Chapter 18
ZINZI
Trench Town, Kingston
Two days since we kissed. Two days since I last saw or spoke to him. On the first day, I worked, did my job at the Constant Spring Hotel. I stayed busy. Then, yesterday, a telegram from Accompong put Byron out of my mind for a little while.
A note from my mother, Momma Hazel Green, written by one of my brothers, Raymond, the eldest, because she never bothered to learn how to write, let alone send a telegram.
She surprises me with a request: She wants me to guide a group of tourists to the Cockpit and Accompong—Americans on the SS Talamanca from New York City, arriving in Kingston this very week.
She promises I won’t have to stay in Accompong long, but she would be immensely grateful if I could do her this favor.
So many questions. Why call it a favor? Who are these people? Why me? I am not a tour guide, though I do know the Cockpit inside and out.
There has been some distance between my mother and me that has nothing to do with miles.
Something broke between us years ago. Sometimes I, na?vely, blame her fear of my love for mermaids, but that was never the reason.
I didn’t believe in the magic she hid in her cloth pouches and woven baskets.
I didn’t believe in the potions, the herbal mixtures, or the talismans.
My relationship with my mother is like a river flowing toward the sea, but not a direct path—barriers exist. Dams. Broken promises. A young girl’s need to have someone to blame, as the ones she loved so eagerly kept dying.
It’s the last sentence that makes it impossible to say no. “This is Raymond. Momma is very ill and needs to see you.”
I tuck the note in the top drawer of my dresser. I’ll figure out what to do about it tomorrow.
Allan Coombs’s Office, King Street, Kingston
Sitting in Allan’s office, between Raymond’s note and no news of Byron, I am battling an overwhelming sense of dread.
“What did you say?” Allan asks, lifting his gaze from the newspaper he’s been reading.
Had I voiced my concerns aloud? Maybe. “I’m worried about Byron.”
“Why? Where is he?”
“I’m not sure where he is,” I reply.
“Your concern sounds like it should stay on the other side of the front door. He’s not our problem—not when we have a major rally to plan.”
I understand Allan’s curtness. The Kingston Waterfront protest is shaping up to be the largest of the year. Here I am acting like a lovesick schoolgirl after just one kiss when so much more is on the line. “Sorry,” I apologize sincerely.
“This is the largest rally we’ve ever organized, and we can’t afford distractions.”
Allan has been on edge since the Victoria Park rally. He doesn’t blame Byron for what happened, but his organization is drawing attention across the parishes. All eyes are on the Kingston branch of the labor movement, and any misstep could affect the movement throughout the country.
Allan moistens his lips. “I’ve been informed that there are rumblings among government officials regarding taxation and the Cockpit. Supposedly, someone in the British Parliament is advocating for a tax on rum produced and sold in the Maroon villages.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I think of Raymond’s telegram.
“My people have made, bought, and sold rum only among ourselves since 1760 without a hint of taxation. It’s our cultural right.
Besides, not a single jug is sold outside of the Cockpit.
It’s not a business.” I rise, my anger driving me to pace.
“What does Colonel Rowe think about this?” The colonel is the leader of Accompong and is highly respected among the Maroon people, including the arrogant members of the British government.
“I’m sure he has a lot to say about it. I can’t imagine he’ll let this happen without a fight. ”
“Please, Zinzi. The war doesn’t have to start in my office tonight.”
My voice had shamefully risen. But I’ve been so focused on my life in Kingston for so long that I haven’t considered how the labor movement might impact Accompong. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s perfectly fine,” Allan replies. “The government is eager to boost island revenues. My sources indicate that these are initial discussions, while some argue they are merely rumors. Nevertheless, we must remain vigilant against these tactics that undermine our people.”
Covering my face with my hands, I massage my cheeks. “I’d bet anything that the source of this taxation chatter is the island’s European landowners and the rum barons.”
Rum barons. Another name for wealthy, influential families who dominate the rum industry and, like the Tynesdale family, also own large sugar plantations, distilleries, and export businesses.
“They are behind this tax plan.” My head hurts from the pressure in my skull. “Rum barons. How dare they attempt to punish the Maroon people?”
I sit at the long table in his office, contemplating whether to tell Allan about Byron’s reckless idea of stealing his father’s rum recipe, which, suddenly, doesn’t sound so ugly to me.
The labor movement has taught me many lessons, but one stands out: One person’s loss, pain, grief, or thirst for revenge is just a grain of sand on a beach.
What the island needs and what Jamaican workers deserve are dedicated union leaders.
Anything less will not suffice. One man’s problems shouldn’t matter, especially if that man is named Tynesdale.
The room fills with volunteers as Allan reviews his ledger, preparing to speak to the group.
“The Kingston Waterfront is a crucial hub. Our demonstration will be one of the largest we’ve organized, focusing on dockworkers in the shipping and export industries,” Allan states.
“Movement organizers will travel to Kingston from every parish in Jamaica.
“Dockworkers are very frustrated with low wages, poor working conditions, and a stagnant economy. The risk of violence is significant, and the authorities at Victoria Park are ready to use force at the slightest sign of unrest.” He pauses, intensely scanning the faces before him.
“While we cannot eliminate the threat of violence, we must not provoke it.” He locks eyes with everyone at the table.
“Our aim is a peaceful demonstration, and we must commit to the necessary steps to ensure this.”
The office door creaks open, and a girl hesitantly peeks in. “What is it?” Allan demands sharply, showing his irritation at the interruption. “Can’t it wait?”
She swallows hard. “There’s a white man outside with his limo driver,” she says. “He insists on seeing Miss Green.”
My heart races. My immediate thought, the only one, is of Byron. Something must have gone wrong, and someone is here to bring bad news.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Allan. “I truly am.” Then I dash out of the room, my new companion—dread—following close behind.
Bernard Christian Tynesdale, Byron’s father, waits for me at the reception desk.
He wears an ivory gabardine suit and a Panama hat, exuding fashionable arrogance with a well-scrubbed, uniformed limo driver by his side.
If not for his slightly quivering white mustache, Mr. Tynesdale Senior would seem indomitable rather than uneasy in proximity to so many dark-skinned people.
As I approach him, the questions rolling around in my mind are about Byron.
Has something happened to him? Is that why his father is here to see me?
But why would his father come to see me if that were true?
He knows nothing of me and Byron. Private detective aside, that awkward introduction in the lobby of the Myrtle Bank Hotel shouldn’t have led him to me.
Why would he think I care? Well, I won’t give him any clues about my feelings, especially those I don’t fully understand.
“What brings you here?” I ask coolly.
Mr. Tynesdale scans the office as if it’s infested with sand fleas. “I need to speak with you privately.”
I position myself with my feet apart and my hands on my hips. “You can say whatever you want right here.”
“It concerns Byron,” he replies.
My determination wavers. “Is he okay? Has he been hurt?”
“As far as I know, he’s just as you left him when you last saw him.
” From his choice of words and sarcastic tone, I can tell he knows I spent the other evening with Byron in Trench Town, and maybe that I didn’t leave his Myrtle Bank Hotel until dawn, especially if the private detective Byron mentioned was on the job.
“Yes, we can step outside.” I move past him, not waiting for his response or to see if he follows. It’s early evening but the streetlights are on. I stand by a lamppost.
“I’ll make this quick, Miss Green. According to my private detective, Byron is trying to involve himself in the labor union movement, with your encouragement.”
“No, that’s not true,” I respond firmly. “Byron is not easily influenced. He makes his own decisions.”
“Well, that’s debatable,” Mr. Tynesdale replies. “I know my son is not an extremist. He doesn’t get involved in causes. His interests guide his passions. Despite your idealistic beliefs, your influence over him has little to do with the labor union.”
“I have no influence over him.”
“I assume you think you met him last week.” Mr. Tynesdale chuckles. “He’s been following you since his ship docked in Kingston Harbour a month ago from Cuba.”
“How do you know that?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Ah, yes, the private detective you hired to tail him.” I shake my head.
“Well, sir, you’re mistaken. Your son has been following Allan Coombs and the labor movement, not me.
And if you’re unfamiliar with Allan Coombs—” I gesture toward the storefront sign.
“Take a look around. These are his offices. He is the leader of the Kingston labor union movement. He and Byron are old acquaintances. That’s who Byron is following, not me. ”
He nods at his chauffeur and says, “Bring the car around.” The man walks away.
“Your stubbornness is forcing my hand. I will tell you what Byron won’t or can’t say.
He’s committed to taking over the family business and will run the Tynesdale Estate and its subsidiaries as they’ve been run for generations, and that will not include union labor. ”
“That sounds like wishful thinking on your part,” I say. “Tell me, are you afraid of your son?”
“I won’t allow him to give up his inheritance to satisfy his guilt.”
“Why would he feel guilty? Maybe shame for his association with your sugar plantation, but not guilt.”
I see a flash of sadness in the man’s gaze, but it vanishes as he squares his shoulders and his car pulls up to the curb.
“You should ask Byron about your fiancé,” he says. “The young man who died in the Tynesdale sugarcane field a decade ago. It was the same year my wife passed away. I’m sure Byron mentioned his mother, but likely nothing about your beloved. I believe his name was Marvin Banks. As I said, ask Byron.”