Two-Gun & Sun by June Hutton

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