Chapter 2 #2
I can’t hear as he continues, a buzz building in my brain.
Her death.
My “death.”
I fight away the memory of all the small methods I’ve used to erase myself before moving on to a new city, a new country, time after time. Having to leave everything and everyone behind. Having to be unable to take credit for many lifetimes’ worth of bylines.
A shiver of misgiving worms its way up my spine as he continues. All the coincidences could’ve been explained away before, but what might explain him selecting my words, written under another name in another life, for his article and for the talk I’m attending today? Why me?
As if he can hear my thoughts, he continues: “I’ve centered Jimi in my talk and my current research because her writing was some of the first travel writing I encountered during summers at my granny’s house in Alabama.
I was flipping through old newspapers because I was bored and, as you probably guessed, hot.
When I read Ms. Ireland’s works, I wasn’t roasting in the living room under the box fan, but I was transported to a place beyond, somewhere my mind could take me that my body had not yet been.
All the things she’d seen were awe inspiring. ”
He pauses, the weight of his statements pressing upon us all, and perhaps me the most. I begin to feel the hard grudge inside me soften.
“This experience was the spark that lit my passion for travel and the search for something bigger than myself, proof that I could explore the world beyond what others had set out for me. I saw that my experiences could be shared and potentially resonate with someone else—and that revelation brought me to where I stand today.”
He reads aloud, his voice carrying my words through the auditorium.
The crowd around me dissipates, and it feels like he’s only talking to me.
“‘Travel is the bridge between who you were and who you’ve yet to become. If you live your life in just one place, it keeps you there, holding you small, limiting you to the scope of its reality. But once you glimpse the bigger life—the possibility to, perhaps, dream a little more and go a little farther—then maybe you will meet yourself on the other side of the globe, the true you, the one who was there all along.’”
He pauses, facing my direction, though he can’t possibly see me this far back and through the lights.
“This is the power of travel narratives. You can experience a place, a time, or a people through another person’s eyes and feel the truth of their lives as they traversed through time.
But as much as I’ve hunted for all things Jimi Ireland .
. . and other Black female journalists of her ilk like Tessa Thorpe, Maria W.
Stewart, Vivian Edwards, Ida B. Wells-Barnett, Arden Bell, Josephine St. Pierre Ruffin, Hazel Garland, Carmella White, and so many more whose names have been lost to history . . .”
My skin warms as I hear several of my former names folded in with those other great women.
“I have a bone to pick with her. With how Black diasporan writers have a narrative urge to clean up the terrible parts of what it means to live and travel and exist as a person of African descent on this planet and all that comes with it. Our greats often clean up the untidy bits, sweep them away by folding the suffering into the language of God and the devil and pious struggle for the sake of our legacies . . .”
I ball up my fists, trying to keep myself from interrupting him, his words tinged with Death’s point of view on humanity.
He clicks through his final slides, where he’s dissected a travel series I did in which I followed Victor Hugo Green’s The Negro Motorist Green Book through the American South.
He misinterprets the beauty I noted in the impoverished Black communities listed there for neglecting reality.
“You’re wrong!” The words leave my mouth before I can catch them.
“What was that?” He cups a hand across his forehead, squinting to see me.
The auditorium spotlight finds me.
He smiles so wide I can see all his perfect teeth.
A roving microphone appears before me. “I said you’re wrong.”
“Is that so?” he challenges.
“Jimi Ireland, like so many other Black women, shouldn’t have to solely focus on the hardships of being a woman, or of being Black, in order for their words to be of value or understood.
” My upset is a shaken bottle of champagne.
“They should be able to witness beauty. Why should they only report suffering?”
“I never said her words held no value. But rather that they neglected to capture the entire portrait. That she, like so many in our community, glamorize to appease—”
“I . . .” I clear my throat, trying to cover the silliness of my mistake.
The entire day is rattling me. Jimi Ireland is a dead woman, I remind myself.
I cannot explain myself. I swallow. “Jimi Ireland, like the others, should be able to write as they please, write their truth. Is that not the role of the artist . . . the writer? To be free?”
My question lingers between us, between everyone in the auditorium.
He nibbles his bottom lip, and I crave his answer.
I’m about to press him again when Dean Sutton appears onstage, signaling the end of our public spat.
The heat of curious glances from fellow audience members sends a deep blush through me.
“Well, we’ve run out of time for more Q and A. But wasn’t that a wonderful lecture? Let’s give a round of applause for Dr. Sebastian Moore,” Dean Sutton says. The crowd climbs to its feet, filling the room with thunderous applause.
The rest of the auditorium lights come up, and the audience breaks apart, gathering their things and making their way to the buffet piled high with crackers, fruit, hot appetizers, and desserts. A secondary line forms for the professor as he greets each person.
I stay in my seat, unsettled.
First, the article in The New Yorker, and second, the coffee shop, then finally, my words on the screen .
. . I don’t know what to make of it. It’s as if the universe is aligning, planning for us to meet; honestly, I don’t trust it.
The universe’s plans rarely break my way.
I think of Death, unable to shake the feeling that he might have something to do with this. A new iteration of our game.
The heat of my debate with Sebastian leaves behind a warmth: a surprising kindling, of sorts.
I haven’t had anyone to discuss my writing with since Winston .
. . and since Death didn’t show up. As I stand to slip out of the room, Dr. Moore glances over from his adoring crowd, spotting me.
He holds up a hand, signaling to me to wait as he wraps up his conversation.
I could still leave, blending in with the last of the lingering admirers, but curiosity keeps me in place.
I’m already here. I might as well figure out why he keeps popping up and continue to tell him he’s wrong about the writings of Jimi Ireland.
He strides over, his scent enveloping me like a fall day—spiced cinnamon, crunchy maple leaves, and rich, oaky leather—bringing to mind Sunday afternoons wrapped in a cozy blanket with a good book and a tall glass of wine.
His eyes are distinct, velvety, teddy bear brown with smile lines that crinkle in the corners.
The surprise of him unexpected.
He smiles, his teeth white and even. “Glad to see you made it where you needed to be, Cinderella,” he says.
“Cinderella?”
He nods. “That’s who I thought of when you rushed off, saying you were late. That, and the fact that you left something behind.” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a black-and-gold fountain pen. My pen.
“Thank you so much, Dr. Moore!” This particular pen was a gift from Gabby. As I take the pen, our fingers brush, a tendril of electricity sparking between us again. I hurriedly tuck it in my bag.
He coughs and tugs at his collar. “Call me Sebastian, please . . . I saw it was a Montblanc and know those can cost a pretty penny. I thought, as a writer, you’d like it back.”
“How did you know?”
“Only another writer would argue with me like you just did in front of everyone.” He winks.
“I could be a scholar like you,” I quip back.
“So, are you?” He reaches out a hand for me to shake.
“Vivian,” I say, reminding him of my name in this time. “I write a small column for The Savannah Times.”
“Look at you. Great paper.”
“Not quite The New Yorker, though.”
He smiles in confirmation. “You hated my article?”
“I did, in fact.”
He laughs. “Care to join me in the hors d’oeuvres line so we can continue our discussion?”
I should go, but something about him holds me in place—that, and my reporter’s instinct. There’s more to the story of Dr. Moore and how my past as Jimi has shown up in his studies. I can’t leave until I’ve gotten to the bottom of it and set the record straight so he’ll write about her—me—correctly.
I get in line on one side, him on the other. We’re quiet as we head toward the tables.
“I do have one confession,” he says, selecting a canapé. “When I saw you in the café, it’s just that . . . I could swear I’ve seen you before.”
I nod. “I just have one of those faces.” My standard response whenever anyone looks too closely.
I stick to the edges of history, recording it while fading into the background.
The secret to a long life like mine—that, good hair-graying powder, and being handy with makeup too.
People tend to get suspicious when one stays perpetually twenty-four.
He shakes his head. “I never forget a face and would never lose track of one as unique as yours.”
I bite my bottom lip, fighting to keep my expression neutral, enjoying the tiny thrill of his words. A challenge crackles just beneath them. I haven’t been flirted with in ages, and I can’t fight the pull. “Does that line work for you often?”
He laughs. “Why? Is it working now?” His eyes search my face, still trying to place me.