The Book of Negroes (AKA Someone Knows My Name) by Lawrence Hill

Author:Lawrence Hill [Hill, Lawrence]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Adult, Historical
ISBN: 9781554681563
Google: X9SgIAAACAAJ
Amazon: B004VOZLHI
Goodreads: 2088385
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2007-10-04T05:00:00+00:00

I HAD NEVER BEFORE HAD THE EXPERIENCE of watching a tall black man open my door, slip in with a tray of steaming food and set it down on a table near my bed.

“Apologies,” he said, “but you did say that you were hungry.”

I had fallen asleep dressed just the way I was, and felt a little awkward swinging my legs off the bed to stand and smooth the wrinkles from my clothing.

“Would you prefer to eat in solitude?” he asked.

“If you have the time, you may sit with me, for I have never cared to eat alone.”

He smiled. “Most civilized, and I accept.” He slid onto a chair across the table from me. “Mr. Lindo departed while we were preparing your meal,” he said. “What sort of business is he in?”

“Indigo,” I told him.

“He said the two of you would be going to a concert this evening, and asked me to remind you to be ready for seven.”

I sat at the table to eat. He had made bean soup with a dose of pepper hot enough to take me back home. On a side plate was cornbread, sweetened with honey and coconut milk. He also brought me fresh crab cakes. He said the way to make a decent crab cake was to roll just a touch of bread crumbs, melted butter and cream into the crabmeat. It was so good that you wanted to treat it tenderly.

“Crab is not something to overpower with energetic spicing,” he said. “Crabmeat wants to melt quietly on the tongue.”

I was ravenous. Between mouthfuls, I asked him questions. Sam Fraunces had been born and raised in Jamaica. His father was a slave owner and his mother a slave who had been set free by the father. Sam himself had been sent on his way when he was fifteen, with enough money to travel to New York and invest in a business. He had kept his money well guarded and had managed restaurants for two years until he understood the business in and out, and had made all the connections he needed with suppliers. He then got a mortgage to buy the current building and opened a restaurant called The Queen Charlotte.

“They say she’s the Black Queen,” I said.

“Some say that, and others dispute it,” he said. “But nobody gives a fig about it around here. The British—the whole lot of them, King and Queen included—aren’t exactly the best-loved people in New York.”

Sam did not want his tavern and hotel to be associated with British royalty, so he renamed it the Fraunces Tavern.

“Better for business,” he said. “The Tories can dine here, and feel fine. The Americans can dine here too. I say—you obliterated those crab cakes. I’ll take that as a compliment. And let me return one: you are a very handsome woman.”

I set my fork down gently. “I appreciate the meal and your company,” I said, “and don’t wish to be impolite, but …”

He put up his palm. “Let me spare you the indelicacy,” he said, shifting in his seat.

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