing ovation. This prompts couples to rush to the dance floor, encouraging the Greenbergers to keep playing.
“We haven’t danced together the whole cruise,” Tully says, standing beside my chair. Erich continues to play the piano, with Hannah accompanying him.
“Would you care to dance with me?” I ask softly.
He looks down at me, smiling. “Yes, I would.”
“Why?” I ask.
He cocks his head. “We won’t have another chance to dance together in Jamaica. And that dress,” he says, as his gaze sweeps over her, “you wore it last year. We danced the rhumba.”
“You remembered.”
He sighs. “I remember.”
CHAPTER 23
ZINZI
Kingston Railway Station
The awe. The excitement. The wide-eyed wonder. Even a hint of fear in one young woman’s eyes—possibly the smartest reaction. These are the faces of the travelers I seek as I walk past the ticket counters and cargo holding spaces toward the waiting area on the ground floor of the Kingston Railway Station. This is where my group has been instructed to wait for me, their guide from Kingston to Cockpit Country, the home of the Maroon people and the village of Accompong.
The journey begins for them at the train station, near the waterfront at the western edge of downtown Kingston. A two-story structure, the Kingston-to-Montego-Bay railway station is Georgian in architectural style and made of brick and stone, with a touch of elegance in the mahogany staircase that leads to the stationmaster’s quarters. Arched doorways and windows, wide eaves, and overhanging roofs offer little protection for passengers from the sun and daily rainfall.
Stylish yet weathered, built in 1845, it has been repeatedly patched and mended after hurricanes, rainstorms, lightning strikes, and the brutal heat that melts even stone in a decade or so, but the Kingston Railway still holds up.
I haven’t been inside the station in ages—since my last trip to Accompong a few years ago. I can’t even recall how long exactly. I wonder if the Americans notice the remnants of old-world beauty? Will they appreciate the artistry of the wooden tracks and the steam locomotive engine, or the winding path as we twist around and upward into the cool, jagged jungle of the Cockpit?
I spot them precisely where I asked them to gather. There are three women and two men. At first glance, they are somewhat of an unusual bunch. The riding pants, pith helmets, heavy lace-up boots, and knapsacks are too creased, starched, and shiny. The price tags are still visible, even though I can’t actually spot any—they are there. I next note the line of sweaty, shirtless load bearers nearby, carrying their stream of crates, suitcases, and equipment—far too much to take in.
With my gaze back on the group, I see that they don’t appear particularly brave for such a dangerous journey and extended stay. I have been told they will be in Accompong for at least a month or longer.
The Cockpit is a rugged, forested region with steep-sided hollows and a striking maze of sinkholes, ridges, underground rivers, and caves. It is known for its jagged, weather-carved limestone landscape, which made it a perfect stronghold for escaped, enslaved Africans who resisted British colonial rule in the 17th century and to this day—the Maroons. That’s why I know it so well. The ins and outs of this region were my home, and my father taught me how to survive in Cockpit Country. Too bad he never figured out how to live through the cruelty of picking sugarcane on a Jamaican plantation.
The first person I meet is Katherine Dunham, the leader of the group. She is much younger than her reputation suggests. And yes, she has a reputation. Once I received the leader’s name, I asked around, curious about this independent-minded American Negro. Interestingly enough, several important people in Jamaica, including Colonel Rowe, leader of the Maroon people and a citizen of Accompong, know of her. She and her party will be his guests on his property during their stay. Hopefully, her ego will be flexible enough to follow directions.
I introduce myself, and Miss Dunham explains that the group consists of anthropologists, a biologist, a camera operator, and an assistant—none of them are tourists. I don’t understand why she says this because I made no mention of any of them being tourists.
Miss Dunham announces the names of the rest of the members of her party: Vivian Jean Hartfield, her husband, Tobias Hartfield, but call him Tully, and their two assistants, Robbie Barnes and Othella Montgomery. Something about this girl, however, is different. She’s young, but she doesn’t look her age. Not so much older but she seems experienced. She’s round and pretty, but her gaze moves deliberately and doesn’t miss a thing.
Dunham goes on about her credentials, mentioning that her travel fellowships from the Julius Rosenwald and Guggenheim Foundations cover the entire cost of her journey. I wonder why she needs to impress me, but the train will begin to board soon and it’s my turn to speak.
“I have a few announcements, so please bear with me,” I interrupt her flow of details.
“Sorry, of course,” responds Miss Dunham, gesturing to the group. “Everyone, come closer. This young woman has some important updates before we board the train.”
“My name is Zinzi Green and I will be your guide toAccompong.” The Hartfield woman gasps audibly, and Dunham silences her with a wave.
