“You can let go,” I say.
He releases me. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? I just wanted to make sure you got away safely.”
“It’s fine,” I reply, raising my voice above the sounds of banjos, hand drums, and rhumba boxes. We stop in front of a tavern where a folk band is playing.
“We had to move quickly. I apologize if I was too harsh.” I observe him for a moment and quickly identify him as a man who spends his days lounging on the veranda, sipping martinis, or playing golf. His clothing validates my assumptions: a cotton shirt from Paris, tailored trousers by Frederick Scholte, and Italian shoes by Ferragamo. He resembles a wealthy British, American, or European tourist.
“You’ve never worked on a plantation. Why warn a group of labor union supporters about the police? Why bother?”
A smirk plays on his lips, as if he can read my mind. “You pass judgment quickly.”
“I ask questions because I value answers,” I reply.
His body tenses. “Then ask me another question.”
Judging by the jut of his chin and the crease between his eyebrows, he thinks I won’t. Well, I’ll take that challenge. “What made you take such a risk?”
“Why do you assume I’ve never worked on a plantation?”
“Because you’re white.”
“Take a closer look.”
I do as he suggests. His skin is lightly tanned, his hair wavy and blond, and his eyes are green. But there’s more to him than I had noticed.
“Are you mulatto?”
“I’m colored. My mother was mulatto, the daughter of a Jamaican woman and a British officer.”
I shrug. There are lots of mixed-race people like him in Jamaica. “You could pass.”
“I wouldn’t want to.”
“So, you’ve stirred a pot of boiling sugar and swung a machete in a sugarcane field?”
“Yes, I’ve done that and more.”
“I don’t trust you, even if you did save me and the others from a night in the hoosegow.” I extend my hand. “The name is Zinzi. Zinzi Green.”
“I’m not lying but believing me is up to you.” He exhales before adding, “My name is Byron Tynesdale.”
My hand falls back to my side just as he reaches for it. “Tynesdale?”
“Yes, of the Tynesdale Estate,” he replies. “One of the labor movement’s most fervent opponents.”
My breath catches. “I know your plantation well.” I try not to show too much emotion. It’s the same sugarcane field where my father and my fiancé were worked to death. “I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Believe me.” He sighs deeply. “I wish you could, too.”
Myrtle Bank Hotel, Kingston
Twenty minutes later, I’m not sure I can take another step. “We’re not being followed, now, are we?” I place my hand on my chest. “I need to catch my breath.”
Byron Tynesdale and I have traveled quite a distance, initially moving in a huge circle, but now we’ve made our way further along Harbour Street.
“Do you mind if we don’t stay here?” Byron says, his gaze darting. Still watching out for danger, I suspect. “There’s a place just around the corner. Can you make it that far?”
The vile taste in my throat spreads. “I’m going to be sick.”
