Two-Gun & Sun (25 page)

Hold still, he said.

I didn't know why he agreed to do this. I didn't care why. The long razor scratched and strands fell into my lap. He breathed evenly, his hands steady. I closed my eyes and wished I could stay here, never mind the famous man and his big speech. Right here, this was the story.

*

We darted through cramped alleys and skirted along fences until we reached a clearing already filled with men, all Chinese. Head bent, I followed Vincent to the very back where I could watch and not be seen.

An old motorcycle pulled into the clearing, towing a wagon in which a man stood, waving to the crowd. I elbowed Vincent. This wasn't so different from the new motorcycles and sidecars on the other side of town, only this driver wore no helmet or goggles and was Chinese. So was the man in the wagon. An
ahhhh
rippled across the crowd as the vehicle came to a stop and the elegant man in black suit and hat stepped down, his polished shoes gleaming in the dust.

From under the worn brim of the old man's hat I scanned the crowd, the stage, looking for Two-Gun. Where was this friend of the Chinese, now? But all I saw was the famous man—spare, trimmed moustache, languid, lidded eyes, modern haircut—making his way to a quickly erected stage of boards and crates. Two aides took an elbow each and helped him up the steps.

In his suit and hat and shiny shoes he looked like an Englishman. He was as pale as one. His first line of greeting was in English and I smiled as though he had aimed it at me, My thanks to all of you for coming out today.

Then he began speaking in Chinese.

Vincent's gaze shot around the gathering.

What's wrong? I asked, careful to lower my voice.

Not their dialect. I don't know, maybe they get it.

I whispered, Tell me.

He leaned in close. You remember this one, he said. The British treat nations as the silkworm farmer treats his worms; as long as they produce silk, he cares for them; when they stop, he sets them on fire, he feeds them to the fish.

It caught my breath to hear them said aloud, the very words I had read in that book.

At the sound of Vincent's English, though, a man in front of us turned around and stared.

Vincent said something in Chinese, and the man turned back, again. I hadn't heard him speak anything but English or French since that first time I glimpsed him in the fog with another man, digging through the cargo pile. It was unsettling, as though standing beside me was someone I had never met before. But he returned to English.

I had a notebook up one sleeve, pencil cupped inside the other. I brought my sleeves together and wrote without looking. My blind scrawl covered the whole page. I thumbed the sheet over for the next quotes.

A railroad, Vincent whispered, his words buzzing about my ears. That's what we need to make China modern, like North America. And an army to fight the warlords.

I already knew this from what Vincent had told me before, and from what I had read, but the men around us began grumbling.

Trains are old, one said in English. Air travel is modern.

Loud Mouth Sun! someone shouted.

No Gun Sun! another cried out. Where is this army?

All shouted in English. Sun was dressed like an Englishman, and their English was full of insults. No wonder the man in front had stared at us.

Another voice called out, Where are your weapons, eh?

In answer, someone threw a stick. It sailed in the air and landed flat on the ground, short of the stage. It was followed by a hail of chopsticks, and laughter. So. They had come here prepared to heckle the leader.

Vincent shouldered his way forward. I grabbed his arm with a grubby hand, hissing, Vincent!

It's okay, he said. I can translate.

My grip tightened as my thoughts skittered. I had meant me. Alone, in this crowd When just a few minutes ago we sat together in his room…

Look, he said, and pried my fingers loose to free himself. I have to. Sorry.

My anger was so keen it tasted like metal shavings on my tongue, and then I realized I had bitten my lip until it bled.

In the sudden silence that fell with his appearance on stage, his queue swinging out as he turned to speak to the modern man, the crowd did not notice this small man in hat and false queue who slid along the wall, feeling for an escape. Others rushed forward, seeming to see only that the small man's departure made room for more.

Up on the stage, Vincent lifted his arms. He spoke a line after each line spoken by Sun, translating, his voice growing louder, more confident with each line, again like someone I had never met before, while the famous man smiled, nodding at his new friend. I stood with my back against the wall, no exit in sight, watching my printer's transformation.

That's when I heard the roar of motors, several of them. First there were no motorcycles in Lousetown and now they were coming straight at us. At once the gathering broke apart and men began running. I ran with them. Too late. The thin walls of wood and tin broke apart and fell, and the motorbikes burst into the clearing, fumes turning the grey air bluish, the bikes wheeling erratically, chasing us, their tires spraying an arc of dirt and rocks into our faces, deputies leaning from the sidecars, armed with clubs, swinging. Us, dodging and darting, in and out between the bikes and the deputies and each other. Them, black and shiny in the grey-blue light.

Vincent—I needed his help. But he was gone. So was his leader. A door at the back of the stage hung open. They had escaped, leaving me to fend for myself.

The smell of fuel was in my mouth and nose, along with damp wool and dirty skin, that same odour from back home of dead ducks about to be plucked, as I was shoved, arms jabbing my ribs, heels against my shins, a red burning sting as an elbow hit my nose, a shoulder clipped my ear.

My hat. I gripped the brim with both hands, the queue over my cheek, and twisted it until it hung down the back, again. My own fingertips raked my temples to pull up my hair.

But a deputy saw and cried out, White man! Over there!

Silver had taken the leader's place on the stage and for the moment the bark of a metal megaphone snagged the deputy's attention. I plunged back into the crowd.

Silver boomed into the speaking horn, This is an illegal assembly! Residents of Lousetown are forbidden from gathering in public places. This is a warning! All who disregard this law will be punished.

All the while the bikes circled, menacing. I took a large rock to the throat and it winded me. I fell back and then rolled over, crawling under the steps of the platform to avoid the stomping feet and spinning wheels. With the walls down now I could see, between the boards of the steps, a man standing on one of the hills, spectral in the gloom of fog and fumes and dust, the mine owner himself, clearly the owner Mr. Drummond in his dark, three-piece suit, surveying the raid and all it uncovered, as someone looking at new land from a ship. Silver had said he only showed up for special occasions. From this perch could he see the solar dish or the garden or me?

A man grabbed my shoulder and pulled me out, shouting, Move your ass, China Man!

It was that horrible deputy, his hair still dirty and hanging in strings. Did he never wash? He knocked my hat off when he pulled me out. I tugged my hair over my shaved temples.

What've we got here? he bellowed.

He recognized me at once, of course.

Silver had left the stage and now forced his way through the jostling crowd to join the deputy. I trusted in his fondness for me. I shook my hair free, let its brown strands fall redly against the jet black of the coat. I might as well have been shaking my tail feathers in a barnyard, hoping to attract a rooster. I should have been ashamed but I wasn't. I would do whatever was needed to be free of this deputy, and to keep my shaved temples hidden.

The deputy's face soured with disgust as he held up the hat with the false queue, and said, She even dresses like one of 'em.

I snatched the hat back from him.

I'm here to report on the speech, I told Silver. I had turned so that I addressed him only.

Why the get-up? he asked.

Because they don't want me here any more than you do.

My voice shook with the truth of this statement. Where was Vincent now? Where was Two-Gun? All I had to protect me was my hair, and I would use it. Damn them all to hell, I would bloody-well use it. I tossed my hair, carefully, and let its copper light shimmer about my shoulders, fingers at my temples to check that they were covered.

His eyes followed the strands. Then he turned, in a hesitant jerk or two, to consult with the figure on the hill. I couldn't see any signal from the man, but when Silver turned back he said, Mr. Drummond wishes to see you.

Good, I said. I'd like to see him, too. You can take me there right now.

Deputy, Silver said.

I meant you, I said. I'll go with you.

You'll be fine, Silver said. And then he turned to the dirty deputy and repeated it, She'll be fine. You make sure of that.

And he left.

I was prodded from the clearing by the deputy's billy stick, much as Two-Gun had been that first time I glimpsed him, much as the miner and that girl had been. I wrapped the black coat about my ribs and hugged them, the brim of the hat dangling from my fingers, as I stumbled along in my big shoes.

At the pithead, just across from my own shop, we climbed metal steps into a shed of an office where I was seated against a corrugated wall.

Make yourself presentable, the deputy said.

I faltered.

Wash your face, he said, then pointed an elbow toward a door.

I had forgotten about my black make-up.

The door led to a water closet meant for just men. No mirror, a tap running cold water, a board with a hole in it. I washed my face and rubbed it dry with my sleeve. I combed my fingers through my hair, satisfied that it hung straight down over my temples, pulled the hairpin from my pocket and pushed it into place. Then I returned to my chair.

Don't bother sittin', the deputy said. He'll see you now.

He opened another door and this room was larger, with the same bare look except for an oriental rug beneath an oak desk, and next to it, a table set for two. Behind the table were windows looking out onto the blackness of the pithead and the yard, as well as my back porch.

The deputy indicated with a jerk of his filthy thumb that I should sit at the table. He stepped to the side and stood, arms crossed, in the corner. A back door swung open, from a sitting room or a bedroom, where the women from
The Saloon
had conducted their negotiations, I presumed. A man with a bald patch framed in grey hair entered the room.

Miss Sinclair, he said, flipping his suit tails behind him, and sat opposite me. I'm sure I need no introduction.

Mr. Drummond, I replied.

Dine with me while we talk.

I told him I wasn't hungry but he replied, Indulge me.

I watched his hands moving toward a silver bucket of ice beside the table. He pulled a bottle from it and poured wine into my glass.

You've been writing about my coal mine.

I have, I said. I've been wanting to interview you about it.

I'll be doing the interviewing, he said. Drink.

I obliged with a small sip. It was crisp and refreshing and I was thirsty, but I put the glass down right away.

Are you agitating for a union?

I'm reporting what I see and hear, I replied. There are few safety regulations. If miners are injured or in danger of drowning there is no rescue plan in place. And yes, no shop steward, either. I saw a young woman—

You, he interrupted, would have Lousetowners treated as equals, is that right?

—of course, I began.

The Chinese are a group you are especially fond of?

I stared to the side and the windows that looked out on my back porch and door, and thought of the comings and goings he might have seen from here. I turned back to answer yes, then thought better of it. The man was eyeing me with the same contempt the deputy had, my outfit and the bowler with braid that I had set on the table, too. My get-up, Silver had called it. I slid the hat onto my knee.

I have it on good authority, he said, that these Chinese are not to be trusted. They are rebels wanted in their own country for acts of anarchy. This man making the speeches. The government would like it if he never returned.

I lifted my chin and said, The warlords, you mean. He is the government.

The door opened and one of Drummond's staff appeared with a tray from which he produced two large silver soup spoons.

You are familiar with Chinese cuisine? Drummond asked.

Somewhat, I replied.

I had a dish made especially for you, he said. A delicacy I understand.

I nodded my thanks as the attendant left to fetch it.

Where's your printer? Drummond asked.

This time I made sure not to look at my back door.

I wish I knew, I replied.

He's a ring leader of some sort.

I simply laughed.

In my mind, Vincent was guilty of many things, but not of that.

I would check my sense of humour if I were you. There's something going on. If those Chinese get fired up by this emperor as you call him and do anything to jeopardize the operations of this mine—

He's not an emperor, I said. That's the whole point.

Drummond couldn't know how rude the crowd had been earlier. The Chinese weren't following the famous man anywhere.

Drummond ignored my interruption and continued. Your printer translates for him.

My heart leapt to hear that. He knew too much.

We saw it all, he said. Thank you for the warning: Revolution comes to Black Mountain.

My thoughts were rocking with opposing emotions. Regret, once again, for that stupid, thoughtless notice, anger, next, for being left to defend myself, and chagrin, to realize the full extent of that notice. I had caused the raid.

We were ready for it, he continued. There were far too many of them heading off from the mine in the same direction, today, chitter-chattering together. Then some rust-heap pulling a rice wagon. We got suspicious and followed. Any public assembling of Lousetowners is illegal. We break them up. And we found them all, together, plotting and speech-making.