Two-Gun & Sun (20 page)

Nothing larger?

Your uncle ordered those special, he replied, dipping his nose at my notebook. I can get an order in for you.

That order would take a week, at least, he told me, and I needed something sooner. I took the small notepad, noted how neatly it fit into my palm. It would be perfect for the opera.

I was calm after talking to Parker, reassured that the moths flew into his place, too, and that the experience was shared and not mine alone to endure. I stood on the veranda outside his door, trying to imagine the haze suddenly lifting, the sky brightening, turning clear and blue. My efforts, instead, brought me the unmistakable visage of Morris, large and white. He was no more than a few yards ahead and I called his name, but he deliberately and abruptly turned the corner. What was he up to?

I hurried down the steps and across the street, my leg hampering my usual long strides. Was he avoiding me? I hadn't seen him for days, and the last two times were brief encounters. I cut down the side streets, watching for him, keeping to this side of the mountain, away from any threat of wild hogs, wading through tall grass that flanked the roads. Here there were signs of an overgrown orchard. From a time before coal was discovered? Not even shrivelled fruit on these branches, but still, places for birds to land. I'd have to mention that to Parker, though I could have imagined him sizing up these little trees and proclaiming them too short for roosting.

Beneath my feet were the tunnels that ran outward from the pithead to the ocean, and black holes. I was careful to step around them.

Again, the snap of cloth like a flag in the wind, and a figure darting between corrugated metal shacks. Thoughts shot across my mind, a volley of them. Not Morris this time. Someone half his girth, like a woman or a child. I couldn't be sure, but in dark clothes. The same figure I saw once before? Perhaps Morris was following him, and in such a hurry he couldn't answer my call.

I stared up and down the rows of miners' quarters. Parker had pointed them out to me but I hadn't looked at them up close. A shabby collection not unlike the shacks in Lousetown, only metal, and the lines straighter. But I saw no sign of any figure, large or small.

I returned to the tall grass, stopping outside an abandoned house, mostly wood, uncommon in this part of town. Winding up through the uncut grass, a growth of unusual roses bloomed, shrivelled and stunted from lack of sun, yes, but also blue. Parker said the owners moved away when their child fell ill, but I think someone on their behalf should contact a horticultural society. Blue roses are rare. This may be the only place in the world where they grow successfully, though several rose clubs have tried. I read that somewhere.

The door was off its hinges and I walked in. There was no one around to challenge me.

Tiles below my feet, rose and cream ribbons coiling up through the dust, in the corner a tea trolley and tea set with gilt edges glowing through the layer of black powder. A radiator in the hallway, a finger smear showing bronze through the black. Someone had been here before me, looking around. The sofas, the drapes, the plaster cornices on the ceiling, the glass knobs on doors and cupboards, all coated in the dark dust. The parlour was missing its radiator, just a hole and scrapes in the blackened floor where one had been disconnected, then dragged away. An opera window above, in greys and greens that were probably blue, red and yellow.

In a grimy mirror I saw myself in ink-stained coveralls, as though I, too, were a presence from the past struggling up through the grey film.

Back out through the overgrown garden and onto the path. Even a little sunlight would bring the blooms back, though I admired the stubborn rose and turned for one more look. It would be spectacular, given a little pruning and care. And sun. How lush it could grow with a few hours of sunlight in Lousetown.

I no sooner twisted back around than a head popped up from one of the black holes in the road.

Jesus Christ, man!

It was Morris. He climbed out in a cloud of black dust, face florid, white suit filthy.

You scared the living hell out of me, I said.

My dear, he said, you're jumpy. Bushed! Just as I warned. It happens to the best of us. Strange town, isolation.

Strange, I said, yes. You ignored me when I called your name just now.

Apologies, my dear, I must have been preoccupied.

I saw someone else, too.

Oh?

I craned my neck, still hoping to spot the figure.

Maybe a child, I said. But there aren't many around here. And it was someone sneaking about. Down there, where the miners live.

The white miners, he said, turning. The rest live in Lousetown.

He slapped the dust from his arms.

Let's hope it was a child, he said. One of the miners' progeny.

And where on earth have you been? What have you been up to?

Oh, here and there, this and that.

I had hoped you might come along after the explosion to see if the shop was damaged.

I knew you'd send word if it was.

To where? I didn't know where you were and if you're going to be a partner I should know, and besides that Vincent was surrounded by the crowd, with that filthy deputy shouting accusations, all because we had worked on the press all night, and I felt wretched about that—

Not your fault, dear girl.

Yes, it was. Because of that article I wrote about his leader.

You were doing your job.

I was, I said, nodding and gobbling up his willingness to find me faultless.

Morris hooked his thumbs under his arms and expanded, his voice loud and ragged: It was nothing new to our Vincent. When he was a child he learned French by sitting in on the lessons given to the bosses' children. Yanks, I believe. He was quick at languages, so he was welcomed to join the children on outings, as long as they spoke French. This one time in the park the nanny charged over to them, seeing that he and the girl were holding hands as they ran about. All very innocent, they were children, but children who were growing up quickly. His father lost his job because of it.

I saw with new eyes the moment Vincent extended his hand to me in Lousetown, then pulled it back. I had pulled back, too.

That's when he decided to grow his hair, I said, for his father.

I suppose.

The significance silenced us both for a moment. Then I pointed at the hole.

What were you doing down there?

Studying for signs, he said.

Signs of what? You dropped something. There, behind you.

He bent to retrieve it, presenting a trousered bottom ridiculously white and streaked in grey.

Of treasures the earth gives up from time to time, he said.

He straightened, took my arm and turned me around.

They drill these holes, he continued, and sometimes don't go deep enough. They give up and move on to another find.

Exploratory digs. I know.

His eyes darted toward my other hand as it pulled the notebook from my pocket. It was a relief to be back to the familiar.

I wouldn't want everyone to know about this. Because everyone is reading your fine newssheets. Our fine newssheets, he added. It's what everyone's talking about.

Do you read
The Bugle
? I asked.

I had looked at one more copy and the only piece that qualified as news, about the explosion, contained several spelling mistakes. I supposed the article was included because the disaster affected numbers, and
The Bugle
was all about numbers.

Yes, he said, but our
Bullet
is better. And when you listed the dead you listed the Chinese, too. How did you get their names?

Vincent, I said.

Yes, yes, Vincent, Morris said.

I had no idea what he meant by that until he added, He was not happy that
The Bugle
made no mention of the Chinese. He said it was tempting to refuse to print it.

He runs their machine, too?

I just know he prints the paper. Their machine. His machine. Does it matter?

I stared off into the grey distance, seeing the giant paper roll snap free, a ragged strip of it slithering through the machine that pounded and shrieked until we brought it to a hammering stop, and then the two of us grappling with its parts all night in the steam and oil and ink.

Morris then asked a question that jerked my attention back to the present. Have you heard of the coal mines of Africa? Let me explain. Wherever you have coal deposits and running streams, he said, you have this too.

I peered into his open palm at something that sparkled.

Just a sample diamond. Thank you for spotting it just now. I must have dropped it. Well, go ahead and write that down. It's not as though I found any here. But if they're in Africa, then you can bet they're in other places, too. Just be so kind as to not give away the exact location.

Of what?

The stream. Listen.

And I heard it gurgling, close by, in the grass. I made a mental note of the foot trail toward it, how it curved to the left, ending in a hole.

Coal and water, he continued. Perhaps diamonds. As your source said, coal likes company.

This is what your brandy and cigars meeting was about.

Yes. May I escort you back to town?

I've only just set out for a walk.

Walk with me, then! He grabbed my elbow and turned me, again. You've got me thinking of Lousetown. There is, he said, a small cantina where they serve a delicious hoisin duck with vegetables.

Lousetown. He had my interest, now.

Duck? I asked.

Pigeon for all I know. Some sort of bird.

And let me guess. Canned peas.

Oh, no. Crisp greens.

Here?

We had some back at the doctor's. Oh—that's right, you weren't hungry then. Are you, now? Come, he said. Be my guest. I hate to dine alone.

I should change my clothes.

Yes, there you are in camouflage again, my dear girl. An army term. A bit of visual deception—you blend right into the grey town in that grey fabric. The better for prowling about, unnoticed, while you gather news. And look at my suit. It has seen brighter days. No, your outfit will be just fine where we are going. And your beauty will shine above it. Please, join me.

He didn't need to ask again. I was limping alongside him, quickly. Fresh greens, yes, but no choice in the matter, either. He had my elbow in his big paw, still, and although I told him of my stitches he did not slow his pace, nor did his response have any bearing on my injury.

Excellent, he said. Now, let's put away your notebook. We are done with work for the day.

I already had put it away but he was distracted, looking up and down the narrow lane as he talked. For the curious child, he added at last.

*

Morris led me along a jumble of shacks crouched at the stream's edge and connected by a crooked boardwalk. The sun was setting, I was certain. To the west there was a faint glimmer you would never see on the other side of the pithead, and it gave the water a molten sheen.

This time not a single door slammed. Neither had they when the three of us walked back from the doctor's, but there had been silence. It had been late, so we were simply left to ourselves. Or maybe they hadn't recognized the friend of the Chinese with his face black and blue, maybe I hadn't seen them, my head shielded under a newspaper much of the time.

But I didn't need to see them this night. I heard them, the high-low pitch of their language, the excitement in their voices as they called out, Morris! Mister Kow-hen!

He put his arm through mine and patted my hand with the plump pads of his fingers.

The gathering residents breathed
ah-h-h-h
, and added something that sounded like, Missy Kow-hen.

I suppose I responded predictably, pulled my arm away, twisting my head back and forth like an ostrich's, that bird-beak of a smile my brothers claim I wear when tense. I'm not your missy, I hissed. Tell them.

Enjoy the spectacle, he said, tightening his grip. How often in this life are we welcomed so warmly? This, he said, could be your future.

His free hand waved at the crowd.

Mine?

Yours, mine, ours. This is the new world, new times, with all types mingling together.

Well, if they had accepted me, perhaps it was because of him. Again I was seeing that open face of the solar dish, the stamen toward the sky or, given the angle of our approach, toward me. I was someone important. The newspaper publisher. Another friend of the Chinese, the one who listed their deaths as I would anyone's. The fact that I was walking with Morris must have put me in particularly good light.

The new world. I repeated it to myself, rolling the words over my tongue. The newly arrived metal plate embossed with the airship, that had since inked itself into a paying advertisement in my paper, hovered in my thoughts.

Morris, I asked. Have you ever travelled by air?

I have, indeed. From Paris to London.

Morris described the finest crystal, a private smoking room, luxurious furnishings, until I grew impatient.

But what is it like to
fly
in one?

You barely know you're up in the air.

But what's the point of that? I want to feel the wind in my hair.

You want to be sailing on the open seas, my dear.

I mentioned the ad for the Zeppelin, and he said he had seen it.

The advertisement itself, excellent, my dear. It's money for our newspaper. But for the town? Landing will be difficult. It would have to attach itself to something. I've seen pictures where they tie up to the mast of a ship that's docked.

Our ship arrives at midnight, I said, and then I sighed deeply.

The advertisement didn't state a time. They must figure we'll know it when we see it. That would be a waste, to arrive and depart in the middle of the night. It could hitch itself to the coal hulk. But who'd want that?

His grip loosened and he patted my hand, again. You and I could travel the world, my dear, and never have a dull moment together. We are ideally suited. Opposites in every way but our thirst for something new. We have identical curiosities. We are explorers.