Poor Butterfly Read Online Free PDF Page B

himself more skilled than he is. You know opera?”
    “Not really,” I admitted as we stepped outside. “Knew a guy named Snick Farkas who worked in a gas station where I rode shotgun nights in Encino. Snick learned to love opera in prison. I also had a wife once who knew opera. Butterfly was her favorite.”
    “Unfortunately,” said Stokowski, walking down the stone steps past the busy workmen, “there are some who find it an odious work. There are those who believe an opera which sympathetically depicts the plight of a Japanese woman abandoned by an American naval officer is unpatriotic. There are those who believe the opera should not be performed. There have been newspaper editorials … and these pickets.”
    We were approaching the limo now. The chauffeur had pocketed his novel and put his hat back on. He held the door open for Stokowski, who put his hand on the open door and turned to me. The temperature was about 60 degrees but Lundeen was sweating from the quick pace and the weight he was carrying.
    The trio of ancient picketers was approaching us.
    “Are you American?” the old man bellowed at Stokowski.
    Stokowski sighed and met the old man’s glaring eyes.
    “I was born in Poland,” he informed the man. “Spent my early years in England and have been a resident and citizen of the United States for a good many years. I am here by choice and not by an accident of birth. I am, as a good American, applying my talent and efforts to the winning of this war. I would think that you and these charming ladies would better serve the nation by collecting scrap paper or cans of fat, wrapping bandages, or selling Defense bonds and stamps instead of interfering with esthetic issues about which you clearly know nothing.”
    With that, Stokowski turned his back on the old man, whose eyes were darting back and forth in a delayed attempt to understand what had just been said to him.
    “Show Mr. Peters the note, Giancarlo,” Stokowski went on, looking over at my battered khaki Crosley.
    The ignored picketers spotted a paint truck pulling up about twenty feet away and turned their attention to the two women in overalls and caps who were climbing out of the truck.
    Lundeen stepped forward and reached into the pocket of his jacket. He had some trouble fishing out the envelope. It was slightly moist when he handed it to me. I opened it and pulled out a rough, thick sheet of paper. The note was handwritten in ink with fine curlicues. It was worthy of the guy named Keel, who had designed the monster we were standing in front of. I read it:
    Be advised. Be warned. Heed. This is a time of tempest and heat. Gods are watching. We are watching. Japan must not be glorified, its people idealized. We are at war. To present this opera is to be a traitor. In war, traitors are executed. All who participate in this abomination are traitors subject to execution .
    Erik
     
    “Where did you find this?” I asked.
    “Nailed to the door last Wednesday,” said Lundeen, looking up at the door.
    “You don’t think it’s a crackpot, a joke, a …” I said, but stopped when Lundeen shook his head.
    “A man is dead, Mister Peters,” Stokowski said.
    “The day after the note was found,” said Lundeen. “We were rehearsing. There was a scream. We hurried into the foyer and found a plasterer. He had fallen from the scaffolding.”
    “Fallen?”
    Stokowski touched his high brow with his long fingers. They came away dry. “The man’s name was Wyler. He was forty years old, sober, experienced. The scaffolding was secure. Giancarlo, Lorna, and another person saw someone wearing a cape climbing the scaffolding before Wyler fell. They paid no attention, thought it was someone going up to help with the plastering. We have checked with the plasterers. None of them climbed up to help Wyler that morning. The police are not interested. They believe it was an accident. They think I took advantage of a coincidence to build publicity.”
    “I can