Chapter 15
ZINZI
Trench Town, Kingston
Thoughts of my mother and her beliefs come to me.
The rituals, the herbs, and the secrets she keeps in the cloth pouch in the basket by the hearth.
I never know when I will feel the pull of her words.
They are simply with me—a figure at my side, looming over me like her mysterious Rolling Calf, the fearsome creature that appears on the hillside, in the sugarcane fields, and near the silk cotton tree, a demonic, rolling ball of fire.
The curse of the Rolling Calf brings calamity and torment to anyone who crosses its path.
Byron’s idea of stealing and publishing his family’s rum recipe might not strike some as demonic, but I am desperately uneasy at the thought of it.
And for him to ask me to help only intensifies my concern.
The walk from King Street to Trench Town we make in silence. I am hopeful he has calmed enough to forget what he said, but I don’t want to leave him alone. “Byron, let’s grab a drink.”
He looks down, his eyes drifting past my face to my injured leg. “Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t have brought it up if I weren’t.”
With a thankful sigh, I see the tension ease from his shoulders. “All right, I could use a whiskey.”
“Great. I know a place, mostly locals, and it’s open all night.”
He chuckles. “You always know the best spots for real Jamaicans.”
I pay his teasing tone no mind, for I’m just glad to hear it.
A mile from King Street, Trench Town is my neighborhood.
Overcrowded and marked by poverty at every turn, it is home to Jamaica’s working class—the so-called less fortunate—compared to plantation owners, government officials, and the mixed-race wealthy.
It is also the liveliest and most fun-loving community in Kingston.
Despite broken hearts and empty wallets, it remains vibrant, sweaty, and electric.
The rhythms of mento and jazz fill the air beneath gas lamps and moonlight.
In my neighborhood, laughter and love strengthens the bonds of community. They don’t tear them apart.
Trench Town is famous for its all-night lawn parties, rum shops, mento bands, and endless dancing and singing. The festivities never stop.
Byron and I arrive at a backyard lawn party and are instantly swept up in the excitement.
“Let’s make a pact.” I pass Byron a cup of Jamaican white rum while I hold on to my ginger beer. “If you even hint at stealing the recipe or look at a jug of rum, you’ll have two choices.”
There’s a hint of amusement dancing at the corners of his mouth. “And what are those options?” he asks.
“Before I tell you, swear to me that you’re in. No backing out,” I reply.
“Okay.” He places a hand over his heart and raises the other. “I swear.”
I struggle not to grin. “You’ll have to choose between downing a tumbler of whiskey or getting dragged onto the dance floor.”
“What if I can’t dance?”
“It doesn’t matter. Those are the rules.”
A few minutes later, Byron surprises me. He’s a fantastic dancer who enjoys his tumblers of whiskey and a few other beverages.
“You set me up,” I shout over the music. “You can dance.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I can.”
By dawn, I’ve had a few ginger beers, while Byron has had even more. We dance until my sore leg feels numb.
“We should get back.” I try to keep him still. He’s been dancing for hours.
“Back where? To your place? Don’t you live in Trench Town?”
“Yes, but the Myrtle Bank Hotel is just as close, in the opposite direction.”
“So, is this good night?” He leans in, pressing against me, and I realize my ginger beers were nowhere near as potent as the whiskeys, the white rums, or the John Crow Batty drinks he’s consumed.
“What if I walk you to the Myrtle Bank Hotel? I want to make sure you’re settled before we say good night.”
“Or good morning.” He laughs. “Can’t we just take a cab instead?”
“Byron, we’re in Trench Town and it’s almost sunrise. There are no cabs here.”
“Oh, all right,” he says, awkwardly kissing my cheek. “Thank you. I really needed a night out.”
There’s a sleepy but pleasantly handsome look on his face. “Good. I feel better, too.”
The walk to the Myrtle Bank Hotel takes longer than I expected. When we reach the empty lobby, I ask the receptionist for the keys to his suite. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
“Thanks, Zinzi,” he says quietly before asking the desk clerk to call a cab for me.
“Let’s get you settled first.”
He staggers toward the elevator, but I steer him toward the staircase, explaining that the exercise will clear his head and prevent a crippling hangover.
He shrugs and buys into my reasoning, and we stumble up three flights and down a hallway until we reach his suite.
Once inside, I lead him to his bedroom where Byron crawls into bed without changing out of his clothes or removing his shoes.
I decide to leave him that way. “We’ll talk soon. ” I turn to leave.
“Hey, take a nap,” he murmurs. “You’ll be dead on your feet at work without any sleep.” He turns over in bed, wraps his arms around a pillow, and hugs it tightly. “The cab will be there whenever you’re ready.”
I close the bedroom door, seriously considering Byron’s suggestion. I’m completely exhausted, and the idea of a nap draws me in. Feeling drained, I sink onto the sofa in the living room and fall asleep before my head can touch the armrest.
Myrtle Bank Hotel, Kingston
A telephone rings. A male voice mumbles “eggs” and “coffee.” I sit up quickly, wide awake, and immediately know exactly where I am, how I got here, and that it’s time to leave. My plan is to slip out of Byron’s hotel suite without seeing him and having to admit I fell asleep on his sofa.
I look at the clock on the wall and gasp.
Ten o’clock? I’m two hours late for work!
And I’ll be even later when I factor in the forty-minute trek from the Myrtle Bank Hotel to Constant Spring.
I rush into the bathroom, splash some water on my face, and think, Lord, have mercy; I can’t lose my job.
There’s no weekly paycheck for being a full-time labor union activist.
A knock on the door startles me. I open it, and there Byron stands before me, holding two cups of steaming coffee, a smile lighting up his handsome face.
“Before you go, join me for breakfast,” he says, wearing silk pajamas, causing me to chuckle. It’s so very British of him.
“Thanks for letting me use your sofa, but I should be heading out.”
“I’ve already called a car for you. It’ll be downstairs waiting, ready to take you wherever you need to go.”
“I am so late for work.” I adjust my dress, knowing I must be wrinkled from head to toe.
Byron waves a cup of coffee under my nose. “I ordered eggs and toast,” he says. “We had quite a bit of rum last night. This will help with the hangover.”
“I didn’t have any rum. You did,” I reply, not particularly keen on breakfast, but the coffee is tempting if he ordered enough milk and sugar. “You also had a few cups of homemade moonshine, which I warned you about.”
“Oh, yeah, the John Crow Batty.” He hands me the cup of coffee, and I take it. “It’s the strongest moonshine on the island.”
“I need a lot of cream and sugar,” I mention as I sit at the dining room table. The coffee is delicious, but the smell of breakfast awakens my hunger, and I indulge in the scrambled eggs, sausage, and pastries he had delivered to his suite.
We steer clear of discussing the rally during the meal. The only sign of yesterday’s turmoil is the return of that look in his eyes, the anger I saw in them the night before. “I’m sorry about what happened at the rally.”
“It wasn’t your fault. You don’t need to apologize. I’m sorry if my idea shocked you. I was mad and went a little overboard. Thank you for caring enough to help me gain perspective,” he laughs, “though I have a bit of a hangover.”
“Me too.” I smile. “But we did have fun, right?”
“Yes, we did.”
I stare at my plate and lift a forkful of eggs to my lips. Looking up, I see Byron watching me.
“A car will take you to the hotel,” he says.
I take a last sip of my sugary coffee and stand up. “Then I should head out.” He nods and rises to his feet. Before I realize it, he’s holding the door open, blocking the way between me and the exit. I’m not afraid of what he might do. Instead, I fear what I want him to do.
This moment feels like a mutual decision. I sink into his embrace as our lips meet. We kiss softly, thoroughly exploring each other until his arms circle my waist, drawing me close to his chest. His mouth is tender and generous. When my knees begin to tremble, I take a step back.
“I believe it’s time for me to go now.”
“Thank you once more, Zinzi.”