Two-Gun & Sun (11 page)

*

A light was burning in my shop window, so I knew my printer was there. I stepped inside and dumped the letters and packages onto the counter noisily, calling out to him.

At last he came out from the pressroom, wiping his hands on a rag, and joined me at the counter.

I handed him one of the packages, a small but heavy square. Machine parts, I was guessing.

He tore it open. Opera, he said, and spun the package around for me to see.

I leaned over. In the wrappings was a lead plate with strange lettering. I must have been wrinkling up my nose because he reminded me, It's backwards.

From the poster above I got my bearings: the large bold wording, announcing
La Fanciulla del West,
along with a series of names below it, the characters, the actors who played the characters, and Puccini himself, while in the centre the type was broken up with a small picture painted in rich golds, greens and reds. A saloon, a woman and an outlaw. There were no dates on the poster, just the words “Coming Soon. ”

Inside the package with the lead plate was a letter providing the dates and times. It faced me and was upside down to Vincent, but he read it aloud easily, explaining that since the dates and times changed with each new location, we had to set the type for that part of the ad.

Vincent reversed his cap, then folded his arms.

Not my favourite, this one. A western. Maybe the opera company figures it's enough of a draw for a place like this. Nobody here would know good opera from bad.

He had just described me, and I felt my ears redden. My father listened to opera recordings on the gramophone. I liked the sound of some, but not enough to ask what was playing. I was better with words than music.

I've finished your book. Are there others?

Vincent tucked the plate and letter under his arm while I put the rest of the mail in the top desk drawer and the paper scraps into the box.

Yeah, he's written lots of articles and lectures on the modernization of China. His
Three Principles
. I don't have any copies of those.

Three? What are they? Sorry, behind you. Just pinning this up.

I pushed a thumbtack into a red-striped awning.

Nationalism, democracy and livelihood.

He turned and added, Pretty place. Your hometown? Quite the opposite of here.

For a moment I lost my focus as I considered that.

Nationalism, I said. How is that something to strive for when it exists already?

His eyebrows shot up and he looked truly delighted.

Because it doesn't, not yet. You know, no national spirit, just all these people looking out for clans and families. It's the most important of the three. Everyone in China has to see themselves as part of China, or how can we work together on democracy and livelihood?

And democracy, I said, can't exist until China is free of imperialist and foreign domination.

He pointed at my forehead with the folded letter.

Now you're thinking.

The door rattled open then and Morris in his white suit blazed over the threshold.

My dear! he roared. There you are. Vincenzo, my friend, greetings to you, as well! What a surprise to find you here.

He's the
Bullet
's printer, I said.

Welcome, then! You're my printer as well. Oh, hasn't she told you? I'm her partner.

Vincent looked directly at me, but said nothing.

Not partners, I said. We discussed a minority interest but I still haven't received the bulk of that sum—

That's why I'm here, he said, and handed me a crumpled, filthy bill. And, he added, to place a notice in our paper. Which one of you do I see about that?

The boss, Vincent said, and turned for the doorway.

The boss
, said as an American would say it, short and snappy, and yet the tone of the remark was levelled at me like an accusation. I had done my homework too well not to feel slighted by the label. I had let my guard down, too. My eyes followed him as he headed for the pressroom, the plate and letter still clamped under his arm. Morris brought my attention back by shaking out a folded note and, without any prompting, began to read in that gravelly voice of his:

Announcing the arrival in Black Mountain of Mr. Morris Cohen of Montreal businessman, adventurer, & raconteur here to plumb the depths of these rich soils & who cordially invites interested investors for an evening of cigars & brandy at The Bombay Room

What do you think? he asked. Here, he added, and he handed the note to me.

You don't say when, I pointed out.

That's to be decided. We could add a line saying notice of further details will be posted at the
Bombay
. That'll bring 'em.

I read over the note again. It was too wordy already but a large advertisement would pay more.

You are paying for this ad?

Should I? he asked. I just paid the deposit.

When you've paid in full we can discuss what privileges come with it. The name of your enterprise? I asked.

Black Diamond—no need to write that . . . well, yes, go ahead.

It's a good name. You'll attract some interest, I'm sure. San Francisco seems to think there's plenty more below, just waiting for discovery.

Who?

Oh, someone who came in to place an ad.

Just himself digging around, or others?

Others I'm sure, all with big plans. Coal likes company, as they say.

A remarkable expression.

I explained it to him, as San Francisco had explained it to me.

Morris fidgeted for a moment, rocking on his heels, jangling the coins in his pockets. I'm thinking, he said at last, of the smaller investors. The big ones have their own bigger fish to fry. Why don't we change that? Pencil?

He put his hands in his vest pockets and recited while I scribbled:

cordially invites investors like you & me the humble amongst us seeking their own small share of such riches as already found by my fine neighbours The Black Mountain Coal Company.

I stopped writing.

You're giving free attention to your competition, I noted.

The length of this note was also threatening to run into the two ads as well as any room I might find on the newssheet for the only news article so far, about the shooting of Mr. George. I had planned a long, splashy piece but was now cutting it before I had even begun to write it. There had been no room for even a small item about those leeches.

Morris, why not call them small investors and other interested folk? You can explain further at the function itself.

You're a treasure, he said. Erase it! Let's start again.

He promised payment in a few days.

*

The next mail drop included an invitation to the opera, also thick, cream-coloured, but in an envelope sealed with red wax. I picked it up in the morning and tore it open right there on the street, scanned the card from top to bottom, seizing on the most important lines:

La Fanciulla del West … publisher and guest dinner and dance … followed by the performance

I slid the envelope into my pocket, and walked slowly back to the shop, my eyes on the ground and the black holes. I'd been invited as a member of the press. Others would have to buy their tickets. While they dined and danced, I would be busy observing and taking notes and writing it up for the newspaper. I stopped and pulled out the invitation again and studied the date. Friday, September 29. I had missed the significance earlier. What marvellous timing. That would be the day before our month was up and the first edition was due. There would be just enough time to include coverage of the performance. The bank would be impressed.

Even so, I felt my lungs tighten for a moment. Three weeks from now. Today was the eighth. And yet, and yet, so much accomplished already. A printer, plans for newssheets, an investor.

Publisher and guest
, it said. Who should I take? Someone newsworthy.

My thoughts roamed about the hotel dining room. Not the dour Scot. Or that fool of a sergeant major. For a moment, they flashed upon that absurd, exposed, man. Mr. George.

Taxis scooted around me, a high-pitched whine that filled my ears and snapped my attention from the shooting to the dance. Such an evening would mean a
dress,
and taking one of these wasps to get there, or else risk fouling the gown walking in the black filth of the street.

A glance down showed my hem already smudged. I'd worn the lavender-grey, just in case. Of what, I wasn't sure, until now, at least.

I pivoted and changed direction, heading through the haze to a place I had planned to visit since my arrival.

*

Bells clinked softly when I opened the door, a sound echoed by silver bracelets on the brown wrists of the shopkeeper.

We are having a busy day, she said to me, but if you don't mind waiting a moment you are most welcome.

I was not surprised when she added,
Mademoiselle
. She had the look of Paris, a fitted navy suit with a colourful scarf at her throat, though her accent was not quite French. I studied her while she opened and closed drawers. Her dark hair had a slight wave and was bobbed below the chin. Every so often she looked up at me and smiled apologetically for being busy. She had a thin nose, large dark eyes with lids that drooped luxuriously, a plump mouth. She could be a princess from Persia, or the Punjab.

And the room. It had the same tin walls as everywhere else, but these were draped in sheer silk that barely concealed the room's industrial bones. Had she used solid fabric, a customer could step into this shop and never see the pipes and metal. But glimpsed through the gauzy layers, the rust and bolts and corrugated tin became not only softened, but pleasing because of what they were. I turned my head to take it all in. Along the counter a row of lamp stands formed a flight of bare-bosomed women in chrome. Their upraised hands held globes of light.

She gave one of the drawers a final slam and rounded the counter, smiling brightly and saying, At last. What might I help you with?

I held my arms out and asked, Can you do anything with—me? I need something for the opera dinner.

La Fanciulla del West!
She clapped her hands together, bracelets ringing. I will be there, as well, she said. I think everyone in town will be.

I could hear voices behind a curtain, shrieks and coarse laughter.

The dressmaker smiled and said, Yes, everyone, no matter who. Are we not modern thinkers? Are we not
avant-garde
? So them especially. And besides, it's being held in their
Saloon
.

I didn't know who and what she meant.

The Bombay Room
?

We have two drinking establishments, Miss.
The Bombay
is part of the hotel.
The
Saloon
has rooms upstairs, but they are rented on an hourly basis. Sometimes, less.

She smiled with her eyes until I got her meaning. Of course, I had seen my drunken competition outside the saloon that day, spraying into the street. I just hadn't realized what else went on in there.

There was an attempt to rename it
The Salon
, but no one uses it. My name is Meena, she added.

She grasped my hand when I told her my name. The newspaper publisher, she said.

At that remark the curtain whipped back to more shrieks and I saw bare arms and high-heeled shoes, garters that flashed like fishing lures caught up in fishnet, iridescent corsets edged in black lace, glossy feathers in black and dark green, glittering strings of beads.

They spilled out from the dressing room, one after the other, a crude line of chorus girls pulling at their garters and lace and smoothing their robes in honour of my presence, gathering around me as though I were a news baroness, admiring my hair and congratulating me on my newspaper, even though it didn't exist, yet.

Even without Meena's advanced warning I would have seen who they were at once. Their manner as well as dress gave them away as whores, though the word seemed too harsh for the young things. They had not been in the business long. Their attempt to look provocative fell somewhere short of alluring and closer to helpless. Lipstick that was too red and inexpertly applied. A pair of satin heels two sizes too big that flopped about the feet of one girl, as though she were playing dress-up with her mother's things. A corset yarded up hastily on another, the lace-tied centre of its pleated top ruptured by a cleavage shoved off to one side. And I reached forward, instinctively, momentarily startling the woman who began to pull back, even startling myself with my boldness.

It just needs straightening, I told her, my hands back at my sides and pointing with my chin. It's a habit. I used to do the same with my little brothers' ties.

The woman looked down, her brown hair a tumble of curls, and then up, her brown eyes large and languid.

Thank you, miss, she said, and gave a righteous tug to the other side.

Back inside! Meena called to them. We are not quite done.

They shuffled behind the curtain and Meena observed, They are my best customers. No one goes through clothing like they do.

She must be right. I had seen them through the window just a few days ago, and here they were, back, already.

Meena excused herself, disappearing momentarily behind the curtain. It opened again with a swipe of wooden rings clattering along the wooden rail.

They filed past in their velvet coats and hats, the one with the crooked corset turning a shoulder to call out, So nice to meet you, miss.

They would have stories. I filed them away in my thoughts, and waved.

In the sudden silence I could hear Meena's tiny heels clicking as she walked around me.

You are not at all what I expected, she said.

Me! I wanted to say.

You have a perfect shape and height, she decided. A slender ankle.

I made a sound and Meena pulled a measuring tape from her pocket. You don't believe that?

I told her I used to split the seams of my dresses.